‘I should go and find Dad, tell him everything.’
‘I’m sure he already knows. And he’s busy.’ Pip grinned, and Mick chuckled.
‘What do you mean? What don’t I know now?’ Lottie groaned. ‘Stop it, you’re all doing it again, not telling me.’
‘Let’s just say I wasn’t the only one getting a country education.’
She groaned even louder and put her hands over her ears. ‘Shut up, I really didn’t want to hear that.’
‘You asked, you idiot.’ The sight of Billy careering across the lawn, giving the full-bodied Tiggy a piggyback, had been pure Tippermere. They’d been fine until Pip had hollered at them, and then Billy’s mistimed attempt at waving back had unbalanced the pair and they’d gone off-piste, straight into the undergrowth. Giggling. ‘I’d say he’s pretty happy, and they’ve been in there bloody ages.’ She didn’t voice the ‘crashing about’ bit, which was probably too much information to give Lottie. ‘Anyway, where are you two sloping off to? I need a drink.’
‘Well bugger off back inside.’ Rory grinned, but then handed her the bottle that was still dangling from his hand. ‘See you later. Come on Lots.’
Oh, she did like it when he was a little bit bossy.
***
A horse nickered as they walked through the old archway, into the stable yard, and Lottie took a deep breath in, of country air, of soft, warm horse smell, of leather and the scent of the roses that rambled up the walls.
‘You love it here, don’t you?’ Rory sat on the edge of the fountain, which luckily was turned off, and pulled her onto his knee.
‘I do.’ She grinned, suddenly light-headed, his hands burning hot through the thin silk layer of her dress. ‘It’s always been my favourite place.’ And with startling clarity, which she was fairly sure had nothing whatsoever to do with her tipsiness, she knew it was true.
‘Is that why you came back?’ He looked serious in the moonlight. Serious, slightly drunk. As sexy as she’d ever seen him.
‘Well, I reckon I did come back because I love it here,’ she traced her fingers through his thick, dark curls, ‘and of course there’s Dad.’
His firm thumb moved further up her thigh, but he was still studying her closely. ‘Of course, who can forget Billy?’
‘And I quite like you, too.’
‘But if you’re serious about the being skint bit, I mean, should I be hanging around with you?’
‘Well, if I don’t get married I’ll be fine. I’ll never be skint.’
‘Ah, I reckon that might be a problem.’
‘Do you?’
‘Well what if, and it is just a what if, you meet the perfect man?’ His thumb went up higher, and her stomach curled in anticipation.
‘What kind of perfect man?’
‘The kind that loves you even if he forgets to tell you, the kind,’ those fingers were getting very distracting, ‘that doesn’t always listen, the kind that’s only just realised how lucky he is, the kind that never wants to lose you.’
Lottie shivered as his warm hand found its way under the layer of silk, straight to her skin, which had been heating up, but was now covered in goosebumps.
‘The kind that will look after you in sickness and health, for richer, for poorer.’ Lottie squeaked as his thumb found her swollen nipple.
‘The kind that is quite keen on shagging you senseless.’ His mouth was on her neck, and Lottie moaned, tipping her head back, forgetting pretty much everything about anything.
‘Ah, that kind.’ Even she could hear the tremble in her voice. ‘That could be a problem.’
‘So are you prepared to risk being poverty-stricken?’
‘Yep.’ It came out on a high note as his hand reached its target.
***
Sometime later, with straw in her hair, and her dress looking like she’d slept in it (but there had definitely been no sleep involved), Lottie stared up at the inky sky, spattered with diamond-bright stars, and squeezed Rory’s hand.
‘Happy?’ His breath was warm against her hair.
She twiddled her toes, wondered briefly what had happened to her shoes, and felt the cool dampness of the grass beneath her heels. She thought how much better this was than twiddling her toes on a beach in Spain.
Lottie grinned. She rolled over and studied the firm, straight lips that had just meandered over practically every bit of her body. What the hell did she ever think she’d find anywhere else? Her feet had brought her straight back to Tippermere, the place that looked like it had everything on offer that her heart could desire…
‘Very. But I might be even happier if you could do that thing with your tongue again.’
Rory’s rich laugh filled the still air. ‘You are so dirty.’ And before she had time to react, he’d got her pinned beneath him. ‘And so demanding.’
Lottie sighed. She’d come home. To stay.
Acknowledgements
I’m incredibly lucky to be part of two immensely supportive communities – writers and riders. Without them this book would never have been written.
Massive thanks to my wonderful editor, Charlotte Ledger, and to Kimberley Young, who gave me the opportunity and encouragement to write the book I’ve always wanted to.
To all my talented and supportive author friends, but particularly Téa Cooper, who knew from the start what I should be writing!
Thanks to Helen Shaul, who introduced me to the joys of Jack Russell terriers, and showed me what patience and dedication could achieve with horses. To Bianca Bairstow for introducing me to the world of eventing and teaching me so much. To Pat Mather and John Keleher of the Pickmere Stud who showed me how beautiful a horse could be. To Kate Earthy and Sarah Gummer, who apply harmony to horsemanship so effortlessly, and helped me understand.
And to the many wonderful farriers and amazing horsemen and women who I’ve learned from and shared fun times with.
In memory of Edmund Frith, a great friend, who is sadly missed and who was a much-loved member of the farming community and village life.
And finally, to the many horses who have taught me well, and to Darcey, a little terrier with a big heart who always was as big a star as the horses and left us far too soon.
Enjoy the ride!
