by Fiona Walker
‘You shouldn’t have given her the box to hold, Russ. Don’t shift the blame.’
‘And you’d know all about shifting blame, I suppose?’ His fury was redirected to his pink-haired partner in crime, ursine eyes blazing.
‘You can fucking talk!’ Mags lunged forward with a balled fist, which Russ made to grab.
Without thinking, Kat stepped between them and found herself body-slammed from both sides, which at least silenced them both, although it left her own ears ringing and the yard spinning as she spluttered, ‘Just what in hell is going on?’
‘Ask him!’ Mags spat, leaping into her car to try for a wheel-spinning exit, spattering them with mud. Unfortunately she had to stop to let Trevor the peacock strut past before finally roaring away.
‘Well?’ Kat turned to face Russ furiously.
‘I’m going in search of the fox you’ve condemned to death.’ He stormed into the dark, his anger so far eclipsing hers that Kat felt any brooding resentment vanish.
She sensed the time had now come to suggest he stop free-ranging on Lake Farm. But even as she thought it, she chewed her lip, not wanting to cast him out into the wilderness, like one of his broken-legged hares.
When she emerged from scrubbing off the mud in the bathroom, Russ was already back and had lit a fire with her freshly cut wood. He turned to look at her, huge and bear-like, silhouetted in the fire light.
‘Forgive me.’ He hung his head. ‘I was hot-headed and judgemental as usual.’
‘I’m sorry about the fox.’
‘Maybe he does want to be back out in the wild,’ he conceded, reaching for a peace offering of foraged hawthorn leaves, hedge mustard and wild sorrel for a salad. He thrust them at her like a bouquet. ‘I shouldn’t have blown up like that.’
‘Shouldn’t you be apologizing to Mags?’ she asked spikily. ‘That was quite some fight.’
‘We’ve had worse.’ His eyes fixed on hers.
‘Yes. I gather you two go back a long way.’
‘You know we do.’
‘I didn’t know you were an item once.’
He gave her a wary look. ‘Has someone said something?’
‘You know this place – rumours everywhere. Why didn’t you say something?’
‘It was centuries ago. We were kids.’
‘You were a lot more of a kid than she was. She was practically cradle-snatching.’
‘Hardly – she’s nine years older than me, and I was a pretty grown-up teenager. I admit I was besotted with her from the age of thirteen, but she just thought that was funny. Then, when I was on holiday here after my GCSEs, she’d just split up with a boyfriend she’d been seeing and was really down. We got together and it lasted on and off till I went to uni, but then she started going out with Calum and… I moved on.’
‘I heard she broke your heart.’ Kat’s own was rattling dysfunctionally in her chest, unbroken but badly dented and bruised, like her ego. Then the truth struck her. ‘Oh, God, she’s the one who means you keep your love free-range and can never commit, isn’t she?’ She’d always imagined some wild Charlotte Rampling type in the animal-liberation movement, not dumpy, pierced Mags. But it all made sense. Was it really Mags who had hurt him so deeply he needed the nine times table to get a hard-on, just as Nick had left her with a body that was harder to defrost than the Christmas turkey?
His dark eyes looked at her levelly. ‘It took a while to get over, but it’s great we’re friends again. It’s you I’m with now, Kat. If you want my fidelity, I’m proud to be able to offer it.’
Kat thought he sounded as though he was presenting her with an expensive new sound system. ‘You prefer free-range relationships.’
‘My focus is on us right now. What we’ve both been through takes a lot of healing. We must learn to trust.’ His dimples deepened, the dark eyes filled with compassion, the Tantric urge clearly upon him. ‘Mags is history. You’re the one I’m with right here, right now, Kat.’
Kat fought an urge to point out that this was pretty obvious, given they were standing alone in the house together. She could hear Daphne whining to be let out, nose rattling the cat flap. ‘So what was the argument about between you?’ she asked, still prickly with suspicion.
‘Vin,’ Russ said. ‘He’s the band’s drummer – the one with the beaded goatee. He and Mags do have recent history. He got beaten up last night and has now quit. She thinks I’m the one who told Calum she’d been shagging him behind his back.’
‘Did you? Has she?’ She was amazed. Russ’s band always seemed so staid, their biggest fall-outs involving arguments about the definitive Clash track and who got the dodgy amp on stage. Suddenly they were Fleetwood Mac meets Abba.
‘What do you take me for?’ He looked offended. ‘There are rumours everywhere, as you say. We’re all so jumpy about the future here, it’s making us turn in on ourselves. Let’s find karma.’ He was already lighting a joss stick and reaching for the Ravi Shankar CD.
Kat went to let Daphne out, extracting her from the cat flap where she’d got stuck and posting her through the door, breathing in fresh air and weighing up her Tantric desires. A small flame was definitely flickering, fuelled by the day’s unexpected twists. She craved the sensual peace of its familiar routine and the reassurance of Russ’s eyes gazing into hers, although the realization that his kundalini was way behind hers had knocked her back. She wasn’t sure her nine times table would hold up this time.
Russ was looking like a seductive bearded guru in the firelight, cross-legged on one of the jewelled floor cushions.
