The Country Escape (21 page)

‘Carbon footprint stew,’ she joked, when she eventually presented Russ with food.

It was surprisingly tasty. Kat wolfed hers far too fast, along with an impossibly rich goose-egg omelette. By contrast,
Russ ate slowly and deliberately as always, fixing her with the same dark, intense gaze he used during mutual massage sessions. There was no long lecture about blood sports as she’d anticipated after today’s news. Instead, he was subdued and thoughtful, his eyes studying her face.

‘Dair Armitage still fancies you,’ he said eventually.

‘Did you think he’d have gone off me by now?’
She laughed. ‘I think he’s just pining for Dawn.’

‘It’s good you have his trust. It’s going to be useful.’

‘I don’t think trust’s quite the word you mean. Lust maybe.’ She ran her finger around the plate to catch the last of the stew, sucking it appreciatively, thinking back to the last village hall movie night. ‘Do you think this equerry could be the same Dougie Everett who was
in
High Noon
?’ The memory of all those Wild West seductions remained a secret thrill.

‘Unlikely. Mind you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he needed a career change; I thought his accent was shit.’ Russ reached across to the sideboard drawer that housed the joss sticks. ‘The girl was quite good, though.’

Kat was almost deafened by Ravi Shankar’s sitar starting up on the stereo. Russ was
holding out his hand, dimples on show.

‘Tonight,’ he breathed, ‘we will truly awaken your
kundalini
.’

Head still full of leather chaps, Stetsons and spinning spurs, she decided they should give it a go.

Dougie guessed Dollar’s lobia was an acquired taste; it had the texture of lumpy wallpaper paste and one hell of an after-kick. He craved a huge glass of cold white
wine to wash it down in place of the coconut water she claimed would help cleanse his system.

Her body, however, tasted exquisite, making for the perfect sweet dessert. She was extraordinarily well toned, almost too ripped for his taste, but the soft depth of her skin feminized the muscle and sinew, and she excited him enormously. He wanted to press her up against the cool glass of the
internal window that looked over the waterwheel for a knee trembler, but she surprised him by saying, in a throaty purr, ‘Let me massage you.’

Russ was humming a lot and moving his hands around a few inches above Kat’s body as she lay back on two jewelled cushions spread on the floor, trying to identify which scent of joss stick he’d lit. It was the one that always reminded her
of the cleaning fluid they’d used in hospital corridors. Ravi had got stuck on track eight again and was sampling away happily.

‘You’ll feel the heat of my hands,’ Russ told her, in his softest Bristol burr. ‘I am moving your
kundalini
up your body. Can you feel it?’

It was lovely to lie back at last – she hadn’t appreciated how much she ached from falling off and then being bolted
with – but it certainly wasn’t very hot. She had a few goose-bumps, if she was honest, although there was no wall of frozen self-protection and fear, which she was certain was progress.

‘Your
kundalini
is moving,’ Russ breathed.

Something was moving as Kat’s belly let out an almighty groan. ‘I think it’s the black-eyed beans,’ she said, clenching her buttocks and hoping her
kundalini
hurried upwards.

‘Je-
suuuuuuuus
!’ Dougie warbled, like a Swiss yodeller, as Dollar hammered his long muscles with the sides of her hands.

‘No religious words, remember? This sports massage will help prepare you for the week ahead. I am fully trained.’

There was a loud crunch as she bent his arm across his back and leaned on it as though preparing a chicken for deboning.
Dougie howled in pain.

‘Try to relax.’

‘It bloody hurts.’

‘We will have intercourse shortly, which will relax you.’ She made it sound like an enema and, for the first time in his life, Dougie found himself doubting he could perform.

Kat woke herself up with a sharp snore, looked around in alarm and saw that Russ was sitting in the glow of his computer nearby,
making changes to the flyer.
Save Our Sanctuary
had been replaced with
Stop The Eardisford Wildlife Slaughter
and abbreviated to
STEWS
in one hundred point red font that looked like splattered blood. ‘Stew’ was not a word she wanted to dwell on this evening as a low bubbling in her belly reminded her that her
kundalini
had stayed as firmly trapped as her wind. She must have drifted off to sleep,
which was not unusual and Russ always graciously said was an important part of the healing process and sexual awakening, but she felt a stab of shame nonetheless.

‘That was
sooo
relaxing,’ she said warmly, to make him feel better, stretching out luxuriously, then regretting it: her body had stiffened from falling off Sri, but her trapped wind was determined to let loose.

