commanding voice said.
The dogs stopped immediately, five feet away, and sat. Their eyes remained fixed on me, and I pictured myself as a large, delicious spare rib. Lawrence Clark was a six-foot-four former fly half for England’s national rugby team (he earned his knighthood via rugby wins and charity work) with sandy hair and a perpetual tan. Today he was wearing overalls that appeared to be made of movers’ blankets and carrying what looked like a rolled-up piece of carpet remnant.
“Just doing a spot of training with the bitches,” he said. That’s when I noticed he was also carrying a whip. He kissed Annie on the cheek, looked over at the Jeep, then extended his hand to me. He took my measure for a long, uncomfortable minute.
“Welcome,” he said, and cracked a practiced smile. The maid and butler helped us with our stuff and showed us to our bedrooms, first Annie’s, and then, on the opposite end of a long wing, mine. “Sir Lawrence said you’d be sleeping here,” the maid said.
Message received. Though I might have smugly pointed out it was a little late to lock that barn door, Sir Larry. Through my window I watched him on the lawn. He was wearing the rolled-up thing on his arm and screaming at and whipping the Dobermans as they gnashed and tore at it.
I couldn’t wait to see what he had in mind for me.
I tried to strike up a conversation about wine at dinner, which consisted of the three of us at a table built for twenty. “Wow,” I said, after my first sip. “Seems ’06 was a good year for Bordeaux?” I looked at the bottle of Mouton Rothschild on the table between us. I thought this was pretty passable fancy-people talk.
“I figured we’d go with something”—he looked me up and down—“approachable.” A smile that didn’t touch his eyes followed. Then the cauliflower on his plate suddenly demanded his attention.
I was starting to get an unmistakably frosty feeling from Sir Larry. This was not the guy Jen had described. Though I realized that it was probably a lot easier to have a “corking good time” with the old limey if you weren’t an arriviste who was banging his daughter. Maybe it was nothing; it’s hard to say anything in a Brit accent as tony as Sir Lawrence’s without its sounding condescending.
Annie didn’t help matters when, after I’d gone to bed that night in my room—it featured red and green stripes, antique illustrations of bearbaiting, and seven shelves of creepy antique dolls—she came knocking on my door. We got into some boy-girl high jinks, fell asleep in each other’s arms, and woke the same way.
I’m not complaining, of course, but it certainly made for an awkward situation come morning when we opened our drowsy eyes to find Sir Lawrence standing in the doorway, a Doberman and some other mean-looking beast at his feet.
“I wanted to let you know breakfast is ready,” he said.
“Oh, thanks, Daddy,” Annie said. She sat up and pulled the covers with her, revealing quite a bit of my naked legs. Any pajamas that had started the evening were in a pile on the floor.
Annie seemed oblivious to the fraught nature of the situation. “Is Sundance tacked up?” (I gathered this had something to do with a horse.)
“Yes,” he said, all the while drilling holes in me with his stare.
We had a busy afternoon around the estate, a little shooting and some riding (I aced sporting clays and fell off the horse, so we’ll call it a draw). Sir Lawrence and I had a moment alone just before Annie and I were about to leave for DC. She’d run back into the house to say good-bye to the maid.
Lawrence put his hand on my shoulder and, I guess just in case I was slow and hadn’t picked up what he’d been laying down all weekend, said, “I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t think you’re good for her. She seems to enjoy you for the moment, however. So—” He grimaced, as if swallowing something extremely unappetizing.
“Now, if you hurt her,”
The dogs stopped immediately, five feet away, and sat. Their eyes remained fixed on me, and I pictured myself as a large, delicious spare rib. Lawrence Clark was a six-foot-four former fly half for England’s national rugby team (he earned his knighthood via rugby wins and charity work) with sandy hair and a perpetual tan. Today he was wearing overalls that appeared to be made of movers’ blankets and carrying what looked like a rolled-up piece of carpet remnant.
“Just doing a spot of training with the bitches,” he said. That’s when I noticed he was also carrying a whip. He kissed Annie on the cheek, looked over at the Jeep, then extended his hand to me. He took my measure for a long, uncomfortable minute.
“Welcome,” he said, and cracked a practiced smile. The maid and butler helped us with our stuff and showed us to our bedrooms, first Annie’s, and then, on the opposite end of a long wing, mine. “Sir Lawrence said you’d be sleeping here,” the maid said.
Message received. Though I might have smugly pointed out it was a little late to lock that barn door, Sir Larry. Through my window I watched him on the lawn. He was wearing the rolled-up thing on his arm and screaming at and whipping the Dobermans as they gnashed and tore at it.
I couldn’t wait to see what he had in mind for me.
I tried to strike up a conversation about wine at dinner, which consisted of the three of us at a table built for twenty. “Wow,” I said, after my first sip. “Seems ’06 was a good year for Bordeaux?” I looked at the bottle of Mouton Rothschild on the table between us. I thought this was pretty passable fancy-people talk.
“I figured we’d go with something”—he looked me up and down—“approachable.” A smile that didn’t touch his eyes followed. Then the cauliflower on his plate suddenly demanded his attention.
I was starting to get an unmistakably frosty feeling from Sir Larry. This was not the guy Jen had described. Though I realized that it was probably a lot easier to have a “corking good time” with the old limey if you weren’t an arriviste who was banging his daughter. Maybe it was nothing; it’s hard to say anything in a Brit accent as tony as Sir Lawrence’s without its sounding condescending.
Annie didn’t help matters when, after I’d gone to bed that night in my room—it featured red and green stripes, antique illustrations of bearbaiting, and seven shelves of creepy antique dolls—she came knocking on my door. We got into some boy-girl high jinks, fell asleep in each other’s arms, and woke the same way.
I’m not complaining, of course, but it certainly made for an awkward situation come morning when we opened our drowsy eyes to find Sir Lawrence standing in the doorway, a Doberman and some other mean-looking beast at his feet.
“I wanted to let you know breakfast is ready,” he said.
“Oh, thanks, Daddy,” Annie said. She sat up and pulled the covers with her, revealing quite a bit of my naked legs. Any pajamas that had started the evening were in a pile on the floor.
Annie seemed oblivious to the fraught nature of the situation. “Is Sundance tacked up?” (I gathered this had something to do with a horse.)
“Yes,” he said, all the while drilling holes in me with his stare.
We had a busy afternoon around the estate, a little shooting and some riding (I aced sporting clays and fell off the horse, so we’ll call it a draw). Sir Lawrence and I had a moment alone just before Annie and I were about to leave for DC. She’d run back into the house to say good-bye to the maid.
Lawrence put his hand on my shoulder and, I guess just in case I was slow and hadn’t picked up what he’d been laying down all weekend, said, “I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t think you’re good for her. She seems to enjoy you for the moment, however. So—” He grimaced, as if swallowing something extremely unappetizing.
“Now, if you hurt her,”
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