Kiss and Tell (67 page)
‘Nothing,’ he cleared his throat.
‘Come here,’ she purred, but the anxiety in her voice made her sound like a member of the Monty Python team pretending to be a woman.
After what seemed like an agonising pause, he moved forwards and Beccy found her face level with his crotch, the very dimly lit configuration in front of her definitely closer to the small, limp manhoods depicted in her biology textbooks as a teenager than the huge, rocket-like ones she’d espied on the internet. Oh God, he
had
lost his erection.
She determinedly didn’t panic or cry, thinking instead of those internet images she had seen and what the women had been doing in some of them. He was saying something now, but her heart was
hammering too hard to take it in as she sat up taller, licked her lips, and reached out for that unfamiliar bundle. She located the warm, creased little dough finger tucked in its sticky, scratchy basket of soft rolls and guided it towards her mouth to help it rise again.
He gasped in joy, his voice sounding even more unfamiliar as it thickened with lust. ‘Yeah, baby. Here he comes again.’
Beccy’s mouth was suddenly filling up with firm, sinewy muscle that tasted of salt and – unpleasantly – stale underpants. She’d thought Hugo would be delicious. And the commentary was deeply off-putting, too. She tried to blot it out.
‘That’s it, baby. Wow! Keep sucking the meat. Swallow me.’ He sounded as though he had been looking at the same website as she had.
Beccy was alarmed to find his hand on the back of her head now, forcing it forwards, making her gag. The salty flavour was getting stronger, his balls scratching her chin, her nose bent sideways with pubes up her nostrils. She pulled away, gagging, and he pushed her back against the pile of rugs, his calves forcing her legs apart once more, a hand reaching down to start kneading and fingering her crotch, trying no doubt to fire up her clitoris but in fact just making her sore. She wanted to pull away, to make him to stop.
At that moment, voices cut in directly below them:
‘This is the grey I was telling you about, Hils – a real find. Only cost a couple of grand from the bloodstock sales and went Intermediate in his first year. Gus wants to flog him to Hugo for one of his rich clients, but he’d probably kill them. Nightmare to ride. Here – let me turn on a light.’
Rolling away from Beccy like an SAS commando, Hugo had his trousers up and was taking the stairs two at a time by the time the lights came on, shooting panes of light up through the floorboards in the loft space above the stable.
Sitting in this weird laser-land Beccy was left reeling, knickerless, with her legs wide apart and a bad taste in her mouth, wondering what had hit her.
At ground level Penny Moncrieff continued showing her sister-in-law, Hils, around the horses, grateful for some fresh air in the last half hour before the midnight countdown. ‘This mare is a sweety – came from Val Lancaster’s yard.’
‘Val Mackesy as was, of course!’ said another voice, even more
cut-glass than Penny’s. ‘I remember her from Pony Club! Hugo’s at school with her son, Alec.’
‘Alec’s not one of the mob here tonight, though?’
‘God no – he’s two year’s above Huey, so a different species. I am sorry he’s invited so many ghastly, spotty friends by the way. We said no more than two.’
Penny laughed and their footsteps started to move further away. ‘I’m only sorry we don’t have any spotty girls to offer them as entertainment.’
‘Ah but you have Sylva Frost. The boys are delirious with happiness – even
I’ve
heard of her and I’m just a mink and manure housewife from the Cape peninsula.’
‘
I
didn’t invite her.’ Penny sounded arch.
‘Who did?’
‘Hugo Beauchamp’s mother, I think.’
‘Gosh.’
Their voices had started to drift out of earshot. Beccy could hear ‘horse’ and ‘affair’ and ‘publicity’ before the rushing blood in her head drowned everything else again.
Rory walked around the Haydown yard with Twitch at his heels, listening to the rhythmic crunch of his horses eating their hay, the snorts and tail-swishes, the occasional bang of a hoof striking timber. He stroked Whitey’s long, pale face hanging over his half door to greet him, his ghost horse brought back from the brink of death and now teaching Faith valuable lessons. He moved to Fox, his back turned away as usual, content to keep his own counsel. He let sentimental Humpty rest his chin on his head, then yard comic Sid lip at his cuffs in search of treats, pulling silly faces. One by one Rory moved along the stables, checking them all and drawing comfort. Cœur d’Or’s heart-shaped star bobbed in the half light behind the grille of his corner stable as he pulled angry faces, furious at his prolonged box rest, and pathetically grateful to see Rory and get some attention at last. He reminded Rory
curiously of Faith, always so pleased to see him yet always so cross with him.
