Kick-Start

Lorna Roth

Description

When strangers, motorbikes and horses share a path - anything can happen.Four men meet to challenge their prowess on motorbikes. Four women meet to enjoy their horses and ribald camaraderie. All are grounded by their horsepower - the touch, the smell, the speed of it. Confident men, strong women. When their paths collide, a chain of friendship and friction is set in motion.Highly independent people, several are single, fifty-something and searching for that illusive factor 'chemistry'. For an ex-forces man, the strait-jacket of his own social prejudice is painful; for Judith, Luc and Lizzie, the internet provides succour but not always the dream person they envisage. The highs, the scares, the embarrassing lows, all told with pithy candour. Sometimes the only reaction can be laughter but is Judith's intrinsic fear of meeting a total stranger justified and can Luc's injured machismo survive the limitations of his lame leg? Can a human runner outwit a pack of bloodhounds?Hope - of companionship or passion. It gets picked up, trodden on, dusted off, then slung in the hedge again. It can be a dangerous ally or a fickle friend. Will any of them brave a kick-start?

Sujets

• Contemporary romance

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 juin 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800465756
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

“A refreshingly different and intriguing story of
mid-life relationships. The equivalent of Bridget Jones several years later, and on horseback.”
Nicola Saxton


“The kind of book that makes you laugh, smile and occasionally gasp. Whether you ride either a horse or motorbikes (and there are more similarities than you
would first think), this is the book for you.”
Rachel Lee


“Kick-Start was compulsive reading.”
Lesley Morrison


“Such an accurate portrayal of speed – on horseback, on motorbikes, and on the dating scene … strap yourself in!”
R Wright







Copyright © 2021 Lorna Roth

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This novel is a work of fiction inspired by the author’s memories of the actions and character of her own horse and the experiences which they shared. The people and places within the story are either from the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to any real person, either living or dead, or to any actual event is purely coincidental.

Matador
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: [phone]
Email: [e-mail]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks


ISBN 978 1800465 756

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For Rachel
A best friend: always ready to
top up our glasses with laughter.


Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Interlude
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Interlude
Chapter 9
Interlude
Chapter 10
Interlude
Chapter 11
Interlude
Chapter 12
Interlude
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Interlude
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Interlude
Chapter 18
Interlude
Chapter 19
Interlude
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Interlude
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgements
About the Author


