by Jojo Moyes
Her brain, only half functioning, focused on the twin requirements of listening and driving until one Saturday morning she ended up in Kent. She had felt an unexpected clawing in her stomach and realised, with some surprise, that she hadn't eaten for almost eighteen hours. She had seen a tea-room, the kind of deliberately olde-worlde shop-front place that catered for non-English ideas of England. After she had eaten half a buttered bun (she had struggled to stomach anything for weeks) she paid, and went out to walk in the watery autumn morning along the lanes around the village, relishing the smoky scents, the rotting leaves, the sharp, bitter taste of the sloes in the hedgerows. To her surprise, she had felt a little better.
When she had come across the little house with a to-let sign, halfway down a lane that had seemed to lead only to a farm, she didn't bother to look around it. She rang the agent's number and left a message, saying that if it was still available she would rent it. Money didn't buy you happiness, she reflected afterwards, but it certainly provided you with better places to feel miserable.
Since then Conor had come down with her most weekends when he didn't have his boys. He wasn't practical, as Mac had been, but he was happy to keep her company. He would lie on the sofa reading the papers, build a fire for the sheer pleasure of watching one or help her rustle up a meal. Most of the time, if the weather was good, he sat outside and enjoyed a beer while she clipped and pruned the garden into shape. She knew little about plants, but soon discovered a pleasure in weeding or pottering round a garden centre, far removed from the myriad urban miseries that pervaded her job.
She had rented the cottage for almost a year now, and the work she had put into the garden had paid off this summer: perennials had risen, unchoked, from enriched soil, roses had bloomed, apple trees had borne fruit. The woman at the farm at the bottom of the lane, which had turned out not to be a farm but a stables, had dropped bags of manure at the gateway. 'No, I don't want anything,' she had said. She was a brisk sort. 'I'm deluged with it. The more you pile on your roses the better.'
The Kent house had given her a little peace of mind. It held no history for her and needed constant practical attention. At weekends when she didn't make it down there, she was restless in her home.
And now she had a new reason to avoid being in London.
It had taken Mac almost a year to collect what he had left behind.
'So . . . what are the boys doing this weekend?'
'Not sure. I think she's taking them to her mother's.'
'Not sure? Not like you.'
'Yeah. Well. She was so bloody sour when I dropped them I didn't get into the small-talk.' Conor's mouth turned down as he spoke.
Natasha was constantly astonished by the physical signs of resentment that engulfed him when he talked about his ex-wife. 'But you said they liked the skating,' she reminded him.
They were in Conor's midlife-crisis sports car. He glanced into his rear-view mirror, then changed lanes, his own voice lightening. 'Loved it. I was like someone's grandmother, but the pair of them were going backwards on the ice within twenty minutes. D'you have any water? Christ, I'm parched.'
She reached into her bag, and brought out a small bottle and unscrewed the top for him. He lifted it to his lips and drank.
'Did you take them to that restaurant I told you about? The one with the magician?'
'Yes,' he said. 'They loved it. Sorry - meant to mention it.'
'Do you think they'd like to go again?'
'Why not?' He took another long swig. 'I might take them next Sunday. I'm pretty sure I'll have them then.'
Natasha watched him, then took the bottle from him as he handed it to her. She rarely stayed at Conor's apartment - she had never been in such a starkly impersonal home. Apart from two pictures of his boys, a scattering of toys and brightly coloured bedding in the second bedroom, nothing in it suggested it was any more than a hotel suite. Conor lived with the aesthetic of a monk. He had a washing-machine, but his laundry was taken away and delivered back ready to wear, because he disliked seeing clothes hanging around the place. He did not cook - why would he, he said, when the local restaurants did it so much better? The kitchen stood gleaming and unused, cleaned twice a week for no reason.
She suspected some part of him bridled at his new life, that his refusal to put down roots in the executive apartment was his way of saying he didn't intend to stay there for long. He unbent a little in the Kent cottage: when he laid the fire, lit a barbecue, or rearranged a shelf, she glimpsed the uxorious man he might once have been.