Russ nobly
pretended not to hear. ‘I found a magenta printer cartridge in the desk after all – it was below all the unopened bills.’

Silently wishing he’d found her
kundalini
–
and not mentioned the bills – Kat propped herself up on one elbow. ‘Maybe we should tone down the slogan a bit. It’s a hunt event, after all, and we really don’t know what’s happening on the estate. The equerry could be a lovely
old horse-whispering hippie for all we know.’

‘Fine,’ he said tetchily, scrolling along the slogan
Stop the Eardisford Wildlife Slaughter
and adding
Man
to the end. ‘Better?’

When Kat said that, no, it wasn’t, Russ adopted one of his huffy expressions and grabbed his knapsack. ‘I’m going to set up camp by the lower stream and see if the otters are back.’

Kat was quietly relieved
that at least she could break wind at will.

‘Jeeee —’

‘Sssh!’

‘Jeeeeshhhh!’ Dougie had vastly underestimated his enthusiasm and performance power. He was on a gold run tonight. The vigorous massage might have deboned the chicken, but there was one notable omission, and it was driving the Dollar higher and higher.

‘Ooooh, my good Lord!’ The deep voice rose to
a girlish shriek.

‘No religious language!’ He laughed, then gasped and cried out a joyous, blaspheming stream of invectives as he exploded inside her. As infinite pleasure points found release through his pummelled body, like a shoal of arrows, he distinctly heard howling.

Turning his head, Dollar’s breath now hot on his neck, Dougie ignored the fierce bass heartbeat pounding through
his ears and listened hard. She’d heard it too, and she rolled out from under him with uncomfortable speed to reach for her handbag and run towards the windows. ‘Wolves!’

‘There are no – whoa!’ Dougie spotted the glint of a gun barrel in the moonlight as she crouched into assassin stance at the open window, an ominous click indicating the trigger guard was off and she had something four-legged
in her sights. He sucked his teeth, thinking fast. Explaining that wolves – and, indeed, firearms – were strictly licensed in England was going to be far too long-winded. He started to pull on his trousers. ‘Put the bloody gun down and I’ll chase them off.’

Outside, Dougie found two lurchers, one smoke grey, the other brindle, both howling at a peacock that was standing on top of the shiny
silver Mercedes and looking argumentative. As Dougie stepped out of the shadows, the lurchers scarpered and the peacock’s tail feathers went up in outrage.

‘
Mayura!
’ Dollar was laughing with relief at the window and lowering her gun.

Dougie admired the plumed display and said, in his best Bond drawl, ‘A black-eyed peacock, how apt. Tastes delicious roasted with an olive stuffing.’
He squinted up at her, his swollen eyes aching. ‘How on earth did you get hold of that gun? Please don’t tell me you managed to get it past Customs when we flew in.’

‘Of course not, but Seth has contacts in this country that supply us with hand arms when we visit.’

‘Why do you need a gun?’

‘A rich man has many enemies, Dougie, as you will undoubtedly find out.’

‘I’m
pretty certain those dogs weren’t after his loot.’

‘I hate dogs.’ She shuddered. ‘In India, the pariah dogs carry rabies.’

‘Well, here they’re more likely to carry one’s slippers. And if you’re going to pull that thing out every time you see man’s best friend, I wouldn’t recommend a day at a point-to-point.’

The Brom and Lem Hunt point-to-point was among the friendliest venues on the racing calendar. Held late in the season to give its flood-prone course the best chance of being dry, it was a big crowd puller with an end-of-term atmosphere,
its attendance boosted by a country fair with gundog and falconry displays, a parade of the Brom and Lem hounds and a novelty charity race, this year in aid of the Constance Mytton-Gough Animal Sanctuary.

Kat, who had accompanied Constance to the event before her death, could never have imagined then that just two years later her own name would be on the race card. Muddy, gutsy point-to-pointing
had been among Constance’s favourite pursuits and she’d owned several winning horses, including the sanctuary’s ancient, milky-eyed pensioner Sid in his heyday. Highly competitive and disciplined, hunt race meetings were an opportunity for amateur jockeys to vie for honours ‘between the flags’, galloping super-fit Thoroughbreds twice around the mile-and-a-half course of nine hefty birch
steeplechase fences. The spectators were a far cry from the boozy urban punters who crowded the grandstands on licensed racetracks. Here, on a windy Herefordshire hill overlooking the ancient course that ran alongside the river Lugg, local countrymen, landowners and farmers had already started to gather in human coppices of waxy green and tweedy brown as Tireless Tina’s elderly horsebox swung in through
the gates, its cab crammed with children, dogs and a nail-chewing amateur jockey. On board were several of Lake Farm’s more placid retirees to draw visitors to the Constance Mytton-Gough Animal Sanctuary stand, along with Donald, the horse on which Kat would ride the charity race at the end of the day. Before that, she braced herself to endure a great deal of good-natured ribbing about the
costume she reluctantly pulled on as soon as they parked.

