Lots of Love

by Unknown

  Ellen dashed upstairs to remove the rollers and check her appearance, guessing that the dreaded Brakespears might still be hanging around when Spurs arrived. Her hair tumbled in glossy ash waves around her tanned face, her eyes sparkled between rare licks of mascara and her cheeks glowed from a hasty dusting with blusher. She rubbed salve shakily on to her lips and squirted on some Eau Dynamisante, the closest thing she had to perfume. She didn’t want to make it look as though she’d gone to too much of an effort – and she wanted to give Spurs a decent treatment without being hobbled by a stupid outfit – so she’d stuck to her faithful frayed denims matched with a little gypsy shirt and flip-flops that showed off her freshly painted toes, but she had shamelessly dug out her best underwear combo of a lace G-string and matching bra covered with dancing butterflies.

  She stood in front of the mirror and drew an anxious breath, telling herself that she looked okay, not too tarty, not too scruffy – just the Ellen that Spurs had already got to know, only a bit sharper. She touched the burning-man tattoo for courage, then reached inside her shorts to touch the silver surfer on her butt, finally making it three for luck with the stud in her navel.

  ‘It’s a staple,’ she told her reflection, with a wink.

  Then, feeling mischievous as confidence and anticipation started coursing through her, she undid two top fly buttons, knowing that when she bent over, the top of her G-string would show.

  They would have sex all night, she decided. First, she’d make him wait until the very end of his massage, when he was lying on his back. She knew he’d have a huge wood – they always did. She would climb on top of him and take him on the table. Then they could have a shower together and do it again standing up. Then perhaps outside as it was getting dark – up on the bunkhouse balcony overlooking the village, or under the apple trees. They could come inside and have a food fight – they were bound to have worked up an appetite. She must check what was in the fridge that could be eaten off a naked body. That would probably be the cue for another wash – a bath this time. She could show him how long she could hold her breath under water and challenge him to do the same. Finally, they’d fall into bed and stay up all night, talking and kissing, touching and caressing.

  Tomorrow morning they would have one last, long, delicious session before getting up, getting dressed and wishing one another farewell. If he chose to keep his secrets and lies to himself, then that was his prerogative. He could go back to being a prodigal son. She would leave him far behind as soon as the cottage sale was secured. Her two remaining wishes were simple: she wished that one night of scruple-free sex and sin with Spurs would help her put a decade of hammer-drill action with Richard behind her; and she wished that she could forget about both of them afterwards.

  Positively radiating wantonness, Ellen paced around impatiently as she and Poppy waited for the Brakespears, watching the clock get closer and closer to six. Poppy’s attempts at polite conversation were greeted with a series of increasingly distracted and dislocated replies.

  ‘Are you excited about your trip?’

  ‘Mmm – yes.’

  ‘Where do you plan to go first?’

  ‘Nirvana.’

  ‘Oh, lovely. Are you going to Las Vegas, then?’

  ‘That’s Nevada.’

  ‘Oh. Silly me.’

  ‘More whorehouses, more marriages, more gambling,’ she explained idly. ‘Nirvana is less rock and roll – you don’t get a three carat rock or to roll the dice. You just go to heaven.’

  Poppy’s bulging eyes almost fell out of their sockets.

  At last a big luxury people-carrier pulled up outside and a family of five spilled out – a huge, middle-aged rugby prop forward and his tall, thin wife along with children of different heights and sexes who separated faster than an SAS unit casing an enemy outpost the moment they were through the gate.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Brakespear!’ Poppy rushed out to greet them. ‘You found it okay then?’

  ‘Please – he’s Graham and I’m Anke,’ the woman said, in a northern-European accent, looking up at the cottage with shining blue eyes. ‘I am sorry we were delayed, but my father, he did not want to go out to play bridge as he usually does – it took time to change his mind. He must not know about this. He thinks we are on our way back to Essex.’ She let out a little sigh loaded with meaning.

  ‘Mrs Brakespear’s father owns the little antiquarian bookshop in Cider Lane,’ Poppy explained to a distracted Ellen, who had come out to scour the lane for signs of Spurs.

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘We want to move closer to him – to a house that has somewhere he can join us when he grows too frail to care for himself.’ Anke smiled. ‘We stayed here many times when visiting him, with your lovely parents. They are well?’

