The Horse Dancer

by Jojo Moyes

  She met his eye, then looked away. 'John was . . . going to lend me some.'

  'John's got business to sort out. He isn't back till tomorrow. So, you got a problem.'

  'I've got enough.' She began to scoop the four flaps into her arms. She straightened and made to move past him, but he stood in her way, not blocking her, but enough that she had to ask him to move.

  'You got a nice horse.'

  'I know.'

  'You can't feed a horse like that shit off the floor.'

  'It's just till tomorrow.'

  He took the cigarette from his mouth and pulled a piece of hay from the bundle she was carrying, put the glowing end against it and watched it reduce to a blackened wisp. 'Good for burning. Nothing else. Your grandfather's still sick, huh?'

  She nodded. A train rumbled overhead, but she didn't take her eyes off him.

  'I don't want you to feed your horse that shit. Here, put it down.' He stuck his cigarette back in his mouth, walked into his lock-up and brought out a bale of hay. It was still slightly green and gave off a soft, meadowy scent. He carried it, effortlessly, swinging it by its twine, into her lock-up and put it in the corner. As she stood against the wall, he went back and got a second. Then he picked up a large bag of premium horse feed and, with a grunt, swung it through her doorway. 'There,' he said. 'That'll keep you going.'

  'I can't,' she whispered. 'I haven't got any money.'

  He seemed to see right through her. 'You pay me when you got the money, okay? If I'm going to run this place I don't want to see a good horse going down because of a bad diet.' He kicked his heel into the four flaps of hay. 'Stick that on the brazier.'

  'But--'

  'You take it from John, yes?' His eyes were on her. She nodded reluctantly. 'So take it from me. Now I need to get on.'

  He walked away into the yard, a slight swagger in the way he moved.

  Sarah watched him as he rejoined the men, then stooped to breathe in the smell of the new bales. It was better quality than she was used to. She suspected that if Papa had been there he would not have allowed her to accept it. But that was the whole point.

  She glanced at her watch and flinched. She had fourteen minutes before she was due back at the Hewitts'. Fourteen minutes to make a fifty-five-minute two-bus journey. She cut the strings on the bale and grabbed an armful, half walking, half running to where her horse stood waiting.

  The silence of a London house had a curious poignancy to it, she observed, as she closed the door behind her, her call echoing into nothing. Somehow the quiet that hung over a London street and into a stilled hallway made hers feel far emptier than her place in the country. Or perhaps it was the possibility that, these days, someone else might be in it.

  Natasha stepped over the now omnipresent camera-bags and went into the living room. She sighed a little at the sight of the photographic lights stacked in a corner, and checked the answering-machine; the steady red light told her there were no messages.

  She sniffed for hints of wine or cigarette smoke, a signal that he might have had people over, but there was nothing. The sofa cushions were indented, telling of a night in front of the television, and she picked up each one in turn, plumping it and replacing it neatly, then felt vaguely irritated that she had done so.

  She walked back into the hallway, picked up her bag and went upstairs, the sound of her footfall echoing in a way that made her feel self-conscious, a stranger in her own home.

  She and Conor had recovered the weekend after its acrimonious start, but she knew they had been shocked by the ferocity of their argument, by the sudden spectre of feelings both had sought to deny. She was secretly pleased it mattered to him that Mac was there, but simultaneously resentful. He was asking her to grant him a say in her life without offering to make any more space in his own. 'You will meet the kids, Hotshot,' he said, as he had dropped her off, 'I promise. Just give me some more time, yes?' He had not asked to come in.

  She dropped her bag on her bed and undid the catch. She would load the washing-machine, then iron her work shirts in front of the television. Later she would sit at her desk and prepare the paperwork for court tomorrow morning, making sure she had everything she needed; a Sunday-night routine that was as familiar to her as her left hand.

  Natasha stood still for several minutes, somehow paralysed by this new atmosphere. Despite the lack of his presence, Mac felt omnipresent in the house, as if he had reclaimed it for his own. 'You want to check he's not taking books, pictures, and squirrelling them away,' Conor had said. 'Giving him access to everything is the divorce equivalent of writing a blank cheque.' But she didn't care about the prospect of losing stuff, even if she'd believed Mac capable of taking it. It was his presence, the air around him, that disoriented her.

  She realised she was still angry with him; angry that he had not been there when she needed him, angry that he had returned to disrupt her life when she had rebuilt it. Typical Mac, crashing in with no thought of the consequences. She blamed him for the weekend, even while the rational part of her knew it was not his fault. She blamed him for the fact that she had had to leave her home. And to all of this he seemed impervious: he walked in, as he always had, with his charming smile and easy ways, as if nothing could hurt him. As if their marriage had been the smallest blip on his emotional radar.