‘I lost a bet with Mags and Russ last night,’ she told a startled Tina, explaining the Animal Magnetism home-made outfit, a pot-bellied deer suit made of padded fake fur with a large sticking-out bottom, fluffy tail and dangling hind legs that made it impossible to sit down comfortably. ‘I won’t even ask if my bum looks fat in it.’

‘As long as you’re not planning to ride in it, that’s fine. Very cute.’ Tina smiled encouragingly, then ruined it by dissolving into giggles as she glanced at Kat flailing around in the cab, like an expectant mother in a furry onesie perching on a birthing ball.

At least the costume took Kat’s mind off the charity race, which had kept her awake the entire previous night. She knew
a five-furlong dash after the serious racing had finished was child’s play compared to the terrifying leaps of faith involved in charging around the jumping course earlier in the day, but it was among the biggest dares she’d ever taken on.

It took her a long time to get from the lorry park to the sanctuary stand because she had so many people to say hello to, her antler head under one arm
and a lead rope straining in each hand as the two Shetlands she was towing with her snatched at the grass underfoot. She deflected the teasing valiantly: ‘I know, isn’t it amazing? Mags made it.’ ‘Huge shoulders, yes – I’ll have fun with the Portaloos!’ ‘Really looking forward to the charity race, yes.’

Wishing Russ and Mags would arrive to help – they’d still been face-painting one another
in the Lake Farm kitchen when she’d set off with the animals – Kat delivered the ponies to their pen by the sanctuary stand while Tireless Tina hauled on her baby papoose backpack and gathered up her other children to take up her stewarding role amid loud promises of ice creams and an each-way bet if they behaved themselves. The point-to-point was run by an army of volunteers made up of the Brom
and Lem’s followers and supporters, regimenting the car park with military skill, charming all-comers to part with cash at the race-card stand, manning number boards, gates and enclosures, and keeping up a welcoming commentary. MFH Miriam, a hint of lace fluttering tantalizingly from the neckline of her tweeds, was supervising the horses and jockeys with a band of jolly ladies; Babs and Bill Hedges
were manning the bar with red-faced cheer; the earthmen lurked excitedly by the fences ready to pack back parted birch as well as scooping up fallen riders and catching loose horses. Soon the hunt staff would be mounted in their red coats ready to steward horses on and off course, the huntsman blowing his horn at the start of each race to see them away.

High on the hill amid the burger
vans, trade stalls and bookies, Cyn and Pru were already manning the sanctuary stand, which was decked with banners and posters, along with the collecting tins and boxes of STEWS flyers that Kat and Russ had delivered last night before unwisely heading to the Eardisford Arms.

‘Why on earth are you dressed as a deer?’ Pru demanded disapprovingly. ‘We had T-shirts printed.’ She’d matched
hers with sensible moleskins and lace-up shoes, her German-helmet hair so shiny you could almost see the clouds reflected in it.

‘I lost a bet in the pub last night.’ Kat’s head ached from too much Dutch-courage cider. She also had an unpleasant recollection of Russ betting at least a hundred pounds on her winning the charity race.

‘We’re both going to have a little flutter on you
later,’ Cyn announced cheerfully, making her feel even more anxious. ‘And we’re
definitely
fluttering on the film star in the Men’s Open.’

‘What film star?’

The sisters showed her the list of runners and riders in the race card, among which was listed a bay seven-year-old called Kevin Spacey.

‘I think that’s the horse’s name,’ Kat pointed out kindly.

‘Below that.’

‘
Property of the Eardisford Hunt
. Oh, God, don’t let Russ see this.’ The jockey was the Honourable D. J. H. Everett.

‘Vaughan Everett’s son,’ Pru breathed reverently. ‘He was born in the hunting field and his father’s a master. The family rarely use their title, but he’s an hon like Con. This young chap rode point-to-points many times before he was distracted by acting. We are in
for a real treat.’

