Ten

Standing in the tack room doorway with his arms tightly folded, Roger surveyed his four members of staff.

Shelley was lounging in the tatty armchair with Katie perching on the arm; Jules was washing a set of black brushing boots in the sink; and Caitlyn was cleaning Vision’s bridle on the hook hanging in the middle of the room.

‘What’s in it for us?’ asked Shelley coolly, picking up Tom’s Gay & Out magazine from the table.

‘Shelley, I detest doing these demonstrations. Watching people who can’t ride,’ Roger stopped himself from adding “in a taxi with the door shut”, ‘trying to give them advice as to how their useless horses will suddenly become good enough for the next Olympics. So, I thought if the four of you all rode our horses, I can point out the horse’s good and bad points, and we can use Lady Baneford’s indoor school for free.’

Caitlyn spat enthusiastically on the saddle soap. ‘I’m not riding in front of the Riding Club witches. They’re all totally up themselves.’

‘I know what they all want up themselves,’ murmured Shelley as she flicked through the magazine to the item about stripping away belly fat.

‘Jules?’ Roger was beginning to sound desperate.

Jules tore the Velcro straps apart on The Mechanic’s cross country boots. ‘If you really want me to. Who do you want me to ride?’

‘Paperchase or Brogue?’

Jules agreed she could ride Paperchase.

‘There must be some form of renumeration for this?’ Shelley licked her finger and turned the page.

‘In my day it was simply called wages,’ said Roger in despair. ‘Katie?’

‘Do I actually have a choice?’ She was thinking how lovely his face was when he smiled.

‘Not really, as I want you to ride The Mechanic and Lightoller.’

‘When is this Fleming Bowen masterclass anyway?’ Shelley was beginning to read the “should I fake my star sign to make me more employable?” article.

‘The twenty-fourth.’

Shelley looked mightily relieved. ‘That rules me out because me and Tom are going to the Manically Challenged gig in Newcastle.’

‘Right, so just Katie and Jules then?’ Roger confirmed.

He took the silence as approval.

•

Roger was wearing a microphone so that all the sixty-something-year-old ladies from the Athward and District Riding Club could hang onto his every word.

Katie had already ridden Lightoller to his lyrical commentary, explaining to the freshly washed hair and clouds of scent in the gallery that the horse was improving rapidly as the eventing season progressed, and didn’t he have such a lovely set on hindleg?

Jules had turned up in brand-new breeches and boots to ride Paperchase, who had behaved beautifully; she now remained in the middle of the indoor school, feet dangling free of her stirrups, as Roger thought Paperchase’s calming presence might settle The Mechanic. It didn’t, and The Mechanic had produced one of his finest rodeo performances, brutally dumping Katie in the middle of his execution of lengthened canter.

There were gasps in horror as Katie landed on the arena surface, and after she had dusted herself down and Jules had managed to catch the overexcited chestnut, Roger legged her back into the saddle.

‘And when it all goes wrong, you have to get straight back up and try again,’ he told his raptured audience as Katie picked up her canter again to the sound of tittering laughter. ‘You are alright, aren’t you?’ he added, and there was more laughter as she nodded.

As Katie and Jules were getting the three horses ready for the short journey back to Athward Hall, the whole of the Riding Club descended on Roger.

‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Jules as she crouched to fasten Paperchase’s front travelling boots. ‘Why don’t they go the whole hog and just shove their phone numbers into his pockets.’

Katie glanced up to see a woman with bleached hair, flesh overflowing from the tightest pair of white jeans, asking Roger if he did private lessons.

Unwilling to risk having both Katie and Jules in the lorry together without Shelley to referee, Roger had tactfully suggested that Jules take her car to the demonstration so she could go straight home afterwards.

In the lorry on the journey home, Katie, feeling stiff and sore from falling off, was not in carnival mood.

‘I could shoot it myself,’ she told Roger angrily. ‘Bloody horse just keeps dumping me.’