'You know . . . I'm not meant to say anything but if the Persey case goes well, Richard might want a word with you.'
'About what?'
'Oh, come on. You're not that naive.' A small smile played around his lips.
'Making partner?'
'Don't look so surprised. You've been bringing in the business lately, and this Persey case is raising our profile. I know he was concerned about you doing more family law, but he's surprised it's paying off so fast. What have you got coming up next week?'
She tried to calm her mind, which had suddenly spun off in unexpected directions. 'Another meeting with Harrington about Persey. A child abduction. Oh, and an age challenge for a young asylum-seeker. Another of Ravi's.' She remembered she hadn't checked her phone that morning and picked up her bag. 'Kid arrives without papers, says he's fifteen, local authority says he's not.' He was a Section 17: the authorities would be forced to pay for his care. If they could prove he was older, he would be transferred to the National Asylum Support Service. It was always a matter of expense.
'Will you get it?'
'It's going to be tough. The onus is on us to prove he's a child. My only hope is procedural - he was never served with a screening officer's report once the age issue came up. I'll fight them on that.' The paperwork on the child was chaotic, and such cases were getting harder to win: policy pressure from above meant that most were either assessed as adults or simply sent home.
'You sound doubtful. About his age.'
'I don't know what to think. I mean, he's not shaving or anything, but he could be lying. They all seem to claim they're fifteen, these days.'
'That's very cynical, Hotshot. Not like you.'
'Well, it's true. Or there's a lot of very bristly kids around.' She could feel him staring at her.
'You never did say anything about that Iranian kid of yours, did you?' She looked up at him. 'The one you were going on and on about - Mr Mileage - who didn't come from where he'd said he did. Or go where he was meant to go.'
'Ali Ahmadi? No.'
'Not even to the social worker?'
She crossed her arms. 'What would I have said? The whole thing was pointless.'
'Good. You could really have done yourself some damage there. It's not your job to judge people. Your job is just to provide the best representation with the information you've been given.' He glanced at her, perhaps conscious that he might have sounded patronising. 'I just thought you got way too worked up about him. So the boy couldn't have walked as far as he said he had. He wasn't trying to deceive you personally.'
'I know.' She had taken it personally - she hated being lied to. It was why she had felt so guilty about Mac for so long.
'You couldn't have known what he was going to do.'
'I know,' she said. 'You're right. But . . . it does colour the way I'm viewing all of them. I'm reading the briefs and looking for the holes.'
'But it's not your business to be forensically examining their stories.'
'Maybe not, but it doesn't alter the fact that that kid is now headed for the Crown Court. And it's partly my fault.'
Conor shook his head. 'You're way too hard on yourself. You're not accounting for human nature. Christ, if I looked too hard at the stories of the people I represent I'd have no bloody business whatsoever.'
She unscrewed the lid of the water bottle and drank some. 'Most of the time I can convince myself. I'm doing something good. I think I'm on the better
end of the law. That's not to say your end isn't great, but you've never wanted the same things out of it that I have.'
'The money.'
'Yes.' She laughed. 'But the thing with Ahmadi . . . well, I guess it has made me cynical, and I never wanted to be that.'
Conor grinned. 'Get over yourself, girl. If you never wanted to be cynical you should have been working in a hospice, not a bloody law firm.'
Conor was not the possessive type; if anything he had been at pains throughout their relationship to make clear that he was unable to give her any great show of commitment. He didn't mess her around: he was there when he said he would be, rang when he'd promised to, but equally he kept the invisible walls around himself. He expressed neither desire nor need. He was affectionate, without suggesting it might mean anything. So she had little reason to believe that her new domestic arrangements might be a problem. Until, as they unpacked his car, she told him.
'He's been there all week?' Conor put down his case.
'Since Tuesday.'
'And you never thought to tell me?'
