The later bit before chapter one, last Thursday: 17thoctober2013, 4.12pm, Daniel Pearce
A tall elegant man emerges from beyond the curtain of jeans, I judge to be about 6ft3, he comes out from a door behind the denim, they swing like a curtain and mess up his hair. It's short, shaved at the sides and back but long and floppy on the top and his tattooed fingers adjust it back into a Matt Smith quiff with a motion which makes me think he has to do this a lot. He looks at me, he has the most beautiful face and clear greyed green eyes, the colour of gooseberries, and a wonderful warm inviting smile. I feel oddly attracted to him, his gaze has a pull to it, I fight the feeling and lose.
MC collected trot. Much Better.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, I feel it’s insistence for my attention, but my brain is busy with something else, caller, please leave a message.
His look lasts a little too long to be considered usual for a first business meeting as if he's sizing me up for more than my design skills, we lock eyes, we could be in a bar, the body temperature of my Jack Daniels making a warm trail inside me, but it's not the Jack that’s stirring me, this is an extraordinary man, I can't take my eyes of him. But I force myself to. Mum would be proud, though she'd be staring too!
"Tharie, I’m hoping," he walks over to his desk and his fingers run through the front of his hair again. "Sorry there was no-one to let you in, I'm on my own today.” He tames his quiff once more, looking at something on his desk, “I try not letting anyone in here it's my personal workspace.” He puts his watch back on, what's behind that door? “But my team are all out this afternoon and the offices upstairs are closed and empty.” He snaps the closure shut around his wrist, “we're preparing for the launch of the new RANDom range, Milk&Honey, our new denim for women." Nice, and I don’t just mean the jeans.
If I was supposed to feel a little nervous he's just made it perfectly clear we are alone in this large building, I’m not, I can handle myself. No one is more dangerous armed with a hoof-pick than me. Did I remember to bring a hoof-pick by the way?
He looks at my 'are you kidding me' face, I remain silent, he'll work it out for himself...and adds: “of course you know all about Milk&Honey?" There you go, at least he has the decency to look a little embarrassed, I think to myself. Looking away and down, "it's of course top secret, nobody's supposed to know about the launch except those already trading and buying the RANDom menswear." He takes a seat behind his desk, I am glad for the forced space between us, this man is getting to me, I feel a little intoxicated and swoony. Swoony? Is that even a real word? Brain, be quiet, it disobeys.
CHS medium walk. Doesn't work this time. Bloody hell. Stop using dressage to concentrate your mind you berk! All it does is remind yourself how rubbish you are at it.
Note to self, bloody concentrate.
I look down at my phone just for something else to focus on, have a missed message from work. Nope, don't care about that. Gaining my resolve, I'm proud of my self-control at not jumping over the desk and kissing his incredibly beautiful face, I don't usually get feelings this strong for complete strangers, a quite unexpected feeling of gathering warmth starts to crawl its way up inside me.
S turn on the haunches 180 degrees, does that sound like yoga to anyone?
I shift in my seat as if uncomfortable, but I’m trying to halt the effect the growing attraction is having on me. Focus on something else, why am I here? It's not for the tea that's for certain.
Where is the tea?
"I am she," I try to sound calm and professional, which I don’t feel, my heart is beating, thumping in my chest and my temperature elevated, those soft full beautiful lips, slightly curved into a smile. I'm wondering what it would feel like to kiss him, stop it!
Proceed in medium walk.
I take a deep breath and I raise my hand to shake his, I notice a large silver skull ring, tattoos creeping down his hand from under the cuff of his shirt, and along the inside of his middle left finger. Nice, I’m thinking, very nice indeed, and he smells of man and exotic earthy Tom Ford cologne. His tattoos are intricate and fine, a study in themselves, I ask my mind to stop wandering and it obeys, but for how long I can't tell. He re-snaps the strap on his watch, it doesn't close true.
Proceed to medium walk. Did I do that already? Bloody hell he's gorgeous. Stop looking, stop looking, stop talking to yourself.
