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