Rory let himself into the box and checked the horse’s stable bandages and rugs. Once someone got close up to Heart he inevitably stopped playing up and pretending to be menacing, and became very soppy indeed.
Rory pressed his forehead against the horse’s warm shoulder and breathed in his power. Heart hadn’t been clipped because he wasn’t in work, so his coat was as fluffy and soft as a teddy bear. Horses had always been Rory’s comforter, since infancy when his father had bought him his first Shetland, strapped him into a basket seat and taken him out hunting. He had never had been attached to toys – they always got lost or broken – but he had treated his ponies like best friends, little gods that gave him speed and flight and power, that made a wimpy little boy with a bad home life into a superhero, attracting girls and plaudits, adult respect and, ultimately, glory. He knew the power of the horse. He understood horses far better than he understood humans.
He closed Heart’s door and walked beneath the arch to the yard that housed the stallions in their own covered barn, which was partitioned into big, walled stalls with ornate rails and finials dating back to Haydown’s heyday of carriage horses, hacks and hunters kept ready for action by a small army of grooms, nagsmen and ostlers.
Rio was waiting for him, coat as black as the night sky, his clever head slightly cocked as he watched Rory scuff his way along the aisle. He was by far the brightest horse that Rory rode, with such a sharp sensitivity about him that he could be almost impossibly volatile on a bad day, but was equally the best of the lot on others, so attuned that his ability to read Rory’s mind and body seemed far faster than Rory’s ability to think and act for himself. He blew Rory away, and he was almost frightened by how good he was. He secretly thought he was better than million-pound Fox any day. He was in a class of his own.
He pulled off his glove to feed him a mint and felt the horse’s breath warm his hand.
‘Your mistress needs us to show her how good we are,’ he told him. If Hugo took Lough to America instead of Rory he might as well pack off back to Overlodes and drive in to a few more trees.
He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about that. A week
later and his body was still suffering. Boxing Day had marked an all-time low, a great wave of anger breaking inside him, crashing down memories of his father’s pathetic death, of his mother’s endless search for security through rich men, and his older sister who, over two decades earlier, had run away from home on Boxing Day, leaving a distraught eight-year-old brother secretly blaming himself for some childish prank that he was certain had made her leave. Christmas often had a negative effect on Rory. It had few good memories. His great uncle who, despite his austerity, had been Rory’s greatest ally had died three days after Christmas.
His family was now barely tied together by more than a scrap of brown paper and a few loose strings compared to the Brakespears and Beauchamps, who were all wrapped up in ribbons and garlands.
But falling off the wagon on Boxing Day and letting the runaway coach and horses drive in to a tree was unforgivable, and he knew it. His sister Diana had wanted to celebrate her birthday with just Amos, and Rory had felt like that eight-year-old again, rejected and at fault. Diana was still like a stranger sometimes, consumed by her amazing love affair, possessing the same curious detached manner as their mother.
For the first time in his life Rory wondered if he had the same trait. Perhaps it ran in the family, but unlike his mother and sister, who preferred to devote themselves entirely to their men, Rory devoted himself to his horses and his sport.
One of the horses called out from another yard and Rio raised his head to return the whinny, raising his upper lip to show his front teeth as he tasted the air inches from Rory’s face.
‘I’m looking a gift horse in the mouth,’ he said out loud, realising it properly for the first time. Faith had given him her horse to ride. He had never realised the scale of the gesture until now. Last week she’d saved his life.
The least he could do was be there tonight to thank her in person. She’d asked him to be at the party for New Year, and he was just moping.
He looked at his watch. If he hurried he could make it to Lime Tree Farm not long after midnight. He had no car, but he knew the combination to the machinery shed padlock, and the quad bike was in there.
He raced out to the yard and then, remembering that he had a
present he wanted to give her, ran to his cottage to fetch it, Twitch yapping excitedly behind him.
‘Ten minutes to go!’ a voice shouted above the din downstairs as Faith queued for the loo. She had been waiting so long that Lemon came in search of her, bringing brimming glasses of punch.