I of course know about RANDom Denim. A menswear label, exclusive, small runs, collectors pieces, an under-the-radar cult following. Traded by e-mail and text alerts and in members-only small trade fairs, that shift location like illegal raves in the 90's used to. A different site every time, invitation only, back-stage-passes the whole nine beautiful yards of ring spun indigo left hand twill.
CM working trot. It's not working! Trot or otherwise.
But this is a new venture, women of course had been buying RANDom jeans if they could find them. Some jeans have rumoured to have passed hands for ￡1000 each. All the dry-processes hand-treated here in London, with laundries in California so the word is. The denim itself woven on old narrow looms in an undisclosed location, buy an artisan nobody knows, using organic cotton and recycled denim giving the surface of the twill a slubby, open and antiqued appearance that is so gorgeous.
But women want more. We want super stretch and lightweight, an antidote to the heavy unyielding menswear. We want super skinny and sexy, and that is Milk&Honey, or it will be, only one style of jean has ever been released a serial stamped small run of fifteen pairs only, mine I recall to myself are no.8.
Bloody phone, it just won’t stop its silent hum, its white noise, I keep my eyes on his, unflinchingly calm, ignore.
This man I’m looking at, easy with his body and relaxed and confident, handsome, but more than handsome, stunning, I feel my chest tightening again.
His smile makes me glad I’m already sitting down. Slim, he is slim, with wide shoulders. His jeans are a RANDom denim dark authentic dark indigo blue, with a red cast, skinny, very skinny with a tiny turned-up twisted hem and sit low, very low on his slim hips, his stomach almost concave where it reaches his waistband. Kept in place with a worn studded leather wide black belt.
I guess his black fitted shirt to be Prada judging by the skinny collar with no topstitch and concealed button placket. Open at the top button, black shabby tux jacket, winkle picker boots, old and scuffed. A tattoo inches its way out from his collar up nearly to his right ear, it's a wing from a great bird or mythical winged serpent at a guess, with some intricately worked weird markings, I’d really like to see the rest of that inked piece of his body...there I go again! Concentrate Tharie!
His handshake is soft and warm, he smells great. He hasn't shaved today. I’m embarrassed, this man is so beautiful I can't stop staring. He looks at me, I give him a gentle version of my warning smile, the smile my Mum tells me should unnerve anyone.
MV medium trot.
But he just laughs too, such a lovely honest laugh, his face has creases beside his eyes, he lowers his gaze, I get the feeling he doesn’t know what to ask me. ...Mum was right... Shut all confrontations down with a smile...the ultimate defence mechanism. If that fails, use humour.
I'm going to need tea quite soon.
"I’ve been recommended by a good friend to talk to you about developing the jeans for Milk&Honey Tharie.” He leans toward me elbows on the desktop.
What friend, I ask myself?
His attention turns to his device.
“A friend who says you're the only one to speak to." He is looking at his phone as if the script were written there, he frowns, and starts to say something...
"I guessed that Daniel." I say with mild sarcasm in my voice, I really don’t like wasting my time and I easily get bored and impatient with people. "This is a very small community, and there aren't that many denim designers out there."
"This isn't an interview Tharie, I am already offering you the job, your work speaks for itself, I just wanted to meet you to see if we could work together”...He looks at me unblinking, “and now we've met," he pauses and his expression changes, it's as if he's seeing me for the first time, he takes in my whole face, I catch a breath as I notice, "I’m certain we can." He says.
Is he going to offer me a cup of tea or what!? How rude.
I am attracted to this man, I’m trying my best to conceal it, “OK.” I’m finding it hard to think clearly and sound smart. Instead when I speak I sound snappy and defensive. “Thank you,” what am I defending myself against? Him? I’m unnerved by the effect he's having on me. I’m looking at his mouth now, wondering what it would feel like to kiss him. Those lovely full soft lips, that turn into a great smile as I linger on them, he's caught me staring. It snaps me out of my head instantly. I take another deep breath.
