Spring strings, p.1
Spring Strings, page 1
Spring Strings
Lily Morton
Copyright © 2020 by Lily Morton
Book cover design by Natasha Snow Designs
www.natashasnowdesigns.com
Professional beta reading by Leslie Copeland, editing by Louisa Keller www.lescourtauthorservices.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
References to real people, events, organizations, establishments or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Please purchase only authorized editions
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following products mentioned in this work of fiction: Range Rover, Land Rover, Mac, Donna Karan, Chanel, Yves Saint Laurent, Ralph Lauren, Barbour, Mercedes, Prada, Champneys, Four Seasons, Henley, Andrew Christian, Night Nurse, Lemsip, Converse
All songs, song titles and lyrics mentioned in the novel are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Warning
This book contains material that is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content and adult situations.
Contents
Blurb
Untitled
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
Newsletter
Contact Lily
Also by Lily Morton
Blurb
Malachi Booth is a supermodel. He’s used to moving about the world, sleeping with whoever takes his fancy and watching the money roll in. The last place he expects to find himself is on a run-down farm in Cornwall, but a bad bout of bronchitis means that he’s stuck there. The only compensation for this dismal state of affairs is that the farmer is very good looking, even if he’s the grumpiest person that Malachi has ever met.
* * *
Cadan Landry’s farm has been in his family for hundreds of years but that doesn’t make it any easier to make ends meet. As a consequence, Cadan could be called grumpy. Most men would consider a supermodel collapsing at their feet while dressed in the skimpiest pair of briefs ever made to be a sign of good fortune. Cadan just resents the fact that the young man is taking up space in his cow field.
* * *
These two men are from different worlds, but can they ever meet in the middle?
* * *
From bestselling author Lily Morton comes a novella about snarky models, misconceptions, and finding a home in the most unlikely of places.
For Louise, who requested a grumpy rare breeds farmer
“sweet spring is your
time is my time is our
time for springtime is lovetime
and viva sweet love”
― e. e. cummings
Chapter One
Malachi
The taxi slows as we drive up a hill. “Entrance to the farm is up here,” the driver mutters. Or at least, I think that’s what he says. His voice is rather gruff, so he could easily be saying, ‘here is the spot in the country where I will bury your body’.
I opt on the bright side and sigh. “Thank god for that. I’d have had less trouble finding the entrance to the stable where the Baby Jesus was born.” I look at the rusty gate and the faded old wooden sign that proclaims we’ve reached High Top Farm. “I think the stable was probably more luxurious than this. Although Jesus did get frankincense and myrrh. What is myrrh exactly? It sounds like it might be a pretty useless present.”
“Sorry?”
I wave my hand. “Don’t be sorry. You can’t help the turmoils and troubles in my life.”
He slows and glances back over his shoulder, looking slightly flummoxed. I raise one eyebrow, and he faces forward, but not before muttering something that sounds like ‘bloody empty-headed kids’.
We bounce up a rutted drive, and the car is full of a sharp lemony smell coming from the bushes on either side of the road. The vehicle bounces again, making me draw in a sharp breath and cough. And cough. And then cough some more.
“You alright?” the driver asks, obviously reluctantly.
I wave my hand. “I’m fine,” I manage to get out before breaking into more coughs. They’re wet and deep and hurt my chest, so it’s painful to even draw in a breath. By the time I finish coughing my head hurts, and I take a hasty swig of my water, trying to bring myself under control.
The car comes to a stop. “Hope you haven’t got anything serious,” the driver observes.
“I try not to be serious at all times,” I inform him. “It brings me out in hives.” I shrug. “If it gets me out of this photoshoot, though, I’d settle for Ebola.” He blanches, and I shake my head. “I haven’t got Ebola,” I assure him. “I had bronchitis, although Ebola might have made me drop these last few pounds, so Andrei would be happy at least.”
“Pardon me?”
I nod. “I know. You’re right. He wouldn’t be happy if the world was full of free twinks and he was the last daddy standing.” I shrug. “He’s such a diva, although he does take good pictures.” I pause to consider that. “Although you can’t take a bad one of me. It’s impossible.”
“Oh, you’re a model,” he says in a tone of relieved revelation.
I quirk my eyebrow at him. “What did you think I did?”
He shrugs. “Escaped lunatic,” he says casually, and something about it makes me laugh. Which unfortunately starts me coughing again. The car rolls to a stop in front of a big old house, and I get out and gesture to him that I’ll get the cash for the ride while bracing myself against the warm metal of the car. This time it takes longer to stop coughing, and when I finally do my head is pounding like it’s going to explode at any second and my throat hurts when I swallow.
Breathing raggedly, I look around. We’re in a big yard looked over by a huge old stone farmhouse and edged with old barns. There are cars parked everywhere, and it’s like I can already smell the scent of desperation and frantic activity that seems to permeate every millimetre of a photoshoot.
