The Riding School (Pony Tales)
Read The Riding School (Pony Tales) Online
Authors: C. P. Mandara
THE RIDING SCHOOL
by
C. P. MANDARA
The Riding School first published in 2013 by Pandora's Jar. Subsequently published in 2013 by Chimera eBooks.
Chimera (
ki-mir'a, ki-
) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.
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This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright
C. P. Mandara. The right of C. P. Mandara to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.
-oOo-
To the Aftermath of Dreams, which are always in colour
.
Contents
Silenced and Measured f
or Size
Book One - The Riding School
Jenny was late. That was one of the perks of being the daughter of Michael Redcliff, the millionaire oil tycoon; it meant you could get away with almost anything. Today she was late for riding classes.
Normally, an instructor would visit their stables and tutor her one-on-one. On this particular day, she had been ousted from her bed at a ludicrously early hour and packed off to the countryside. Her father had personally recommended the Albrecht Stables, which had meant she'd had to journey for four hours in his personal limo, to the depths of Lincolnshire, for a week's instructor training. She hadn't wanted to come and had no intention of actually becoming an instructor in the arts of horsemanship, far too fond of lazing in bed until midday and then shopping and partying until the wee hours of the morning. Her father had insisted that she take this course, however, mainly due to the fact that his mistress was arriving tomorrow and he had wanted the house to himself. He'd threatened to cut her allowance if she didn't attend, so there hadn't been a choice in the matter.
Staring out of the window, whilst sipping Crystal, Jenny thought her week was going to be one of the most boring on record. She was to lodge at the Pony Rides Hotel and by all accounts the nightlife nearby was not some of the most exhilarating. There was always the possibility that a cute guy would be taking the course but if that failed, she
'd probably play hooky and sneak back down to London. She'd lifted her father's credit card from his wallet before leaving and as he had so many, there was little chance of him noticing.
'
We're here, Miss Redcliff,' a nod from the driver.
'
You've got to be kidding me,' said Jenny, her mouth dropping in horror. The Pony Rides Hotel looked like something out of
Anne of Green Gables
. The building featured traditional wood panels, ornate woodwork and looked ridiculously old-fashioned. Whoever named the hotel should be shot, she thought, because already she was imagining snotty-nosed children running around, yelling and screaming or demanding ice-cream.
Without a word of thanks Jenny waited for the chauffeur to open her door and carry her bags, all eight of them, to the reception desk. She took her own sweet time, admiring her reflection in a monogrammed silver compact mirror, before sauntering casually inside.
There was no-one at the reception desk when she entered, which gave her a few moments to look around. The hotel was surprisingly quiet, the only noise being traditional piped music from the internal stereo system and the rustle of papers from the office directly behind the desk. There was an almost overpowering smell of wood polish, which explained the glossy wood floors below her, which strangely didn't seem to have a single mark upon them. At least they valued cleanliness, Jenny thought. Exploring further, she found several sparkling silver trophies which were mounted in a glass display case located at the back of the hotel lobby and walls which appeared to be adorned with an impressive array of riding crops and some very unusual leather tack. Stepping forward to take a closer look, she was interrupted by the receptionist who had returned to her post at the desk.
'
Oh, hello there,' said a very cultured voice, appearing surprised at having a guest waiting for her.
This must be some hotel, thought Jenny, if it was a shock every time a guest walked in. Wrinkling her nose in distaste she handed over her reservation number.
Running a manicured finger down the paperwork quickly, the receptionist lifted her head slowly and stared at Jenny directly. 'I'm sorry no-one was here to greet you but your check-in time appears to have been three hours ago.' There was a frown, some frantic fingernail tapping and a pause.
Jenny rolled her eyes in disgust. What sort of hotel was this?
'Look,' she said, 'have you got a room for me or not?'
The elegantly-coiffed receptionist seemed taken aback for a minute, as if she didn
't normally deal with complaints, but recovered her composure swiftly. 'Oh we have lots of room for you, Miss Redcliff. Let me just see if I can get a few things rescheduled and we'll get you checked in promptly. Please take a seat.' She didn't wait for a thank you, which was just as well, as none appeared forthcoming.
Pouting and already bored with the day
's events so far, Jenny took a seat and sighed loudly. The receptionist was speaking into her telephone and made no notion of having heard her. Twiddling the Tiffany locket she wore in her fingertips, she wondered if she shouldn't ring one of her friends and have them rescue her. She had already decided the week was going to be intolerably dull, there would be nothing except horses for entertainment and as of yet, she hadn't seen a bar. What did people do here after the day's training? Eat and go to bed? There was something else she'd noticed too: the restaurant had no Michelin star. They probably served up soggy fish and chips and if you were lucky you might get a three day old gooey mass of bread and butter pudding for dessert. Jenny grimaced. She had just entered Hell for a week, she was sure of it.
When the receptionist beckoned for her to come over not five minutes later, Jenny could barely conceal her jaded look.