The Park Bench Test
Sarah Lefebve
A division of HarperCollins Publishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
AUTHOR NOTE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
KATIE
FIONA
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CAROLINE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
GEORGINA & TARA
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
JO
STEPHANIE
AUDREY
CATHY
BEV
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
GRAHAM
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
CHAPTER T
HIRTY EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
NATALIE
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN
For Ruth, my oldest friend, who found her Mr Right.
And for Tom, my brother-in-law, who always wanted to know when this book would be published.
Well here it is!
AUTHOR NOTE
In The Park Bench Test the heroine Becky needs to find out how you know you’ve met Mr Right. As I was single when I first started writing the novel (I am now married with two small children!) I was blissfully unaware how you knew when you’d found “the one”! To give the story a bit of authenticity, therefore, I interviewed my own friends, family members and colleagues on this issue. In other words, the interviews in The Park Bench Test are genuine – and not a figment of my imagination! Names have been changed to protect the innocent!
PROLOGUE
Love flies, runs and rejoices; it is free and nothing can hold it back.
Thomas À Kempis (1379-1471)
When I was eight years old Ken asked Barbie to marry him.
Barbie said yes.
I wanted to know why.
I wanted to know everything when I was eight. I wanted to know why I had two eyes and two ears, but only one nose and only one mouth. I wanted to know why grass was green and why sky was blue. I wanted to know why my eyebrows didn’t grow to be as long as my hair.
And I wanted to know why Barbie loved Ken.
It was the first day of the summer holidays and my best friend Emma and I had laid on a lavish wedding for our bride and groom – in a marquee made out of four plastic tent poles and a pink lacy pillowcase from Laura Ashley. It was the place to be that Saturday afternoon, with an enviable guest list that included four other Barbie dolls, My Little Pony – who’d plaited her mane for the occasion, Paddington Bear – minus one wellington boot which Emma had dropped out of the window while she was showing my mum the flower we’d forced into his buttonhole, and a naked Tiny Tears, all of whom were treated to a wedding breakfast of chocolate digestives and Love Heart sweets.
It wasn’t the first time they‘d got married but it was the first time we ever questioned why Barbie wanted to marry Ken. Not that we thought there was anything wrong with Ken – he was quite cool really, particularly in the white sparkly trousers we had made for him out of one of my dad’s old handkerchiefs, some Pritt Stick glue and a pot of blue glitter.
My mum was helping out at the village plant sale, so it was my dad who had drawn the short straw.
“Daddy,” I said, my tone giving away the fact that I was about to ask a question he’d rather I had saved for my mum.
“Yes Rebs,” he replied hesitantly, over the top of his newspaper. My dad still calls me Rebs. Everyone else calls me Becky – or B. He likes to be different.
“Barbie loves Ken, doesn’t she?” I asked, pulling off the bride’s luminous green swimsuit, which probably convinced my dad he was about to have to deliver his “birds and bees” speech a little earlier than expected.
“Yes that’s right, love.”
“Why does she?”
“Why does she what, love?” he said, half listening, half reading his newspaper.
“Why does she love Ken? Why does she want to marry him?”
Of course, the answer was obvious – Barbie was marrying Ken so that Emma and I could get our hands on enough chocolate digestives and Love Heart sweets to make ourselves sick. But my dad chose to overlook this minor detail.
“What makes you ask that sweetheart?” he asked instead, buying himself a bit of time to come up with a plausible answer, no doubt, while simultaneously breathing a sigh of relief that he wasn’t going to have to explain where babies came from.
“I just wondered.”
“Well,” he ventured, both Emma and I now hanging off his every word.
“Well…he’s her Mr Right, I suppose.”
Hello?
We were only eight years old, dad.
“What’s a misterite?” Emma asked, trying to flick a bit of glitter off her finger.
My dad thought about it for a moment.
“Mr Right is the man a lady loves and wants to spend the rest of her life with. He’s the man she wants to marry. Because he makes her happy. Because they’re sort of meant to be together, sort of, I guess…”
You had to hand it to him – it was a damn good try.
“Does that mean you’re mummy’s misterite, then daddy?” I asked, still intrigued, while Emma, clearly less than impressed with this explanation, had returned to the task of making Ken a sparkly vest to go with his trousers.
“That’s right darling,” dad said, beaming – maybe because he was my mum’s Mr Right, maybe because he’d managed to answer the question without her help, probably a bit of both.
I may have only been eight years old, but I am pretty sure that was the very moment I decided I believed in Mr Right. And that one day I would find him.
I suspect it was also the moment that Emma decided it was absolute bollocks. That there was no such thing as Mr Right. And that the best she could ever hope for was to find someone who’d stick around longer than her dad did.
“But why?” I asked my dad for the third time, buttoning up Barbie’s wedding dress while Ken waited nervously in the marquee. “Why are you mummy’s misterite?”
My dad looked up from his newspaper and pondered the question for a second.
“Because, Rebs. Just because.”
CHAPTER ONE
Somewhere there waiteth in this world of ours
For one lone soul another lonely soul,
Each choosing each through all the weary hours
And meeting strangely at one sudden goal.
‘Destiny’, Sir Edwin Arnold (1832-1904)
“Sorry, sorry,” I shout, running down Pretty Street where Emma and Katie are both waiting for me outside the shop.
I look at my watch. I’m 30 minutes late. Damn.
“Sorry,” I say again, trying to catch my breath. I really should work on my fitness.
I hug them both.
“The train was delayed leaving Leeds,” I explain. “And then we had to stop in Grantham to replenish the buffet car. I blame the fat git in coach D – every time I went past him to get to the loos he was scoffing another king size Mars Bar. And then I had to wait 20 minutes for a bloody tube. The underground was packed. Whose idea was it to go wedding dress shopping in London on the first day of the January sales?” I ask. “Oh yes – yours!” I say, grinning at Katie.
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 129
