Mating the Llama

  MATING THE LLAMA

  BY

  MARINA OLIVER

  Wealthy, handsome, charismatic Cas Finley is restless. He likes women, too much, perhaps, as he seeks variety, and has been with Alice for longer than usual. Now finding her too bland and smooth, too elegant to make a farmer's wife, and incidentally afraid of llamas, his latest venture, he is wondering how to drop her without giving pain.

  Lucy, widowed when her unsatisfactory pop star husband is killed in a car accident, moves to Shorter's Green on the edge of the Chilterns to find a new life. She intends to start a mobile hairdressing salon. She is off men, except perhaps for Edward, a staid widower she's known since childhood, who is restful after the pop star life.

  Recalling her encounter with a gorgeous man that morning, Lucy is drowning her sorrows after Edward breaks a date, when she is visited by Rosa, the llama, invading her kitchen. Almost against her will she becomes involved in Rosa's love life as Cas seeks a mate for her.

  Mating The Llama

  By Marina Oliver

  Copyright © 2012 Marina Oliver

  Smashwords Edition

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Cover Design by Debbie Oliver

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  See details of other books by Marina Oliver at http:/www.marina-oliver.net

  AUTHOR NOTE

  Llamas are fascinating animals. They are beasts of burden in the Andes, trekking companions who will carry all the gear, and providers of exceptionally fine fibre which can be woven into deliciously soft and warm fabric. It seemed to me that featuring one in a story could provide some amusing incidents, so Rosa was born.

  MATING THE LLAMA

  BY MARINA OLIVER

  Chapter 1

  Cas Finlay sprawled in the old armchair in his study. He'd resisted all Mrs Thomas's efforts to get rid of it, saying firmly it was the most comfortable chair in the house, and he had no objection to its cracked leather, or one corner held up by a block of wood since the castor had fallen off and broken. He held the TV remote in his left hand, and his mobile phone in the other, and he was tossing them up in the air alternately. Which one should it be? Left or right? TV or Alice?

  He sighed. He had no appetite for idiotic game shows, or endless replays of the winning goal, or the noses of horses passing winning posts, accompanied by screaming, excited commentaries. On the other hand he was not in the mood for escorting Alice to some restaurant.

  What was the matter with him? Any other man would leap at the prospect of an evening in her company. She was the most elegant and beautiful creature to be seen in Shorter's Green for centuries. She was amenable, angelic, and most of the bachelors for miles around, and many of the husbands, lusted after her. But he felt jaded. It was probably because they had been going out for six months, and that was twice as long as he normally dated a woman. It wasn't that he didn't like women. He did, probably too well. He'd been instantly attracted to that girl he'd met earlier in the day, though for the life of him he couldn't explain why. She wasn't beautiful, she'd been flustered, harassed, in ways he could never imagine Alice being. Perhaps it was simply the contrast with perfection. He liked variety, he freely admitted it, and he became wary when any of his girlfriends began to hint at a more permanent relationship. That was normally the signal for him to start the disentanglement process. He had no desire to get hitched. Not yet, there was plenty of time, he was only in his early thirties. Did he want to draw back from Alice? Was he tired of her? And yet she was the most beautiful girl he had ever known, kind and even-tempered, generally described as sweet. Was he simply wishing for new conquests?

  He had just decided he had been working too hard and it was nothing to do with Alice when the mobile in his hand bleeped, and he looked at it for a moment before lifting it to his ear. Alice rarely phoned him, but he hadn't seen her for over a week, and she might have taken the initiative and got in touch with him. Then he smiled. It was one of his old friends from London, calling to arrange a meeting next week to do with a problem that had just arisen in a joint business enterprise. When the call was done, he tossed the phone and the TV remote onto a table and went to his desk to switch on the computer. He had preparations to make, information to gather, work to do.

  The phone bleeped again and he glanced at the screen and sighed. It was Alice. He didn't have time for that now, so he switched it off. He would see Alice next week.

  *

  Lucy's life changed for the better the evening the llama came visiting. Soon afterwards, anyway. At least, after the first horrendous shock had worn off, she thought it was for the better. It had been pretty dire the last year or so, since Karl's mate totalled the car and half the group. There had been advantages in being widowed, true, but she never had accepted it wasn't partly her own fault. If she hadn't lost her cool that evening, if she hadn't left on her own, if she could stop herself thinking about it – if, if, if. On the other hand, she'd have stood no chance of persuading them not to drive. But she couldn't help thinking that if she'd been with them things would have been different.

  That was all in the past. She had a new life, in theory. She'd been sitting in the kitchen, propped up on the kitchen table. That was propped up with a wad of cardboard from a cereal box under one leg – and it had taken Lucy an hour to get it exactly level. She was woozy from scoffing a whole bottle of white plonk and half the red. It had been months since she'd indulged regularly and her capacity seemed to have shrunk, just like her self-esteem. She'd have polished off the other half if she hadn't spilled it while trying to pour herself another glass. She'd been having a seriously dramatic moment and gesturing too enthusiastically with the pouring arm while declaiming her list of woes. The sticky, blood-red mess had glugged out of the bottle, missing the glass by half a mile, and ruined the new pine table. Some had been soaked up by one of the detergent-bright napkins, but somehow she couldn't seem to care. What if she had to paint the wretched table dark red to hide it, or had ruined a set of napkins, wedding gift from a distant cousin? As she was never again going to attempt a dinner a deux, and never saw the cousin, it mattered not.

