Pearced (22 page)

I close my eyes and exhale, reading the first text: “Tharie Charles, I am going to masturbate you all the way to Tokyo, fist fuck you, lick you from my fingers, I am hard for you right now.” Not exactly romantic I’d be the first to agree, but we don’t do romance, maybe that’ll come later if we date like normal people do. God I miss him, my sex tightens in spasm at yearning for even a touch of him right now.

Note to self, be careful introducing him to Mum.

My reply: 'Mr Pearce, I will lick your cock from the base along the glistening underside to the bulb at the tip and suck gently when I get there, like a sweet ice cream, and I’m catching the melted drips with my mouth.

“I’m coming over right now, are you ready for me baby?” And we left for the airport, after a little lie-down of course.  Questions, too many of them floating about waiting to be caught.  Why am
I doing this to myself?  What's all this stuff going on? Why are those jeans so important? How do you ride the perfect fly-change?  What's the missing part of that bloody Blake poem?  And why was Steffi in my office? All good questions Miss Marple, what next?

Tea?

Setting my cup on my rubber embossed eagle and ship logo’d place mat, I wonder at the jean in my safe. Which makes me wonder whether I am safe, then my brain goes somewhere I was dreading, is Daniel safe?  “Bloody hell, where is he?” To myself at a whisper.

I carry my tea to the balcony and peer over the edge.   Steffi is talking to James, looks like an argument, he glances up at me and the conversation stops dead as they both stare.    It’s comical actually as if someone's clicked the pause button. I salute with my teacup as if to indicate everything is OK, they exchange conspiratory looks between them, say a few words each and swiftly part.  Satisfied I’ll be alone for the next few minutes, I rush back inside, close the door, grab Daniels remote still in my parka, search for the key button, press it and hope.  Nothing happens for a few seconds, and just as I’m about to press it again impatiently, I hear a hiss of escaping air. Beside me set into the thick worktop of my desk, thicker than it needs to be for a regular desk but not suspicious to a casual observer, a tray slides out from under the overhang. Slowly it slides toward me controlled by a little motor I can now hear a soft hum, and there lying safe in the tray is the little calico bag with the metal seal intact.

I quickly shut it up, look around me nervously, my Grandma would have called it my guilty conscious look. And finish my tea.

I can’t help trying for the umpteenth time, I just can’t drop it.

TC: “Daniel, please let me know where you are, and that you’re OK” please, please, please.

It’s 7pm, and I’m out of here.

Stan is dutifully waiting outside for me and the car hums to life when I appear from the doorway.  He takes me home to my little cottage and I find I am exhausted from my brain to my toes, and just want to sleep.  My boys look up at me emerging from the car for a second as the headlights of the car sweep over the fields as
it turns into my driveway.  They clock it’s me of course, I'm their primary butler, and get back to the important job of eating grass.   How I envy their simple life. “Thank you Stanley.”   He carries my bag to my front door.

“You’re welcome Miss Charles.”   Too tired to argue about addressing me like a bank manager, I just nod and my key goes in the lock.  Stan is about to turn away when I ask him, “have you heard anything from Daniel, Stanley?”

He looks professional at all times but I taste a feint flavour of worry too, “no Miss, not yet, but don’t worry, Daniel can look after himself, I’m sure he’s fine.” I’m not convinced, and more than that, I think he is worried too.  I let myself in, drop my bags on the floor like a temperant teenager, feed my cats and change to do the horses.    I can’t wait to see them up close, and fling my arms around their big strong necks, bury my face in them for comfort, and that’s exactly what I do. And get mud in my hair of course as a consequence.

Hay in my bra too now, tick. Good times.

I play out my practised routine, feed the horses and sweep their yard, hay everywhere, they have had a great time with their edible toy and have dragged large sections of it across the yard.  They stand and watch as I toil to clear up, my yard has to be immaculate, well, you never know when the Queen will visit.  Well, I’ve heard she likes to pop in without any warning, or was my Mum making another point about my appearance, can't remember?  Knowing the moment I shut the yard gate and retreat back to the cottage, the fun can begin again.  Tomorrow is the show, I have to be up early. I try not to think about Daniel, and it takes every ounce of my being, I miss him.  Miss his deep voice and his touch, but with the horses, I can think only of them, so my brain can be quiet for a while.