  Almost without knowing what she was doing, Natasha went across the landing to the spare room. She called again, then pushed tentatively at the door, registering Mac's rumpled bed, the piles of unwashed clothes in the corner by the linen basket, the faint sweet smell of dope.

  Not so reformed, after all. She hovered in the doorway, then found herself treading quietly through the room and into the en-suite bathroom. His razor stood in a glass, with toothpaste and a brush. The bathmat lay skewed on the tiled floor and she fought the urge to straighten it. But the mess was perversely reassuring: an echo of the man she knew he was. Chaotic. Imperfect. This is why we're divorcing, she reminded herself, and almost felt fondly towards him for that reassurance.

  It was as she made to walk out again that she caught sight of the pot on the glass shelf at the end of the bath, packaged in an expensive cream and gold box: a woman's moisturiser. Beside it, a packet of makeup remover pads.

  Something in her cooled and solidified. And then, blinking, her feet landing without care or quiet, Natasha turned and walked swiftly out of the spare room.

  Eight

  'The majesty of men themselves is best discovered in the graceful handling of such animals.'

  Xenophon, On Horsemanship

  The carpet in the headmaster's room was a deep plush blue, so luxuriant and soft that almost no pupil who ended up in there was able to banish the thought of how it might feel to shed their shoes and socks and sink their bare toes into it. Perhaps it accounted for how distracted many of Mr Phipps's errant visitors appeared, rather than reflecting accurately the level of ADHD in the school.

  Sarah was not distracted by the carpet. She was distracted by the fact that she had not been able to get to the stables for almost forty-eight hours.

  'It's the fourth time you've missed double English in this half of the term, Sarah. It used to be one of your better subjects.' Mr Phipps examined the papers in front of him.

  She twisted her hands in front of her.

  'I know things are a bit difficult for you at home, but your attendance record was always good. Are you having problems getting to school? Are your foster-family not helping?'

  She couldn't tell him the truth - that she had told the Hewitts she had lost her bus pass, and the money they had given her for fares had gone towards Boo's bedding.

  'They have an obligation, Sarah, to ensure you get to school. So, if they're not helping you get here for your morning lessons, we need to know about it.'

  'They are helping.'

  'Then why have you missed the classes?'

  'I . . . get confused about the different bus routes. I missed the bus.'

  Boo was beginning to
react to the loss of his routine. That morning he had almost broken out of his stable, then had spooked at a woman with a baby buggy and careered into the road so that a taxi had blared its horn. Sarah had stood in front of the bonnet, yelling at the driver. When she had got Boo to the park he had bucked, then braced himself against her instructions, setting his mouth against the bit. She had been angry and frustrated with him, and regretted it afterwards when they walked home sweating and miserable.

  'The local authority will pay for a minicab. We'll do what it takes, Sarah, if transport really is the problem.' He placed the tips of his fingers together. 'But I don't think that's the whole story. It says here that you've missed geography twice on Thursday afternoons, and PE three times on Friday afternoons. Do you want to tell me how that came about?'

  She stared at her feet. Someone with a carpet so rich couldn't possibly understand a life like hers. 'I went to see my granddad,' she muttered.

  'He's in hospital still, is he?'

  She nodded. Even Papa had been cross with her when she had turned up on Friday. He had looked up at the clock on the wall and muttered: 'Wrong. Apres.' She hadn't had to struggle to grasp his meaning. He had told her she was not to come at that time again. But he had no idea. He didn't know that she spent half her days running across north-east London, hopping from one foot to the other at bus stops, or jogging down back-streets, trying to get to and from the stables in time to meet everyone else's deadlines.

  'Is your grandfather's health improving?' The headmaster's expression had softened.

  If she was a different sort of person, Sarah thought, she would have cried - everyone knew Phipps couldn't bear girls to be in tears. 'A bit,' she said.

  'It's an unsettling time for you. I do understand that. But you should see school as a constant in your life, something to lean on. If you're struggling, Sarah, you should talk to us. To me or your teachers. Everyone here wants you to succeed.' He leant back in his chair. 'What you can't do is take time off to see your grandfather whenever you want to. You'll be starting to think about exams soon, and this time is crucial in your school career. There are a few subjects you find difficult, aren't there? So you need to keep your attendance up in order that, whatever else is going on in your life, you leave here with a solid education behind you.'

  She nodded, not meeting his eye.

  'I want to see an improvement, Sarah. A real improvement. Do you think you can do that?'

  Cowboy John had been there the last time. He had been to see Papa and the first thing he had said when he stepped through the gates was that he was letting her off the back rent. He would tell Maltese Sal, and she would be square. She just had to start afresh when Sal took over. She could tell from his face that he had thought she'd be relieved. But she had felt the blood drain from her face. She knew what this meant: that he no longer believed Papa would be able to pay him back.

