overhead …’
Eyebrows cranking higher, Hugo stalked off to feed the dogs.
Tash finally pressed a button that cut off Niall’s voice and treated them both to a tinny version of ‘Eine kleine Nachtmusik’.
She turned to watch Hugo, always struck by the way that the dogs lined up in von Trapp order as they awaited their food – apart from rebellious Beetroot the mongrel who, in her dotage, liked to lie down belly-up in her checked bed when awaiting food.
The Haydown pack was large but incredibly well-mannered and disciplined, with all its members given a specific job to do. Beetroot was the genteel and ageing lady’s companion, the only dog allowed up the stairs, on the sofas or the bed. The Bitches of Eastwick were three Labradors that Hugo had trained to the gun. The Roadies were two big Rhodesian ridgeback brothers who guarded the yard andhelpfully rounded up stray livestock and children as required. Finally, the Rat Pack were three snappy little hunt-terrier bitches that kept the Haydown rat and rabbit population down and were named variously after Hugo’s ex girlfriends and/or female adversaries.
They all adored him because he treated them fairly but firmly and was top dog. By contrast they walked all over Tash, who bribed them, spoiled them and alternately hugged them all close or shooed them away from Cora. Only Beetroot remained her ally, although the pretty little biscuit-coloured bitch with her black envelope-flap ears and long, feathered lash of a tail joined the rest in sucking up to the pack leader at mealtimes.
Tash watched the food bowls clatter down on the quarry tiles in the boot room in specific order and listened to the appreciative chomps of a large pack eating dried dog food as competitively as hounds thrown a haunch.
‘I didn’t call Niall,’ she explained, still holding the phone as it tinkled out Mozart. ‘I called Zoe but she had to go to one of the twins and—’
‘Forget it.’ Hugo flashed a tired on-off smile as he emerged from the boot room and crossed through the kitchen past her, heading for the rear lobby that led to the main house. ‘I’m whacked. I’m going to bed. Lock up once you’ve chucked the Roadies out, will you?’
‘But …’
He was already gone. Always the first to finish eating, Beetroot scuttled after him, claws slithering on the flagstones in her haste to join him in bed.
Tash remembered feeling much the same way when they were first married; she had suffered from almost continual indigestion.
Wearily she pressed the phone’s green button. Niall was still reminiscing, apparently unbothered by the artificial hold music that had briefly featured at the other end of the line:
‘… that day that you made me walk up onto the downs to make love behind the gorse bushes on Wayfarer’s Walk and some spotty teenager flying a kite literally stepped back on top of us. I’ve never laughed so much …’
Tash smiled into the phone as she, too, couldn’t help remembering that sunny day over a decade ago when she’d hardly had a care in the world compared to now. Laughter was a rare commodity now, as was fun, silly, adventurous sex.
‘It was a man with a hang-glider,’ she recalled.
‘It was?’
‘He was taking a run higher up the ridge and lost his footing – he passed over us so low that he kicked you on the bottom.’
‘So he did now,’ Niall chortled, sucking in a deep, contented breath that was no doubt accompanied by a puff on a rare Cuban cigar. ‘Did the spotty kid with the kite fall over us after that?’
‘He didn’t.’
‘He did so. I remember because he was wearing a T-shirt on promoting one of my films. Celt , wasn’t it?’
Tash suddenly found the conversation less entertaining. Face cold and heart pounding as she guessed what Hugo must be thinking of her right now. ‘The kite kid must have been with somebody else.’
‘Was it?’ Niall was unapologetic. ‘I admit I got rather fond of that spot hidden among the gorse
Eyebrows cranking higher, Hugo stalked off to feed the dogs.
Tash finally pressed a button that cut off Niall’s voice and treated them both to a tinny version of ‘Eine kleine Nachtmusik’.
She turned to watch Hugo, always struck by the way that the dogs lined up in von Trapp order as they awaited their food – apart from rebellious Beetroot the mongrel who, in her dotage, liked to lie down belly-up in her checked bed when awaiting food.
The Haydown pack was large but incredibly well-mannered and disciplined, with all its members given a specific job to do. Beetroot was the genteel and ageing lady’s companion, the only dog allowed up the stairs, on the sofas or the bed. The Bitches of Eastwick were three Labradors that Hugo had trained to the gun. The Roadies were two big Rhodesian ridgeback brothers who guarded the yard andhelpfully rounded up stray livestock and children as required. Finally, the Rat Pack were three snappy little hunt-terrier bitches that kept the Haydown rat and rabbit population down and were named variously after Hugo’s ex girlfriends and/or female adversaries.
They all adored him because he treated them fairly but firmly and was top dog. By contrast they walked all over Tash, who bribed them, spoiled them and alternately hugged them all close or shooed them away from Cora. Only Beetroot remained her ally, although the pretty little biscuit-coloured bitch with her black envelope-flap ears and long, feathered lash of a tail joined the rest in sucking up to the pack leader at mealtimes.
Tash watched the food bowls clatter down on the quarry tiles in the boot room in specific order and listened to the appreciative chomps of a large pack eating dried dog food as competitively as hounds thrown a haunch.
‘I didn’t call Niall,’ she explained, still holding the phone as it tinkled out Mozart. ‘I called Zoe but she had to go to one of the twins and—’
‘Forget it.’ Hugo flashed a tired on-off smile as he emerged from the boot room and crossed through the kitchen past her, heading for the rear lobby that led to the main house. ‘I’m whacked. I’m going to bed. Lock up once you’ve chucked the Roadies out, will you?’
‘But …’
He was already gone. Always the first to finish eating, Beetroot scuttled after him, claws slithering on the flagstones in her haste to join him in bed.
Tash remembered feeling much the same way when they were first married; she had suffered from almost continual indigestion.
Wearily she pressed the phone’s green button. Niall was still reminiscing, apparently unbothered by the artificial hold music that had briefly featured at the other end of the line:
‘… that day that you made me walk up onto the downs to make love behind the gorse bushes on Wayfarer’s Walk and some spotty teenager flying a kite literally stepped back on top of us. I’ve never laughed so much …’
Tash smiled into the phone as she, too, couldn’t help remembering that sunny day over a decade ago when she’d hardly had a care in the world compared to now. Laughter was a rare commodity now, as was fun, silly, adventurous sex.
‘It was a man with a hang-glider,’ she recalled.
‘It was?’
‘He was taking a run higher up the ridge and lost his footing – he passed over us so low that he kicked you on the bottom.’
‘So he did now,’ Niall chortled, sucking in a deep, contented breath that was no doubt accompanied by a puff on a rare Cuban cigar. ‘Did the spotty kid with the kite fall over us after that?’
‘He didn’t.’
‘He did so. I remember because he was wearing a T-shirt on promoting one of my films. Celt , wasn’t it?’
Tash suddenly found the conversation less entertaining. Face cold and heart pounding as she guessed what Hugo must be thinking of her right now. ‘The kite kid must have been with somebody else.’
‘Was it?’ Niall was unapologetic. ‘I admit I got rather fond of that spot hidden among the gorse