I check my phones and e-mails before going to bed, still nothing. Where is he? I want him here, with me, beside me, inside me.

How have I become this needy?

Let’s have another cup before bed eh?

Chapter twelve, Saturday:
26thoctober2013, today I win

George and Harry are boxed up, the vapour from their breathing in the cold air swirls around their pretty heads as they wait for me to do my final checks before shutting the back tailgate, stomping frustratedly on the box floor and munching from freshly filled hay-nets.  A feeling of familiar anticipation builds inside me, I start the engine of my brand new horse-box. I didn’t even notice something was missing off my driveway as I pulled off and headed to Burghley

EC: “Good luck today” no time for chatting.

TC: “Tx” that might do it.

EC: “I know you’re in a 'zone', see I do listen? , but I’m your Mother, it’s my job to say 'be safe'” she’s not wrong, I am in my zone, don’t talk, don’t eat, can’t think about anything else, maybe that’s why I love it so much?

Determined not to let Daniels behaviour affect me I warm the boys up in turn on arrival, they are both performing magnificently, and we get envious stares from fellow competitors.  Jinni making sure I have enough tea she hands me a flask, she's brilliant.  It's a crisp sunny and very cold day, perfect for this event, George and Harry are working well and ready to pop with energy and excitement, the ground is soft but not waterlogged and I have the distraction of this man in my head and it works in my favour because I’m not feeling nervous at all.

TC: “Are you watching?” Hope so.

EC: “Kidding? All the girls are here we’re drinking the rest of a crate of Merlot Henry gave me” bloody hell.

TC: “I’m on in twenty minutes” wish me luck.

EC: “Be good” I’ll try Mum.

Take a slurp of tea, smell the leather, switch phone to silent, check my stopwatch, check my girth and off we go.  We start fast launching from a rear and pulling the ground fast beneath us, probably too fast, but it feels good and as the first fence approaches I have no trepidation at all and we fly through the
air.  I’m suddenly transformed, in the moment and enjoying the exhilaration and at this speed, danger too, the wind in my face bringing tears to my eyes. We gallop at a steady pace, the sound of thumping hooves on soft ground and the smell of grass in my nostrils. Obstacle after jump we fly through the air, gasps from the crowd at every jump, crashing through the water at speed the crowd completely silent as we clear yet another massive solid fence at speed splashing speculators as we corner and gallop to applause.

Before I know it we are coming around to the final fence well within the time and no mistakes, and I have ridden both horses around clear, I am deeply satisfied, before Daniel this was the only sensation that satisfied me to my core, a deep physical distraction from an office life, I need it and love it.  When Pete asks me later how my event went, all I can tell her as the automaton that I feel, is we came first and second individual and third as a team.  I actually don't remember much at all really which is a little scary since the speed we must have ridden beating the next placed rider and horse by almost twelve seconds, in this type of event, that is a massive lead.  But the rosettes are hanging in my lorry to attest to it, so believe it I do, Jinni cools down the boys untacks, rugs and loads them.  Their bodies steaming from under their rugs as their warm bodies let off heat in the chilled air, their flanks moving up and down as they begin to relax their breathing.  They have travel boots on all legs, the darted mini quilts protect and fit the bends of their legs, attach with long elastic Velcro straps.  Jinni sits me in the passenger seat with a flask on my lap and a horse blanket over my knees, and drives us home, which in itself is unheard of, I never let anyone ride my horses and never, never, never let anyone drive them either.

I must have some trust issues. 

Numb from the ears up, and completely exhausted, “it's the jet-lag Tharie,” she tells me, “
You looked like you could use some sleep.” As we pull-up at home, I must have slept the whole way. “I sent a text to Liza you're safe home.”