‘That was quite a performance he gave tonight,’ Roger admitted. ‘I’m not sure anyone could have sat that. Let’s hope that he starts doing it less and less,’ he glanced across at her in the passenger seat, ‘very soon.’

•

Katie was surprised to see Mrs Royal mooching around the stables with Otter at her heels.

‘Well now, I thought you might be late after answering all them questions from the Riding Club ladies, so I popped back to let Otter out.’ Otter grinned up at her. ‘How was your demonstration?’ She followed Katie to The Mechanic’s stable.

‘Bloody thing bucked me off,’ said Katie despondently.

‘Now, hinny, he was only showing off. Before long you’ll be winning a lovely red, white and blue sash with him. The kind what has golden tassels on and big rosettes with gold ribbons.’

Katie laughed and realised that, like Shelley, Mrs Royal kind of made things alright. ‘They don’t have posh sashes in eventing,’ she replied, ‘only rosettes and a salt lick as a prize that would cost you a fiver to buy.’

‘Wait and see, lassie, wait and see.’

Finding Roger in Paperchase’s stable, she told him there was a beef bourguignon in the bottom of the Aga and some mashed potato ready to go in the dingbox.

‘I’ve done enough for two,’ she told him blandly and, leaving Otter with him, she was gone, shouting “ta da, pet” to Katie who was lifting tack out of the lorry.

‘Beef bourguignon?’ asked Roger as Katie washed out the feed buckets.

With Shelley away with Tom and probably nothing in the Dorchester’s fridge but a piece of mouldy cheese and some bottles of tonic, Katie was grateful for the offer.

Going into the Dorchester for a quick shower before supper, Katie found a yellow Post-it note stuck on the inside door. Shelley had written: “pocket of your Barbour jacket – in case you need them. ;) x”.

Feeling slightly better after a shower, Katie unearthed a bottle of Shiraz that had been given to Shelley as a present and, as it was starting to spit with rain, put on her wax jacket before heading up to the Hall. As she hung up her coat in Roger’s cloakroom, she suddenly remembered Shelley’s note and found four condoms in the front pocket.

Roger had showered and was cutting up a loaf of Mrs Royal’s homemade bread when she walked into the kitchen.

‘How are you feeling?’ He poured her a vodka and tonic and put the Shiraz on top of the Aga to warm up.

‘Shoulders feel like I landed on concrete.’

‘It’s the way you landed, right across your neck.’ He returned from the freezer with an ice pack. ‘Usually reserved for injured tendons, but I think it will help.’ He laid it across her shoulders and told her to keep it there until the coolness had worn off.

Too hungry to even put Mrs Royal’s mashed potato in the microwave, they devoured the whole bourguignon and mopped up the sauce with pieces of bread. Roger opened the bottle of Shiraz and poured out two large glasses before lifting a huge rice pudding out of the Aga.

‘How are you not the size of a house?’ she asked incredulously as he handed her a dish.

‘When did you last eat?’

Katie had to think for a moment. ‘Two pieces of toast and a packet of Hula Hoops at lunchtime,’ she said eventually.

‘And for breakfast?’

‘Full English.’

He looked astounded. ‘Really?’

‘No not really,’ Katie was shovelling in rice pudding, ‘two coffees, a KitKat and a handful of Haribo,’ she admitted.

He laughed. ‘Well, I’m much the same and therefore I always eat everything that Mrs Royal has made for me.’

Roger opened another bottle of wine as the talk came around to horses and then on to the staff.

‘Shelley is brilliant,’ he stated. ‘She just gets on with it and organises everything; I don’t know what I would do without her. Caitlyn is an absolute sweetheart and tries so hard, not easy for her being dragged up by her parents and having nothing in the way of money.’

‘But she’s got her Bogiemobile,’ put in Katie, giggling.

‘But she’s got her Bogiemobile,’ agreed Roger. ‘But Jules, well, Jules is a strange girl.’