Halt at A, rein-back 4 steps, forward into working trot.
Rein-back isn't working either!
"I brought some work," I turn my head to indicate a much lugging of portfolios and laptops was accomplished with great struggle for this 'not an interview' and my expression suggests it would be rude not to at least look at my toils... "To show you what I’m up to currently," and I begin unzipping the perimeter of my portfolio case.
"I’ve seen all I need to," I look back up at him, his expression a smouldering sexual darkness, dilated pupils, looking directly into me, not at me. He must be used to being gawped at I think, at least he has the decency to break the hold he has on me, ignore it and try to carry on.
Working canter at C, immediate left 20 metre circle, medium canter.
He takes a swallow of cold tea, I’d do that too, no point wasting tea. "Come, let’s get some dinner, I’m starved." He stands and begins putting on his jacket, then I hear music: She Sells Sanctuary - The Cult, my all-time favourite song. Taking it from my jeans pocket, I look at my phone the screen remains dark, it's not mine.
It's the ringtone of my personal iPhone...but it's his phone that's ringing, that's spooky, I was about to get all contemptuous, then mine rings too, Bring Me Sunshine - Morecambe and Wise, my work phone. We fail to answer, paused with our phones close to our ears we just stare at each other as if in quiet understanding. Sizing each other up.
I am falling for this man already, blimey, how desperate am I? I try not to answer my own rhetorical question. Glance sideways at my phone it's work…"I have to get this, it's work..," he just nods, and swipes the answer bar on his own phone, I notice his is black too like mine.
I turn and answer...."...yes? ...hello...I Face him, he has finished his call, that was quick, and he's just looking at me,... suddenly aware I have my boss on the line, I reconnect with the conversation..."…yep, not a problem, I present a board to them tomorrow, yep. OK, see you then, bye Cherry."
HV medium canter.
Cherry my boss, is sharp featured with perfect shiny dark hair in a twenties bob, and wears her style smarter casual. Chambray shirts, ironed, and stiff raw denim clean jeans in a homage to the Margaret Howell image of the 90's, with a turned up selvedge hem and burgundy polished Gucci loafers, you know, the ones with the little tassels on the top... She doesn’t understand me, and I don’t get her. We tiptoe around each other and pretty much stay out of each other’s way. She hardly ever speaks to me, so to call me and ask for my help was very rare. A hint of guilt starts to creep over me bearing in mind where I am and what I am doing...I Look back at Daniel. Or want to be doing.
VKA collected canter.
I shake it off, and kick it under the desk with the point of my beautifully sculpted, this seasons, just delivered, had to be on the waiting list to get them, boots as if my thought were a tangible object. Such beautiful boots. Concentrate you nerk!
I look at my gold watch, yes, that'll stall him.
"Sorry Daniel, I have some work to do for tomorrow, but I’ll have time for a quick drink?" Aware how forward this sounds as soon as I’d said it, I begin rewinding my thoughts to add a caveat to the deal, only Daniel grabs his keys, a Landrover logo fob and a strange looking key sit alongside his car key, lifts my luggage easily in his strong arms and says "come on then, a drink would be great, we'll leave your bags in my car and the driver will take you home afterwards."
I don't think so.
A command not a question, I resist immediately, it's just my nature, shake my head, and he'll know exactly where I live, not ready for that yet, a control freak, that’s all I need. One's enough, have you met my Mum?
"That won’t be necessary Daniel, but thank you.” I try to sound grateful, but fail miserably, “I live in deepest darkest Essex, it's not just a few stops on the central line." Plus, no one tells me what to do. (Except of course Mum).
He pauses as if not used to being turned down, thinks better of a different response and says, “I want you to be safe.” He tells me protectively, looking at me hoping I’d cave, but of course I’m stubborn. ”OK, he'll drop you wherever you want." That's better, good boy.