Chapter 1
“Spill the beans, Lizzie. Which is more hazardous? A horse? Or online dating?”
Judith’s high-pitched question is shouted into the air, but the words are left behind as swiftly as they are thrown. They mingle and swirl with steam, in a vacuum of space through which three horses flash. No answer arrives above the rhythmic pounding of hooves. Each stride is gaining momentum, scattering frost, digging deep into a cushion of turf.
Three women and their equine counterparts are whooping and squealing with delight. They thunder along the track, totally focused, swept up in sensory overload, borne along within the zigzag maze that is Thetford Forest. Three pairs of human eyes hawkishly searching in a fleeting instant for any rut or hidden rabbit hole, a predestined but much dreaded appointment with terra firma. Three pairs of equine eyes locked onto a beckoning stretch of unfenced heaven. Three sets of quadruped legs stretching, lifting, leaping, landing, joyous and unfettered. Three pairs of female arms, biceps straining, fists taut. Autonomous parts, all streaming as one entity. Occasionally a ruddy cheek is turned hurriedly, an instruction hurled over a shoulder:
“Steady up, there’s a dip on the left,” or, “Caroline. Shift over, for Christ’s sake. If Tarquin puts in another buck, I’ll hit the deck.”
At the front, Judith drops her eyes to her hands, quickly snatches her reins in a bit shorter. She looks up too late, cannot swerve the low-hanging branch in her path. She frantically calls, “Watch out. Ah, shit,” hears the ragged smack of the birch hitting her hat, finishes the sentence, “that was close.”
Laughing, she brings her body upright again, turns to check her friends are still on board. Lizzie and Caroline are both crouched in a classic racing position, feet wedged firmly into stirrups, bottoms raised above the seat of their saddles, elbows bent, maintaining the balance between holding half a ton of wilful flesh and muscle and the far lesser strength of female frames. Judith feels the ache in her knuckles, the burn in her wrists, knows she has limits. She finds her own voice annoyingly plaintive when she speaks.
“I’m slowing down girls. Need a breather.”
As they settle into a walk, Judith flips a stray lock of black mane hairs across Rommel’s neck. She stares at the spaces around her in the forest, untarnished, the trappings of civilised living expelled. She savours the fluidity of it all, the season-changing shades of green and brown. The stillness of the trees, the criss-cross of an occasional track, brimming with potential, tantalising in its promise of yet more avenues, just out of sight. When they reach the next junction in the lines of trees, Judith stops Rommel, holds her hand up to halt the other two women. Her head is tilted. Every now and then, the breeze brings the fleeting whine of engines.
She asks, “Can I hear motorbikes?”
A throaty drone plays in and out for thirty seconds, no more, before the density of the trees swallows up the sound again. The quickening of her heart is exactly that. Not a bile-inducing bang, bang, bang of abject fear, simply a vague but irritating pattering. A team of mice scuttling up the stairs inside her chest. Tarquin fidgets sideways making Lizzie chirp up impatiently.
“Stop fretting, Jude. We’ll be fine, they’re nowhere near close to us.”
Judith opens her mouth to speak, but Lizzie’s sceptical expression squashes her hesitancy. She sees the sudden flash of Tarquin’s bay leg kicking out behind him, knows it mimics the impatience of his rider. Judith concedes.
“OK, OK. Come on. Let’s open ’em up a bit. Who’s gonna get mud in her face? We can pull up at the top of the slope.”
Caroline’s kick-start is sharper than Judith’s. From a standstill, her horse, Flint, has already lurched two strides into a canter before Judith and Lizzie get a chance to point their mounts in the same direction. Judith waves a friendly fist at Caroline’s back, calls out.
“You cheated. False start,” but she’s grinning as small clods of loose grass and soil fly up in Flint’s wake.
* * *
Running parallel only 400 metres to their right, another forest track is taking the imprint of speed. Their tyres gripping into the sandy soil beneath the patchy turf, four off-road motorbikes growl up the incline. Regimentally spaced eight metres apart, equidistant to perfection. Visors dropped, the four men are in the zone. They left early in the certainty that the forest would be theirs and theirs alone. They squeeze up the throttles to 45mph. Looking ahead to the brow of the hill, the lead biker sees an outer perimeter fence running along the horizon. Carefully, he releases his left hand from the handlebars, quietly praying he doesn’t hit a rut, and points his whole arm out to the left. The four bikers slow only fractionally, torsos stiffen in anticipation of the sharp turn, clutches grind, booted feet are lifted from the pedals to stretch straight forward, soles skirting the grass briefly.
Now travelling at a right angle to their original course, the lead biker is upright again and momentarily dares to turn his neck and check that his mates are all following. He knows this area well; his favourite hook right is coming up fast and he’s itching to put Jerry in his place. The wind whips away his words:
“Let’s test your metal, Jerry. Bloody ex-officer. It’s time for you to eat some dirt.”
Luc starts counting down the metres in his head in anticipation of reaching the intersection of tracks. Now twenty metres away, he cuts off the throttle, stands high on the pedals, braces his arms, grips his fists ready to take the full weight of the bike. The bright morning sun reflects briefly off his visor.
“Fuck it, I can’t see.”
* * *
Judith registers the air rushing past her face; it mixes with the echo beat of the hooves. The trees conspire to hog the sound and create a cabin effect – muffled as if she is cruising in an aeroplane. Caroline is still in front; she twists around while in full flight. Judith can barely make out her words.
“I can hear motorbikes.”
Replying, Judith gasps, “Where? I can’t see any?”
Ahead of them by a mere six metres, the first bike roars into their path, cutting straight across from the avenue to their right.
Caroline screams, “Nooooooooo,” as she flings her shoulders back, her feet forward, her arms rigid, frantically attempting to stop Flint in his tracks. Judith sees the biker’s head lift as his focus is suddenly wrenched from peering at the handlebars. He’s caught sight of a chestnut mound of horseflesh on a collision course with his own fragile human body parts and his survival reaction hurls him sideways at the ground on the corner.
The air that shoots, fast and furious, into Judith’s lungs comes with a split-second panic – there isn’t enough space to stop, it’s far too late! Flint is a big horse and Caroline a seriously quick-witted, sharp individual. Her brain proces