by Fiona Walker
‘Is this a movie role?’ Dougie had a sudden image of himself taking part in a big Bollywood dance scene, wearing gold dhoti and chiffon shirt, possibly matched with a bearskin hat and hussar jacket. As far as he was aware very few non-Indian actors starred in the industry’s films, and those who did played baddies. He wasn’t convinced it would be his greatest career move.
‘This is not an acting part, Mr Everett. This is what you English call “sport”.’
He took a moment to run this around in his head, now seeing himself in safari suit and pith helmet, which was no less ridiculous than the Dick Whittington boots, leather leggings and an S&M waistcoat he was already wearing when he came to think about it.
‘And what exactly would this sport involve?’ he humoured her. It was sounding James Bond again, although he doubted anything could come close to the twelve big-budget, prime-time, sixty-minute episodes of lush cinematography that his agent was lining up, and for which he would share the screen with several Oscar-winners.
‘Seth is in the process of purchasing one of the best sporting estates in England. “Blood sports”, I believe you call them: hunting, shooting and fishing.’ The eyes flashed again, not so warmly this time.
‘Field sports,’ he corrected lightly. ‘Blood sports, like bullfighting and bear-baiting, are quite different.’ Dougie’s limited knowledge of Indian culture told him that Sikhs and Hindus were against killing things on religious grounds, but perhaps that was just cows.
‘I apologize, field sports.’ She spoke the words like a newsreader pronouncing the particularly difficult name of a Middle Eastern country. ‘Seth has many business associates who enjoy these sporting activities, and he wishes to entertain them at his new residence. There is much work to be done, but we believe that the sport will be possible to arrange very swiftly.’ She consulted her electronic pad, swiping the screen to find the relevant notes. ‘The bank and lake fishing and game shoots are already professionally run, but there has not been a hound pack there for many years, we believe.’
‘Well, British Parliament banned hunting with dogs.’ He tried a scallop, which was so light and delicious it seemed to disappear on his tongue, leaving tiny sweet fireworks of flavour partying in his mouth.
‘We are aware of the law.’ She smiled coolly. ‘There are kennels and stabling that were once used by a local hunt.’ Her long fingers swiped again as she consulted her notes. ‘That pack amalgamated with another and moved out at the time of the ban, although they still hold meetings and hunt fox on the estate.’
‘They follow pre-laid scent trails, these days,’ Dougie corrected kindly. ‘And they’re “meets”, not meetings.’
‘This is, of course, your field of expertise. You were quoted saying recently that you would like to hunt your own pack.’
He thought back to the drunken lunch during which his publicist had spent the entire dessert course frantically making throat-cutting gestures at him from behind the interviewer’s back. The British tabloids had predictably had a field day after the feature had come out, digging up a photo of Dougie on Harvey at a Boxing Day meet years ago with the usual background about his father’s love of field sports. He’d taken a battering from social media trolls and anti-hunting activists afterwards, and from Kiki, who told him to wise up on his PR, although she fell silent when one of Hollywood’s biggest producers sent a personal invitation for Dougie to join him in fielding his exclusive private pack in pursuit of coyote.
‘I grew up around hunting,’ he told Dollar now. ‘It’s a great family passion.’ The memory of his day spent alongside his father jumping the Orthopaedics made him smile afresh.
‘You would have a team working for you, and you will have total autonomy. There will be excellent accommodation, a generous budget and a great deal of free time.’ Her eyes did their warm, hypnotic speed-glow. ‘This would be a very well-paid job.’