  'My life's a shopping list of unmitigated disasters,' she muttered again. The first time had just been a rehearsal. She'd improved the delivery, she decided, staring at the red rivers of bloody wine. She'd managed to say ess instead of esh – well, in half the words, the easy ones. 'I buy bargains that aren't, things that break on the way home, or go bananas the day after the guarantee runs out. And men don't even come with a guarantee!'

  Somewhere at the back of the haze she felt a faint stirring of resentment. After life with Karl, and that disastrous last evening with him, she'd needed an ego boost. Hence Jeremy, and Mike, and Edward, all of them destined to shove her ego even lower. Were egos pushed lower, or squashed? Whatever. Hers was for sure.

  Yet she'd really thought Edward was different, so caring, so anxious to do whatever was best for her. After all, she'd known him since she was a child and he'd lived a few doors away. He was comfortable, safe. The last couple of times she'd seen him he'd begun to act differ
ently, though, hinting he wanted more than simple friendship. Then the first time she felt secure enough to ask him for dinner, and whatever might develop afterwards, he lets her down, and with a rotten excuse any fool could see through. Previously, when he'd broken dates, he had let her know in good time, and sent her luscious boxes of chocolates so that she'd accepted the excuses and forgiven him.

  *

  She was off men. Most men, she amended. The face of the one she'd met earlier in the day, in the market, floated in front of her eyes. She wouldn't be off him, given half a chance. His face was rather hazy in her mind, true, but she could see the details, the piercingly blue eyes, the long, wavy brown hair, the high cheekbones and the firm chin. And most of all, the eminently kissable lips, firm, wide, delectable, and curved in a fascinating smile. His clothes, cords and a cashmere sweater, were old and well worn, but they obviously came from expensive shops, not cut-price stores. He was the stuff of fictional heroes, perfect lovers who never let you down.

  Then she recalled the details of their meeting. Too embarrassing, and if by any chance they did meet again, and in such a small place it was highly likely, he wouldn't be recalling her with any vestige of romantic intentions. Oh well, she could dream. That was all life seemed to offer her these days.

  She'd been shopping for dinner. Lucy freely admitted she wasn't a good cook, but as this was her first intimate dinner party with Edward, she thought she should make some sort of effort rather than rushing to Marks and Sparks for ready-cooked delicacies. She had bought the last of the vegetables, and stepped away from the stall. Then the handles of her plastic bag, which she'd been reusing for about the tenth time in response to the green 'save the planet' lobby, broke. Beetroot, onions, bananas and apples rolled every which way. She bent down, trying to rescue the bananas, and her head crashed against something rather solid. Her foot skidded on a cucumber, and she sat down with more force than she liked on something wet and squishy.

  When she looked up this maiden's dream was standing there, rubbing his forehead. Then he smiled, and held out his hand to hoist her back onto her feet.

  'Hold on, I'll get a stronger bag,' he said, and seconds later was fishing amongst the trestles of the stall and the feet of other customers to rescue her veg.

  Though distracted by the smooth dark chocolate tones of his voice, Lucy tried to see what she'd sat in, helplessly peering over her shoulder. The seat of her jeans felt wet and uncomfortable, but there wasn't the sort of disgusting smell she'd half expected. After all, she understood this market place sometimes hosted sales of live farm animals.

  She looked down further. The cucumber was ruined, and a mass of squashed tomatoes decorated the ancient cobbles. She breathed a sigh of relief. She might have to dye her jeans pink, and it would be embarrassing walking home, but it could have been worse.

  He handed her the new carrier bag, smiled, and left. It was a smile to cause ripples of desire to flood through her stomach. Though on second thoughts she remembered she hadn't had any breakfast and it could have been hunger. Scarcely formulated dreams of him offering her a lift home collapsed as common sense prevailed. He wouldn't want to contaminate his upholstery with squashed tomatoes. Even if he drove a farmyard vehicle rather than a top of the range BMW.

  She sighed, investigated what was still worth cooking, bought more tomatoes and another cucumber, and trudged back to the cottage. If they did meet again she'd never be able to overcome that first impression of a stupid, clumsy woman with a tomato-spattered bum.

  *

  Reluctantly, and with considerable difficulty, Lucy pushed thoughts of him out of her mind. Not all her actions had been calamitous. She wasn't utterly hopeless. She had this house, thanks to the life insurance she had forced Karl to take out, a small van and a modicum of capital from the cash she'd secreted away out of his reach, which would provide her with the means of earning a living. And she had Kate. Correction. She had Kate for a week or so three times a year when she could tear herself away from her college friends. When was she due next?