‘Strange is not the word. Did you see her laughing when I fell off tonight? She hates me, and she’s clearly mental.’

‘You’ve got to rise above it.’ He took a mouthful of wine. ‘She has been unbearably spoilt by her parents and consequently expects everything to go her way. Why is she so vile towards you anyway?’

‘You mean, you’ve actually noticed how nasty she is to me?’

‘I notice lots of things,’ he said quietly. He was looking at his glass, twirling the stem around in his fingers; then he looked across the table at her.

There was a pause; the atmosphere had changed, and she could feel her scalp prickling and her heart beating faster. Hastily, she drained the last of her wine and pushed back her chair.

‘I’d better go; Shelley is bound to have the hangover from hell tomorrow after drinking with Tom and staying in Newcastle.’

‘Have one more,’ he emptied the bottle into her glass, ‘I’ll only end up drinking it if you don’t.’

•

Jesus, what a thumping head, thought Shelley. It was all bloody Tom’s fault for suggesting they stay in Newcastle after the gig. Beer had led to vodka and tonics; vodka and tonics had led to cocktails and, finally, Jägerbombs and shots. Now, as they raced up the A1 in Tom’s BMW, Shelley thought she was going to be sick.

‘I need some paracetamol,’ she moaned faintly.

Tom, looking as green as the jumper he was wearing, replied there were some in the glovebox, and if there was only one left in the packet, he needed half of it.

‘Kill or cure method! Kill or cure method!’ he yelled twenty minutes later as he swerved into a layby with a burger van parked in it.

‘You can’t be serious?’ The smell of the bacon frying was making Shelley retch.

‘I swear by it, sweetie.’ Tom was rooting around on the back seat looking for his wallet. ‘What do you want? A bacon roll, or will I ask them to put on a cheeseburger?’

Fortified by the impromptu breakfast, Shelley was rallying by the time Tom dropped her off at the stable gates at half-past seven.

‘Morning! Where’s Katie?’ Shelley shouted across the yard to Caitlyn and her wheelbarrow.

Putting down the barrow, Caitlyn replied that she was schooling The Mechanic.

‘No, you bloody don’t,’ Shelley grabbed Tom by the arm, ‘as you’ve got the day off from Golden Knickers, you can stay and help us muck out.’

Katie sat easily in the dark-coloured dressage saddle as she cantered a figure of eight around the rubber chips of the outdoor school. The horse was going really well, and Katie had almost forgiven him for his unceremonious dumping of her the previous evening. Seeing Shelley and Tom approaching, she eased The Mechanic into a halt and walked across to the school gates on a long rein.

‘Oh my God, sweetie,’ Tom leant over the fence to stroke The Mechanic’s sweating neck, ‘you had him going like a bloody Grand Prix dressage horse. Must be the strength in those nutcracker thighs of yours.’ He winked.

Smiling, Katie gave the horse a pat and asked how the gig had been.

‘Amazing, but I’ve got a hangover so bad that if I open my eyes, I think I’ll bleed to death.’ Shelley was looking pale again and regretting the kill or cure cheeseburger with extra onions and barbeque sauce. ‘So? How was the Fleming Bowen masterclass?’

‘Aside from this fucker bucking me off in the middle of his rather glorious extended canter, it went okay. At least Roger’s fan club all seemed to like it.’

Shelley and Tom collapsed laughing.

‘The geriatrics at the Riding Club would have loved it if they’d just been sitting in a room in silence with the Rogerable Roger,’ sniggered Tom.

Shelley was staring at Katie with a look of dismay but, after closing her mouth, she said that she and Tom would start mucking out with Caitlyn, and once Katie had cooled off The Mechanic, she had better make everyone a coffee.

After turning The Mechanic out in the meadow halfway down the drive towards Mrs Fleming Bowen’s lodge, Katie yelled that she was making the coffees and heading to the Dorchester to get some milk. As she closed the fridge door, Shelley suddenly appeared at the top of the stone stairs and shut the door behind her.