  ‘Fine,’ Ellen muttered, hoping that, as they knew the house already, their visit would be fleeting.

  ‘This weekend, we stayed in Lower Oddford, which makes it hard to come and look here without him noticing.’ Anke seemed happy to stand and chat on the gravel while her children raced around and her husband leafed through the particulars Poppy had handed him. A tall thin daughter was already in the paddock, sizing it up; an even taller son was smoking a cigarette and eyeing up the dovecote. ‘Would this make a recording studio, d’you reckon?’

  ‘If Morfar doesn’t come to live with us, can I have the garage?’ asked a younger son, who was built more like his huge father and bounded up the steps to peer into the bunkhouse.

  ‘The children have already decided we will move here,’ laughed Anke, lighting a cigarette of her own and looking up at the thatched princess. ‘We always loved it here, and now that Graham has sold the company and found an interesting project in the Cotswolds, we really might be able to do it.’

  ‘So, what line of business are you in?’ Poppy asked gushily, while Ellen glanced at her watch and wished they’d bloody well go inside.

  ‘Haulage.’ He looked up from the brochure with a big, bearlike smile. ‘At least I was until two months ago – sold the business on to an old mate. It was time to get out. I’ve found a little agricultural distributor’s up on the ridge here that’s going broke so I thought I’d buy it as a hobby. Farming sure as hell needs a kick up the arse, and I like to fly by the seat of my pants. It keeps me young.’ He winked at Ellen.

  Graham Brakespear – a swarthy Lancashire lad who clearly wore his heart on his Ralph Lauren sleeve while flying by the seat of his designer pants – took a long look at Ellen and closed the brochure. ‘I see a lot I like here. A lot.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee while you look round?’ asked Poppy. ‘Or a glass of wine?’ She’d seen the classy sauvignon in the fridge.

  Ellen gritted her teeth.

  ‘Wine would be lovely.’ Anke smiled tiredly. ‘We have had a difficult day.’

  ‘Got any beer?’ asked Graham, admiring Ellen’s legs. ‘And the kids’ll have Coke.’

  ‘I’ll check.’ Poppy danced inside, evidently smelling buying signals galore.

  Why not watch some television and try out the beds? Ellen thought murderously. Poppy’s make-yourself-at-home sales spiel was getting out of hand.

  ‘So you’re on your way back to Essex tonight?’ She looked at the lane again. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to leave it too late.’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t take long if you drive like Schumacher.’ Anke gave her husband an amused little smile and watched the tall daughter loping back from the paddock. ‘What do you think? Will Heigi and Bert like it here?’

  ‘It’s smaller than I remember, Mum,’ she fretted. ‘And there aren’t any stables.’

  ‘We can build those.’ Graham patted his daughter’s back and smiled at Ellen. ‘This is Faith – Laurel and Hardy over there are Magnus and Chad.’

  Ellen nodded in acknowledgement, then felt her heart slam her several paces back as she saw Spurs idling along the lane in scruffy shorts, dark glasses, bare feet and a pork-pie hat. He looked like an Italian rent-boy.<
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  ‘I’m from Denmark,’ Anke was saying. ‘My father moved here to live with us when my mother died, but he did not like the village near Burnley where we were living then so he bought a little shop in Oddlode and started selling books. Now he is very old and he needs help, so we want him to live with us. But he is also very stubborn, so we must not tell him our plans. This is your friend?’ she asked, colour leaping into her pale cheeks as Spurs ambled through the gates.

  ‘Hi.’ A dark eyebrow curled above the very dark glasses, and Ellen sensed that his mood had blackened. It made him sexier than ever, but also potentially highly explosive.

  ‘These are the Brakespears – they’re looking around the house,’ she explained uneasily. ‘This is Jasper Belling.’

  When Poppy came back outside with a tray of drinks, Spurs dragged Ellen to one side. ‘I had no idea you’d arranged a cocktail party,’ he hissed, as the little group sorted out whose glass was whose. ‘I’d have dressed up.’

  ‘They arrived late,’ Ellen explained in a whisper. ‘They’ll be gone soon.’

  But the Brakespears, who knew that they had a safe two hours to look around while Ingmar played bridge in Hillcote, were in no hurry.

  ‘I was under the impression that you were travelling down from Essex today?’ Poppy tittered merrily, getting chatty.

