Читать книгу Chloe - Freya North - Страница 17

Chloë’s day revolves around the horses and their needs. She is in the saddle for a couple of hours before and after lunch, interspersed with grooming, tack cleaning, rug mending and water-bucket replenishing. Mostly, she takes small, appreciative, pony-mad children out for a generally civilized hack (Desmond permitting). Sometimes, Gin sends her off for a ride to the woods, or down to the stream, or halfway up the hill.

‘Just to check,’ she tells Chloë, ‘on Things.’

When she returns from such outings, Gin asks ‘How’s Things?’ to which Chloë has learnt to reply ‘Things is fine.’

Initially, she tried a more detailed report about riverbanks and saplings but Gin’s glazed look told her quite clearly that she had missed the point.

Today, with the loose-boxes mucked out and Chloë and Carl not quite recovered from a dung-slinging session on the muck heap (after which neither was remotely kissable), Gin has brought them a mug of tea apiece in the tack room and is telling them about the day ahead.

‘Do you mind popping into Abergavenny? It’s market day and a good opportunity for you, Carl, to see if there are any viable propositions in the camper-van trade, or in whatever wagon it is that you intend to traverse Europe. Chloë, I thought I might leave you to buy a few things from the tack shop for the gymkhana tomorrow. Bugger, tomorrow is Saturday, isn’t it? Must be, if today’s market day.’

‘You not going to join us?’ asks Carl.

‘No, it appears I’m going to have my headache today. I’m even going to banish Dai to the top field for the duration so I can truly have it in peace. Take the Land Rover. And for heaven’s sake, take JR too!’

Dai is in the top field. Gin has exiled herself with her biannual headache. Carl and Chloë have been banished to Abergavenny. Just the two of them. Well, and JR but they are bribing him successfully with chocolate.

Together, alone, at last.

A trip to Abergavenny was not really a treat. To Monmouth maybe; to Aber, it was more of a chore. Today, though, Chloë and Carl were thankful for the usual traffic jams and bottlenecks and the unpredictable nature of the Land Rover, as it threw them together in close proximity for longer.

‘Yo! Looks like we’re going to stall again! Wait for it!’

‘Ready! Two, three – now!’

‘Way to go, JR! Take him off the dashboard, Chlo. Can’t see a thing!’

Since the moment they left Skirrid End, they have been coaxing obedience out of JR with various brands of chocolate. The Jack Russell is now looking rather green and is refusing the final offering. It enables Chloë and Carl to discover that they both share a predilection for the common Mars bar. They are excessively thrilled at the coincidence.

‘I can’t believe that Mars bars are your favourite too! I’m not even a chocolatey person!’ chips Chloë.

‘Yih!’ drawls Carl, sucking glucose and goop from around his teeth. ‘I’m not really a choco fan either. But once in a while, a craving for a Mars bar hits me and I’m a gonner.’

‘Say it again,’ says Chloë, wriggling in her seat.

‘Huh?’ asks Carl, taking his eyes from the road.

‘It,’ stresses Chloë, grabbing the steering wheel to avoid the ditch, ‘the chocolate bar we both like!’

‘Mars bar?’

‘Yes, Mahz bah!’ mimics Chloë delighted.

‘Mars bar?’

‘Mahz bah!’

‘Shit Chlo,’ Carl smiled, ‘you’re kind of spooky but – Christ! the Land Rover’s going to stall again. Hold on to JR this time!’

After they had circumnavigated Abergavenny twice looking for a free parking place, they fought their way into the Pay and Display, did both, and then split up to accomplish their individual tasks. Carl went in search of ‘combies’, as he called the camper-vans, inadvertently driving Chloë delirious; Chloë took JR and went to buy hoof picks, mane combs and other equine accoutrements suitable for gymkhana prizes.

Needless to say, neither could keep their mind on the task in hand. After a lengthy discussion with a salesman who could have been promoting Brylcreem as much as second-hand cars, Carl made a decision.

‘I’m interested, mate. I’ll have a think about it. But first I’m going to kiss Chloë.’

Humming away, Chloë was studying a vulcanite D-ring snaffle while filling her nostrils with the heavenly scent of a dressage saddle when she was suddenly grasped from behind and pirouetted. She did not notice the running martingales fall from their hook and bind themselves around JR, nor did she hear the clang of ten hoof picks as they hit the floor. She was oblivious to bridles slithering off the wall and was unaware that the dressage saddle was slowly slipping off its stand. All she knew was that Carl was kissing her and the world could wait. Heaven sent him, thank you, God. With her favourite smell of leather (‘Shit Chlo! Mine too!’) surrounding her, she was being expertly kissed by her chosen Adonis, surrounded by merchandise devoted to equitation. Heaven now had no mystique, for it could only be such a place.

Pressed against the wall, dislodging an entire selection of clincher brow bands, Chloë gladly welcomes Carl’s leg between hers and rides him gently and subconsciously as she kisses him. She can feel his erection poking through his jeans, through hers, and just above her appendix and she says to herself that it can give her peritonitis for all she cares. Slipping her hand through his hair to the back of his neck, she can feel his skin prickle and dampen under her touch. It thrills her. She feels rather proud. Carl is making noises that Chloë has never heard a man make. Spontaneous gulps and groans stifled by the intensity of lip work. She can hear similar sounds an octave higher.

