Clovenhoof Read Online Free PDF Page A

IKEA-bought accessories: antimacassars versus pink scatter cushions, Toby jugs pitted against cheap turquoise copies of Henry Moore sculptures. He had expected to see Twinkle, the Yorkshire Terrier. He had not expected to see the terrier growling at the feet of a man who seemed awfully familiar.
    “Ben,” said Nerys, “this is Jeremy Clovenhoof.”
    Ben found he couldn’t stop his gaze from fixing on the man’s crotch as though his eyeballs had some muscle memory of the man’s previous nakedness.
    “We’ve met,” said Ben.
    “Have we?” said Clovenhoof.
    Ben suddenly remembered rule twenty-nine for being a perfect gentleman: the firm handshake.
    He stepped forward, hand outstretched.
    “Kitchen. Ben Kitchen.”
    Clovenhoof shook his hand. Ben applied a gentle but decisive pressure. Clovenhoof returned it. Ben squeezed tighter and turned his hand over, placing it on top of Clovenhoof’s. Clovenhoof squeezed harder and pushed back in the other direction.
    And, at some point, it magically transformed from a handshake to a silent arm wrestle. Clovenhoof gritted his teeth. Ben dropped his hat and gripped his wrist with his free hand to support it. Clovenhoof bent his elbow, drawing Ben in, so he could use his whole upper body strength. Ben dug his nails into the back of Clovenhoof’s hand. There was the machine-gun crack of several finger joints popping, Ben whimpered in pain and dropped to his knees.
    “Nice to meet you, Kitchen,” said Clovenhoof, shaking the life back into his hand. “Now you’re kneeling before me.”
    “Are you all right, Ben?” said Nerys, apparently oblivious to the alpha male struggle that had just taken place.
    Ben, on one knee, stared at his white almost crippled hand and then saw that Nerys and her own hands were very close by.
    Deciding that this was the ideal time and a great cover for his submission before Clovenhoof, Ben took Nerys’s hand in his and planted a light tender kiss on the back of it.
    Nerys snatched her hand away.
    “What are you doing?” she said in disgust.
    Ben looked up.
    “I thought I was being a gentleman.”
    “What?”
    “You want me to be your perfect man, don’t you?”
    “You?”
    “You gave me your book. It was an unusual proposal but I read it and –“
    “You’re not my perfect man,” said Nerys.
    “I’m not?” said Ben.
    “I wanted you to publish my book.”
    “Publish?”
    “You said it was a really good idea and we ought to give it a go.”
    “I thought you meant... us.”
    She stared, open mouthed for several seconds.
    “What on earth made you think I was interested in you?”
    Ben’s planet-sized embarrassment formed a mote of high-density anger at its heart.
    “What on earth made you think I could publish your book?” he retorted.
    “You’re a publisher!”
    “I am not!”
    “Mrs Astrakhan in 1a said you worked in the book industry!”
    “I own a bookshop!”
    “Oh!” shouted Nerys furiously and then, much quieter, added, “Poo.”
    The silence that followed was long and eventually broken by Clovenhoof.
    “You, Nerys-woman, do you have any Scrumpy Thunder?”
    “Scrumpy?” she said. “Cider?”
    “It’s very nice.”
    A slightly hysterical yet almost silent laugh escaped her lips.
    “I could murder a drink,” she said.
    “Me too,” said Ben, sullenly.
    “I think you owe me one,” said Nerys.
    “Me?” said Ben.
    “Raising false hopes in a woman.”
    “Think how I feel.”
    “Scrumpy Thunder?” said Clovenhoof.
    “Pub,” said Nerys and pointed at Ben. “You’re buying.”
    “What’s a pub?” said Clovenhoof.
     
    A pub, it turned out, was an establishment called the Boldmere Oak, a sort of tavern or coaching inn but without the silly fripperies such as rooms or wenches-for-hire. It was filled with people who seemed to be enjoying themselves, in spite of the fact that someone was loudly singing that they wished it could be Christmas every day.
    Ben put a pint down in front of