On the mantelpiece were trophies she’d won, and on the shelves books on racing, autobiographies of great jockeys, novels by Dick Francis and Johnnie Francome and slimming videos. They hadn’t worked, nor had the exercise bicycle in the corner.
Beside the bed was a rocking horse alarm clock, which neighed, made a sound of galloping hooves and never let Tommy down, and a biography she was reading of Amber’s father, Billy. Seeing his sweet youthful face on the cover, Amber shivered at the memory of how pale and ill he’d looked earlier. It was bloody cold in this room.
Having warmed herself up with a shower and washed her hair with Tommy’s shampoo, she smothered herself in Tommy’s lily of the valley body lotion. It was much sweeter, appropriately, than the sophisticated, sexy Madame that Amber normally wore. She examined herself in the mirror, waxed, highlighted, toned, scented, toe nails painted, raring for Rogue. She looked bloody gorgeous. If she hadn’t blown him out, she’d be in Leeds drinking Dom Perignon in a four-poster.
Finding a bottle of white in the little fridge, she took a slug and pulled a face. Too sweet again. Pity to waste herself and him, she thought, catching sight of a rare smiling photo of Rafiq. Everyone knew of his police record, his dangerous past, how only terror of losing his job contained his terrible temper, which he’d lost when he’d stuck up for her today.
In the drawer, she found neatly folded clothes. Tommy’s scarlet
pyjama bottoms fell to the ground when she tried them on, so she put on a white cotton nightdress.
Taking Tommy’s kettle – she could always pretend she was going to fill it for a hot-water bottle – she opened the door, slap into Rafiq. Both jumped out of their gooseflesh.
His newly washed hair was shiny as a raven’s wing, his midnight-blue pyjamas, buttoned up to a high collar, looked wet or was it sweat?
‘I wash them and put them in dryer, but they didn’t dry enough. I wanted to …’ confessed Rafiq.
‘Look gorgeous for me?’ murmured Amber. ‘And you do, but you better get out of them. You’ll find me much more fun than an Equicizer.’
Taking his hand, she led him back into Tommy’s room. They gazed at each other.
‘What about Rogue?’
‘Only interested in fucking. All Irish jockeys are the same, they go to Mass on Sunday, confess who they’ve been shagging, say their Hail Marys and carry on regardless. Hail Mary, Hail Amber, Hail fucking Tara.’
‘Shut up,’ interrupted Rafiq. ‘Why you talk so ugly? It doesn’t suit you. If you were my girl, I’d lock you away, so no one feast on your beauty.’
‘Beauty?’ taunted Amber. ‘I didn’t know you noticed.’
Rafiq ran his hand over her face. ‘Lovely eyelash and eyes, proud nose, beautiful mouth, which shouldn’t say ugly things.’
Very slowly he ran a finger along her lower lip, then slid his hand round to the back of her head, running fingers through her hair, gazing deep into her eyes, so close that she could smell his clean, sweet breath, his big mouth widening into a nervous smile as he gazed longingly at her lips then back to her eyes for reassurance.
‘I know you kiss me to annoy Rogue.’
‘Not entirely,’ drawled Amber, edging a little nearer. ‘Shouldn’t you go and pray?’
‘For what?’
‘For deliverance from the she-devil, who takes love where she finds it. The infidel incapable of fidelity.’
‘Once you find love with me,’ said Rafiq haughtily, ‘you will seek no further.’ He stroked her bare arms, his touch so sure yet gentle. ‘I am in no hurry, unlike your jockey lovers, to reach winning post.’
Amber unbuttoned his pyjama top, sliding her hands inside and catching her breath. His body was wonderful, silken, sleek,
and as hard with muscle as Furious. Pulling him down on the jaunty Jack Russells, she undid more buttons, kissing his chest, running her tongue through the dark down of hair, feeling him shudder. Tentatively his tongue slid into her mouth, feather-light.
He was clearly not going to make the running so she undid the buttons of her nightdress, pressing her breasts against him, hearing him gasp in wonder and she gasped too a second later, as he began to stroke them. The magic touch of his fingers was soothing away the hurt of the day. Dropping his head, he licked one hardening nipple then the other. His tongue was unhurried, roving.