‘Come on then, out with it.’

‘Out with what?’ Katie avoided her eyes and put the milk down on the faded blue bench.

‘You’ve shagged him.’

‘Shelley! I have done no such thing.’

‘Come with me.’ Shelley grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her to the bathroom. ‘Look in the mirror.’

‘Oh no,’ Katie moaned.

‘Get it now?’

Katie was rubbing an empty earlobe between her finger and thumb. ‘I can’t believe I’ve lost one.’

‘What?’ Shelley glared at her incredulously.

‘I’ve lost one of Tom’s lovely earrings.’ She took out the remaining earring and placed it on the windowsill.

‘I think that’s the least of your worries. Look again.’

‘What am I looking at?’

‘At your neck,’ said Shelley impatiently.

‘Noooo!’ wailed Katie as she turned back to her with a hand clamped over the huge hickey to the left of her throat.

‘Not quite so innocent now, are we?’ gloated Shelley.

Not saying a word, Katie walked past her and sat down on the threadbare sofa in the lounge before getting up and going to her bedroom to search for something with a roll-neck.

‘What’s he like?’ Shelley was laughing, watching her going through drawer after drawer of clothes. ‘Is it big? No don’t tell me that; I don’t think I want to know about the size of Roger’s cock. No, I do want to know – is it big? Was he good?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Mmm. Regret sinking in already, is it?’

Katie went into the kitchen and grabbed the half-empty milk bottle. ‘You breathe a word, and I mean it, Shelley, you breathe a word and I swear I’ll cut off your hair when you’re asleep.’

‘Fuck’s sake I only asked if he had a big cock,’ muttered Shelley as she followed her down the stairs.

Katie stopped at the door into the yard. ‘Would put most horses to shame,’ she said reflectively.

‘Thought as much.’

Regret was not the word. Embarrassment, paranoia and guilt were words closer to how Katie was feeling.

She and Roger could have used the vodka, whisky and two bottles of red wine as an excuse; in fact, that was the very excuse Roger suggested when he pulled her towards him and began kissing her neck.

‘We shouldn’t,’ she’d said.

‘We certainly shouldn’t,’ Roger agreed, but as they’d had so much to drink, it could be the perfect reason that they should. He had even, in the most gentlemanly fashion, given her an opportunity to leave, saying that he must take Otter out. But once he had kissed her and she had felt her knees weakening and her body tingling with lust, she had gone with him around the lawn, clutching his warm hand in the dark, and then accompanied him upstairs to his bedroom.

When she unbuttoned his shirt, she saw what an exceptionally strong and superbly fit body he had. Broad shouldered with such a narrow waist, the colour of his skin flattered by the soft, golden glow from the lamp by the bedside.

‘You are fit,’ she murmured as she kissed his suddenly exposed shoulder, ‘and you’re so bloody tall.’

‘But only when I’m standing up,’ he sat down on the enormous bed and pulled her down beside him, ‘and not when I’m lying down.’

Compared to overexcited and infatuated Jamie back in Dorset, Roger had made love to her with incredible energy and a tenderness she had not expected. Too tense and full of alcohol to even contemplate reaching an orgasm, Katie had savoured the sensation of their bodies entwined together and his obvious and utter desire for her.

‘I have wanted you since I first met you,’ he was leaning on one elbow, smoothing her tangled hair away from her face. ‘When you chose to throw yourself at me and almost knock me over, I thought Shelley had sent me a late birthday present.’

She giggled. ‘So, it’ll come as a shock to you that ten years ago, and much like all my friends at Pony Club, I had posters of you on my bedroom wall.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘That’s one way to make me feel old.’

‘You’re not old.’

But too old for you, he thought, tucking her hair behind her ears.

‘How do you manage to remain celibate with all those bloody women literally throwing themselves at you?’

‘Are you jealous?’

‘Yes.’ She took her hand from his arm and let her fingers drift lightly down his chest. ‘Though not at this very moment in time.’