We stop on the gravel, “it's not sleep I crave, it's Daniel,” I mumble quietly, Jinni doesn’t need to know about him, its horses with her, compartmentalise, that’s another thing I do.  Exhausted I unload the boys into their stables.    I give them big dinners with extra carrots chopped julienne, put their soft lightweight night rugs on, hang up all their tack and put away
their tendon boots in the tackroom.   I half-heartedly say thank you and goodnight to Jinni, and go straight to bed, not even hungry for a peanut butter sandwich or a cup of tea.

Must be bad.

Chapter thirteen, Sunday
:
27thoctober2013, still no news

In the very bright morning sunshine, before anyone is up, I take Harry for a gentle hack around my neighbours land.  I make several apple crumbles for them for the privilege of sole riding rights, yes, my crumbles are that good.  And my neighbours are lovely, make a good cuppa too.  Riding is like loud music to me, you have to be committed to what you’re doing every second, you can’t let your mind wander, because when you do, if your horse loses his nerve, painful endings can result.  So my mind is quiet.

I am enjoying the cold smell of the countryside and Harry is bobbing his head and then gracefully extends into an amazing floaty trot, and all I am thinking about is Harry, hot tea and some sleep.  I get back and change horses. I always ride them in the same order, routine, helps me cope with life, stops my brain hurting.  George is big, much bigger than Harry, and the same circuit takes much less time to complete, he is quite lively, and throws a sideways buck as I ask him to canter up a gentle slope, I laugh and we take a steady pace to the top.  His tail is up like an Arab and his long mane blows in the wind we create with our speed.  Once nearly home I switch my reins to ride on the buckle, and relax to George’s rhythm, his big movements feel like we're on water.  Harry is like a big pony, elegant and bouncy, George is grace personified. I can’t believe how lucky I am, my horses, my boys, are very nice people. Born in Biggleswade, funny name that.

Untacked and hooves picked out, they go wandering out to their favourite bare patch of land and roll in it, covering their rugs in another layer of mud. Then they snort, vapour from their warm breaths visible in the chilled air they gallop off in perfect alignment, stop suddenly and heads down to eat.  I stand and watch them,  Max rubbing his body around my riding boots, bending down to stroke him, 'this is my life,' I say to him, 'and I like it this way don’t I?’ like I’m expecting for him to answer me. Can you imagine?

Mum's right, I
am
weird.

I haven’t eaten, Daniel has still not returned my calls, a renewed worry hits me and I decide I can’t just sit here at home and worry, I have to do something.  I don’t know what, I’ll plan it on the way. 

Travelling to London on Sundays can be a little tricky, but I decide to chance it on the train. As I arrive my plan is sealed, either he doesn’t want to see me and is avoiding speaking to me, or has something happened to him? Either way I plan to discover the truth.

Bugger, I had plans.

TC: “Babes, I’ll have to catch you another time, I’m staying home” I hate lying to my friend.

PF: “I hate it when you lie to me, but love you enough to know that if you do, you’ve got a good reason for it” she is great isn't she?

TC: “My round” its how I don’t accept or deny, just appreciate.

PF: “Count on it, remember to eat Tharie” who are you my Mother? Kidding? If you are indeed what you eat, I’d be pizza!

I think for a moment…no curry, I’d be veg dhansak.

I take a black cab to Hoxton, and get dropped around the corner not in front of the building.  I saw this trick watching crime drama and thought a clandestine approach might be wise.

Note to self, watch less crime drama. Perhaps a cookery channel, learn to make something more complex than peanut butter sandwiches?

My heels make reverberating clacks around me not very stealthy I realise too late, you don't see that mistake made on crime drama. The sound waves bouncing from the flat high buildings. The loud smacks send doves into flight and it’s then I realise how empty an unnervingly quiet the street is. So much for a sneaky entrance! On the telly, they wear rubber soled shoes. Bloody hell, no way!  Grey sandstone pavements and pale buildings, it’s a faded neutral backdrop for something unspoken, clandestine, a hushed kind of atmosphere. I knew there was something strange about the place the first time I was here. There is no one about, completely silent except the wings of the birds settling on aerials above, and a low level white noise kind of hum that I must have missed the first time. It’s like a fake film set where nothing is real and everything dis-mountable.