"Thank you." I smile, but this is my real, happy smile which my Mum tells me is exactly the same as my disarming one, but it feels different on the inside I tell her. I’m glad he doesn’t want me wandering about in the dark on my own, he has no idea about my life clearly, but that’s for another day!
It seemed to me I’d been sitting with Daniel for a short time, but it is gone 6pm now and outside the sky is already darkening to black rapidly, and faint twinkly glimpses of stars are beginning to appear in the darkened blue. The air smells of crisp cold, autumn leaves and Daniel blimey he smells so good, I just want to kiss his neck and breathe him in.
Down the centre line at a counter canter.
Daniel rakes his hair, nice, and his watch strap comes undone, and he snaps it back in place, it doesn't close with the correct volume or tone of click for my liking, something's not right. Daniel is frowning and retrying it.
“You need to take that to Baby Chris” I tell him helpfully, “in Hatton Garden.”
“You know Baby Chris?” he asks surprised. Blimey, there's something other than denim we have in common.
“Only through Blossom, yes.” I look at my own watch, I wonder...?
“Yes, it needs fixing before I lose it.” He closes it again hoping it had healed itself, but of course it hasn't. “I'll call Blossom tomorrow.” Get on that waiting list, good luck. “Let's go!”
"I’ll have one drink then I have to go." I try not to sound sharp, but it’s my protective side warning me not to get involved with something I don't understand. I’m only really comfortable when I know how something works, and Daniel was working me in a way that I have no experience of. I have to get away as soon as is polite, to take stock and control of my head I tell myself in a not too convincing way.
"Your life must be very busy, if you have to celebrate your new job with only one drink,” he says, sliding his phone and Rolex into his back pocket, “do you have a boyfriend?" An odd question I think suddenly, a come on? He has a charming face, warm and intelligent, I begin to imagine...then shut that thought down immediately, I have animals to feed and I’m a long way from home. Boyfriend? Bloody hell.
"No!" I answer a little too emphatically, "I have horses and cats, that even with their own habits of self-gathered supplementary feeding require me to feed them again, it doesn’t count unless it comes in a bowl!" I explain with a giggle.
HC working trot.
“Horses eh? Very nice.” He seems sincere, but you can never quite tell. Never know what to expect when I tell someone I have horses, stupid comments often follow. But what nobody understands, is that horses are the things little girls love the most, and when they grow up they just add boys and clothes to that list, well real girls do. In my view.
We jump into his car, the driver puts all my bags in the boot, I feel oddly comfortable with this man, his straight forward confident demeanour, manly stride, sensual soft mouth. Stop it Tharie!! I say thank you to the glass partition between us and the driver, but he either can't hear me or is pretending not to, I wonder if it's how he is trained. Then I decide it was the driver Daniel was talking to on the phone just now. Was it a foregone conclusion I would say yes? I hate that. I stop thinking about it. He merely nods his head and pulls out into the non-existent traffic. Outside, it's still and deserted. The air super chilled.
'Into my heart, the air that kills
From yon far country blows
What are those blue remembered hills?
What spires, what farms are those?'
We don't speak, we just sit there in awkward silence, two people who have things they want to say but neither of them says it. The air crackles with an atmosphere, I’d love to bite his earlobe, what is wrong with me? I choose not to answer my own question, preferring only the simple ones this time of night
'Happy highways where I went, and shall not come again' Housman. There's my brain, quoting literature to gain control. It's not working.
My phone buzzes, thank goodness.
Note to self, hug that person whoever it is as a thank you later.
PF: “Drink?” I appear to be a popular choice for drinking companion tonight.
TC: “Sorry babes, can't” keep the conversation short, it’s rude.
PF: “You’re stalling” she’s good.
TC: “In the east end still, heading home for an early night” hope that satisfies.
PF: “We’ll talk about how rubbish you are at keeping something from me another time!” Busted.
TC: “Do you have special powers?” Bet she has a cape too.
PF: “And an outfit!” Bingo.