“Malachi,” comes a shout from the farmhouse and when I look up, I see Bobby, who is Andrei’s assistant, coming towards me. “Where have you fucking been?” he hisses as he wobbles in his high boots. He nearly turns his ankle over in a pothole. “Bloody place,” he mutters as he gets close.
“It does look a bit like something from An American Werewolf in London,” I say hoarsely. “Very rustic. Don’t go off the path, whatever you do.”
“It’s a bloody menace. I’ve already snagged my Donna Karan cardigan twice.”
“That’s a tragedy,” I observe coolly and then wave a hand regally at the car. “Pay the man, will you, Bobs?”
He digs in his bag for the company credit card. “Did you get a taxi from the train station, then?”
“No,” I say airily. “London.”
I leave his shocked whimper behind and look around.
The yard looks a little worse for wear, and I tread gingerly over a couple of potholes on my way to the open front door where I can hear the pounding beat of trance music thumping. It’s the sound of my people, but it’s still bloody loud out here, and it might be my imagination, but I’m sure the windows are rattling.
A man comes from one of the big outbuildings as I near the house. He’s carrying a box and heading towards the battered old Range Rover whose motor is ticking over. When he sees me, he stops.
“You with that bloody noisy lot?” he asks abruptly. His voice is deep and rich, with a warm Cornish drawl to it.
I blink. Not at the abruptness, but at him. He doesn’t look anything like a farmer to me. He’s tall and broad-shouldered with a head of messy brown-blond hair. His long legs are showed to their best advantage in a pair of very faded jeans, and he has the perfect ratio of stubble. Finally, the man’s question trickles into my brain, as does the rudeness of the tone. I straighten my back.
“Depends on whether you’re in favour of inanity and trance music, or not?”
“Not,” he says succinctly between gritted teeth. “And neither are the hens.”
“Do they listen to music then? I can’t imagine what sort of music they’d like.”
He stares at me. “Trance music is very much a misnomer, in my opinion. There is nothing trance-like about the shit that is seemingly coming up through the ground, as well as out through the windows, and making the hens panic. Fix it,” he orders, striding over to the waiting car.
I drag my attention from the way his muscles bunch in his arms and the veins in his corded arms. “Oh, I’ll get right onto that, sir,” I say sarcastically. He nods as if I was being obedient rather than ironic. He also doesn’t direct another look at me, as if he’s dismissed me, and I narrow my eyes. No one dismisses me, and they always take a second look at me. It’s a fact. Like the sky is blue and I like Andrew Christian underwear.
I put one hand on my hip and cock it out, displaying the long lines of my body to their best advantage. “Anything else you’d like me to do?” I purr. “I’m obviously entirely at your disposal.”
There’s a slight bite to the final words I can’t help, and at last, he looks at me, but instead of being charmed, he just appears bored and cross. Rather than saying anything, he nods his head and pulls off in the car.
The dust rising up in his wake sends me into another spasm of coughing. When I’ve finished, I stand looking after the dirty car. “Wanker,” I say, loudly and correctly, and then turn on my heel and make for the entrance to the farmhouse.
When I come through the front door, I pause to let my eyes adjust to the dim light after being out in the bright spring sunshine. Like most Cornish farmhouses, it’s solidly built with low ceilings and beams. That makes me sound very knowledgeable, but in reality, it’s knowledge I’ve gained from watching Poldark.
Not for any historical interest. I couldn’t care less about that shit. I just watch it for Aidan Turner and the way he takes his shirt off at every opportunity and goes for naked sea dips. Now I’ve been in Cornwall for half an hour, I think Aidan must be very robust, because even though the sun is shining, it’s still fucking freezing and you couldn’t pay me enough to dip a fingernail in the sea at this time of year.
I follow the sound of loud voices competing with the music that I’m sure is making my ears bleed and duck through a door, finding myself in a long, low room with a flagstone floor and big windows looking out over the fields. It’s lit up as bright as a solar flare and filled with the scents of cologne and hairspray. Racks of clothes line one wall and portable make-up counters have been set up along another.
I hesitate at the door long enough for Bobby to come up next to me. “Blimey, that’s the biggest taxi fare I’ve ever paid,” he says. “Andrei is going to shit kittens.”
“Hope they won’t chase the traumatised chickens,” I observe idly.
Bobby blinks and looks at me carefully, as if assessing my mental health. “Well, of course not. Yay! Save the chickens,” he says slowly and clearly.
I sigh. “Some bloke out there seemed very pissed off about the noise in here and the impact it’s having on the chickens’ mental health.”
“Ooh,” he says, looking wildly over-excited. “Was he tall with browny-blond hair and a beard? Absolutely stunning?”
“I wouldn’t say stunning. I prefer the word twatty.”
He bounces on his feet a few times, his cheeks flushing. “That’s Mr Landry, the owner. He came in and shouted about Andrei parking his Mercedes so it was blocking a gate. He was so angry, and he’s got this really deep, cold voice.” He shudders happily. “So hot,” he says reverently.