  Suddenly Lucy desperately wanted to see her sister, to hold on to the one piece of normality in her life. Making a supreme effort she levered herself up from the table. Her hand landed in the sticky pool of wine. As she vented her feelings, somewhere at the back of her mind it registered that she knew more swear words than she thought. Absently she alternately licked her palm and caught hold of the more solid pieces of furniture as she wove her way across the big kitchen.

  She managed to focus. The calendar on the wall still said April. That wasn't right. She concentrated hard. It was the middle of May, surely. It must be. The moving day had been the first of May, and she was here, wasn't she? She turned her head cautiously and squinted out of the window. Yes, in the gathering gloom she could see it was country out there. There were fields and trees, waving spears of green which she assumed would one day become wheat, and what looked like a faint silver globe peeking over the trees. She never knew the moon rose before the sky got dark, but in London the only bright globes one saw were street lamps.

  Yes, she was in her idyllic, old-fashioned country cottage instead of the minimalist penthouse at the top of a warehouse overlooking the Thames. She turned back with great care, tore off April with its pretty picture of showers and flowers, and consigned it to the waste bin. At least she meant to, but the bin was a yard away, and her aim with the paper was about as great as her aim with the wine bottle. She'd deal with both when her head got back to normal size.

  Trying to make the lines on the silly little calendar chart keep still, she counted the weeks to the end of June. It was then she heard an odd sort of snuffling noise, and in the mirror at the side of the calendar she saw a nightmare. It couldn't be. A great hairy, bearded head with Viking horns was poking through the open half of the stable door she'd thought so cute when she bought the cottage.

  She blinked hard, but the thing was still there, and moving. She bit back a scream. It might panic the hairy beast. She wasn't going to take a chance on its being just a figment of the red wine. She stared at the horrid apparition and it stared back, with a decidedly supercilious expression. Then Lucy realised the thing was chewing something, and after several more blinks she saw a bunch of bluebells being slowly but relentlessly absorbed into the haughty face. The beast stretched its neck and a few bluebells dropped to the floor.

  She took a hasty step backwards. It had a most inimical gaze. But her movement seemed to encourage it, and it shoved at the bottom half of the door. The beast was real, and her hazy doubts fled as she saw the door begin to open, slowly and inexorably. She knew she'd latched it. She was certain she'd latched it, after she'd thrown the lamb and beetroot casserole and the delicately tinted saffron rice which she'd spent the day preparing into the old chicken run.

  No way was she going to try and shut that door. She couldn't have moved closer to that monster to save her life. 'Go away!' she whispered. 'Damn you, get out of here!' Though she tried her best to keep her voice calm she knew it was rising, and she was getting hysterical. The animal, she could now see it was some sort of animal, took a step towards her and the door swung fully open. She backed until her bottom hit the edge of the table, and then remembered the bottles sitting there, lined up exactly in the centre between the two elegantly laid place settings. She'd put back the red bottle with great care after she'd tipped the rest of the wine over the table. She scrabbled desperately with one hand behind her back, and held out the other in a feeble attempt to halt the beast as it trod towards her, scattering bluebells, still remorselessly chewing. A frantic exploration found one of the bottles, and she managed to grasp it by the neck. 'Get out of here, I tell you, or I'll wipe that damned obnoxious look off your ugly face!'

  She was either feeling braver or more desperate, and Lucy was suddenly cold, freezing sober. She raised the bottle to strike, and gasped as a trickle of wine dripped onto her neck. The animal looked interested, but was distracted when it heard another voice.

  'R
osa, you devil, stop it. Duck!'

  Lucy blinked. Her eyelids were working overtime. It wasn't a duck. She wasn't that squiffy. It wasn't any sort of water fowl. It was a great hairy beast with a long neck and a shaggy coat and an arrogant look on its face.

  Then salvation arrived in the shape of a diminutive girl with bright red hair and wearing shocking pink dungarees. Lucy watched, bemused, as she fondled the ears – not Viking horns – and a noose was slipped over the haughty expression, which became a little less haughty as the noose tightened and the beast was forced to vacate the kitchen.

  Lucy staggered to the door and watched as her rescuer tied the animal to the fence. The girl turned round and grinned.

  'I'm so sorry. I hope she didn't do any damage. Apart from the bluebells, I mean. She had a feast of them. I hope they're not poisonous, or I'll kill the fool who left her gate open.'

  Almost fainting with relief Lucy propped herself against the doorpost. 'Why did you call her a duck?' she asked.

  'Not her. I was trying to warn you. I thought she was going to spit.'

  'Spit?'

  'Mm. Llamas do, you know.'

  There was something wrong here. 'I thought they were some sort of Buddhist priests. Or Hindu, or something.'

  'That's one ell. These have two.'

  Lucy gave it up. 'They spit?'

  'Well, some of them. Most don't, but Rosa's an expert. Disgusting habit. I didn't want you to get a gobbet of chewed cud on your face as well as bluebells on your floor.'

  Lucy stopped listening. She turned and blundered towards the stairs, then realised she'd never make it to the loo. She pushed past the girl and spewed the wine ignominiously and copiously into the border of leering pansies against the fence. Oh well, she didn't like pansies, She'd been meaning to root them out when she found time.

  'Good lord, I'm sorry. Are you OK? Can I get you anything?'