by Unknown
‘I’m so impressed.’ She pinned her lower lip with her top teeth. ‘I talked for months about trying to get into the troupe, but Rich – but it didn’t work out. Too many commitments.’
‘You’d fit in.’ He pushed the olive pips around his plate. ‘I could see you there.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Yup.’ He smiled, but he was still on edge. ‘I’d have appreciated having you there. Talking French all the time got on my tits.’
‘Another lifetime, maybe.’ She waved away the regret. ‘You were the one who did it. You ran away to join the circus.’
He glared at her, then smiled, as if he had decided her admiration was genuine. ‘Yes. I ran away to join the circus. And it teaches you a fuck of a lot more about yourself – and others – than prison, I can assure you.’
‘How long were you with them?’ She wondered whether he’d been in the show she had seen.
‘I left two years ago.’
‘Choice?’
‘Broke my leg.’
‘Falling from a horse?’
‘More a case of throwing myself from one. It was either that or being decapitated by a chainsaw.’
‘What happened?’ She was agog.
‘It seems I’d somewhat pissed off Machination – the juggler. One moment I was standing on two cantering nags’ rumps, the next I had a metre of fast-moving chain spinning towards my face. My foot got caught under one of the mare’s rollers when I jumped. She was only a baby and she panicked – smashed my femur into four equal pieces. Well, actually, I think it was two, but Machination jumped on it afterwards.’
Ellen winced. ‘What on earth had you done to upset him?’
‘Her.’ He grinned. ‘Never screw around on a woman who can juggle a chainsaw, a jackhammer and an angle grinder.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Of course, stunt riders are the best lovers.’ He couldn’t resist trying for another flirtatious rally.
‘Is that a fact?’ She stayed behind the base line.
‘I guess you prefer surfers.’
‘I guess.’ She couldn’t risk playing again.
But their eyes were tangled up once more, the awkwardness gone. This was hopeless, Ellen realised. It was like trying to climb out of a slippery bath only to be sucked back into the bubbles again and again. She either made waves or lay back and soaked in the delicious sensation of drowning in weightless warmth. She could only hope that the water would go cold. Keep your boots on, she reminded herself. Stay in control. ‘So what did you do after you broke your leg?’
‘I was holed up in an Italian hospital counting wimples for weeks on end, but I got bored and discharged myself. Then I hitched my way back to England and drifted – perfected my limp.’
‘You don’t limp now.’
‘I had an operation last year.’ He pulled up the leg of his shorts to reveal a row of dark red dots. ‘It hadn’t set properly, so they rebroke it and put in pins. My mother insisted on it. She took me from no fixed abode and fixed my bowed legs, bless her.’
‘So you’d kept in touch?’
The corner of his mouth lifted and he paused before answering, making it clear that he knew he was being grilled. ‘No – she got Father to track me down. He’s very well connected.’
Ellen helped herself to more water, now burning with curiosity. She longed to know what he’d done when he came back to the UK – did ‘drifting’ mean festivals and odd jobs or boxes in doorways? But she’d already overused her Waiden cross-examination time. They could only talk for short bursts without flirting, and she didn’t trust herself to keep control for much longer.
She looked up as she heard another set of hooves coming along the lane, skittering and stamping, accompanied by a lot of equine snorting.
‘Wow.’ Spurs looked up too.
Ellen tried not to feel too itchy-skinned at his obvious admiration, and the very obvious reason for it. A leggy blonde was leading a jumpy horse past the cottage. Tall, slim and fresh-faced, she was laughing her head off as the horse – an extraordinary pink-coloured hysteric – leaped this way and that, boggling its big, dark eyes at everything.
To Ellen’s even greater consternation, the girl stopped outside the gates, her horse now trotting showily on the spot, and called cheerfully, ‘Hi! You must be Ellen?’
She crammed her sweaty baseball cap tighter on her head and stood up. ‘Yup. That’s me.’
‘I’m Dilly – Ophelia’s daughter.’
Oh, God, no wonder her mother dotes on her, Ellen thought hollowly, as she took in the cascade of hair spilling from her hard hat – the same glossy curls as her mother’s, but russet blonde instead of dark. Her slimmer, younger face possessed the same broad cheeks, upturned nose and amazing green eyes, enhanced by a dimpled, curling smile and a rusty dusting of freckles on chin and nose. She was much longer and slimmer than Pheely, but had the same extraordinary bust – high and round and tightly hugged by the little white T-shirt she was sporting.