‘There have been one or two women since my marriage ended; I’m not a complete monk.’

‘How have you managed to keep that quiet?’ She pushed him onto his back and propped herself up to look at him.

‘After the shitstorm that blew up after sleeping with most of my grooms, I stuck to married ones, as they will do anything to keep it quiet. And ones like Petra are so pathetically grateful that they won’t do anything to rock the boat in the hope that it happens again.’

‘Not Petra? Really?’

‘No,’ he lied, seeing the hurt in her eyes. ‘But now I know that my nickname for you is correct, and they are indeed pink.’

‘It is my favourite colour, but actually that pair was white until Mrs Royal washed them.’

At four in the morning, she regretfully lifted her head from the pillow and kissed his temple gently. His face was relaxed in sleep, and she stopped to look at him, stroking her fingers down his cheek, wishing she was brave enough to take a photo on her phone so she could relive the moment again and again.

‘Where are you going, Pink Knickers?’ he whispered, his arms tightening around her as she began to ease herself away.

She kissed him lingeringly on his forehead. ‘I’d better get back to the Dorchester before I turn into a pumpkin.’

‘Stay a while longer.’ His hand caressed the back of her neck softly, and he pulled her mouth down to his. ‘Although,’ he sat up and rummaged in the drawer of his bedside table, ‘I think we used my last one earlier.’

‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

Giving her a puzzled smile, he watched her pull on his shirt and leave the room before he lay down and waited for her to return.

Fumbling her way through the house, guided by the faint light streaming through the windows, Katie emptied the pocket of her Barbour jacket and raced back to his bedroom. Arms clenched across her breasts to stop them jiggling, she crashed back on the bed next to him and dropped her fistful of condoms.

Screwing up his eyes in the light of the lamp, he started to laugh. ‘You certainly came well prepared. Lager and lime, kiwi fruit and banana, bubblegum, curry and poppadum. Where the hell have you been? A vending machine in a nightclub?’

Laughing, she straddled him, and as she leant closer to inhale the orange and bergamot tones of his aftershave, her hair fell forward, brushing his chest. The shirt was hanging open, and he raised his hands to her breasts.

‘What an incredible view,’ he murmured, knowing it could become addictive but that it must not happen again.

‘It is,’ she agreed, running her eyes over his face.

‘What do you want?’ He slid his shirt over her shoulders and ran his hands down her arms.

‘What do you want?’

He rolled her over and began kissing her neck, his fingers gently caressing her, saying how beautiful she was. Reading the flowing black script tattooed along her ribs next to her left breast, he paused. ‘And I again am strong,’ He looked up at her quickly. ‘Wordsworth?’

She nodded. ‘How do you know?’

‘One day, I’ll tell you.’ He lowered his head and let his tongue trail across the wording.

‘Tell me now?’

He shook his head and kissed around her navel. ‘Not now.’

‘Please?’

‘No. And if you ask again, I will stop what I’m doing.’

After he had spent ten minutes kissing the inside of her thighs and sliding his fingers in and out of her, he slid a pillow under her hips and caught the look of uncertainty on her face. Promising her it would feel amazing, he sat back on his heels, pulled her carefully towards him and slid inside her. Hearing her sharp intake of breath, he leant down to kiss her before beginning to rub her delicately with his slippery thumb.

‘Who taught you this? Someone did.’

‘That would be telling, and I never kiss and tell.’ He moved his thumb slowly and felt her gripping him more firmly. ‘Don’t rush, we can take as long as you want. Don’t try.’

‘But it feels really good,’ she replied breathlessly.

‘It will feel even better if you take your time.’

‘Do I always have to do what you tell me?’

He placed his other hand flat on her stomach to hold her still. ‘If you want the best orgasm you’ve ever experienced, then yes, you do.’

‘Okay.’ She gasped as he slid fully into her. ‘I believe you.’

‘Lift your legs higher.’