  ‘Change of plan – I wanted to look through Dulston’s paperwork and he could only see me on Friday so we came down for the weekend.’

  ‘Dulston’s of Springlode?’ Spurs asked Graham. ‘James Dulston?’

  ‘Yep – you know him?’

  ‘He was married to my aunt for a couple of years. Used to screw his secretaries and diddle the VAT man. Wears women’s underwear.’

  It was an awkward moment but, to Ellen’s relief, it prompted the Brakespears to head inside and start looking round.

  She turned to Spurs, goosebumps raging. ‘Drink?’

  ‘I can’t stay long.’ He turned his face towards the sun.

  ‘Got a hot date?’ Her banging heart was firing great shots into her ribs.

  ‘Yes.’ He looked up over the rims of his glasses, silver eyes dancing. ‘Christ, you look divine.’

  She took a step towards him, breathing in his untamed smell, looking at the lean, muscular chest, the tatty shorts slung on his narrow hips, the long legs and dusty bare feet. Later she would get to explore every corner of his beautiful body. She couldn’t wait. This was her gig. She was going to call the shots. ‘I warn you, sports massages can hurt.’

  ‘I always knew you’d hurt me.’ He retreated behind his dark glasses.

  Without thinking, she reached up to take them off, but he grabbed her arm to stop her. ‘We need to talk,’ he muttered, stepping away.

  ‘Miss Jamieson?’ A window shot open and Poppy’s eager face shot out. ‘Would you mind explaining exactly how the wood-burning stove works?’

  Ellen watched Spurs worriedly, but his eyes were still hidden by the shades and he shrugged. ‘Later.’

  Reluctantly leaving him stretched out on his favourite garden bench with a bottle of beer, Ellen trailed around with the Brakespears, who wanted to know every last detail about the house, what was included in the sale and how her parents were getting on in Spain. In turn, Anke told her companionably all about her eccentric father who so rarely opened his shop, her worries about his health and their decision to move to the area to keep an eye on him. Ahead of them, the children squabbled about who would get which room and complained about the lack of telephone and TV aerial points upstairs.

  Ellen looked out of every front window as she passed it to check that Spurs was still there, spotting the top of his camouflage hat and the long, tanned legs sprawling out in front of him. She was feeling hotter and hotter.

  ‘Is this something to do with the alarm?’ Anke pointed out a little socket hole by the skirting.

  Ellen bent down to look. ‘No, I think it’s a vent.’

  When she straightened up, Graham, Magnus and Chad Brakespear were all gaping at her adoringly because she’d just flashed her butterfly G-string and her silver surfer.

  Back outside, she delivered another beer to Spurs as the Brakespears took a turn round the garden and outbuildings. ‘Not much longer,’ she promised.

  He glanced up over his glasses, silver eyes troubled. ‘Get rid of them.’

  ‘I can’t. They seem really keen. We’ve got all night – I mean all evening.’ She flushed.

  ‘No, we haven’t,’ he muttered, but before she had a chance to ask what he meant he added, ‘What’s in hell’s got into you?’

  Too much wine, heat and sexual frustration made Ellen feel reckless. ‘Nothing yet,’ she murmured, ‘but I’m hoping you will later.’

  A smile twitched on his lips but didn’t break cover. Then he grabbed her wrist and she thought he was going to pull her on to his lap and kiss her, but he was just looking at her watch. As he did so, his fingers curled through hers. ‘We really have to talk. There’s something I need to tell you.’

  ‘And there’s something I need to tell you.’ She bent over and spoke in his ear. ‘I think we should fuck each other’s brains out.’

  His fingers tightened in hers and he pressed his lips to her collarbone, making the skin leap and burn. Then his other hand strayed momentarily up her thigh and between her legs, and she had to grip the back of the bench tightly to stay upright. Her whole body drummed and buzzed like an apiary in an earthquake, cleaving towards his.

  ‘Miss Jamieson!’ Poppy rattled past with another tray of drinks and Spurs’ hand was swiftly removed. ‘Sorry to drag you away, but can you tell the Brakespears about the barn conversion? I understand there are some old plans from when it was done.’