‘Mum sent me out for some fags, and I thought I’d take the horse – but the bugger won’t let me get on him.’ She grinned. ‘I hoped you’d be around.’
Riding a horse to the village shop was the daftest thing Ellen had heard – especially if you couldn’t even get on to it – but Dilly exuded the ditzy, confident charm of youth, where anything was possible. She made Ellen feel instantly prehistoric and deeply dull.
‘Great to meet you,’ she said, pulling open the gates and stepping back as the pink horse almost went into orbit.
‘Don’t mind Otto.’ Dilly brought him back to a jogging standstill. ‘He’s completely hatstand after six weeks off. Mum was supposed to lunge him, but she says she’s been too busy – meaning she couldn’t be bothered. Hi.’ She grinned at Spurs, who had joined Ellen at the gate.
‘Jasper Belling – Dilly Gent – er, Daffodil Gently.’ Ellen wasn’t sure how Dilly had taken to the ‘diligently’ pun her mother regretted. But Dilly seemed far too preoccupied with gaping at Spurs to notice.
‘You’re Spurs Belling?’ she gasped, green eyes stretched wide as she came face to face with a village legend.
‘Nice horse.’ Spurs was looking at the pirouetting pink beast. ‘Part Arab?’
‘Arab warmblood cross.’ She nodded as Otto spotted Snorkel and reared back in alarm. ‘Totally off his trolley, but I love him. I only wish I could ride the silly idiot.’
‘Could use a bit of work, by the look of him.’ Spurs walked to the horse’s shoulder and ran a hand from his withers to his girth, placing the other at his muzzle for Otto to sniff. ‘Beautifully put together, though.’
To Ellen and Daffodil’s surprise, Otto stopped jogging and eyed Spurs thoughtfully, his snorting breaths slowing tempo as Spurs tickled his withers and shoulder.
‘Have you had him long?’
‘Since last summer, but I haven’t done much with him. I’ve been away at school. We had a sharer set up, but she lost interest, so he just loafs around his field.’
‘He doesn’t look like he loafs much.’ Spurs stood back. ‘He’s pretty muscled up at the front – you just need to get the back end fit enough to match up.’ He patted Otto’s neck, obviously impressed.
‘He’s a lovely colour,’ said Ellen – hoping that didn’t sound too ignorant.
‘Strawberry roan,’ Dilly told her. ‘Mum said we had to have him because he matches my hair. She doesn’t seem to mind that his brain’s fried, just so long as we look good together when we’re bolting across roads.’ She returned to Spurs. ‘You’re Rory’s cousin, aren’t you?’
‘Yup.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘As far as I know. Why?’
‘I can’t seem to get hold of him – I, er, wanted him to give me some advice about Otto.’
‘I think his mobile’s been cut off again. I’ll mention you when I see him,’ he offered, crouching down to run his hand along Otto’s dancing legs.
‘Thanks!’ She loo
ked thrilled, and turned as pink as her horse. ‘Rory was really brilliant last year – I had quite a few lessons. I’m only here for a couple of days now but I’m back for the holidays soon, and I really need to put some work in. I’d love him to teach me again.’ She might speak with a forthright manner beyond her years, and look like every red-blooded man’s dream date for a week on a Bahamian yacht, but at heart Dilly was still a teenager with a crush on her riding instructor.
Spurs was nodding, silver eyes still focused on Otto’s legs. ‘Rory knows his stuff.’
‘He says you do too.’ She looked down at the top of his curly head, going even redder. ‘Didn’t you win the Devil’s Marsh Cup five years running?’
‘Long time ago.’ He rubbed a wrist over his sweaty forehead.
‘That’s still some record. I thought I might take part this year, but I’m shit-scared. Mum hates the idea. She says someone was killed one year.’
Spurs said nothing, patting the horse’s neck and stepping back so that he was brushing shoulders with Ellen.
‘Now you’re back will you ride in it again this year?’ Dilly asked excitedly.
‘I don’t – I haven’t . . .’ he glanced at Ellen ‘. . . I haven’t ridden for a while.’