Dougie opened his mouth to decline regretfully but found he wanted to savour for a little longer the parallel life he was being offered amid James Bond subterfuge. This was a job he could do blindfold, and had always longed to fulfil – not a field master like his father, which any good horseman with a bit of free time and experience could manage, charming landowners and hollering at small children on bolting ponies as he led the mounted field around headlands and over jumps while the hounds ran the direct line of the scent. A huntsman ran with the hounds far ahead of the field; he trained and worked the pack himself; he was a breed apart. It was a role Dougie had idolized as a pony-kicking child, thundering through mud and birch, and understood far better than any swashbuckling Lothario he played on screen today. It had been among his many boyhood dream jobs that had been thwarted when his father insisted he go to officer training, Vaughan Everett curtly pointing out that hunt staff are paid a pittance and are technically ‘servants’. In fairness, his son’s other dream jobs had also included astronaut, lion tamer and, of course, British Secret Service agent with a licence to kill. This job almost ticked two of the four ambitions.
‘Would Seth be hunt master?’ He decided to enjoy the idle daydream just a little longer, monitoring that ravishing face for signs of life.
‘No, you would.’
Master huntsman was a rare and revered role, working with pack and field. He was the perfect fusion of upstairs downstairs, both master and servant, with the authority of one and the guile of the other.
‘Could I bring my own horses?’
‘As many as you like.’
He tried to imagine his Friesian stunt team galloping through plough and wet turf, high-stepping trick-trained horses that would be a laughing stock if he ever took them out with his father’s pack, yet he knew they’d have the best of fun, as Harvey once had. If Dougie took this on, his horses would be safe. Rupe wouldn’t sell them. He would also be a very long way from Kiki and her fervent diamond-polishing. It was almost tempting.
‘Where exactly is the estate?’
‘It is called…’ she checked her pad again ‘… Urds-ford. It is in Herefordshire.’ She rhymed ‘Here’ with ‘beer’.
Dougie’s smile widened. He’d vaguely heard of the estate, although Herefordshire was unknown territory: his forays in that direction tended to stop in the Cotswolds with friends. He tilted his head, switching on the flirtatious charm to see if he could get a reaction. ‘Will you be based there, Dollar?’
The eyes glowed briefly. ‘Part of my time will be spent there, yes. There is much to organize. Seth will not use the house as a residence. He does not like the English countryside.’
‘So why buy an estate in Herefordshire?’
‘It is a business acquisition. He has a large portfolio. The privacy and hunting it offers are unique, and the history of the house is of special interest to Seth’s family. I have autonomy over the project, but I will expect to work very closely alongside you.’
‘How closely?’ He weighted the question with an overload of throaty flirtation.
‘Very closely, Mr Everett.’ The voice was utterly deadpan, but the eyes glowed again. ‘I take it your answer is yes?’
Dougie had started to look for the hidden cameras. This had to be a set-up. She’d be offering him an Aston Martin, a personal harem and an inexhaustible supply of Krug next.
‘I’m not a professional huntsman.’ He toyed with a tiny beetroot jelly loaded with sour cream and caviar. ‘I’m an actor.’
‘You will most certainly be required to act.’
‘I hardly think the annual hunt panto compensates for a year out of movie making.’
The room was filled with Desi music and Dollar turned away to answer her phone, her pretty face darkening. She nodded to him over her shoulder, then hurried along the corridor to take the call, although whatever language she was speaking was far beyond Dougie’s schoolboy French.
A brace of waiters appeared to clear the starter and put down two steaming bowls of deep brown soup, swirled with crescents of cream and pluming with peppery promise. But Dougie had only got as far
as admiring his reflection in the spoon when Dollar reappeared and started to gather up her things. ‘I must go to Moscow. I will leave straight away. This suite is booked all night. You can stay here and I will arrange the transport for your return, or if you prefer we will take you now.’
‘You can drop me off.’ Dougie threw down the spoon, having no desire to linger in an oversized igloo wearing gimp leather and kinky boots with no mobile phone or toothbrush. ‘I’m called at first light tomorrow.’
She marched towards the corridor. ‘Seth will be delighted that you want to do it.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not available.’ Dougie finished his beer and zipped up his Puffa. ‘I have work commitments lined up later this year.’ And an engagement to break off, he added silently.