  During a lengthy inspection of the bunkhouse and a worried discussion about the practicality of steep stone steps for an eighty-year-old man, Ellen looked out of one of the knee-height windows to see Spurs heading into the main cottage. Her heart leaped around like a squeezebox on elastic, hoping that he would head straight to her room and strip off.

  The Brakespears stayed a further half-hour, chatting, laughing and hanging around in the garden in the lowering sunlight to admire everything. Every time Ellen tried to creep inside in search of Spurs, she was called back to answer a question or hear more tales of Magnus’s band, Faith’s pony and Chad’s desire to be a fighter pilot. The wine was polished off, along with all the beer and every soft drink in the house, plus three bags of crisps and an apple. Only Poppy’s fresh coffee bubbled untouched when they finally made moves.

  ‘We’ll be in touch,’ Anke promised Poppy and Ellen, as they headed towards their car. ‘Thank you so much!’

  ‘My wife loves the place.’ Graham winked. ‘I’m sure I’ll be calling you tomorrow, Poppy. Great to meet you.’ He gave Ellen a hot look.

  ‘Have a safe journey home!’ Poppy called then whispered to Ellen, ‘Lovely family. I must say, I thought he wasn’t going to be keen, but he seemed very switched on. I think they’ll offer, but we’ll still have to watch out for him. He likes a bargain, I feel. Do you want to set negotiating perimeters over coffee?’

  ‘Not right now – that’s up to my parents. Call me when you know anything.’ Ellen ushered her hurriedly towards the gate and bolted inside.

  But Spurs wasn’t in the house. On Ellen’s bed, he had left a note. ‘Wish Two expires in 24 hours. So will I without you. S.’

  Ellen left the house unlocked and ran across the closed footpath, ducking out of sight of Hunter Gardner until she’d clambered over the gate to the manor’s courtyards, hurried through the arches and around the yews. She hammered on the big black door, all set to rip off her clothes in an instant.

  ‘What d’you want?’ demanded a furious voice behind her, and she swung round to see Hell’s Bells clutching a pair of secateurs and glaring at her. One look at the panting, flush-cheeked blonde in the half-undone clothes had clearly told Spurs’ mother that she wasn’t out collecting for Christian Aid.
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br />   ‘Lady Belling, I’m sorry to interrupt but I need to see Spurs.’

  The big jaw lifted away from its cushioning chins and she fingered the secateurs menacingly. ‘I’ve sent him on an errand this evening. He won’t return until very late. How did you get on to the grounds?’

  ‘I – er – know the way in,’ Ellen said vaguely.

  ‘Then you’ll know the way out again,’ she snapped.

  Remembering that Hell’s Bells was very ill – and that she was technically trespassing – Ellen apologised again. ‘You see, I was supposed to honour the promise he bought at the auction, but I got held up and he left without rearranging a time.’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s gawn out. And I doubt he’ll find the time again. No doubt he can gift the lot to someone else. What was it?’

  ‘A sports massage,’ Ellen muttered. And a night of hot loving, she thought silently, the goosebumps stealing away to be replaced by twitching anger.

  ‘I’ll mention it to his father,’ Hell’s Bells was saying. ‘St John gets rather troublesome backache, which might benefit from a rub-down.’

  ‘Why won’t Spurs have the time?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘I don’t see that that is any business of yours.’

  ‘I still have to claim my lot from him. We have lots in common,’ she joked, nervously because Hell’s Bells was advancing at speed now, her rolling stride alarmingly like that of a Sumo wrestler heading for his first grip. Her G-string certainly wasn’t up to a power hold.

  Thankfully she stopped a yard short of Ellen and thrust the secateurs under one arm like a sergeant major’s swagger stick, then pulled off her gloves. ‘I think it best if you forget about that little bit of nonsense. In fact, I suggest that you forget about my son altogether.’

  ‘But we’re friends.’

  ‘I rather think you’re not.’

  Ellen was surprised by the vehemence in her voice. ‘I appreciate that I don’t know him very well,’ she said quickly, ‘but I still think that we count ourselves friends.’

  ‘Assuming that you can count at all after what has doubtless been a pitiful education at the state’s expense,’ Hell’s Bells rose up to her full five feet three in sensible gardening shoes, ‘then I suggest you count your blessings that we are having this little chat. You are not friends with my son, nor will you be. You are not welcome on our land or in his life. The sooner you leave this village the better. Do I make myself clear?’