‘Oh God, Rafiq, was the Kama Sutra your set book?’
‘Wrong country,’ murmured Rafiq. ‘To us, sex comes naturally. Feel this.’ Pushing her back on the Jack Russells, his hand crept up her thigh, millimetre by millimetre, smiling as she gasped and moaned. ‘My little infidel.’
‘That is so lovely.’
As he pushed two fingers in and out, deeper and deeper, she was reduced to begging until the fingers strayed upwards, as delicate as the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings, caressing on and on. It was only when she was shaken by earthquake tremors that she realized she’d come.
‘Wow, that was something else.’ Then, seeing how moved and delighted Rafiq was: ‘Now it’s your turn.
‘Wow, quadrupled,’ she gasped as she pulled down his pyjamas and his cock sprang out. ‘That is truly awesome, Childe Roland to the dark tower came, or came because of the dark tower.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Nonsense, wanting you so badly makes me silly. You were so brave to stick up for me earlier, and now you’re sticking up for me again.’
‘Stop taking piss,’ Rafiq cuffed her gently, ‘and welcome me home.’
But when Amber crouched down, seizing his cock, tongue happy to pleasure him with an art in which she knew she was expert, he wriggled away. Instead he laid her on the bed, gliding into her with the joy of a speedboat plunging into a warm ocean. Controlled at first, in and out, in and out, changing positions they thrust and arched together. Rafiq could smell Tommy’s familiar lily of the valley on Amber’s golden breasts and Tommy’s shampoo on her hair, which cascaded over the pillow. He could smell Tommy’s Polos on her breath.
The jaunty Jack Russells got squashed, as Amber and Rafiq rode finish after finish. They were both so fit, sleep escaped them
for at least fifty minutes until Rafiq suddenly shouted a few words in Punjabi and erupted inside her.
He rested his head for an age on her shoulder and she realized he was sobbing. Rolling off her, he turned her face to his, saying with sudden terrifying intensity, ‘I love you, Amber, thank you, thank you, you welcome me home.’
He was so vulnerable, she mustn’t hurt him. She’d never been good at commitment. Tommy said he was often racked by night-mares and sure enough, he woke sobbing again half an hour later.
As she snuggled against him he confessed he had nothing to offer her. Because of his prison record, Marius had employed him for a pathetic wage and had never bothered to raise it.
‘I can give you nothing.’
‘You’ve just given me the most marvellous fuck.’
Rafiq put his hand over her mouth.
‘You must stop this horrible language.’
‘I don’t know anything about you. Why are you so angry?’
‘I worry about what will happen to Furious and I am worried about my country. It is more unstable and dangerous than ever as the Americans pour troops into Afghanistan, murder thousands of innocent people and make me hate the West even more.’
‘How did you get involved in terrorism?’ Amber asked carefully.
‘Why you ask these questions?’ Suddenly Rafiq was suspicious.
‘I want you to be happier. Trust me,’ said Amber.
But as he drifted off to sleep again, panic swept her. What if her mother, Janey the journalist, who’d sell any of her family down the river, found out? Imagine the headlines. Oh God, she must protect him. But as she tugged the only pillow under her head, a photograph fluttered out. It was a lovely smiling picture of Tommy and Rafiq together in the garden. Oh God, she mustn’t hurt Tommy either.
On the day the syndicate went to Wetherby, Woody lost his beloved horse chestnut. The powers of Health and Safety, heavily bunged by Lester Bolton, declared that the tree should be felled. Traces of horse chestnut disease were alleged to have been found which could result in branches falling on unwary passers-by.
Henceforth the great tree’s candles would no longer light the village in spring, nor the burnished shingle of its conkers beguile the children of Willowwood in autumn, which was an added plus for Health and Safety who considered conkers weapons of mass destruction. The tree would no longer obscure the CCTV view of the much extended rear of Primrose Mansions. The Major, who, as head of the Parish Council, had backed the felling, could feast his eyes on Cindy Bolton undressing.
A smell of burning logs was softening the night air, as Woody bumped into the Major outside the Fox the following evening.