‘I believe you are referring to the television series set during the American civil war and based upon a famous book?’ She stood by the curtain to the main ice hall, waiting for him. ‘We understand that the producers have yet to confirm that you are cast.’
Dougie looked at her sharply. Abe had insisted it remain totally confidential until contracts were signed. A twelve episode epic retelling of Gone With the Wind from the battlefield, filled with fast-galloping action, trick-riding heroics and epic love scenes, it was tailor-made for Dougie’s talent and Abe was confident he had the deal in the bag, despite his client’s relative inexperience. The money was sensational, less so the shooting schedule, which involved working on location in Georgia, South Carolina and back in Eastern Europe for almost a year, but that didn’t bother Dougie, who saw it as a painless cauterization from Kiki. If he got the gig, Dougie was also determined to take his own horses with him.
‘You know about that?’ he asked Dollar in surprise.
‘I know a great deal about you, Mr Everett.’ The beautiful mask gave nothing away.
‘Then you’ll know I much prefer being called Dougie.’
Again, the eyes glowed all too briefly. ‘We would like you to take this job offer very seriously, Dougie. There is an extremely generous bonus I have not yet told you about.’
They were standing together in the narrow chute leading through to the main hall, her arm barring his path where she was holding the curtain ready to draw back. The smell of her perfume was overpowering – peppery nasturtiums, sharp lemon balm and the sweetest lily-of-the-valley top note, reminding him of window boxes in Chelsea. He felt a sharp pinch of homesickness.
But he smiled easily. ‘If the television series falls through, I’ll get back to you.’
‘Do that.’ Her neat, dark eyebrows lifted and a set of perfect white teeth outshone the walls as she smiled for the first time, infinitely more beautiful and chilly. ‘I will find out more about the girl in case of that eventuality.’
‘What girl?’
‘I have not yet told you about the girl.’ Dollar led him at speed through the icy, domed hall with its Northern Lights glow. It had filled up with drinkers now, all dressed like Arctic explorers as they perched on fur-topped stools around ice tables swilling schnapps, trying not to gape at Dougie’s lederhosen and New Romantic boots poking from beneath the Puffa. Many stared openly at Dollar as she passed in her furs, her rare beauty making jaws drop. The helicopter’s thrum could be heard outside as its blades got up to speed.
Dougie felt his James Bond fantasy sliding away and experienced a pang of regret. Tomorrow he’d be back to makeup, kinky boots and broadswords, dabbling with his axes-all-areas girl to cheer himself up while he stewed over his disengagement from Kiki, his neglected horses at home and the pampered boredom of film work. A part of him longed to gallop through a forest shooting at more than just padded blue targets.
‘What girl?’ he asked again, as they went outside, but the helicopter drowned his voice. Darkness had fallen, the ice hotel glowing like a child’s night light plugged into the side of the mountain.
Once they were airborne, Dollar pulled her microphone close to her mouth: ‘The estate that Seth is buying – Urds-ford – has a lot of tenants. He does not see this as a problem because he just wants the main house and some accommodation for his staff with the hunting grounds, but there is a farm excluded from the purchase that he would like to acquire. Its vacant possession will ensure total privacy for Seth’s house guests. The current occupant cares for animals there and claims it’s a sanctuary, but really it is just a memorial to the lady who lived in the big house. This girl was her nurse, and the only circumstances in which that farm will become vacant are her marriage or her death. It is my job to ensure the farm will be vacant. That is why we need you.’
James Bond was back, tugging his cuffs from his dinner jacket and arching an eyebrow. ‘Are you saying you want me to kill her?’
‘We want you to marry her, Dougie.’
Chapter 8
‘Breathe! Feel the force of your chakras, Kat. Feel the kundalini rising. Isn’t it ’mazing?’
Eyes closed, Kat breathed, then paused to listen, head cocked. ‘I’m sure I heard her.’
