Chloe

by Freya North

  It’s me!

  It’s involuntary.

  This girl can’t have been kissed for a good long while, thinks Carl as he thrusts his tongue up between Chloë’s cheek and teeth, but man, can she kiss good!

  This is kissing, thinks Chloë, sipping Carl’s tongue deep into her mouth. Brett must have been doing something completely different all those years, something horribly lizard-like.

  Jones the Tack, as he was known, would have been quite content for the lady and her young man to kiss all day were it not for a giggle of girls imploring him to let them in to marvel at his wares. He cleared his throat and Carl kissed Chloë deeper. He said ‘Hem hem’ in as nonchalant a way as he could. Chloë nipped Carl sharply on his bottom lip and then pulled him tight against her, kissing and teasing it better. Jones the Tack put his index finger up to the girls to say ‘A minute, will you?’ and gave out a cheery whistle. JR waddled towards him under a knot of reins but Carl’s hands merely wriggled through Chloë’s hair to stroke their way down her back and rest at the base of her spine.

  Or the top of her ass, thought Carl, ever the optimist. It was when his hands ventured gamely over Chloë’s bottom, which gave an inadvertent thrust, that Jones the Tack felt things were just a little too steamy. For a tack shop. For lunch-time. For Abergavenny, my goodness!

  ‘Ten hoof picks, was it?’ he bellowed under the sweetest of smiles. Chloë and Carl leapt apart and found themselves in a tack shop in Abergavenny at lunch-time. Jones the Tack grinned away. Carl whisked himself around to bury his erection in a mountain of sweat rugs stacked conveniently behind him. Chloë stooped down to hide her blush and pick ten hoof picks from the muddle of bridles.

  ‘And ten mane combs too, please,’ she said huskily, not daring to catch the man’s eye.

  ‘Ten mane combs it is!’ sang Jones the Tack. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Hoof oil and plaiting bands, please. Thank you. Very much.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure, lady!’

  ‘Yes,’ mumbled Chloë looking at JR intensely, doubting whether she was now much of a lady. She scurried away saying ‘Yup, thanks, bye’.

  ‘Lady!’ called Jones the Tack as she reached the door. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

  Chloë looked aghast. Hoof combs. Mane picks. Plaiting oil. Hoof bands. Nothing missing. She shook her head with eyebrows askew. Jones the Tack nodded in the approximate direction of the sweat rugs without actually looking, and without his smile diminishing.

  Carl!

  Fortuitously, it was now safe for Carl to emerge. He and Chloë left the shop with a barrage of effusive gratitude and as elegant and honest a walk as they could muster. This they retained quite impressively until the corner of the street, when they fell about laughing until the tears squeezed from their eyes and their sides and faces ached quite unpleasantly.

  The journey back to Skirrid End was beset by the all the usual afflictions of a day out in Abergavenny. But now, each traffic jam was a wonderful opportunity for another kiss. And why won’t the Land Rover stall? They have skipped lunch because they were too busy using their mouths for other things. Carl gladly forsook his research on combies because a stroll to the Linda Vista Gardens was far more attractive a proposition. There, on a picturesquely placed bench looking out over the castle meadows to the River Usk, they practised their kissing some more. Chloë declared it a far better cure for chapped lips than Vaseline.

  ‘But I’ll need a daily dose,’ she implored.

  ‘Morning and night?’

  ‘And noon!’

  ‘Noon too.’

  It was bitterly cold. February after all. Late afternoon. A feeble effort by the sun now swallowed whole by a flat grey sky. Their noses ran and the chill ate into the muscles on their faces causing frequent twitching of the chins and the occasional physiognomic spasm that only served to make the kiss more interesting.

  Skirrid End was anomalously quiet when they returned. The tractor was put to bed and all snoozed peacefully in the kitchen. Tiptoeing to the top of the stairs, they could hear the faint rumbles of Gin’s porcine snoring and knew all to be well. They fed and watered the horses, bedded down and rugged up. They sneaked into the tack room for a gentle, good-night kiss and parted company for the night. Both felt simultaneously exhausted and yet still on fire. Their lips felt large. Carl soothed himself by masturbating vigorously in front of the mirror in honour of Chloë. Chloë unwound by writing in minute detail to Peregrine and Jasper.