“I can quite see why you keep saying your boyfriends don’t work out,” I observe. “You obviously go for the wankers.”
He looks me up and down. “Well, that’s a problem you’ll never have. You’re the bastard in your relationships, aren’t you?”
I smile. “I am, and I have to say it works out a lot better if you’re the one who walks away. And stop using the word ‘relationship,’ Bobby. You know it brings me out in a rash.”
He laughs. “Hope not, lovey. There’s nowhere to hide a rash in your outfits today.”
“Oh shit,” I groan. “What the fuck have I got to wear this time? Tell me it’s a full ski suit to go with the weather.”
He laughs. “Nope. The scantiest briefs I’ve ever seen and a big coat.”
I shake my head disapprovingly. “Well, that’ll appeal to the man on the street. You know, the ones you see walking down Clapham High Street in an army coat and a thong. On a Saturday you can’t move for them. I really don’t know why designers and photographers think this sort of shit works.”
“Andrei is a genius.”
“Andrei is a cock,” I correct him. “But I understand why you can’t enlighten him on that fact.”
“I’ll leave that to you,” he says comfortably. “You and he have such a lovely open channel of communication. Not.”
“It was my open channel that caused the problem in the first place,” I say, starting to walk towards where the make-up artist is beckoning to me. “Andrei wanted in, and I closed the entrance and put guards on it.”
He looks at me doubtfully. “Do you mean he tried to shag you?”
I smile unwillingly. “That’s it, Bobs. I just used too many words.”
“Don’t do that,” he advises me. “Gives me a right headache, that does.”
Mandy, the make-up girl, grabs my hand and pushes me down into the chair in front of a big mirror. “Where the hell have you been?” she hisses.
“On my way,” I say waving a hand regally. “This sort of perfection takes time, you know.”
“So does a hangover,” she advises me. She pulls my hair back, gathering it into a high bun and securing it with one of the bands on her wrist. Then she steps back and observes me with a frown. “Fucking hell, Malachi, have you been on a three-day bender?”
I view my face in the mirror. “It certainly does appear that way,” I say. “I look bloody awful.”
She stares at me. “You’d usually be a bit more concerned about that.”
I shrug. “You’ll cover it up. You usually do.”
She looks doubtful. “Mac wasn’t invented to deal with this level of dire. Look at your cheeks. You’re bright red.”
I sigh and lean slightly into her hands, loving the feel of her cold fingers on my hot face. They seem almost tender, which is ridiculous because I’m the last person Mandy would coddle. I’m the last person anyone would pamper.
“I don’t feel so good,” I say slowly, hearing the slur in my voice. My name being called brings me upright with a jerk. “Shit!”
Mandy shakes her head. “I should think so. Malachi, you look awful. Shall I tell Andrei that you can’t shoot like this?”
Her tone conveys reluctance, which is partly to do with telling Andrei no to anything, but mainly because she’s trying to be kind to someone she doesn’t really like. I don’t attempt to be popular in my career. Just successful.
I’ve actually only been rude to a few people, and they were in the higher echelons of the modelling world. However, somehow my bad reputation has grown over the years and it’s been embellished so wildly that now people expect me to fall into a strop if the wind even changes. The fact that I have never done that doesn’t deter the gossip hounds. Suits me. It’s better to be alone in this business because it’s a sure fact that trusting people gets you shit on.
I remember that she asked me a question. “No,” I say coolly. “I’m fine. Let’s get on with it.”
She nods, accepting my command happily and starts to make me up. She doesn’t bother talking like I’ve heard her do to others. Just works efficiently and I watch the adept movements of her hands as if I’m in a trance.
Even the act of sitting still in the middle of this noise makes me feel worse. My body aches all over, and I’m so cold. Icy down to my bones. A shudder runs through me, making me clench my teeth, and I reach into my bag and drag out my scarlet pashmina. It’s cashmere and smells of vanilla, and it’s as soft as silk. I love soft things. Seems like the more money you spend, the softer things get. However, even this feels rough on my skin today. Like it’s made of sandpaper. Nevertheless, I wrap it around me, ignoring Mandy’s reluctantly concerned expression.
Finally, she’s done, and I look at myself in the mirror assessingly. “Good job,” I say, and she flushes in surprised pleasure. She’s muted the flush so my face is once more smooth and sharp, and my green eyes sparkle. I analyse my face briefly—my moneymaker with the full lips and sharp cheekbones that have made my fortune. Then I dismiss it like I would a coat that keeps me warm or a pair of running shoes that protect my feet. It has a job to do. Like me.
“Okay,” Mandy says. “Let’s get the body sorted.”
I manoeuvre out of the chair and, obeying her twirl of a hand, I strip down to my briefs, standing unblinking in the space and trying to repress my shiver. It’s fucking freezing in here. She looks me up and down, occasionally reaching out to trail a finger over my body while I wait, unfazed by her intense stare that catalogues every flaw. I’m a supermodel. I wouldn’t have got this far without that lack of modesty.