He’s hiding something, Ellen realised instantly.
‘D’you want a go now?’ Dilly offered, patting the saddle.
Ellen saw the sinews lift in Spurs’ neck. ‘Sure – I’ll have a sit on him. Do you want to bring him in off the road – is that okay?’ he asked Ellen. The silver eyes were icy with fear.
‘Fine.’ She wondered whether he needed her to cause some sort of distraction.
But Dilly was already leading Otto through the gates and across the garden towards the paddock. The roan snorted and danced, snatching his head to and fro, his pink ears flattening to his head every time she tugged him on.
‘I’ll only be a minute,’ Spurs told Ellen.
‘Are you sure about this?’ she whispered.
‘Of course. Why shouldn’t I be? If you find horses boring, you don’t have to watch.’ He stalked after Otto, flicking a curl back from his eyes.
Ellen hung back. She could tell that, for some reason, he didn’t want her to watch.
She glanced at the debris of lunch – now buzzing with flies and wasps. She should clear it away, but she was desperate to hang around and see Spurs ride. She didn’t care if he wanted her out of the way. It was her parents’ paddock, and Dilly was far too pretty to leave unchaperoned. Pheely would never forgive her, she told herself. She undipped Snorkel and went to watch.
Already in the field, Spurs was walking slowly round Otto, lengthening the stirrup leathers and talking to him in a low, soothing voice, a hand constantly touching his sweating neck, flank or quarters to reassure him.
Dilly hung over the paddock gate watching them. Her crush on Cousin Rory looked under immediate threat. ‘I warn you, he’s really, really hard to get on – he prats around all over the place,’ she called to Spurs, as Ellen moved in beside her. ‘I usually just take a running jump . . . I’m the same with boys,’ she whispered to Ellen, winking in a very Goldie Hawn way.
‘Good tactic.’ Ellen warmed to her daftness and honesty.
‘Not very successful so far,’ Dilly admitted. ‘With Otto . . . or boys.’
‘Sometimes you have to jump when they’re not looking.’ Ellen watched Spurs.
‘Have you had lots of boyfriends?’
‘I’ve taken a lot of running jumps,’ she hedged.
Had they blinked, they would have missed Spurs mounting. He stepped into the stirrup and swung into the saddle as deftly as a cat springing on to a wall.
Otto’s ears flicked back questioningly and he snorted, but he stood stock still, his nose dipping towards his knees.
‘Wow – that’s rocking.’ Dilly whistled.
‘Shouldn’t you be wearing a helmet or something?’ Ellen asked.
He didn’t appear to hear. Dressed in dusty shorts and trainers, he rode Otto across the paddock, his bare back taut with controlled muscles, all working in delicate, denned unison beneath the glossy bronzed freckles.
‘I had no idea Spurs Belling would be so hot,’ Dilly whispered, girlish and excited, once he was out of earshot.
Ellen watched him as he and the horse moved easily around the field, Otto’s head stretching out in a low, relaxed arc, ears pricked, dark eyes limpid – he looked in horse heaven.
‘Mum’s always made him sound like Jack the Ripper meets Marilyn Manson.’ Dilly giggled. ‘And I thought he’d be really old, like her. But he’s more our age, isn’t he?’
Ellen looked at her in wonder. Dilly was either being grossly flattering, or needed her eyes testing. ‘I’m not much younger than your mum.’
‘Yeah, but she was middle-aged from birth – you’re a babe,’ Dilly told her sweetly. ‘You look like Cameron Diaz.’
‘Thanks.’ Ellen checked her eyes for signs of cataracts, then turned back to watch Spurs, who was holding the reins by the buckle now, scratching his thigh and waving cheerily at Hunter. He never let up. The tension, it seemed, had vanished the instant he got on. He looked totally at home and sexier than ever, his back rolling and swaying like a long, muscular shock-absorber as the horse moved, his long legs firm and still against Otto’s sides.
Oh, God, oh, god, oh, god, I fancy him, she thought wretchedly. He’s badder than bad and I fancy him. She wanted to run across the field and push him off his horse for making her feel this way. ‘All he needs is a poncho and a cheroot,’ she muttered dismissively, trying to make herself feel better.