  Just before she put her light out, she inched back the curtains. Carl, gloriously bare-chested, was waiting for her. She ran her tongue over her lips and could detect no roughness. Miracle. She whirled her tongue around her mouth and tasted something unfamiliar. Somebody else’s mouth. Somebody else’s desire. Desire. Unfamiliar. Delicious.

  Carl blew her a kiss; chaste laced with amorous intent. She cocked her head and smiled broadly. Closing the curtains as slowly as she could, she clambered into bed with a daft grin on her face. With a sigh, she closed her eyes immediately and welcomed the cushion of silence that preceded sleep. She had neither the time nor inclination to brush her hair and talk to the Andrews. In fact, she didn’t dare.

  ELEVEN

  ‘Peregrine, my true love, where are you?’ Jasper cupped his ear at the foot of the stairs and waited.

  ‘Up here!’ came a faint reply.

  ‘Up where exactly?’ yelled Jasper as patiently as he could.

  ‘Up up up!’ sang Peregrine, ‘right at the top.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Jasper to himself, climbing the stairs with a heavy hand on the banister and a lighter one supporting his gammy hip, ‘not the damn frocks again.’

  To his relief, he found Peregrine safe in his corduroys handling a Coalport tea service with reverence. He brandished a dainty milk jug in welcome.

  ‘Look what I found! Isn’t it divine! Wouldn’t First Flush Darjeeling taste incomparable in these darling cups?’

  ‘First Flush Darjeeling,’ said Jasper as sternly as he could, ‘is indeed incomparable. It’s almost thirty pounds a pound!’

  Peregrine pouted most becomingly. ‘If we can’t have a little luxury – us, at our age and stage in life – then what! I may as well give up the ghost right now as face Typhoo bags in my dwindling days.’

  ‘Don’t be such a drama queen,’ Jasper said. ‘You know I would rather drink no tea at all than drink anything other than FFD! Look here, look what we have!’ He waved an envelope in a gracious arc high above his head.

  ‘Postmark?’ squealed Peregrine, clasping both hands tight around the sugar bowl.

  ‘Guess!’

  ‘Gwent?’

  ‘Abso-blooming-lutely!’

  Sitting with perfect posture and an empty cup and saucer each, Jasper and Peregrine enjoyed Chloë’s letter. It seemed appropriate that as she had written from The Rafters, so they should be ensconced in Jocelyn’s attic aboard an old but deceptively supportive two-seater sofa covered with a dust-sheet. Envisaging Chloë huddled beneath her New Zealand rug, they pulled an old tartan blanket tightly about their knees and placed the china cups daintily on their laps.

  ‘Hullo you both,’ Jasper trilled in falsetto. Peregrine took the letter from him and, placing pince-nez exactly where they should be, started to read.

  ‘Hope you’re happy and healthy, bla bla, weather cold but clear, der der der, horse, bla bla. La la, up in The Rafters, cosy, private etcetera. Early nights ditto mornings. Bla bla. Work hard but have lots of fun. Don’t miss London, der der. No regrets, etcetera. Miss you both – us both – madly. Good! Etcetera. Gin Trap a hoot. Good Gracious Me!’ Peregrine fell silent while his eyes rampaged along the remaining paragraphs which ran to two pages.

  ‘What?’ Jasper nudged him, alarmed that his eyes were so wide and that his jaw had dropped. It was either something utterly horrendous or gloriously disgraceful. ‘What what what?’ he piped, craning for a glimpse at the page and cursing his appalling eyesight.

  Peregrine folded the l
etter, put it back in the envelope before taking it out again and unfolding it slowly.

  ‘Little Hussy!’ he proclaimed with unbridled pride.

  ‘Chloë?’

  ‘The little tramp!’ Peregrine continued, delighted.

  ‘What has she done?’ begged Jasper.

  ‘What a filly!’

  ‘Pear-rare-grin!’ bellowed Jasper. ‘Word for word! Go!’

  Peregrine cleared his voice. ‘He’s called Carl, apparently. A big, strapping bushman from New Zealand! Blond, bronzed and brawny. Oh, that we were thirty years younger!’

  ‘Speak for yourself, old crock,’ said Jasper. ‘Twenty would be fine for me! Is that how she describes him? A hunky thing from the bush down under?’

  Peregrine reread the letter swiftly. ‘No, actually, she says, I’ve met a really nice bloke from New Zealand. His name is Carl and I know you’d love him, bla bla.’

  ‘Stop it with the bla blas,’ Jasper demanded.