TC: “Call you tomorrow honey” naturally.
The late bit before chapter one, last Thursday: 17thoctober2013, 6.20pm pub
Close by we draw up outside an old bar, it has a very narrow front frosted window and dark stairs leading underground into the bar. The kind I like with sticky carpets a live rock band with some talent on the 'Fender' and smelling of whiskey and dominoes. Strange I think that he likes this type of place he seems so straight and tight, his tattoos another contradiction, glad he wasn't the clean neon wine bar type, I ask the barkeep for a double ‘Jack’ straight up. I turn to ask Daniel what he wants, fully intending to demonstrate how I’m a bit different from his norm dates, dates? No! And pay too, he says "Gary, that’s two of those please, add them to the tab." I decide protesting would be a waste of time, clearly this man is used to paying, likes it, and no questions are ever asked about it, my sense of ‘me’ takes a step back, it’s in disorder, but it’s fun...for now.
“I pay Tharie, that’s just the way it is.” That told me didn't it? He must read my expression, but I didn’t offer an expression. He read my mind? Spooky, hope he likes Housman, and the rest of it up there, it's a bit messy. He'd better not touch anything!
Sliding sideways into a cracked leather bench seat with a table between us, the sounds of a classic Jam cover fills the air, I approve. “When you work for me you'll have to get used to doing as I say.” He smiles at me as if his comment is perfectly acceptable.
I can’t stop myself giving him an answer, well I have my ways too. “Good luck with that.” I toast him with my drink and my best smirk, only my Mum can tell me what to do, aren't we all the same? Perfectly normal, our heavy glass tumblers in front of us as a defence, what did I need to defend myself against? I breathe, pretend I didn’t hear him say that, and what if he did? He'll only be my boss right? We begin a pleasant conversation about denim, and how we both got into this world of indigo. “What about you Daniel, do you have a girlfriend?” I regret the question as soon as I ask it, bloody alcohol, two slurps only left now, and I’m feeling warm inside, and my ears feel numb, that's the tell.
He pauses his drink on his way to those lips, “not currently, no.” He smiles at me, those haunting beautiful eyes, searing right through me. He takes a slow provocative sip.
Bloody hell.
I take another sip, I can chat about denim all day so stick to the indigo stuff, I love it, but strangely denim isn't what I want to talk about, which isn’t like me at all.
I've got to get out of here. Need tea. And soon.
I look at the face of my father's old gold watch, far too big for me but when he died it suddenly felt like the most important thing to do was to wear it. I have to twist my wrist to move the face round, I haven’t had the strap altered to fit me, instead its loose links spin round like jewellery. It’s an odd layered design of rotating faces with many protruding knobs and adjusting’s, if only I knew what they are all for. Perhaps Blossom could answer that, why haven't I shown him this before? It is gone 7pm! The boys will be tapping their hooves wondering where I am. How did we talk for so long, saying nothing?
My phone buzzes, thank you, I tell the universe. One must be polite to the universe after all.
JG: “Tharie, you coming home tonight, just drove past your place and the boys look hungry, and the Haybars are empty?” she is so brilliant.
TC: “Thanks Jinni, I am coming home, just be a bit late” I now feel even guiltier, my horses are my life.
JG: “That’s what I thought, so I just gave them more hay and left” see?
TC: “Thanks honey” I need to get home, what was I thinking coming out?
Now what? Daniel, yes.
"Daniel. Thank you for the opportunity to work on Milk&Honey, I’d appreciate a little time to digest our talk and what this move would mean for my career, can I give you my answer tomorrow, I need to think about it?" I muster the courage to speak the words I have rehearsed in my head over and over, not really meaning them, I want to spend more time with this man. How could I conceivably work alongside him? And, just as importantly, how could I not? God I fancy him, my body is actually willing him to touch even a small part of me. I'm surprised if he can't tell. I stand up to go and tip my glass, my last dreg of warm copper liquid spills across the table in a narrow river and almost trickles onto Daniels lap but he shoots up and it misses him.
