The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights

by Sarah Lefebve

  ‘Looks like she’s getting impatient, bit like me.’ Rory pulled her closer, until the sandpaper roughness of his unshaved cheek brushed lightly against hers and the teasing tawny eyes offered an invitation that she’d been tempted by more than once.

  Pip nudged him away. ‘You two deserve each other. Anyhow, what were you doing with my bloody phone again?’

  ‘It was you that picked up mine. Again.’

  ‘No, Rory. You were the one who left the yard in such a hurry last night to go off on your magical mystery tour with Lottie and the ginger wonder. I mean, how can anyone confuse this,’ she waggled the bright-pink phone in front of him, ‘with this?’ And handed over his black one. ‘I’m surprised you even managed to load the right horse.’

  He grinned and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘I never mix up my horses. Or my women.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, will you two stop talking bollocks and tell me if someone has fucking died?’

  Pip sighed. ‘What on earth has got in to you?’

  ‘Please, just answer the question.’

  ‘Marcus. Amanda woke up in the early hours to find him stone-cold dead next to her. Well I’m not sure if he was actually cold, but—’

  ‘Pip.’

  ‘Okay, okay. She panicked and rang the first person she could think of, which was me. Or, in this case, you, Rory.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I take it you weren’t exactly helpful or consolatory.’

  ‘She woke me up.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And then I lost the phone when I sat up and hit my head, and all I could find were Lottie’s boobs.’

  ‘Stop. You’re not helping your case.’

  ‘Marcus is dead? He died?’ Lottie was trying not to jump from one foot to the other in agitation.

  ‘Yes, Lottie. He’s dead, died, the two tend to be linked.’

  ‘Christ, Dad will go apeshit.’ Lottie sank down on the ramp of the lorry and cradled her head in her hands. Oblivious to the now-stamping Flash who had been expecting release from the confines of the horsebox and to be let out to grass. She looked up, a glimmer of hope still stirring. ‘You’re absolutely sure he’s dead?’

  ‘Well the funeral is in a week, so someone has seriously cocked up if he isn’t.’ Pip strode up the ramp past the dazed Lottie and started to untie the mare, who knew that the competition ordeal was over and she was home. ‘I don’t get what the issue is. Your dad didn’t even like him anyway, did he? None of them did, apart from Amanda of course. Shift over or you might get one of Flash’s specials.’

  Lottie slid off the ramp and stood up slowly in front of the bemused Rory. ‘She’ll sell up, she hates horses.’

  ‘She might not actually hate them, poppet.’

  ‘You’re right, that’s worse. She doesn’t give a monkey’s.’

  ‘I don’t get you pair at all.’ With a clatter of hooves and an ear-shrieking whinny that threatened to burst Lottie’s eardrums, Flash came down the ramp and headed for her stable, coming to an abrupt halt when she reached the end of the lead rope, which still had Pip attached. A Pip who had stopped by the anguished-looking Lottie. ‘What’s the problem? Neither of you liked him, did you?’ She looked from one to the other. ‘I mean, you hardly knew him.’

  ‘I did know him. I saw him at the centre all the time. I used to bloody live there, remember?’ Lottie peered through her fingers. Liking him wasn’t the issue.

  ‘Well, to be fair, I don’t remember, because I wasn’t here then. But you weren’t pals, were you? You hardly even know Amanda, do you? But you look like one of your nearest and dearest has popped their clogs.’

  ‘But what if she sells up?’

  ‘So?’ Pip shrugged, and hauled back on the rope as the mare made a new dash for freedom. ‘Someone will buy it, I mean how many places like that come on the market? That equestrian centre must be worth an absolute fortune.’

  ‘Exactly. To a property developer.’ Rory caught hold of Flash’s headcollar to avoid her spinning round and knocking the already wavering Lottie to the floor. He understood the look on Lottie’s face, even if Pip hadn’t caught on. ‘If she sells to the first person who knocks on the door, then Billy has lost his yard and facilities, the pony club lose their venue, and the winter dressage and show-jumping competitions are gone forever. The place will be bulldozed and turned into a chavvy housing estate or a country theme park.’

  ‘Very succinct appraisal. You’re such a snob, Rory.’