  ‘OK,’ conceded Peregrine, ‘this is what she says: His name is Carl and I know you’d, bla bla. Sorry! He lives above the tack room – I know the thought of a strapping young man amongst all that leather will probably drive you two wild, but calm down so I can tell you all! Writes a good letter, our Chloë.’

  ‘I never went in for leather much, but carry on, dear.’

  ‘We’re the only youngsters here. Mind you, by your standards, Gin and Dai are spring chooks!’

  ‘Sprung whats?’ asked Jasper.

  ‘Ah, she explains, as the Kiwis say for “chicken”! You know, just as soon as I set eyes on Carl, I felt strange murmurings for him which quickly transpired to be Lust, loud and clear! You see, he’s big and blond and sensitive and sexy and perfect. And he kisses divinely. She must know not to start a sentence with “and”, surely Jocelyn would have drilled her?’

  ‘Let’s make an allowance – the girl’s obviously quite beside herself with excitement.’

  ‘Dormant lust, I’d say!’

  ‘Whatever! Continue.’

  ‘Ah, sweet Chloë, listen to this: As you know, Things were never good with Brett – I don’t know why the capital “T” but never mind – I realize now that I have never really been kissed before. Before Carl, that is. Can you believe that after a month of near-kisses near-misses, we finally found ourselves mouth to mouth in a tack shop in Abergavenny at lunch-time! I’m sure she needs a comma or two, but I’ll let it lie.’

  ‘Gracious,’ said Jasper proudly, ‘in a tack shop in Aberwhatsit at noon!’

  ‘All that leather!’

  ‘So public!’

  ‘So exciting!’

  ‘Wild! Please continue, do.’

  For some reason, on which Jasper thought it best not to comment, Peregrine took a sip from the empty cup before reading more. ‘The kiss lasted an age and beyond. And then some! In fact, was it one kiss or many? Heavens, it was so exciting I could hardly breathe, mind you I could hardly breathe because there were two tongues in my mouth and our faces were pressed as close together as was physiognomically possible! I could feel how excited he was, if you know what I mean – in the trouser region, if you like.’

  ‘We know what you mean! And yes, we like!’

  ‘And I don’t mind telling you that I felt positively glued to my trouser region!’

  ‘Do we mind her telling us?’ Jasper interrupted.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ pondered Peregrine. ‘Do we?’

  ‘No, no, I think that will be acceptable, Perers. Go on.’

  ‘She continues – ha! Do I mind telling you? I wonder? But who else is there to tell with Jocelyn gone? Do you mind me telling you, though? I hope not. If I know you two, you’ll find it riveting! Well, there we were, snogging for England. I mean for Wales, of course. Light-headed and tongue-tied. I was in paradise. I was on another, higher plane and begged the moment to last forever. As I said, we had been kissing for hours – ages, at least – and if it were not for Jones the Tack (honest!) hollering “Hoof picks!” at us, we’d still be at it now! (Who knows, by the time you’re reading this, maybe we are, once again!) After we beat a hasty retreat and the fire in our loins had subsided – what has the girl been reading?’

  ‘I rather like that – fire in the loins!’

  ‘You would, you incorrigible old codger. I think it’s downright Mills & Boon. Where were we? Fire in loins – ah yes: ‘had subsided, we sat on a bench and, while I’d love to tell you of the view out over the dingle, I really can’t – I didn’t even get a glimpse. Mostly I kept my eyes tight shut so I could just feel and taste Carl, soak it all up. Savour the moment. Remember it for eternity. Occasionally, I opened them a peep and caught the dip of his cheek or a snatch of his ear lobe, or a glint of his eye.

  ‘I’m not falling in love or whatever, I don’t think, – oh yes she is! – it just feels so, I don’t know, fresh? Fun? That’s it – fun. Just what the doctor ordered after those gloomy, sterile Brett years. Strange how, at the time I thought them neither gloomy nor sterile, yet nor was I having fun and feeling adored – as I am now. Having traded boys for horses during my teenage years and enduring only Brett since then, it now feels so liberating. Finally I can snog and grope and do all those other fun, naughty, wholesome things!

  ‘Believe me when I tell you his eyelashes are like pitchforks! Pitchforks, I declare! Oh, the beauty of the boy! Adonis is a Kiwi called Carl – and happiness is a gal called Cadwallader. Trust me, you two! I’ll keep you posted. With love and passion, bla bla bla.’