'I've hardly seen you this week. And it was difficult. I'm not going to rush past you outside court whispering, "Hello, darling, my ex-husband's moved back in."
'You could have rung.'
'Yes. But I didn't want to. Like I said, it felt awkward.'
'I imagine it would.' He picked up his case, and a bag of shopping, then walked into the house, his back bristling.
'But it's not like that, is it?' she said, catching his tone.
'I don't know, Natasha. How is it?' His voice was excessively calm.
She followed him into the kitchen. She had left some flowers on the sink the previous weekend and they had wilted, brown petals curling over the edge of the vase. 'He's got nowhere to stay, and he does own half the house.'
He turned around to face her. 'I could be terminally ill, bankrupt and lobotomised and you still wouldn't get me within fifty feet of my ex and her house.'
'Well, we haven't been through the whole process you have.'
'You mean you haven't got divorced. Am I missing something here?'
'You know we're going to, Conor. It's just early days.'
'Early days? Or not quite definite?'
He had begun unpacking the shopping with unnecessary vigour. Even though he had his back to her, she could make out the rigidity of his jaw. 'Are you serious?'
'You've just told me your not-quite-ex-husband has moved back in with you. How can I not be serious?'
Natasha stalked past him. 'Jesus Christ, Conor! As if my life weren't bloody complicated enough. You're the last person I'd expect to be playing Mr Possessive.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'You won't commit to a holiday and now you're giving me a hard time over how my ex and divide up our assets?'
'It's not the same.'
'No? You won't even introduce me to your kids.'
He threw up his hands. 'I knew it. I knew you'd bring them into it.'
'Well, if you really want to get into this, yes, I will. How do you think it makes me feel that you act like I don't exist? You won't even let me meet you for coffee if they're around.'
'They're still in shock. Their lives have been in complete turmoil. Their mother and I can hardly speak to each other. Introducing them to mummy number two is hardly going to help matters, is it?'
'Why do I have to be mummy number two? Can't I just be your friend?'
'You think kids are stupid? They'll work out what's going on pretty damn quickly.'
She was shouting now: 'Well, so what? If we're together, I'm going to be a fixture in their lives at some point. Or am I the one who's missing something?'
'Of course you're not. And, yes, we're together. But what's the bloody hurry?' Then his voice softened: 'You don't understand kids, Natasha. You can't until you've had some. They . . . they have to come first. They're so sore still. So sad about everything. I have to protect them.'
She stared at him.
'And I couldn't possibly understand that, could I, Conor? What with being barren and all . . .'
'Oh, shit. Natasha, don't take it like--'
'Get lost,' she hissed. She ran up the stairs, two at a time, and shut herself into the bathroom.
The horse's nostrils were like saucers, flared so wide that she could see the fleshy pink beyond the black velvet. Its eyes were white, and its ears flicked back and forth, constantly checking the activity behind it, its slender legs mimicking some elaborate two-step. Maltese Sal dismounted from the two-wheeled sulky, stepped up to the animal and ran a hand down its neck, which was mirrored with sweat. 'What do you think, Vicente? Is he going to make me some money?' He began to unhook the sulky from the harness, motioning to his nephew to do the same on the other side.
'He'll cost you some. There's something funny about his gait. I don't like his legs.'
'This horse won fourteen times out of fifteen. His legs are better than yours. This is the equine equivalent of a supermodel.'
'You say so.'
'You can't spot a trotter from a pacer. This horse is good. I can feel it. Ralph? You gonna hose my horse's legs for me?'
Ralph leapt forward to take the horse, which, now freed from the constraints of the little chariot, wheeled balletically around the yard, causing him to grab at its reins.
Sarah ducked in past them, closing the gates behind her. Cowboy John appeared to be elsewhere, and she always felt a little self-conscious around Maltese Sal's men.