‘Perhaps someone’s passed out in there?’ he suggested.
‘You don’t suppose it’s Beccy?’ Faith replied in an anxious whisper. They hadn’t seen her in a long time.
‘Nah, she went outside.’
Increasingly desperate for a pee, Faith banged impatiently on the door. They were in the little attic corridor next to her bedroom at the very top of Lime Tree Farm. She had no idea who was hogging her bathroom, but she wasn’t impressed.
At last, the occupant came out. It was Gus’s teenage nephew, Huey. To Faith’s surprise he took one look at her and gulped, ‘Look, I’m really sorry about what just happened – about – everything. It was all my fault. I blew my load too quick, then my mother appeared on the scene and … Let’s just forget it, okay?’ And he bolted downstairs.
‘What “just” happened? What load?’ Lemon demanded jealously.
‘No idea,’ Faith’s bladder was too full to care. She handed her drink back to him.
Lemon was lying on the little single bed in her room when she reappeared, leafing through the Pippa Funnell biography that made up her bedside reading. He’d found the Melody Gardot tracks on the MP3 player that her brother had given her for Christmas and her sultry, sexy voice filled the little room.
He looked up at her over the book as she sat down heavily on the bed. ‘Looks like we’ll never make it.’ He rested his feet on her lap and sighed deeply.
‘Speak for yourself,’ she countered. ‘I plan to be just as successful as Pippa.’
‘I was talking about the pact.’ He lifted his watch to show her the dial. ‘We’ve got less than ten minutes to lose our virginities.’
‘Oh, that.’ She slumped down, staring up at the ceiling, his feet still on her lap. ‘I think I’ll save myself for Rory after all.’
‘Like he’s saving himself for you?’
Faith said nothing.
She had been certain he’d turn up, but it was now almost midnight. He clearly wasn’t coming.
‘He’ll be with someone right now, I reckon,’ Lemon predicted.
‘He said he was staying in.’
‘Yeah! Like when have you ever known Rory “stay in”?’
Faith felt her heart deflate.
‘It’ll be some tasty married bit. You know Rory. Venetia Gundry, maybe? She’s not here tonight, is she?’
‘Lem, can we not have this conversation?’ Faith snapped, feeling sick suddenly. She knew she had no hope of competing on a sexual scale with Venetia, who had two marriages and a host of event riders under her belt.
He shrugged, looking peeved.
‘The pact was a dumb idea anyway. We’d never have done it.’
‘We still could.’
‘In five minutes?’ She checked her bedside clock.
‘If we trust each other on this one.’
‘How d’you mean?’ She turned her head to look at him.
His round, jokey face was bright red. ‘Lose it together?’
‘Yeah!’ She laughed dismissively.
‘I can’t be sure, but I think it’s a safe bet that I’ll come in at under two minutes first time around.’
Faith propped her chin on her elbow and stared more intently at him. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘I fancy you, Faith.’
Faith looked at him, uncertain what to say. She had never felt attracted to Lem physically, but she suddenly wanted to have sex very badly indeed, like wanting to jump six feet and not caring which horse she rode to clear it. This was a goal within her grasp. The thought made her feel fantastically empowered.
‘I guess it’s worth a try.’ She suddenly felt a pulse of energy thrum its way from her heart to her groin.
‘Do we kiss first, or undress?’
‘Both, I think.’
By the time the countdown had started far below them, Faith and Lem were naked on her little bed and enjoying a thorough, unexpected and truly enlightening exploration of one another’s erogenous zones, tickly bits and never-been-touched-by-another’s-hand intimacies.
‘Crikey, it’s all a bit undignified, isn’t it?’
‘Feels good though, yeah?’
Lemon had underestimated himself. He lasted considerably longer than two minutes, and Faith appreciated every second of extra time. This all took quite a bit of getting used to, she decided, as Lemon’s rising trot increased rapidly. It wasn’t perhaps quite the thrill of jumping a six-foot gate that she’d hoped for, but it was good to get it over with, and she was grateful that it was with a mate. At least they could laugh when his thrusts became so wild he kept slipping out, or when Faith discovered that the strange slopping noise accompanying them was because she was lying on her hot water bottle, still in the bed from the night before. In fact, losing one’s virginity was so fantastically absurd and preoccupying that they totally missed midnight.