It’s me!

It’s involuntary.

This girl can’t have been kissed for a good long while, thinks Carl as he thrusts his tongue up between Chloë’s cheek and teeth, but man, can she kiss good!

This is kissing, thinks Chloë, sipping Carl’s tongue deep into her mouth. Brett must have been doing something completely different all those years, something horribly lizard-like.

Jones the Tack, as he was known, would have been quite content for the lady and her young man to kiss all day were it not for a giggle of girls imploring him to let them in to marvel at his wares. He cleared his throat and Carl kissed Chloë deeper. He said ‘Hem hem’ in as nonchalant a way as he could. Chloë nipped Carl sharply on his bottom lip and then pulled him tight against her, kissing and teasing it better. Jones the Tack put his index finger up to the girls to say ‘A minute, will you?’ and gave out a cheery whistle. JR waddled towards him under a knot of reins but Carl’s hands merely wriggled through Chloë’s hair to stroke their way down her back and rest at the base of her spine.

Or the top of her ass, thought Carl, ever the optimist. It was when his hands ventured gamely over Chloë’s bottom, which gave an inadvertent thrust, that Jones the Tack felt things were just a little too steamy. For a tack shop. For lunch-time. For Abergavenny, my goodness!

‘Ten hoof picks, was it?’ he bellowed under the sweetest of smiles. Chloë and Carl leapt apart and found themselves in a tack shop in Abergavenny at lunch-time. Jones the Tack grinned away. Carl whisked himself around to bury his erection in a mountain of sweat rugs stacked conveniently behind him. Chloë stooped down to hide her blush and pick ten hoof picks from the muddle of bridles.

‘And ten mane combs too, please,’ she said huskily, not daring to catch the man’s eye.

‘Ten mane combs it is!’ sang Jones the Tack. ‘Anything else?’

‘Hoof oil and plaiting bands, please. Thank you. Very much.’

‘It’s my pleasure, lady!’

‘Yes,’ mumbled Chloë looking at JR intensely, doubting whether she was now much of a lady. She scurried away saying ‘Yup, thanks, bye’.

‘Lady!’ called Jones the Tack as she reached the door. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

Chloë looked aghast. Hoof combs. Mane picks. Plaiting oil. Hoof bands. Nothing missing. She shook her head with eyebrows askew. Jones the Tack nodded in the approximate direction of the sweat rugs without actually looking, and without his smile diminishing.

Carl!

Fortuitously, it was now safe for Carl to emerge. He and Chloë left the shop with a barrage of effusive gratitude and as elegant and honest a walk as they could muster. This they retained quite impressively until the corner of the street, when they fell about laughing until the tears squeezed from their eyes and their sides and faces ached quite unpleasantly.

The journey back to Skirrid End was beset by the all the usual afflictions of a day out in Abergavenny. But now, each traffic jam was a wonderful opportunity for another kiss. And why won’t the Land Rover stall? They have skipped lunch because they were too busy using their mouths for other things. Carl gladly forsook his research on combies because a stroll to the Linda Vista Gardens was far more attractive a proposition. There, on a picturesquely placed bench looking out over the castle meadows to the River Usk, they practised their kissing some more. Chloë declared it a far better cure for chapped lips than Vaseline.

‘But I’ll need a daily dose,’ she implored.

‘Morning and night?’

‘And noon!’

‘Noon too.’

It was bitterly cold. February after all. Late afternoon. A feeble effort by the sun now swallowed whole by a flat grey sky. Their noses ran and the chill ate into the muscles on their faces causing frequent twitching of the chins and the occasional physiognomic spasm that only served to make the kiss more interesting.

Skirrid End was anomalously quiet when they returned. The tractor was put to bed and all snoozed peacefully in the kitchen. Tiptoeing to the top of the stairs, they could hear the faint rumbles of Gin’s porcine snoring and knew all to be well. They fed and watered the horses, bedded down and rugged up. They sneaked into the tack room for a gentle, good-night kiss and parted company for the night. Both felt simultaneously exhausted and yet still on fire. Their lips felt large. Carl soothed himself by masturbating vigorously in front of the mirror in honour of Chloë. Chloë unwound by writing in minute detail to Peregrine and Jasper.

Just before she put her light out, she inched back the curtains. Carl, gloriously bare-chested, was waiting for her. She ran her tongue over her lips and could detect no roughness. Miracle. She whirled her tongue around her mouth and tasted something unfamiliar. Somebody else’s mouth. Somebody else’s desire. Desire. Unfamiliar. Delicious.

Carl blew her a kiss; chaste laced with amorous intent. She cocked her head and smiled broadly. Closing the curtains as slowly as she could, she clambered into bed with a daft grin on her face. With a sigh, she closed her eyes immediately and welcomed the cushion of silence that preceded sleep. She had neither the time nor inclination to brush her hair and talk to the Andrews. In fact, she didn’t dare.