‘It’s a false Dawn,’ Russ assured her. ‘She’s still totally sparko. Let’s hold hands. And breathe.’
Kat was finding it hard to focus. The candle beside them was guttering noisily, like a blocked drain, drowning out the sitar music. ‘I can’t believe we poisoned my friend with Hopflasks, then let Dair bore her half to death.’
‘She’s having a terrific sleep. Think about your body. Breathe out negative thoughts.’
‘I’m breathing in a hell of a lot of patchouli – can you move that joss stick?’
Like the incense, Tantric sex was a slow burner, but for all her complaints Kat could tell something strange was happening as she matched her breathing to Russ’s and let the tensions slip away. Her body no longer stayed coiled like a tight spring, but seemed to glow and liquefy, infused with a sensuality that felt no pressure or panic. As foreplay went, holding hands and humming in pyjamas for weeks on end might seem ludicrous, but she was sure she was starting to feel the benefits.
‘This will take as long as it takes. Maybe weeks, maybe months,’ his soft voice rolled over her reassuringly, ‘you can’t hurry it. If you want to reach the next plateau, Kat, you’ll have to trust me to let you know when we’re ready to progress.’
‘You sound like Tina talking to me about learning to ride,’ she joked, aware that her progress on both fronts was inhibited by an urge for small-talk to cover big tension.
‘In many ways it shares the same processes, training the body to work in a new realm without thinking, taking acquired skills into unconscious thought on a spiritual level that manifests in physical reaction.’ Russ didn’t do small-talk. He did big breathing and long lectures. ‘We’re all just animals, after all – humans have the fight or flight response, like all species, and we want to fuck each other instinctively. That’s what makes animal behaviour so fascinating. Tantra uses animal magnetism at its core, but raises our instinct to a spiritual level. The idea is that by holding back from orgasm, the pleasure is far deeper and greater. Look me in the eyes.’
Kat smiled at full force as she did so, hiding any doubts. Looking at him, so hirsute, academic and carnal, she was disconcertingly reminded of the day aged thirteen that she and her then best friend from school had sneaked The Joy of Sex off her mother’s bedroom bookshelf and leafed through it. The contents had been a million miles from Nick’s love of internet porn with its aggressive, priapic men, and women with hairless privates. In the smuggled book, the beards, pubic hair and smiles had mingled like Fuzzy Felt, helping the teenagers piece together the basics that would take their Justin Timberlake fantasies to a whole new level. The idea of Russ helping her discover Fuzzy Felt pleasure plateaux in a darkened room far from WiFi started to excite her again.
‘When do we get to the orgasm bit?’ she asked.
‘When we’re ready. Let’s meditate now. Close your eyes again and empty your mind of all thoughts, concentrating purely on your breathing.’
With Russ’s warm hands encirc
ling hers, Kat tried to get into the zone, but was soon aware of one terrier rejoining them on the rug, another scratching to be let out and the lurchers whining at the bottom of the stairs. And while her breathing seemed calm and rhythmic enough, Russ’s was very laboured: she thought he sounded as if he was coming down with a cold.
Just as she was contemplating offering him some Sinex, he released her hands so that she could place them on her chest. ‘Now we’ll do the chakra massage. Nine times table,’ he reminded her.
Russ had explained that the chakras worked in multiples of nine, so the Tantric massage, which they must begin by performing on themselves while fully clothed, moved from chest to groin using the nine times table. Being hopeless at maths, she was always aware that she had to count out loud, which she knew put Russ off but if she didn’t she lost her place long before the seventy-two rotations around the genitals and the eighty-one panting breaths that followed. They’d only moved on to this stage a week ago, and she wasn’t sure it was really working for her yet. The stroking and rubbing was really quite pleasant, but the mathematics stressed her out. Russ was being incredibly patient, but she sensed he was starting to despair that she’d ever awake her kundalini, the sacred sexual energy force that would lift her to the ultimate plateau.