‘I quite like it that you’re jealous.’ He reached back for another cushion, placing it in front of him and patting it. ‘It shows how much you care.’
She hesitated. ‘I met Arjan Singh’s wife today.’
Russ had closed his eyes and was already breathing deeply and rhythmically. ‘Is he another sitar player?’
She knelt down on the cushion. ‘Seth’s wife. At least, I think she was his wife. She might be a lawyer or something. Or an assassin.’ She remembered the strange way the woman had looked at her, as though examining a porcelain vase at an auction for cracks. ‘She arrived by helicopter, then Dair drove her here. She more or less asked me to name my price so they can buy me out of this place.’
‘They don’t know you at all, do they?’ He chuckled, placing her hand on his groin. ‘Relax and breathe slowly. Feel the energy of your kundalini draw strength from mine. Today you are going to massage my chakras.’
Humming and omming, Kat tried to get into the swing, but for once she found she was counting very slowly and deliberately, delaying the progress from Russ’s chest downwards as she tried to remember whether he’d taken a shower that morning. He smelt of cigarette-infused car and dog fox. She’d offer to run him a bath and carry on with the massage there, but the water needed to heat up.
Having broken off twice to let Daphne in and out again, then reminding Kat several times to keep quiet and think about her breathing, Russ’s eyes suddenly went from glazed to hard focus. ‘What did you say to Seth’s wife when she asked you to name your price?’
‘A billion,’ she told him proudly.
‘No, what did you really say?’
‘A billion.’ She sat back, abandoning the massage with relief. ‘You know I won’t be bought – the Big Five already tried that.’
‘Yes, but they’re as mean as weasels. They were trying to palm you off with twenty grand and three acres of waterlogged rough pasture by the main road. This man’s a billionaire philanthropist. Think what we could take him for!’
‘It’s not about the money.’ She stared at him, appalled.
‘C’mon, Kat. Don’t be naïve. We’re probably talking about the sort of money that could turn a small private sanctuary into a huge wildlife-rescue operation.’
‘The animals here are old and happy. Constance wanted them to die here. Seth will just have to wait it out until they do,’ she huffed, standing up and throwing her floor cu
shion into the corner.
‘What are you doing?’
She was snatching jewel-coloured throws and saris from the sofas and walls. ‘Calling time on charlatan trick sex.’ She folded up the saris and stacked them on the floor cushions, wishing they’d managed to hang on to the revving passion of wassail night. ‘Face it, Russ, we’re not setting the world alight here. We need to rethink this arrangement.’
Russ was watching her, dark eyes tortured. ‘We were breaking through. You can’t do this to me.’
‘I’m not throwing you out.’ She sighed, rubbing her forehead. ‘I’m just cooling things. Didn’t you tell me the secret of great Tantric pleasure is withholding? Well, let’s withhold from each other for a bit.’
‘Fine.’ He forced himself to sound calm. ‘Of course. That’s totally your decision.’
He even helped her unhook the tasselled hanging lanterns and put them away.
‘I’m here to look after you, Kat,’ he promised. ‘You have nothing to fear. The animals are safe. If Seth is Sikh, he’s not going to allow field sports. Hunting is against their sacred code.’
‘I’m sure that’s a relief for Heythrop, if not the rest of the village.’
He scowled. ‘Let’s go to the pub. We need a drink.’
‘No, thanks.’ She couldn’t face the earthmen lined up knowingly by the bar, let alone the cradle-snatching, pheasant-murdering, drummer-shagging cougar behind it.
‘Is it because of the Mags thing?’
‘Absolutely not.’ She flashed the mega-watt smile. ‘I’m bigger than that.’
After he’d rattled off on his mountain bike, Kat went outside with the dogs and looked across the lake to the house, all wrapped up, waiting for its new life. She should probably have gone with Russ. Nights in the Eardisford Arms always cheered her up and made her feel less threatened by the shifting political sands that came with every rumour about the estate. They were a protective bunch with many she counted as friends, far more outspoken and reassuring than the sanctuary committee, who talked endlessly about trust, both financial and moral, and thought that justice could be done with a politely worded letter and freshly baked biscuits.
Kat might need the rallying cry of the village and the uplifting back-pat of raucous bar-talk, but she had too much to stew over about Russ. If you take in the black sheep, she reasoned, you’re not going to knit a white cowboy hat. He suited Lake Farm so well, the oddball animal-lover with his boundless energy and integrity. He’d made her feel safe here. But lately she’d found herself worrying that she’d yet again chosen the toughest path by sharing the sanctuary with him. Dawn certainly seemed to think so, suggesting he made Kat retreat into her hermit’s shell, overwhelmed by the force of his personality and opinions when her own seemed childish and ill-informed. But she was still striving to understand a world she had so much to learn about, the country landscape Russ knew so well.
A movement in the park caught her eye. All she saw was the briefest glint of moonlight against branched antlers. It was the big stag, she realized in delight, her first sighting since last autumn when he’d been rutting. Russ would be thrilled.
She couldn’t push him away, she decided. She owed it to both of them not to rush anything or rely upon the self-protective reflex action that had brought her here in the first place.
