Pearced (5 page)

For a moment I’m suspended in a dream world of mind numbing warmth and intoxicating exotic aromas.  I could be anywhere. With anyone. My fingers reach to find the soap and I slide it gently all over my skin, smothering myself in a cleansing foam. My eyes still closed, I am thinking about him.  I feel comfortable and my insides stir with the thoughts of that amazing looking man.  My mind invites me to linger with those thoughts, wandering to a story where we are together, conjuring. I trace
my thighs with my soapy fingers, working my way up. ...he is there, watching me, I can feel it...and then the mirage is gone. My imaginings begin my desire, I am feeling him touching me as I move my hand closer to my pleasure dome, I linger, feeling and flicking around the folds and the tiny mountain that has become so sensitive in the hot water.

...it is
his
fingers touching me...

Stroking my clitoris, my eyes are tightly shut, moving my fingers faster, I am beginning to lose my breath, I can smell his cologne on me, imagine his hands on me, travelling up under my skirt, his thumb tracing the edge of the delicate lingerie, then slipping inside and stroking me very softly and very slowly.  His quick gentle fingers inside my knickers.  My lips part and I can taste the steam, faster and still faster. I can feel the quickening inside, building, my toes feel it too, speeding me to happiness that spreads it's warmth through me like a flood, his fingers inside...then suddenly, as if finally reaching the top of that mountain, I fall back down the other side, crashing in an orgasm is just what I need. Out of breath, warm from the inside, a little guilty feeling creeps over me, quickly discarded, he has been in my head. My head slides under the surface and I wash my hair, the lather smells wonderful, it is a sample from Vogue with a hint of magnolia.  Little strands of hay float and dance on the surface of the water, it's the universe reminding me why I'm single.  I reach over the edge of the roll top and stroke my cat, her black silky fur now wet she purrs softly, at least she loves me.

I step from the bath dripping over Beauty's head, she doesn't like that and scampers off to the bedroom. I towel myself off, look at myself in the full length mirror, "Catharine, you need to eat, you're too tall to be this slim."  I say to the pitiful image that stares back at me, just repeating a mantra my own Mother keeps telling me.  5ft8 and a size 8, hair all dishevelled from the drying, and that's how it will stay too. Skin pallid from lack of sleep and a massive bruise over my collarbone and down my hip.  As I step into my slippers, I still have a slight limp too.  How is he ever going to see me when I look like this? My body isn't bad to look at, which I rarely do. Fit and sculpted from my outdoorsy life, strong and slim, my hair is usually a mess that's why I tie it back in a rough pony, (that's a
hairstyle
, not a small horse), and I almost never brush it.

And no boyfriend, maybe there's a link?

In the bedroom I move into the wardrobe and turn on the light.  Beauty has forgiven me for the delicate shower and followed me in.  Jumping in my drawer she chooses black McCartney underwear with the day of the week embroidered on the front, what day was it? Saturday, no, Sunday, I try to remember, but I can't recall. 

Note to self: choose less controversial underwear.

I select Spiderman ones, can't go wrong with superheroes. True story.

What had I said to him, was it Friday, or was it the night before?  I shake the feeling off, and slip into my black Hudson jeans and James Perse hoodie, I am ready to go. Passing the mirror, "you look good in that." I say to myself in not a terribly convincing tone, but head downstairs to the kitchen, Beauty is hungry and now so am I

PF: “Need to talk” it’ll just be about the girl in the bank
again
. Ignore, I’m such a bad friend.

I pick up a magazine noticing I have several missed calls on my phone from Pete and my Mum, the Magazine is HORSE, it has a sticker with my name on it Catharine Charles.  I take my tea and a peanut butter sandwich, crunchy of course, and read to the sofa, there's a hoof-boot review, and I’m in the market for some.  I drift off to sleep. Sunday afternoon naps, I love them. Woken by the feeling I have something to do I glance at the clock on the wall, it is time to feed the boys. The phone is ringing, I let it ring, nothing gets between anyone in this family and a meal, I yank on my Hunter's and black Puffa, and wander out to the yard. My horses are waiting for me, and Beauty has followed me outside to help. "Hey, babes, you hungry?" I call.   They are, as always. 