He was always surrounded by them. There was, allegedly, a Mrs Sal, just as most of his men had wives, but Cowboy John had said that, as far as he knew, she never left the damn house. 'I think he kept her in there the last twenty years. She's just good for cooking, cleaning and--' He adjusted his hat. 'Never mind.'
She was conscious of their stares as she made her way up to Boo's stable, and grateful when they were distracted by Ralph's haplessness at hosing the jittery beast's legs.
Sarah always felt sorry for the trotters and pacers: fine-limbed and doe-eyed, they were shipped into the yard, fed up to the gills, driven relentlessly until their legs went, or Sal lost interest, and then just disappeared. Papa disapproved of the way they were forced to pound up and down the roads, the fierce punishments meted out to those who showed fear or disobeyed. There would be silent exchanges of looks when Sal lost his temper and thrashed one. But no one ever said anything to him. He wasn't that kind of person.
Boo whickered softly when she entered the stable, his head already reaching over the stable door, searching for treats. She gave him a mint and held his neck, breathing in his sweet scent, letting him nose her pockets for more treats then set about refreshing his water and tidying the straw bedding.
Despite Cowboy John's help, caring for Boo was becoming increasingly difficult. The Hewitts, whose immaculate home had never housed so much as a goldfish, had become frustrated by her apparent failure to arrive home when they expected her. She had no explanation for them (she had swiftly exhausted late buses, detentions, an emergency visit to her grandfather, and knew she was no longer believed) and would endure yet another exasperated lecture about how important it was that they always knew her whereabouts, about the perils of disappearing for hours at a time. Then - if she suspected they were really monitoring her - she would miss classes the next day. School did not seem to have registered her absences yet, but she knew she was on borrowed time. But what choice did she have? Sometimes it was the only way she could get to the stables to feed him.
She let Boo out of his stable and walked him on a long lead rope up and down Sparepenny Lane, keeping to the kerb to avoid the passing cars and talking softly to him when pent-up energy caused him to skitter sideways or balk at a road sign. It was only to be expected: he was a horse who liked to work, who needed not just the physical challenge but the mental exercise. 'Too smart for his own good,' Cowboy John would say, after Boo had undone the top bolt of his stable for the umpteenth time.
'Too smart
for you,' Papa would retort.
'How much brains he need for the Big Top?'
She stood at the top of the lane, quiet now as dusk fell, and tried not to think about how fragile Papa had looked that day. What would it feel like to have the steel core of you reduced to something feeble and dependent? It was hard, seeing him like that, to believe he would return to their flat, to their old life. But she had to believe he would.
She walked the horse up and down once more, apologising to him for her lack of time, as if he might understand. He tossed his head, his pricked ears and easy jog a mute request to go faster, further. When she turned back towards the gates, his head dropped a little, as if in disappointment, and she was suffused with guilt. Maltese Sal and his friends were up the far end of the little yard, smoking and talking over each other. As she pushed the gate open, she could see Ralph hovering at the edge of them. He idolised Maltese Sal; when Sal tossed him a cigarette he would actually colour with pleasure.
It was as she opened her lock-up, where she stored her feed, that her heart sank. There were four flaps of hay - less than half a bale. She had been so busy that week she had forgotten to ask Cowboy John for more. His was locked up.
She reached into her pockets, searching for loose change, with which she could perhaps buy a little more from Ralph. Forty-six pence and her bus pass.
She heard a sound behind her. Sal was opening his own lock-up. He was whistling. Through the doorway, she saw the neatly stacked bales, the bags of expensive horse feed. She had never seen so much good forage in one place. As she stared, he turned abruptly and she blushed to be caught looking.
He peered past her into her lock-up. 'You short, huh?'
At first she didn't answer him. She busied herself opening a hay net.
He sucked his teeth. 'Looks like the cupboard's bare.'
'We're fine,' she said.
Maltese Sal let the door close behind him and took a step towards her. His shirt was immaculate, as if he had been nowhere near a horse, and his gold tooth glinted when he opened his mouth. 'You got enough hay?'