  ‘But what about Dad?’ Lottie’s wail got lost as Rory’s defensive streak kicked in. To Tippermere, the Equestrian Centre was the heart of the village, to Billy it was something far more important. It was his life, and always had been, as far as Lottie could gather, since the death of the one person that had mattered most to him. Her mother.

  ‘This is Cheshire not bloody Essex, we wouldn’t even be able to hack down the lanes because they’d be snarled up with petrol fumes from 4x4s that are only used for the school run, and The Bull’s Head would be renamed The Rampant Cow and serve mojitos and turkey twizzlers to the masses.’

  Pip laughed. ‘Don’t exaggerate, you sound a right nobby nimby. Anyhow, I’m sure Amanda wouldn’t do anything like that. And aren’t you being a bit selfish? Neither of you have asked how she is, or anything.’

  ‘How is she?’ Lottie looked up from the piece of hay she’d been frantically tying in knots, her mind still on Billy and what he’d do when he found out. If he hadn’t already.

  ‘That sounds so insincere Lots, she’s in bits, I mean how would you take it if you woke up and found the love of your life stiff at the side of you? And I mean stiff all over, not just where it matters.’

  ‘You’re calling me for being insincere and say something like that?’ Lottie dropped the wisp of hay and stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘Do you think he was the love of her life?’

  ‘Well she was very fond of him, it wasn’t just his wallet, though I’m sure that helped. It was a massive heart attack, apparently.’

  ‘They weren’t? I mean, you know, at it? Do you remember that film where they were and the guy had a heart attack?’

  ‘I’m off if you’re going to talk films. Here, I’ll take her.’ Rory tugged the lead rope from Pip’s hand.

  ‘Goldie Hawn, wasn’t it?’ Pip grinned. ‘On your way to comfort the grieving widow are you Rory, offer your services?’

  ‘Well, neither of you are interested.’ He gave her ponytail a tug. ‘Maybe she needs a manly shoulder to cry on.’

  ‘You better shower first, you stink of eau de horse.’

  ‘Oh, God, you don’t think every man in the village will be making up to her now, do you?’ Lottie was gnawing at the inside of her cheek and looking even more worried than ever, her gaze fixed on Rory, who laughed. ‘It’s not bloody funny.’

  ‘As neither of you think she likes horses, then I think falling for a man who permanently stinks of manure, is covered in horse or dog hair and spends every waking hour either talking about the four-legged wonders or riding them is not on her bucket list. She’d probably prefer a nice, rich city wanker. Sorry to have to say this, but I think every man that I’ve met in this place falls into that smelly category. Well, every single man within a twenty, no make that thirty, mile radius.’ Pip looked from one to the other and wondered what really worried Lottie more, the fact that Rory might go off to woo the stricken widow, or that her dad could find himself without stables and a yard. But, as seriously sexy and fit as Rory was, she couldn’t imagine the immaculate Amanda falling for his charms.

  ‘Thank you for the ego boost, darling Pippa.’ Rory gave her a smacker straight on the lips. ‘We can rely on you to bring us down to earth. Love the artistic muck heap by the way.’

  ‘You noticed.’ Despite herself, Pip grinned. It had taken her half the afternoon to coax the spilling muck heap into some kind of order. And climbing on top of it had left her stinking from sweat as well as horseshit.

  ‘I thought you were going to see your mum?’ L
ottie was staring at her, suspicion lacing the normally clear gaze. ‘Which is why you couldn’t go to the dressage with Rory.’

  ‘Well…’ She paused. ‘She rang to tell me she was too busy and could I make it next week.’ Which was half true, she had been invited next week, but not instead of today. Today she’d wanted to check out the new arrivals in the village, partly for work and partly because she was curious. And it had been worth missing the sight of Rory being carted unceremoniously through a novice dressage test. Just.

  ‘So, how did it go?’ She looked at Lottie.

  ‘You know that Morecambe and Wise sketch—’

  ‘I’m not that old.’