My side still aches from the fall and the bruise is getting blacker with a stormy hint of purply grey and green, but it isn't anyone’s fault.  I wince as I lift down the feed buckets from their hooks, the recycled rubber makes them very heavy but at least when Harry stands in it, it doesn't do any damage. I had just watched them having a mad moment in their field.  George bucks his huge powerful rump high into the air with a sideways twist of his body, Harry rears up and spins round on his back legs, then they gallop off around the perimeter of my land.  Harry swings his head from side to side low to the ground, George, his head held high and magnificent his tail high too. Paces elevated, extended,
floating
as if they aren’t touching the ground at all. Together, matching each other’s speed and reach, they canter huffing and puffing in perfect syncrinosity, not from fatigue, but from excitement. They stop on a penny, stand tall and magnificent, heads alert and pretty, manes blowing gently in the breeze, how I love those bay boys.

The phone rings again, I answer in the feed room.

TC:   "Hello?" I snap frustrated, I don't like being disturbed when I’m in the yard. “This is the Chinese laundry speaking, we're not open at present, but please call back later.”

PF: "Hi, Tharie for fuck sake where have you been? I’ve been calling,” wow! Who’s blowing up
her
tail?

TC: “Pete, “I’m in the yard.” That explanation should suffice most who know me at all.

PF: “You're feeding the boys, well, it's me, you still OK for tomorrow?" My best friend is always so happy sounding, but this time I sensed an edge to her tone as if she was annoyed or frustrated with something, or likely someone…? Is that it? Not quite, I’m not sure, usually I’m good at this. Must need tea.

TC: "Pete, something’s up I can sense it, now don’t hide your feelings just let them out, but do it quick, I’m in the yard and George will finish Harry’s dinner if I don't intervene...."  I shouldn’t need to add anything further should I? Horses come before anything,
without
exception. True story. Harry has chaff over the little hairs on his muzzle, he snorts loudly probably because it tickles him, they are content and happy because horses are always happy when they're eating.

Harry's sleek conker coloured body starting to darken for the colder months ahead, the tone changes beginning at his shoulder and neck and working its way down his body, the filth and mud streaked across his rump and shoulder from rolling. 

I'm drifting away from the conversation. What's this in my hand?

George, my huge youngster, a lighter, brighter bay than Harry with dark brown legs not black like a usual bay, George is the colour of an old walnut piano, polished lovingly every day.  He is already prepared for winter, his coat is dark all-over and very furry where the clippers have left a pattern around his body, and with an accompaniment of mud splashed up his legs, he looks gorgeous. Yep, I love those horses, I almost forget I have a phone handset in my gloved hand.

TC: “Well? Do I need to drag it out of you?” Well do I?

PF: “Tharie, you went all quiet on me there, when that happens one of two things is happening….it’s George or its Harry.” She knows me better than I know myself.

TC: “OK, spill” I say laughing, she’s good.

PF: "It’s a
story
babes, we’ll need wine, I can’t give you a synopsis either,
spoilers
remember?” I do, it's from Dr Who.

TC: “Let’s meet up then.” Tomorrow night, can’t wait.

PF: “OK, I’ll tell you all about my drama tomorrow, see you then honey, and remember, wear the new dress,  the McQueen, bye, love to the boys"...and Pete is gone.

Patricia has been my friend since
forever,
she is the pretty one, she hated her name, said it made her sound like someone who sells mortgages. I told her banking is a perfectly acceptable career choice, but there was no talking sense into her.  So shortened it to
Pete
, must be something going around eh? My Dad called me Tharie when I was a toddler, it was how I tried to say my name apparently, and it stuck.  Mum
absolutely
hates it, and is the only one on earth who calls me Catharine.