  They sat in silence for a while. Chloë was miles away, a different country indeed. There she was having the time of her life. Here they were, Jasper and Peregrine, feeling the winter in their joints, sitting in silence in Jocelyn’s house. And yet silence in Jocelyn’s house was surely anathema.

  ‘Well?’ said Jasper. ‘What do we think?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think!’ answered Peregrine.

  ‘Well,’ continued Jasper methodically, ‘the girl is safe, cosy and having fun. She sounds happy, animated – like when she was a youngster. Now, what would Jocelyn say, do you think? What would be her view? What would she think? And, ought we to go by it?’

  They sat quiet a moment longer, Jasper running the envelope through his fingers, Peregrine tapping the pages of the letter against his chin.

  ‘Jocelyn,’ said Peregrine mistily, ‘dear darling Jo Jo. She, I’m sure, would be delighted. She may not approve of the sentences beginning with “and”, nor, perhaps, of the very public site of this first clinch; but she, more than anyone, wished entirely for Chloë’s happiness.’

  ‘Remember how she loathed Brett?’ reminisced Jasper. ‘How she longed for Chloë to find the elation and bliss that she had experienced?’

  ‘Oh so fleetingly.’

  ‘Just the once.’

  ‘So long ago,’ rued Peregrine. They sat in silence save for a sigh apiece.

  ‘Hush now, we’re becoming maudlin,’ said Jasper tapping Peregrine’s knee. ‘Jocelyn moved on. So must we. The past is indeed a different country, in which one no longer has a home.’

  ‘Indeed,’ pondered Peregrine.

  ‘Alas,’ concluded Jasper.

  ‘Come now! Back to matter in hand – our Clodders swept into the clutches of lust! I know damn well what Jocelyn would think – after all, was it not she who placed map and wherewithal into Chloë’s fair hands?’

  Jasper raised his eyebrows high, a lascivious twinkle to his eye. Peregrine kissed him lightly on the cheek and linked arms with him lovingly beneath the tartan blanket.

  ‘Good Lord, Jocelyn!’ exclaimed Jasper, looking up to the eaves and beyond. ‘It is you! You’re orchestrating all of this, aren’t you, old girl!’

  ‘I’ve come to see Dr Noakes,’ announced Morwenna breezily, shivering slightly beneath her inappropriate silk shirt. ‘For my once-over,’ she explained, content that the phrase was sufficiently medical.

  The receptionist, who was old, grey, unmarried and bitter, noticed Morwenna’s e
rect nipples with flagrant distaste before consulting the time sheet with eyebrows still raised.

  It’s because I’m cold, stupid, thought Morwenna, crossing her arms over her breasts defensively. And just a little excited too, she conceded to herself with a clipped laugh out loud. The receptionist gave her a withering look and hissed ‘Dr Grey’ at her, with a jerk of her head to indicate the waiting room. As she flipped through a laughably out-of-date fishing magazine, Morwenna chanted ‘Why Dr Grey, why not Dr Noakes?’ to herself incessantly. After an anguished ten minutes, she forced her attention to the magazine and tried to learn something new.

  Plenty more fish in the sea? For an old trout like me?

  Later, with her personal MOT renewed, Morwenna was slicing onions, wondering if William would remember their dinner date. She realized with some satisfaction, and a little sadness too, that she was not all that bothered if he had forgotten. The doorbell rang out energetically.

  ‘Don’t tell me he’s early,’ she muttered.

  Swiping the back of her hand across her forehead to brush aside a wisp of hair, Morwenna immediately wished she’d wiped her hands first. As the sting of the onions made her eyes smart, the doorbell rang again.

  ‘Coming,’ she called, ‘hold on a mo’.’

  She opened the door, squinting hard through the blur of salt-water clinging to her right eye. Her left eye opened wide, startled but sparkling.

  ‘Dr Noakes!’

  ‘Merz Saxby!’

  ‘Gracious!’ said Morwenna, wiping an onioned hand over her good eye and suffering the consequences immediately. Blinking fast, she cried with some dread, ‘It’s my once-over! I was too late, wasn’t I? I haven’t passed my MOT!’ She sounded glib but was actually quite frightened. Why else would a doctor be at her door? After hours. Why else indeed?

  Dr Noakes hopped lightly from foot to foot and slung his hands deep into the pockets of his well-cut navy blue coat. The collar was turned up against the chill evening and framed his face attractively.