Lots of Love (27 page)

‘Did you want him to lick you on the nose?’

‘No.’

‘Can you lick your own nose?’

‘I’ve never tried.’

‘Try it now.’ His voice was loaded with meaning as the olive pip slid from cheek to cheek, silver eyes cornering hers, imagining he was at checkmate.

With an easy smile, she poked out her tongue, stretched it upwards and dabbed her nose.

‘That,’ Spurs said very slowly, ‘was not what I meant when I said, “Try it.”’

‘That,’ she told him, ‘is because the sun was shining so brightly out of your – mouth when you said it, I was blinded.’

‘And you should wash yours out with soap and water.’ He didn’t blink. ‘I’ll happily do it for you.’

‘As a public schoolboy and an ex con, I’m sure you’ll understand why I wouldn’t trust you with my bar of soap.’ This time she was determined not to bow down from the staring match.

The silver eyes widened in admiration. ‘I could use a cold shower right now.’

She refused to let the hot-metal eyes burn hers into submission. They watched her for a long time, gradually losing their mischief and playfulness until they misted over to a dull pewter.

‘Stop it.’

He said it so quietly that she thought she’d misheard. ‘Sorry?’

‘Stop it.’

‘Stop what?’

‘Making me want to take you to bed.’ He looked away, conceding defeat.

Ellen opened her mouth and closed it again, heart thudding. She’d asked for that. It was, she realised, exactly what she’d wanted to hear when she was playing the game, too competitive to care about the consequences. Victory made her feel charged from head to toe with static and fear. Her trophy for knowing how to flirt with X-factor was tarnished. He’d thrust it at her angrily, and she dropped it at their feet.

He tapped his finger against the table, watching it move, no longer talking from the heart or anywhere else.

They ate in silence, this time uncomfortable and prickly, the heat making the food droop and the wasps swarm. Ellen guessed she’d blown her chance of an easy friendship by flirting.

‘Where do you go after this place is sold?’ he asked eventually, lighting a cigarette, his mood ten shades darker than it had been minutes earlier.

‘Overseas – travelling for a few months, maybe longer.’ She didn’t look him in the eye, but was grateful that the silence had been broken at last. ‘I want to get to Mongolia and Tibet, and maybe China before too many package tours head there.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yup.’ She gave him a ‘so what?’ look and he half smiled, but the tension remained.

‘I travelled for a couple of years.’

‘After . . . ?’

‘Yes, I thought I’d take a gap year after prison,’ he snapped witheringly. ‘There are some places you can still go with a criminal record. Half the guys in Cirque de Phénomène were junkies, murderers and wife-beaters. I was small fry.’

Ellen blinked at him in surprise. ‘You were with Cirque de Phénomène?’

He nodded warily. ‘You’ve heard of it?’

‘I loved it – Richard and I saw a show in Barcelona. It was wild. What did you do?’

‘Rode nags – cleaned up their shit, drove an artic, shagged a lot.’

Ellen’s awe rose above the awkwardness and she pressed her hands to her hot cheeks excitedly. Cirque de Phénomène was a huge cult on the continent, a wild, anarchic underground circus made up of freak acts, dangerous stunts and a lot of rock-and-roll. It travelled in a huge, ever-changing hippie band, and was legendary for its wild characters, its in-fighting and clashes with the authorities of every country it visited. As far as she knew, no venue in Great Britain had ever hosted the rabble-rousing crew of bikers, horsemen, knife-eaters and fire-dancers.

‘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 looked 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.