  ‘Nor am I, but there are repeats. Every Christmas. The one with the piano, where he says he’s playing all the right notes but not necessarily in the right order? It was like that. Every step, every transition, but not necessarily in the right order. And some of them combined.’ Lottie was fighting to keep her face straight, but gave up the battle when Pip started to giggle. ‘That horse has paces to die for apparently, and Rory nearly did.’ A full giggle attack hit. ‘Honestly, I nearly wet myself, especially when Uncle Dom came up to pass comment.’

  ‘Shit, wow.’ Pip glanced at Rory and the look on his face set her off again.

  ‘You pair are so immature, such giggly girls, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yup.’

  He headed across the yard, the docile Flash keeping step as the terriers circled them at a safe distance.

  ‘Oh, Christ, it wasn’t really that bad was it? Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’ Lottie sobered up. ‘She was a complete cow for the first half, did a brilliant second part and then spotted a hat she didn’t like and left the arena without using the marked exit. Just missed the judge’s car, but nearly annihilated the secretary.’

  ‘He’s taken it reasonably well, though, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Reasonably, but no way was I going to argue with him over who drove the lorry back. Good job dad didn’t spot him as we drove through the village.’ Lottie grimaced and tried not to think about the fact that they’d had a very close encounter with a large group of ramblers (which Billy wouldn’t have cared about, as he viewed them in a similar light as he did rabbits: destructive and a waste of space), and an even closer shave with a Lycra-clad trio of cyclists who had made a grab for the wing mirror in retaliation (which he would have been bothered about, as it resulted in a swerve that nearly put a scrape down the other side of the lorry).

  ‘Talking about to die for, I have just got to tell you who I saw today. I mean after I tidied the yard, exercised all the horses and sorted the muck heap, you know, in the ten minutes left.’ Lottie just looked at her. ‘Well ask then.’

  ‘Amaze me, who did you see, Pip?’

  ‘Tom Strachan.’

  ‘Tom Strachan?’

  ‘You know, you do, you have to. Gosh Lottie you really are buried in this place aren’t you? It’s like being on another planet. Tom. He’s a model, and I don’t mean some airy-fairy gay boy, he is hot. Seriously hot. To die for, even by my standards.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s moved in; he’s the guy who has rented Blake House. Thomas Strachan is your new neighbour, Lottie, and,’ she put a hand on Lottie’s arm, ‘he’s just got divorced. I’m telling you, while the guys are consoling Amanda, the girls are going to be hot-footing it over to console the man distraught after his wife cleared him out and cleared off. Get your sexy knickers on girl, because we are going to go on a Tom hunt.’

  ‘But if his wife left him, then he can’t be that hot, can he? Pip?’

  But Pip was already heading off across the yard towards her bright-pink moped, which was nearly as striking as her mobile phone cover, and with a sigh, Lottie lifted the ramp of the box back up and with a backwards wave clambered up into the cab.

  Chapter 3

  Lottie had decided, as she rifled through her drawers, scattering undergarments, that she hadn’t actually got any sexy knickers. There were the lacy white ones that had looked very sexy, in an untouched kind of way, when she’d bought them. But now they looked thoroughly touched, well, pawed, and a very unfetching shade of pale grey after being thrown in the wash with her jeans. Which left the mum pants or the bright-red thong, which she didn’t often wear as she was pretty sure you could see it through the clinging cream show jodhpurs that she’d had on for its last outing. Well, at least that was the theory after she’d had her bum ogled by more than the normal quota of randy riders.

  Exactly why Pip had insisted she accompany her along on the ‘date’ she’d arranged with the ‘to die for’ Tom, she wasn’t quite sure, until she pushed open the door of the rustic bar/restaurant and spotted the willowy figure, bob of blonde hair now perfectly arranged around her elfin features, smiling beguilingly at a tall man and a teenage girl. Or rather, she was smiling at the man, and the teenager was scowling at both of them.

  She really must get that appointment at the opticians for a sight test organised, Lottie thought as she squinted, trying to bring him into sharper focus. At this distance he just looked like a normal man, which was vaguely disappointing when she’d spent ten minutes wriggling about on the floor trying to get the two sides of the flies of her jeans to at least approach each other so she could force the zip up. She’d been promised a demi-god and been delivered a half-decent human as far as she could see. And she’d spent another frustrating twenty minutes smothering her hair with anti-frizz products, and more time than she should have trying to work out which of her tops was sexy but not too tarty. Which, by her reckoning, was an hour wasted that could have been spent on doing something else. Like working out whether it was worth joining in with the exercise DVD she’d been watching or whether it should be consigned to the maybe drawer, or shagging Rory in a proper bed. Shagging in the horsebox could be fun, if you were pissed, or desperate, or both. But after the sixth time of banging an elbow or knee it lost a bit of its shine. She must be getting old or boring, or both.