Embarrassed I cry "I’m so sorry,” I need to go now. “Perhaps your driver could drop me at the nearest tube?” Besides, I have no idea where I am do I?
Working canter at C, and immediate 20 metre circle. I said, no idea brain!
Daniel looks at me, his eyes asking questions I have no intention of answering, I break the pull he has on me, pull on my parka and walk to the door, all at once disappointed in myself. What sort of impression was that to make to my 'potential' new boss? I turn around swiftly to mumble some sort of apology and come to a stop face to face with Daniel, looking up at him I can feel his breath on me, he is so close I can smell his hair. I close my mouth, take a deep breath, he isn’t backing away and neither am I. He's looking directly at me, into my eyes, he's moving about in my brain trying to decide something. I can't breathe. I’m motionless. I want him so badly to touch me.
See what happens when I don't get enough tea, or go out without a guide?
His hand comes up to the side of my face, I can't move. I see clearly the tattoo of a bird trailing a long curled branch and some fine symbols along the inside pad of his thumb, his nails short and blunt. Still my gaze can’t leave his. His soft warm hand is on my face. He has a pull on me, my sex tightens, my tummy contracts, my breathing shallows. We stand there, motionless except our breathing, he is feeling something too isn’t he? He's deciding something, he leans toward me, pauses half way and his lips very gently graze mine for a few seconds, warm, soft and sweet. Then he withdraws looking a little embarrassed. No, that’s not it.
Do that again, please?
"Goodnight Tharie,” he whispers softly, close to my mouth, I can feel his breath. “Congratulations.” His eyes take in my face, run over my hair to my eyes, smiling at my mouth. “We'll speak tomorrow then." He lowers his gaze and I feel intense disappointment deep inside me, it's an almost painful ache. I want that moment to continue, want his hands on me, touching me, to conclude with us naked and sweating.
Get me home.
He quickly looks down at me, directly at me, an earnest look on his face as if there's something painful he has to say, and he's making up his mind whether to say it or not. He closes his eyes for a second to make it easier.
"I want to f*ck you, Tharie.” Did I hear that right? My eyes fly open in surprise. And a quiet whisper barely audible,” what are you doing to me?" He breathes the words into my neck.
Bloody hell. If I ask nicely, maybe Gary will make some tea...?
Daniel is clearly from the 'say less, mean more' school of language. He lowers his gaze, so low and quiet but I hear every syllable as if it's a punch to the ribs the air is forced from my lungs. “I want to take you home with me baby,” absolutely serious. I’d be offended naturally, but I feel the honest intentions in his words, this is just how he is. He forces a smile and looks away, "but it'll have to wait." Bloody right, I've got horses to feed! Is that the point Tharie?
Down the centre line counter-canter. OK.
It’s like we've had a perfectly normal conversation, and we both carry on like it never happened. Maybe that’s how he does things, direct and uncomplicated. Like horses, but of course wholly unlike them too. But his words have shot me between the eyes, my insides are cavitating like a sinking ship in a stormy sea, boiling in a turmoil. Aware this sounds dramatic, but it’s how it feels. It’s not like me to be at a loss for words, but I can’t find the right response, I feel like I’m swaying about and need to hold onto the chair near the door. I catch my breath. Daniel has his back to me as he’s putting his jacket on, the connection is broken, like an electric current with nowhere to travel. I feel hot, very hot.
MCH working trot.
“Thank you for...” I pause for the correct wording, “the unusual invitation,” I calm myself with a snap at the band around my wrist, the dressage just isn't working. “But I’m going home Daniel.” I decide I handed that like a pro, and all pleased with myself I begin to ready myself to leave. Then Daniel looks at me like 'that', and all my confidence dissipates around me like vapour. I want his hands inside my underwear, wait a minute, what knickers am I wearing? Spiderman ones! God no!
...then, down the front of my panties, lacy black ones (my mind can paint a perfect picture)...I close my eyes, as the feeling builds again.