‘It
is
the same man?’ Kat was astonished, remembering the taut buttocks the entire village had enjoyed watching in action recently. The rumours had being doing the rounds for almost a week now, but nobody could substantiate them, and those who had met Dougie simply reported that he was very affable, knew his sport and had a brace of black eyes. Now they all had definitive
proof that he bore the golden ticket of celebrity, the gathering crowds were agog to see the newcomer in action, and gossip blew around the course faster than the blossom and twigs being spirited along in the sharp wind.

In the flapping sponsors’ tent, flirty Brom and Lem joint-master Frank Bingham-Ince was courting VIPs with largesse and champagne as he played down the loss of his best
hunting country to the Indian billionaire and his celebrity huntsman. ‘The English sporting estate is no longer just a playground for aristocrats and oligarchs – the rupee outclasses the rouble by a country mile these days. And Eardisford’s modern maharaja clearly hires his staff to act the part. What are the odds he’s got Rowan Atkinson as his manservant, Vinnie Jones as a henchman, and Dame Maggie
Smith will be installed in the Dower House before you know it?’ He chuckled pompously. ‘Mind you, if Dougie Everett’s as corrupt as his father, we’re in for trouble. Vaughan was notoriously bent in Westminster. He’d exchange anything for a peg at a good shoot.’

At the sanctuary stand, one of Russ’s comely teenage cousins was touting Brom and Lem Hunt raffle tickets. ‘Have you heard about
Dougie Everett riding in the Men’s Open? I am
beyond
excited!’ She fanned herself with her ticket book. Dressed in the customary young-farmer-chic uniform of denim hot-pants matched with a nip-waisted tweed waistcoat, chunky knee-length tan leather country boots and a fur headband with her blond mane piled above, she was pink-cheeked with delight. ‘Is it true he lives, like, practically next door
to you, Kat?’

‘So I believe.’ Now sweating heavily in her butch Bambi outfit, Kat secretly regretted not wafting around to the watermill with a basket of eggs earlier in the week.

‘OhmyGod, that is, like, so cool,’ the cousin gasped, fishing in her pockets for lip gloss. ‘I read in
Heat
that his engagement with Kiki Nelson is off. I am so
in there
.’

When Kat headed back to
the lorry to fetch the rest of the Lake Farm menagerie, an oversized fox was sitting on the ramp smoking a roll-up and texting. In her orange fake-fur hood, face paint and eye-mask, her figure corseted into a spectacular hour-glass, Mags was barely recognizable, although a few piercings and the quiff of her Morrissey tattoo still peeped from the Lycra.

‘You look amazing!’ Kat whistled.

‘Heard there might be photographers here for this Hollywood star,’ she rasped. ‘Game of you to dress up too, Kat. We thought you’d wimp out, my love.’

‘A bet’s a bet.’ She stomped up the ramp, wishing she’d stuck to her guns and refused gimmickry, but Mags could be very forceful and it had been a master-stroke to get the pub regulars to offer donations to the sanctuary if they all
dressed up today. It had already raised a healthy cash injection to buy splints for broken-legged pheasants, although they appeared to be a badger down.

‘Russ is shouting at one of the nastiest bastards in Shropshire.’ Mags cackled, grinding out her cigarette and getting up to follow Kat into the lorry, then jumping aside as Kat flew straight out again with an over-eager alpaca, tugging
a reluctant goat behind her.

Mags untied Sri, who barged down the ramp in their wake, blue eyes boggling as she looked from giant fox to deer with loud, suspicious snorts. ‘I told him to stop, but he won’t listen as usual, and I don’t want to ruin my outfit by breaking up a fight.’ She stepped away from the spinning mare now, eager to preserve her satin thigh boots.

‘Should we rescue
him? Here, let me take her.’ Kat stepped forwards to take Sri, who gaped in horror at her deer bottom.

Mags gratefully claimed the goat. ‘It’s fine. The nasty bastard is my second cousin, so he won’t hurt Russ.’ She watched as Kat was towed off by whinnying Sri, an alpaca loping in their wake. ‘Put your deer head on, my love! Photographers, remember?’

Standing patiently in the last
partition of the horsebox, pulling lazily at a haynet, Tina’s wise-eyed old eventer, Donald, watched as Mags hung back to check her reflection in a nearby wing mirror before following, fox brush swinging jauntily.