  Pip was waving wildly at her, even with her suspect sight she could work that one out. She took a deep breath and headed over to them, holding her stomach in (just in case Tom was in fact better looking from touching distance) and trying to avoid the teenager’s gimlet stare.

  Close up, Tom looked like he had from the door; nice but slightly disappointing after the build-up. And his daughter, Tabatha, sent out waves of disapproval and boredom as she studied Lottie’s hair, make-up and clothes and dismissed her as not worth another glance.

  ‘Tom, meet Lottie, she knows absolutely everything there is to know about horses. Her dad is Billy Brinkley, the famous showjumper.’

  Teenage Tabatha had a slightly more interested look on her face now, which could have been down to the way Lottie was squirming with embarrassment, or the mention of her father, who’d been known for jumping more than just poles. In fact she could vividly remember one particularly cringeworthy headline that had caused even the mild-mannered Tiggy to explode, and left him with the label Billy ‘the bonk’ Brinkley for quite a while after. ‘Star rider jumps Poles, Germans and Swedes in bid to win gold’ had met her at the breakfast table after someone had posted a picture on Twitter of three naked female riders, and Billy in the middle, celebrating success in a Jacuzzi, wearing nothing more than his birthday suit. And then there had, of course, been a rival rag which had tried to go one better with a ‘Bonko Billy’ cartoon involving a medal around his neck and Stetson on his head as he straddled what Tiggy had termed (none too fondly) a ‘big-boobed babe’.

  During her painful adolescence her father’s name had hung heavy round her neck. He was everything you didn’t want in a parent: over the top, in the newspapers and available to any long-legged blonde who wanted a man to drape herself over. In other words, famous…or infamous. Billy believed in the work hard, play hard philosophy. Luckily, her stern grandmother, Elizabeth, had been a stabilising influence, assuring herself, and everyone else in earshot, that it was just a bit of fun a
nd was what athletes did. The word athlete still made Lottie cringe.

  ‘And,’ Pip paused for effect, ‘her Uncle is Dominic Stanthorpe, the dressage rider.’

  Tabatha looked almost impressed.

  ‘And she helps Rory Steel out.’ Pip finished her triple whammy introduction and sat back, looking very pleased with herself.

  ‘You know Rory?’ Tabatha couldn’t disguise the sudden interest in her voice. Rory was definitely more poster-boy material than the other pair, who were positively ancient in the world of teenagedom. Lottie nodded, raised an eyebrow at Pip and sat down.

  ‘So she’d be the absolutely perfect person to help you out and give Tabatha some riding lessons. Wouldn’t you, Lots?’

  Lottie looked from one to the other and wished, not for the first time in her life, that she’d insisted on some facts before agreeing to something. Or at least listened if there had been any kind of explanation.

  ‘Can you excuse us?’ She’d only just sat down, and not had a sip of drink or bite of food, but the ladies loos were calling.

  ***

  ‘But I am not a riding instructor,’ Lottie hissed, hoping that no one could overhear, and that the word not had been loud enough.

  ‘You do the pony club camp sessions.’ Pip was flicking her hair and admiring the effect in the mirror, which was most unlike her. Although the way she was doing it looked practised, so Lottie concluded that it was just a side to her that nobody in Tippermere had been treated to before.

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘How?’ Flick, twirl.

  ‘Will you stop that?’ Lottie was finding it distracting, and funny.

  Pip stopped.

  ‘One, they can all ride.’

  ‘Tab can ride a bit.’ Pout at her reflection. ‘Tom said so.’

  ‘Two, I only do it because I did a deal with Dad – I take it off his hands and then I can use the horsebox whenever I want.’

  ‘And for whatever you want. Does he know you’ve turned it into a passion wagon? Talk about pimp my ride.’