‘Is this another Fleming Bowen demonstration?’

He grinned as his thumb circled. ‘You tell me.’

He watched her as her breathing started to quicken and she slowly began to arch her back, hands grabbing his thighs, head tipping back into the pillow, and he began to slide deeper into her. Feeling her muscles tightening on him and her stomach rippling under his palm, he waited until her body had become still and then he stretched his legs straight and lay on top of her, letting his weight pin her down.

‘Oh my God,’ she said slowly.

Kissing her hard as he drove himself into her, he whispered that her legs around his waist was the sexiest thing ever, but she was going to make him come too quickly.

‘Stop being such a gentleman,’ she whispered back, wrapping her legs more closely around him and gripping his arms even tighter with her fingers.

Looking down at her beautiful face, he gave in and came, falling on her and biting her neck as the sensation peaked and then faded.

‘Again,’ she whispered.

Kissing her as he eased himself out of her, he collapsed on the bed, pulling her arm so that she lay with her head on his chest and closed his eyes. ‘I think I might need five minutes.’

She looked at the side of his face as she adjusted her head on his shoulder. He was so handsome, and she wondered if this would ever happen again.

‘You’re looking at me,’ he stated.

She traced the outline of his face with her finger. ‘How do you know?’

‘I can feel it.’ He raised his hand to her face, smoothing his fingers over her forehead, before stroking her eyelids closed with his thumb and index finger.

‘I don’t want to close my eyes; I want to keep looking at you. And you need to tell me how you knew my tattoo was Wordsworth.’

‘Another time; it will wreck the moment.’

After half an hour of his hand gently brushing her back and their soft talking, he suggested that if the kiwi fruit and banana hadn’t been too bad, why didn’t they try the Bubblegum too?

‘But I draw the line at lager and lime and curry and poppadum,’ he said as she kissed her way down his stomach.

Consequently, it was six-thirty when Katie kicked open the door to the Dorchester, making the horses whinny and whicker for their breakfasts. Feeling slightly tender but not remotely tired or detecting any pain from her fall from The Mechanic after a night of debauchery and two and a half hours sleep, she changed, didn’t shower so she could keep the smell of Roger’s aftershave on her skin for a few more hours and started feeding and haying the yard. She was already tacking up The Mechanic when Caitlyn rolled in just after seven, full of apologies, saying the Bogiemobile had refused to start and she had had to get her mum and dad out of bed, who had then pushed the car down the main street of Athward village in their pyjamas.

By two o’clock, Katie was seriously flagging with a demanding red wine hangover and, knowing she had two horses to ride at Kinsey Park tomorrow, was furious with herself. Once Roger had schooled Bluebell, they would drive across to Kinsey to walk the cross country course, as Roger felt the times the next day were tight, and it would save them leaving so early in the lorry.

•

Roger was thinking hard as he drove them to the beautiful golden town of Kinsey in the Scottish Borders. What an idiot he had been taking her to bed. He’d been down this route before, and although he didn’t think Katie was the type to be bin bagging her belongings, organising his paintings or sliding, sobbing down the window at a dinner party, he was livid with himself. The first time could have been put down to drink but not the second or the third. Captivated by the glory of her fantastic body, he had been ruled by something other than his brain. Now things were going to get awkward. She had made it clear she fancied him; he had bloody well said that he’d always wanted her. He wondered if she could remember that he had said that. He couldn’t even blame her for starting it. Christ, he had practically jumped on her last night.

Feeling the friction and seeing a muscle flickering in his cheek, Katie was wise enough to know Roger had realised he had screwed up. After forty minutes of almost silence and Lewis Capaldi, as they crossed the Scottish Border, she quietly told him to forget about last night.

In silent astonishment, he took her hand and squeezed it briefly. ‘It should not have happened, and I would rather no one else knew about it.’

‘I know.’

‘Thank you.’

You utter bastard, thought Katie, as she narrowed her eyes at the road ahead.