Dilly giggled. ‘I like his tattoo. What is it?’
‘A barcode.’ Ellen had spotted it earlier.
‘Wow,’ Dilly breathed. ‘Is that a prison thing?’
‘No, it’s a fashion-victim thing.’ Dating back about three years, Ellen recalled – round about the time Spurs was playing circus daredevil. She hated herself for finding it as sexy as Dilly clearly did – and she certainly wasn’t about to admit it. ‘If you scanned that at Tesco, you’d find it was seriously past its use-by date.’
‘Mum said you were really cool.’ Dilly was watching as Spurs coaxed Otto’s head up until his neck was rounded like a Lipizzaner then moved him smoothly into a floating trot, circling this way and that to keep his concentration. ‘But I had no idea you and Spurs Belling were an item.’
‘We’re not!’ Ellen said hastily. ‘He’s just helping me out.’
Dilly gave her a knowing-kid smile, propped her elbows on the gate and cupped her chin with a sigh. ‘I wish he could help me out. If he’s as gangland as they say, I might hire him as a contract killer . . . like in the movie, Leon, only gorgeous-looking.’ She trapped a plump lower lip beneath her top teeth and gazed at Spurs dreamily. ‘I wish bloody Otto went like that for me.’
‘That’s no reason to have him assassinated,’ Ellen pointed out.
‘Oh, I don’t want Otto taken out.’ She looked horrified. ‘It’s Godspell Gates I loathe.’ The green eyes rolled angrily. ‘We used to be friends, but now she thinks she’s too old and cool to know me. Mum has to sculpt her and she’s been lurking in the cottage all afternoon like a ghoul, refusing to talk or even have a cup of tea. That’s why I decided to take the Psychotto for a spin.’
‘I thought you were on a fag run?’
‘That too. Mum’s been lighting one from the other since Godspell turned up. And she likes winding Lily up by sending me into the shop for fags – the silly cow trains all her CCTVs on me.’
Ellen had forgotten about the shoplifting incident. It seemed she was playing open garden to the village’s crimewave today. She watched as Spurs passed close by, focused on what he was doing. Otto was moving beautifully beneath him so that they seemed fused together into one powerful animal.
‘I’ve never seen him go like that.’ Dilly sighed. ‘Not even for Rory.’
They broke into a canter, again circling and serpentining, moving arou
nd the small field in an intricate dance. Ellen had never taken much interest in riding, but she remembered a huge horse fair in Spain that she and Richard had stumbled across one rainy day in Jerez, and the amazing way that tiny, still-shouldered boys in frilly shirts had ridden huge, fiery stallions as though they were ponies, eliciting total obedience with nothing more apparent than a flick of the wrist, taming half a tonne of brute force with mesmerising simplicity. That was the way Spurs rode. It was spellbinding to watch.
She and Dilly fell into rapt silence.
Soon he disappointed his audience by slowing Otto to a loose-reined walk and returning to the gate, smiling broadly – a bare-chested, wild-haired gypsy, who broke the spell by speaking like a royal prince. ‘He’s a really nice sort – knows how to use himself, even though he’s pretty unfit.’ He leaned down to pat the horse’s sweaty neck and pull at his ears. Otto was still wearing his horse-in-heaven expression and, to her shame, Ellen found herself envying him.
Dilly beamed up at Spurs proudly, blinking blonde curls from her eyes. ‘He jumps fantastically. Do you want to try?’
‘I think he’s had enough for now.’ He pulled a battered packet of cigarettes out of his back pocket and lit one, squinting around as he did so, obviously tempted. ‘Besides, there’s nothing to jump here.’
‘We could build something.’ Dilly looked about eagerly, suddenly childlike once more, not wanting the moment to end.
‘Maybe another time.’ He jumped off and patted Otto, cigarette dangling between his lips as if he were an old ostler. ‘Ellen and I still have a hell of a lot to do today.’
‘Tomorrow?’ she suggested. ‘You’ll be here tomorrow, won’t you?’
‘Possibly.’ He adjusted the stirrup leathers.
Ellen registered his shuttered look: a big question mark was hanging over ‘possibly’. Maybe he’d bored of playing Alan to her Charlie Dimmock now that he could play Mickey Rooney to Dilly’s Velvet Brown.