“Tharie?”
We're both still standing there, by now people around the bar are watching as these two immovable objects stand facing each other. How long we stand there, I can't tell. I close my eyes, take stock, remember you're Pony Club I say to myself, there's nothing you can’t handle, you proved that with Flash at camp. We could have gone under that jump it was so high, but we went over, phew! "I’ll call you, tomorrow." I spin around quickly, pretend I don’t hear.
Feeling the alcohol heating my body from inside and trading my usually quick reactions to a syrupy slowness I head back up the stairs and I leave him. I have a terrible feeling of abandonment, I don’t want to be away from him, I had just met him and already I felt like this. I just stand there in the dark street, Daniel is still in the bar, He hasn’t followed me out. Did I hear him asking about tea? His car pulls up beside me, and I could hug the driver I am so relieved to be away from that man, alone and safe from myself. Daniels driver, who turned out to be a Stanley ignores my silly tears on the journey, I don’t know why I cried, I am emotional, yes, that is it.
Phone, yes I need contact.
PF: “He said what!!? Who said romance is dead?” I had to tell her didn’t I?
TC: “You heard me Pete. And I do, every Friday night” aaaarrrgh, but boys, they’d just get in my way.
PF: “And...What did you say?”
TC: “Nothing, what's wrong with me?” don't actually answer that friend, I'm not after truths here, just guidance.
PF: “Some lipstick wouldn’t hurt, it’s all I’m saying” here we go, I check my reflection the partition, and look away not able to decide.
TC: “I’m giving you the finger you know” true story.
PF: “I do, love you” bye babes.
I close my eyes and float all the way to the train not recalling any landmarks or any of the journey. Stan takes me to Liverpool St Station, where I catch the packed train home, and I sit there wondering whether the last few hours were written on my face easily read by the commuters around me, but I guess they have their own stories don’t they? I put my huge not-for-looks 'proper' headphones on, turned up the volume and try very, very hard not to dwell on that kiss, had I really heard him right? Yes, Korn's live album thumps in my head, there's nothing wrong with my hearing clearly.
Still warm and aroused from the ordeal of the afternoon I feel frustrated, like an itch I can’t scratch, if I were alone in the carriage I could halt that feeling. Work my hand into my jeans, close my eyes. Slowly work my warm little fingers down inside the front of my panties, back and forth in a slow rhythm. From the soft folds to the tiny tip of the mound where comes great pleasure, driving myself mad, making myself wait until I can wait no longer. Moving faster, getting out of breath, getting wetter and warmer, my head thrown back, my toes crunching in my boots, those beautiful hand-tooled boots. Faster and faster finally relieved myself of this feeling, a crashing warm flow from top to toes and it's finished. Instead though, I suffer all the way home.
It is hard.
This is only Thursday
Chapter oneish, last Friday:18thoctober2013, my weekend begins here, I don't work Fridays.
In a dream world, an imaginative swirl of denim, a very hot man, a naked scene and liquor, I fall back to sleep.
I wake feeling aroused, obviously my brain had been taking trips and writing stories whilst I sleep. I keep my eyes closed, and try to recall an image of Daniel, he's taken off his jacket and his shirt sleeves are rolled, nice. The fine intricate ink-work on his arms is as astonishingly beautiful as an archaeological find that'll need years to study the meanings, decipher the codes and hieroglyphs. His arms strong and he has a drink in his hand. His jeans sit low on his hips, so low his hipbones are visible, he's staring at me.
Deep breaths everyone.
