Lots of Love (28 page)

Already in the field, Spurs was walking slowly round Otto, lengthening the stirrup leathers and talking to him in a low, soothing voice, a hand constantly touching his sweating neck, flank or quarters to reassure him.

Dilly hung over the paddock gate watching them. Her crush on Cousin Rory looked under immediate threat. ‘I warn you, he’s really, really hard to get on – he prats around all over the place,’ she called to Spurs, as Ellen moved in beside her. ‘I usually just take a running jump . . . I’m the same with boys,’ she whispered to Ellen, winking in a very Goldie Hawn way.

‘Good tactic.’ Ellen warmed to her daftness and honesty.

‘Not very successful so far,’ Dilly admitted. ‘With Otto . . . or boys.’

‘Sometimes you have to jump when they’re not looking.’ Ellen watched Spurs.

‘Have you had lots of boyfriends?’

‘I’ve taken a lot of running jumps,’ she hedged.

Had they blinked, they would have missed Spurs mounting. He stepped into the stirrup and swung into the saddle as deftly as a cat springing on to a wall.

Otto’s ears flicked back questioningly and he snorted, but he stood stock still, his nose dipping towards his knees.

‘Wow – that’s rocking.’ Dilly whistled.

‘Shouldn’t you be wearing a helmet or something?’ Ellen asked.

He didn’t appear to hear. Dressed in dusty shorts and trainers, he rode Otto across the paddock, his bare back taut with controlled muscles, all working in delicate, denned unison beneath the glossy bronzed freckles.

‘I had
no
idea Spurs Belling would be so hot,’ Dilly whispered, girlish and excited, once he was out of earshot.

Ellen watched him as he and the horse moved easily around the field, Otto’s head stretching out in a low, relaxed arc, ears pricked, dark eyes limpid – he looked in horse heaven.

‘Mum’s always made him sound like Jack the Ripper meets Marilyn Manson.’ Dilly giggled. ‘And I thought he’d be really old, like her. But he’s more our age, isn’t he?’

Ellen looked at her in wonder. Dilly was either being grossly flattering, or needed her eyes testing. ‘I’m not much younger than your mum.’

‘Yeah, but she was middle-aged from birth – you’re a babe,’ Dilly told her sweetly. ‘You look like Cameron Diaz.’

‘Thanks.’ Ellen checked her eyes for signs of cataracts, then turned back to watch Spurs, who was holding the reins by the buckle now, scratching his thigh and waving cheerily at Hunter. He never let up. The tension, it seemed, had vanished the instant he got on. He looked totally at home and sexier than ever, his back rolling and swaying like a long, muscular shock-absorber as the horse moved, his long legs firm and still against Otto’s sides.

Oh, God, oh, god, oh, god, I fancy him, she thought wretchedly. He’s badder than bad and I fancy him. She wanted to run across the field and push him off his horse for making her feel this way. ‘All he needs is a poncho and a cheroot,’ she muttered dismissively, trying to make herself feel better.

Dilly giggled. ‘I like his tattoo. What is it?’

‘A barcode.’ Ellen had spotted it earlier.

‘Wow,’ Dilly breathed. ‘Is that a prison thing?’

‘No, it’s a fashion-victim thing.’ Dating back about three years, Ellen recalled – round about the time Spurs was playing circus daredevil. She hated herself for finding it as sexy as Dilly clearly did – and she certainly wasn’t about to admit it. ‘If you scanned that at Tesco, you’d find it was seriously past its use-by date.’

‘Mum said you were really cool.’ Dilly was watching as Spurs coaxed Otto’s head up until his neck was rounded like a Lipizzaner then moved him smoothly into a floating trot, circling this way and that to keep his concentration. ‘But I had no idea you and Spurs Belling were an item.’

‘We’re not!’ Ellen said hastily. ‘He’s just helping me out.’

Dilly gave her a knowing-kid smile, propped her elbows on the gate and cupped her chin with a sigh. ‘I wish he could help me out. If he’s as gangland as they say, I might hire him as a contract killer . . . like in the movie,
Leon,
only gorgeous-looking.’ She trapped a plump lower lip beneath her top teeth and gazed at Spurs dreamily. ‘I wish bloody Otto went like that for me.’

‘That’s no reason to have him assassinated,’ Ellen pointed out.