Pete has a slightly Asian look from her grandmothers side, almond shaped eyes widely spaced with a narrow aperture perfectly sculpted brows.  Her eyes made up dark and smoky.  Her hair black as night, shiny and always tidy, delicate features, eyes a dark deep greeny brown, long slender neck, tiny curve less frame.  She lives on air and champagne.  She wears Prada, black pencil dresses and twenty four-hole DrMartens boots.  A Balmain leather biker jacket, this seasons, with clever channelled padded panels and huge silver chunky zips,  a huge black plastic technical-looking watch, waterproof to 100metres, but she can't swim.  She has the most beautiful blossom tattoo across her back that took fifteen hours to complete.  I don’t want to do something that feels
good
for that long! But that's just me.

I know full well she doesn't give a monkeys about my horses, instead she (wrongly) pegs them as the things that stop me buying those Isabel Marant boots. But she is great company and 'Pete' as she is known, is always funny and up for dancing or shopping or whatever medicine is needed at the time, to beat that empty single feeling, so why did she call me? The Agatha in me wants to follow the trail to a story, there's always a story.

Back to the yard, I change the horses' rugs for the cold night ahead, getting myself covered in filth too, as I add neck covers.  Satisfied my outdoor creatures will be snugly and have plenty of hay to eat, I close up the feed room, shut off the yard lights, and head back indoors where my stove will keep me toasty all winter long.

Hungry now.

I order curry for one, veg dhansak, sag aloo, plain rice and 2 plain naan, put my plate to warm on the wood burning stove top, lit already.  It's chilly in this old building and I love the sound of the logs crackling and the flames humming and the smell too. I settle down to catch up on Doctor Who, love Matt Smith,
who doesn't
?  Ready to relax for the evening, Beauty one side and Max on my lap purring away, where the other one is I’ll never know, he's outdoorsy like me, I love my life.

Bloody phone!

LC: “Babes, how’s the training going?” She’s all about winning. 

I’m hungry.

TC: “Fine Liza, the boys are fit and ready to go” I just like the speed and to have fun. 

Curry.  Did they say twenty minutes on the phone?

LC: “My trainer is working me
very
hard” I bet he is.

TC: “Your good looking, tall blonde trainer-man in tight breeches who’s improving your flying change?” How she can concentrate just demonstrates how much she wants to win.

LC: “Do you have a point?” Always.

TC: “Unnecessary” but that doesn’t stop me.

LC: “And you, still single?” Here we go.

TC: “It’s like a disease” just like my Mother, everyone wants me to have a boyfriend, wrapped up in nice neat little packages of life. But life isn't neat is it?

LC: “Just don’t tell me you don’t have the time” broken record.

TC: “I don’t have the time” broken record, but it's true.

LC: “See you then Lx” count on it.

Note to self, put diesel in the lorry.

Oh, good! Curry's here!

Chapter two, Monday
:
21ndoctober2013, the beginning part.  Please pay
attention
, this part is
before
the above chapters!

5.30am looks like intense blue-black with a handful of stars thrown carelessly into the sky, not scattered evenly, but making a denser trail across the darkness, to nothing at the extremities.  I think, the stars wouldn't shine without the darkness, now where did I hear that?  Winter is coming.  The boys are ready for their breakfasts and I feed them in the field. Watch the moon as it reflects just enough light around that I don't really need my head torch. It's an eerie silvery kind of still light, which gets everywhere.  As I move around the yard with my 'Quickie' broom imported from the states, I ache. My side hurts as I twist and I am stiff all down my left side.  I came second in my class, so it was worth it...or was it?  George performed brilliantly, as we finished the jump-off faster by seven seconds than the next rider, he excitedly threw a massive buck... Described it later as a captain caveman moment, and I fell.  Or rather was propelled unceremoniously into a horsebox on my side (not my horsebox happily).   Luckily it happened outside the ring, and the blue rosette is ours.  I hang it proudly from my horsebox window.  I refill their hay bars, the hay smells wonderfully sweet, and say "have a great day babes." One day they'll answer me won't they?