'The ladies are ready for you now, Miss Redcliff, just take the black door over by the potted palm and they'll meet you on the other side.' The receptionist handed Jenny some paperwork. 'You'll need to take this with you.'
Sighing again and wondering why she couldn
't just have been given a room key, Jenny pointed to the chauffer and asked, 'Where should he put my luggage?' She had no idea what the man was called.
'
Ah, no need to worry about that, we'll take care of it, Miss Redcliff,' came the very efficient answer and with a nod, the receptionist smiled and released the chauffeur from any additional duties. He wasted no time in leaving the premises, having already had more than enough of the younger Redcliff's whinging and whining for one day.
'
I hope you have a lovely stay with us,' offered the receptionist, but Jenny had already flounced past her and had begun to pull open the heavy, black, oak-panelled door.
Jenny wasn't sure what she was expecting when she opened the door, but it certainly wasn't two old ladies chatting away at the end of a long, unlit and rather austere corridor. Peering down at the paperwork in her hands, she attempted to read the small text but found it was impossible in the dim light.
'
Hello,' she ventured, but the pair at the end of the hall continued chatting animatedly and after trying an additional time, Jenny finally decided she'd had just about enough of this treatment. Did they have any idea who they were dealing with? 'Hello,' she said yet again, but this time much more sharply and was rewarded as both ladies turned around to stare at her, mouths open wide. What was it with the people around here? Maybe they were all completely insane, having lived in the country for far too long.
Finally, mouths snapping shut, the ladies turned around to face her and smiled. The oldest one, who had greying hair in a bun of which fizzy ends threatened to escape at any opportunity, began to speak.
'Hello there, dearie, you must be Miss Redcliff I'm thinking. Well, let me introduce myself. My name is Agnes and this here,' she pointed to her portly colleague, 'is Henrietta. We'll just need to take a few measurements from you in order to get you started. It's a real shame you're late because you could be out in the paddock by now having fun with all the other fillies if you'd turned up just a smidgeon earlier. Ah well, can't be helped. Traffic was it?'
'
Something like that,' murmured Jenny, when it had in fact been a leisurely breakfast at one of London's most expensive dining establishments followed by a spa detour involving a manicure, pedicure and hour long aromatherapy massage.
Henrietta nodded.
'Well, if you would just like to follow us for a moment, we'll get you back on tack in a jiffy.' She laughed at her own joke.
Jenny was beginning to think the staff at this hotel were either completely mad, or very nearly. Fillies in fields? Back on tack? Was it possible they were living in an alternate universe?
Henrietta, her red hair pinned up with numerous coloured pencils which stuck out at random angles, ushered Jenny inside a room which had
Pony Tack
emblazoned across the door in red and black antique lettering. There was so much leather inside, it wasn't as if you were going to mistake the room for any other use, thought Jenny wryly as she walked through the open door. Interestingly, there was a bizarre brown leather horse contraption centred in the middle of the room with leather straps of varying sizes hanging off it at different intervals. What on earth was that used for? As if that wasn't enough, there were literally hundreds of shiny black leather bits in a large cardboard box to the far left, another box housed an impressive stack of black and orange rubber balls and yet another box was filled with yards and yards of coarse long black hair.
'
What do you think?' asked Henrietta, who was smiling broadly and displaying a rather yellowed set of teeth. 'It's lovely isn't it? Our tack comes from all around the world and some choice pieces take over three months to make. Have a good look around and do let me know if there is anything in particular you'd like. Oh, can I just have a look at your paperwork, sweetie?'
Jenny barely heard her as her gaze had settled on a row of wooden shelving at the front of the room containing leather circlets. Were they collars? As Henrietta held out a hand for the paperwork, she handed it over silently. They weren
't collars for horses because they were far too small. Some of the collars were very deep in width; some were barely a centimetre wide; others featured metal spikes, large D-rings and ropes of silver chain in several degrees of thickness and length. The collars were made in colours ranging through white, yellow, blue, green, coral, red and black. Spinning around to the rear of the room, nervous adrenaline beginning to pump through her body, she noted both black leather and PVC boots, most of which were knee-high with the remainder being so long they had to be thigh high. Most featured intricate lacing and gleaming metal eyelets, had platform heels of at least five centimetres in height and a few even contained metal 'U' shaped horseshoes on the underside of the sole. Her eyes began to bulge in their sockets as reality began to set in. This was not a tack room for horses. All of this equipment had been designed with humans in mind!
'
I, ah, think there has been some kind of mistake,' said Jenny rather breathlessly as she angled her body to the door, spying leather cuffs and black pony masks hanging above the frame.
Agnes gave her colleague a narrowed look.
'What does the paperwork say under "status", Henrietta?'
'
Hmm,' Henrietta hadn't been paying much attention to Jenny until now, sorting through a box of bridles and martingales that had become tangled on her bench, but a quick look up at her latest trainee had her eyes frantically searching the page in front of her for the required information. 'It says "Subject has not been notified".'