‘Oh, I don’t want Otto taken out.’ She looked horrified. ‘It’s Godspell Gates I loathe.’ The green eyes rolled angrily. ‘We used to be friends, but now she thinks she’s too old and cool to know me. Mum has to sculpt her and she’s been lurking in the cottage all afternoon like a ghoul, refusing to talk or even have a cup of tea. That’s why I decided to take the Psychotto for a spin.’

‘I thought you were on a fag run?’

‘That too. Mum’s been lighting one from the other since Godspell turned up. And she likes winding Lily up by sending me into the shop for fags – the silly cow trains all her CCTVs on me.’

Ellen had forgotten about the shoplifting incident. It seemed she was playing open garden to the village’s crimewave today. She watched as Spurs passed close by, focused on what he was doing. Otto was moving beautifully beneath him so that they seemed fused together into one powerful animal.

‘I’ve never seen him go like that.’ Dilly sighed. ‘Not even for Rory.’

They broke into a canter, again circling and serpentining, moving around the small field in an intricate dance. Ellen had never taken much interest in riding, but she remembered a huge horse fair in Spain that she and Richard had stumbled across one rainy day in Jerez, and the amazing way that tiny, still-shouldered boys in frilly shirts had ridden huge, fiery stallions as though they were ponies, eliciting total obedience with nothing more apparent than a flick of the wrist, taming half a tonne of brute force with mesmerising simplicity. That was the way Spurs rode. It was spellbinding to watch.

She and Dilly fell into rapt silence.

Soon he disappointed his audience by slowing Otto to a loose-reined walk and returning to the gate, smiling broadly – a bare-chested, wild-haired gypsy, who broke the spell by speaking like a royal prince. ‘He’s a really nice sort – knows how to use himself, even though he’s pretty unfit.’ He leaned down to pat the horse’s sweaty neck and pull at his ears. Otto was still wearing his horse-in-heaven expression and, to her shame, Ellen found herself envying him.

Dilly beamed up at Spurs proudly, blinking blonde curls from her eyes. ‘He jumps fantastically. Do you want to try?’

‘I think he’s had enough for now.’ He pulled a battered packet of cigarettes out of his back pocket and lit one, squinting around as he did so, obviously tempted. ‘Besides, there’s nothing to jump here.’

‘We could build something.’ Dilly looked about eagerly, suddenly childlike once more, not wanting the moment to end.

‘Maybe another time.’ He jumped off and patted Otto, cigarette dangling between his lips as if he were an old ostler. ‘Ellen and I still have a hell of a lot to do today.’

‘Tomorrow?’ she suggested. ‘You’ll be here tomorrow, won’t you?’

‘Possibly.’ He adjusted the stirrup leathers.

Ellen registered his shuttered look: a big question mark was hanging over ‘possibly’. Maybe he’d bored of playing Alan to her Charlie Dimmock now that he could play Mickey Rooney to Dilly’s Velvet Brown.

‘I’ll come by tomorrow, then,’ Dilly said excitedly, accepting his offer of a leg up with something close to ecstasy. She was a girl in love. She looked down at him adoringly, then glanced guiltily at Ellen. ‘Um – would you mind not mentioning it to Mum? You know what she’s like.’

‘Sure,’ she said uneasily.

Spurs caught her eye and gave a silver wink. She wasn’t quite sure how to take it, but it made the hairs on the back of her neck unglue themselves from the sweat there and stand to attention.

As Ellen and Spurs crossed the garden on either side of Otto, Dilly was grumbling about Godspell again. ‘She is so up herself. Mum is a wicked sculptor – everyone knows that – and she had the nerve to bring a list from Ely saying that under no circumstances could Mum add (a) horns (b) warts (c) antennae or (d) fangs to the bust. Frankly, I think they’d do that bland little tombstone-face a favour. She is
so
plain. It’s no wonder she hangs around in the graveyard.’

Ellen tried to catch Spurs’ eye under the horse’s neck, but he was glaring at the ground.

‘Right – I’m off to the shop.’ Dilly turned left at the gate, assuming an affected coolness now that she was back on open ground. ‘You guys want anything?’

Ellen was about to ask Spurs if he wanted an icecream, but at that moment she caught sight of a black and white shadow springing off the festering lunch and streaking away.

‘Fins!’ She leaped after him.

He fled behind the bunkhouse, shot through the laurels and vanished. Ellen pulled back her hair and laughed with relief – at least he was still nearby. He’d managed to wolf the rest of the ham and pâté, and most of a melted Brie.