Heading back inside, she threw more logs on to the fire, then arranged the saris and bandhanwar again, settling on a cushion and staring into the flames as she laid her fingertips on her first chakra. This was much easier alone at her own pace, especially if she could think about Dougie Everett’s bottom from yesterday’s movie night. By her fifth chakra, she was feeling decidedly hot and randy, laughing under her breath as her body fizzed and bubbled with anticipation, under no pressure to perform for once or to stir another into action, simply find its selfish pleasure.
‘Oh, boy!’ she gasped, astonished that she’d almost forgotten the painful sweetness of quick-fix desire, of needing to grasp the ultimate weightless freefall and hang from it.
Tantric guru Russ would tell her to stop at this point, take a break, not allow herself to go any further towards orgasm, but Kat, who hadn’t felt anything as guilt-free as this since the early Nick years, wasn’t about to lose the roll.
‘Ohboyohboyohboy.’ She laughed, rocking forwards. Perhaps there was something in all this omming after all.
‘Door was open, so we let ourselves in!’ called a cheery voice, and the dogs rattled up from the fireside in greeting, apart from deaf Maddie who was fast asleep.
Kat sat up, crossed her arms and mustered her brightest smile just in time to greet Pru and Cyn, fresh from the pub where they’d stopped off for the usual nightcap, faces red with Hopflask and gossip.
‘Oh, how lovely, you’re getting into the Indian spirit, Kat.’
‘We had to come straight round when we heard the news,’ Cyn panted, her watery blue eyes huge.
‘Isn’t it shocking?’ Pru thundered, gunmetal helmet of hair on end. ‘It’s even brought some colour to your cheeks, dear child. She looks positively flushed, doesn’t she, Cyn?’
‘In the pink, Pru.’
‘What news?’ Kat asked, flustered.
‘The Indian chappy who’s bought the house has banned the Brom and Lem Hunt from the entire estate. Miriam’s apoplectic!’
Chapter 17
Dougie could barely sleep at night, constantly reliving the struggle through the choking smoke, the fierce heat that had left his hair an inch shorter and his hands striped with welts, the terror of the little grey horse and the unflinching bravery of his young stallion.
When Zephyr’s carbon monoxide levels had been tested the day after the fire, the veterinarians at the equine hospital said he should technically have been dead. The damage to his respiratory system was so severe that they had doubted he’d make it past the first week. But the lion-hearted Friesian refused to give in to medical statistics. The air in the barn had become so hot that his throat was burned inside to a blistered shred and he was unable to breathe without the nostril tubes feeding his lungs with constant oxygen while he was pumped intravenously with fluids and painkillers. Yet his dark eyes still lit up when he saw Dougie each day and he tried to whicker with painful gasps. It was all Dougie could do not to break down and cry on his thick black neck, the magnificent long mane now burned away.
‘He’s one seriously brave horse,’ the vets told him.
In fact Zephyr looked remarkably unscathed physically, the burns and welts on his coat only superficial but, like his master, he was in deep shock, the weight dropping off him as he colicked repeatedly, his guts cramping so badly on the third day that they thought they might have to operate, which was almost too dangerous to risk in his current state. But he kept fighting to live, and that gave Dougie the strength to tough out each tortuous, sleepless night.
The fire investigators reported that it was almost certainly an electrical fault that had started the blaze. The little grey had suffered less damage to his lungs and was doing well, as were all the horses that had been rescued that night. Some, like Zephyr, would take many months to rehabilitate. Without veterinary insurance, Dougie faced astronomical bills, but he didn’t care what it cost. That was not what kept him awake at night.
He’d become obsessed with the idea that his team of horses in England was in danger, but he couldn’t get hold of Rupe, the mobile always going through to voice-mail, the increasingly impatient messages to call back unheeded.
The fire team had urged Dougie to go for trauma counselling, but Dougie had a deep mistrust of therapy. He knew it would pass. Meanwhile Xanax and bourbon were proving much more effective than the sympathetic eyes of a shrink.
Normally big-hearted Abe would have been his life support, but the agent was on a rare vacation with his family and out of contact. Dougie made no effort to track him down: Abe had never approved of the horses, and had no understanding of their significance. It wasn’t as if any had died, yet Dougie’s world had
shifted on its axis. Nothing felt safe any more.
Kiki didn’t really understand either, but the incident had certainly stopped her goading him about co-star Finlay’s desire for her. For the first twenty-four hours after the fire, she rang throughout the day to check he was okay and insisted that he must eat, wash and dress. After that, she clearly expected him to bounce back to normal. She was filming long hours, and when she was at home, her constant chatter washed over him. The tranquillizers and booze immunized him against her neediness and self-obsession. The stage-set politics, demanding directors and dysfunctional costumes didn’t register, and he no longer responded by obediently raising his hackles when she tried to fight.
‘You’re not listening to a fucking word I’m saying, are you?’ was her banshee scream after a week. When Dougie didn’t respond, she narrowed her eyes suspiciously and demanded, ‘Are you mixing meds and alcohol?’