A warm feeling below is gradually building, my body is urging me to touch it, aching, I resist. He walks over puts a finger in the dark liquid of his drink and slips it into the corner of my mouth. I suck and lick it gently. I’m burning up! My hips involuntarily move, my breathing becomes laboured. I suck his finger over and over, licking the tip with my tongue and flicking the end with its tip. He closes his eyes, withdraws his finger and replaces it with his tongue, kissing me hard and quickly, leaving me wanting more. His cock is hard, and I trace its magnificent outline with my fingers, its shape clearly visible and the fabric of his jeans under immense strain. He releases a groan of pleasure. A frustrated feeling lingers inside me, I need a release, my insides are burning and quivering. He has his hand gently on my thigh, a warm soft hand, sliding up, up toward the top of my legs. I take a deep breath and will his touch higher. He responds to my will and his fingers gently trace the edge of my underwear, the tips of his fingers slowly moving against the folds of skin and my *oris tormenting me further. Stroking more, a little faster, my wetness slippery and warm and I just want a release, a hard push to achieve swift satisfaction.
His finger wet from my mouth slides into me, aaahhh god that feels so good. In and out very slowly, I hear his breathing, driving me crazy and lustful. Building and building, my nerves quicken and my muscle pulses, and the feeling grows stronger. He strokes the front wall inside a two other fingers join in, he is stronger now and I grab his face pull it to mine and kiss him hard. My tongue flicking and circling his, to mirror his fingers inside me. I swiftly unbuckle his belt and pull open the button fly, there's no time to waste now. He is hard and groans loudly. Takes the last swallow of beautiful conker brown liqueur courage and throws the heavy tumbler onto the soft pillows.
He shoves me up against the cold window, and hope it can take our weight. We are in an office, the night skyline of London only four floors up from the street, someone will see... his fingers working harder, his thumb rotating over the crest of the little mound of joy in perfect synchronicity, and it's all I can think about, my mind is lost in pleasure. My own fingers are working, feeling the wet between my legs as I bring myself up to climax. My hand is in his hair, I feel the waistband on the back of my hand, and a warm hard and huge cock in my fist. Suddenly that's all I needed and I melt into an orgasm, my fingers slow and my breaths shallow, my eyes still shut tight. I will be thinking about that man all day, what he makes me do, makes me feel. Exhausted and hot I close my eyes and fall back into my pillow, the dream has evaporated away and it's just me here alone.
I have the vague feeling I have something important to do, I wake properly. No, the cats and horses are fed, I’m back in bed. My own bed, nothing to worry about. Daniel! I promised to call him. Bugger, I’ll do it later. I fall back into unconsciousness into my black John Lewis sheets. I begin to wonder, an opportunity to practically run my own brand, do the denim I wanted was what I had been offered I really wanted it, I really wanted him. Get a grip! I say to myself.
Get that kettle on.
The real chapter one, last Sunday:20thoctober2013
“I am Tharie, 24 years old, Denim Designer. My business card says I’m a Guru. Single, with cats and horses. I drink JD straight up and tea (not together obviously). I love very loud thumpy music. I wear black and play the drums. I don’t share or play well with stupid people. I am tall and skinny, plain looking. I drive an old Landrover, I won't hold hands nicely but I will ask for sweets. My brain mumbles to itself, its voices always talking!”
I say this to myself, because the only one about is Max, one of my cats.
Note to self, try to stop talking to yourself and blaming the cat.
I ache, my body feels war-torn and hungry for rest. Can't blame the cat for that. I strip of all my clothes carefully and slowly, the layers falling around me like drying petals from and old rose bouquet that's been kept too long. Like I’d know what that was like! Doesn't matter, can live without romance can't I? I light a couple of Jo Malone grapefruit candles, the flickering orange shapes light up the steamy ambiance of my bathroom, it’s a seductive atmosphere, steeped in wonderful aromas and heat. I stretch my long body and feel every sore muscle in turn. I love my life and wouldn’t swap any unscheduled speedy dismount from George resulting in a bruised body for any spa treatment or manicure. I lower myself slowly into the hot water, the steam swirling around the room coating everything in condensation, making my skin slippery wet. The water is good, and my body relaxes into the hot fragranced maelstrom as I begin to sink beneath the surface I close my eyes an audible hum escapes my lips.
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 *oris, 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 f*ck 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!