She swung back towards Dilly and Spurs and found – in something of a regretful epiphany – that she was staring at two wildly attractive people who looked disturbingly good together. They also looked strangely conspiratorial, glancing guiltily away from a shared whisper the moment they saw her turn back.

I am paranoid, Ellen reminded herself. I am also not ready to fancy anyone. It’s just hours since the Lloyd disaster. Learn, Jamieson, learn.

‘See you tomorrow!’ she called breezily.

Dilly waved happily and set off.

To Ellen’s surprise, Spurs gave her a dirty look as he stomped past her to the workshop, banging the door obviously behind him.

I am no longer interesting, she concluded regretfully. I am a sweaty, dirty blonde who can’t ride a horse, and he’s just met a ravishing, dewy-fresh one who laughs as her pink prancer poses around the village. If wishes were horses, my two remaining ones would be strapped to a glass carriage and getting me out of this animated postcard as fast as their legs could carry them.

As Otto’s hoofsteps faded away, she started to clear the lunch, swatting wasps and glancing around distractedly for Fins. The air was thick with storm flies. This afternoon, she was certain, it had to arrive.

But the sky stayed stubbornly clear, deep blue as she carried the leftover food into the cool of the house, slamming plates into the dishwasher and watching out of the window as Spurs rattled the old petrol mower on to the lawn then adjusted the blades to give it a neater cut.

Angered by his sudden mood-swing and still overheated, she pulled up her T-shirt and gave his freckled back a lengthy, unseen boob flash as he primed the pump. Then she spotted the reflective flash of Hunter’s binoculars positively oscillating and dived beneath the window-sill, banging her head against the cupboard below the sink.

Hoping to find a job that provided at least a little respite from the throbbing heat, she donned her mother’s spotless navy blue Wellingtons and went into the pond to rescue the few surviving plants before it was drained. It was a disgusting, slimy job and the green, foamy water slopped into her boots, running down to her feet and rooting her anger deep beneath the pond bed. She splashed her face and arms with the green sludge as she worked, slowly turning herself into a swamp monster. By the time Spurs had cut the lawns a second time, she was dripping with green gunk.

‘You have no idea how amazing you look,’ he said, as he carried the last box of grass cuttings past her to the gate. ‘Like a garden statue covered in moss.’

‘I’m so flattered.’ She was in no mood to spar.

‘You’re the ultimate pond lifestyle accessory. You should stay there for when buyers come round. Place would sell in a trice.’

‘I’ll stick to cranking up the coffee percolator, thanks.’

‘Not seeing your estate-agent boyfriend tonight, then?’ He dropped the box, stretched out his arms and rolled his head.

‘None of your business.’ She wondered how he knew what Lloyd did for a living.

‘You’re funny.’

Ellen got the distinct impression he wasn’t referring to her wit. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Oh, no reason.’ He picked up the box again. ‘You’re just funny.’ He stomped off.

What was that supposed to mean?

As the afternoon wore on in unrelenting, humid sunshine, the green algae baked hard on her arms, face and legs. She set up the pump to drain the pond water into a scorched flower-bed and resumed weeding while Spurs went about clipping the hedges. It was no longer companionable work. They tackled their separate jobs at opposite ends of the garden, occasionally casting one another thoughtful glances, which darted away when they crossed. The sun lowered in the sky while they accumulated great piles of foliage and disenchanted tempers.

Having tamed the wild hornbeam at the front of the house, Spurs settled on his favourite bench with another beer, lit up like a bronze in the evening light.

‘Fancy one?’ He held up a second can, challenging her to another dirty-talk duel of sin and insinuation.

The hard edge to his voice told Ellen to steer well clear. Whatever his crisis before he’d ridden Otto, he’d got on his high horse the moment he had mounted and he was still riding around on it. Right now, he was very dangerous indeed, and he was after a grudge match.

Ellen carried on weeding, pulling out pretty much everything in sight and slinging it over her shoulder in the general direction of the barrow.

‘Have you stopped loving me, then?’ he called.

She ignored him.

‘I still love you.’

She decided that she hated gardening. It was dirty, smelly, thankless work that made your knees ache. She was sweaty, she stank and she was covered in scratches and rashes. As pastimes went, it was all toil and soil with no thrills.

She sat back on her heels, ripped off a glove and rubbed her hot face with an even hotter hand, blinking the steamy mist from her eyes. As she did so, she knew straight away that he was alongside her. It was, she imagined, a similar sensation to knowing that a big cat was breathing hotly down your neck – uncertain whether it was about to lick your ear or pounce for its supper.