‘At least you’ll make a few bob cutting the thing down, Woody,’ joshed the Major, ‘and I’ve no doubt Lester Bolton will give you a cut for disposing of the timb-ah. Ouch,’ he squawked, ‘ow-ow-ouch,’ as Woody’s long fingers closed round his short, thick neck, squeezing tighter and tighter.
‘Don’t ever mess with me again, you fat greedy bastard, or I’ll really kill you,’ spat Woody. Leaving the Major groping in the gutter for his spectacles and his new check racing cap, Woody stumbled off into the dusk.
This exchange was witnessed by Niall as he returned home from choir practice. He was too shy to run after Woody, but incredibly fit images of him surging up trees in his harness, leaping from branch to branch like Tarzan, had haunted Niall’s
dreams since Newbury, so he pondered what he had heard in his heart.
Next Sunday’s Sung Eucharist was combined with a christening, which meant the church was quite full. Etta was admiring the stained glass window of Sir Francis Framlingham and Beau Regard – so like Mrs Wilkinson – and idly wondering if Niall would run out of drink if he had to give communion wine to so many people, when he launched into his sermon. Taking a deep breath, he exhorted the congregation to come to the rescue of one of the village’s most beloved citizens: the Willowwood Horse Chestnut.
Instantly everyone woke up, particularly Ione Travis-Lock who, armed with a spade, which she’d left propped against Beau Regard’s tombstone, to plant another willow for another local son, had absolutely no desire to see Cindy undressing.
Striding round to the village shop after the planting, she launched a petition to Save Our Chestnut, which soon attracted hundreds of signatures.
What tipped the balance, however, was Ione’s dropping in on Lester Bolton, his first visitor at the officially renamed Primrose Mansions, and telling him he had upset the people of Willowwood more than enough over the past two years. Their gas and electricity had been frequently cut off while his was installed, the traffic had been constantly held up due to deliveries, the roads wrecked by his lorries, and his workmen, making a din worse than the Nibelung, had prevented mothers ever getting their babies to sleep in the afternoon. If Lester ever wanted to be welcomed as a member of the community, he’d better start by leaving the Willowwood Chestnut alone. It could easily be trimmed back to give access to CCTV.
Lester took it well, placating Ione by pointing out the solar panelling, the rain-harvesting plant, and his plans to install a wind turbine and to lower the wattage on his lights up the drive. Finally he promised not to cut down the chestnut.
An eternally grateful Woody dropped a lorryload of apple logs and a crate of red off at Niall’s as a thank-you, but was too shy to stay for an answer. The rest of Willowwood, however, who were gagging to find out what Primrose Mansions looked like inside after two million had been spent on it, were disappointed with Ione when Mop Idol imparted the information that her boss hadn’t noticed anything in particular – except that Bolton had made out a generous cheque to the Compost Club.
Phoebe and Debbie, who were having a rapprochement because Bonny hadn’t, as promised, invited Phoebe to the
premiere of her latest film, were delighted when Bolton summoned the Major for a drink the following evening.
‘Can’t we come too?’ pleaded Phoebe.
‘No,’ replied the Major pompously, ‘Lester Bolton wants to talk business with me wearing my Parish Council hat.’
‘I bet it’s very OK.’
‘Very un-OK with Madam Cindy’s taste,’ sniffed Debbie.
‘No, OK as in
OK!
and
Hello!
WAG taste,’ giggled Phoebe.
‘Take your camera, Normie, and as many pictures as you can.’
Lester Bolton had taken Ione’s sermon to heart. He had also seen the papers and the pictures of Valent, Bonny, Corinna and Seth at the races. He was envious of men like Sir Alan Sugar and Sir Philip Green. Like them, he wanted to be recognized in the street.
He was shrewd enough to realize that even the most cut-throat tycoon took on a new persona at the races. Filmed wiping away a tear and hugging a beautiful, panting horse in the winners enclosure, the most ruthless bully could suddenly be regarded as a big softie, and emerge from the financial pages, which women tend not to read, on to the front pages. Look at Valent, the taciturn Tin Man without a Heart, his arm round Corinna one week, Bonny the next. Bertie Barraclough, despite his happy marriage and his religion, was a thug in the workplace.
Lester also wanted Cindy to be recognized as an actress. Fame was the spur. Lester decided to take up racing and invest in some horses.