  He no longer believed that Papa would come home.

  'No more skipping class, Sarah. Right?'

  She raised her face. 'Right,' she said, and wondered if Mr Phipps could see straight through her.

  Natasha jumped when she found him in the kitchen. It was a quarter to seven. When they had lived together he had barely stirred until ten.

  'Got a job up in Hertfordshire. Publicity shot. Makeup, hair, the full works. It's going to take me a good hour and a half to get there.' Mac gave off a faint aroma of shampoo and shaving cream, as if he had already showered. She had heard nothing, she thought, as she covered her shock by making breakfast.

  'Hope you don't mind. I used the last of the teabags.' He lifted a hand, waving a piece of toast. He was reading her newspaper. 'I'll get some more while I'm out. You still drink coffee, right?'

  She closed the cupboard door. 'I guess I'll have to,' she said.

  'Oh. And you know I told you I'd be away Thursday for a couple of days? Well, the job fell through so I'll be here after all. Are you okay with that?'

  'Fine.' He had spilt some milk on the worktop.

  'You want this?' He motioned towards the newspaper. 'Sorry. Didn't mean to muscle in.'

  She shook her head. She tried to work out where to sit. Opposite him, and they risked touching feet. On the adjoining side of the table, she might seem to be cosying up to him. Paralysed by these two choices, Natasha remained standing by the kitchen units with her bowl of cereal.

  'I'll keep the sports section. You can have the main. Any news from the estate agent? I meant to ask last night.'

  'There are two couples coming round at the weekend. Incidentally, I'd appreciate it if you didn't smoke dope in the house.'

  'You never used to mind.'

  'Actually, I did. I just never said. But that's not the point. If we've got people coming to the view the house, I don't think it's a good idea for it to smell like an Amsterdam cafe.'

  'Noted.'

  'And the agent has keys so you won't have to be here.'

  He adjusted his chair so he could see her better. 'I don't have to be here? You're away again?'

  'Yes.'

  'That's a lot of weekends away. Where are you going this time?'

  'Does it matter?'

  He held up both palms. 'Just making polite conversation, Tash.'

  'I'm going back to Kent.'

  'Nice. You must like it. Conor got a place there, has he?'

  'Something like that.'

  'Doesn't come here much, does he?'

  'I wonder why.' She focused on the cereal.

  'You surprise me. It's not like he was so worried when we were still together . . . Okay . . . okay,' he said, as her head shot up. 'I know. Year Zero. We're not supposed to discuss What Went Before.'

  Natasha closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. It was too early in the morning for this. 'Of course we can discuss what went before, Mac. I just think life will be easier if we don't make sarcastic comments about whatever went on in our marriage. Or didn't,' she added meaningfully.

  'I'm cool with it. I told you that if he wants to come here I can make myself scarce. We can have set nights, if you like. I'll stay away Tuesdays, you stay away Wednesdays, that kind of thing.' He studied something in the newspaper with great concentration, adding: 'We can be modern.'

  She reached across for her coffee. 'I assume this will all be sorted out long before we start regularising "date nights".'

  Date nights. She felt the existence of the invisible woman keenly - she knew that at the weekends when she was not there, the woman was, even if Natasha no longer crept into the spare bathroom to confirm it. Sometimes she suspected she could detect her scent in the air. Other times it was just Mac's demeanour. He was loose, relaxed - like he used to be after they had spent much of the day in bed. You've been having sex all weekend in our house, she would think, then curse herself for it.

  The cereal had turned claggy in her mouth. She finished her mouthful and pushed the bowl towards the dishwasher.

  'You okay?'

  'Fine.'

  'Fine again. Not finding this too hard?'

  Sometimes she felt he was testing her. As if he wanted her to say she couldn't bear it, and leave. Don't leave, Conor had warned, despite his feelings. The moment she left the house she would lose the moral and legal advantage. If Mac had invested a lot of time and effort in it he might not want to leave as much as he told her he did.

  'He's the one who wants to sell it,' she had protested.

  'That's what he wants you to think,' he had replied. Conor could see subversive possibilities in almost any kind of behaviour. He viewed Mac's presence as one would that of an occupying enemy. Don't give an inch. Don't retreat. Don't let them know your plans.

  'Not finding it hard at all,' she said brightly.

  'Great.' His voice softened. 'I did worry a bit about how it would work out before I came back.'

  She wasn't sure she believed this. Mac looked as if nothing worried him. That much hadn't changed. 'Well, as I said, don't worry on my account.'

  He was staring at her.


  'What?' she said.

  'Nothing changes, does it, Tash?'

  'Meaning what?'

  He studied her for a moment, his smile absent. 'You still don't give anything away.'

  Their eyes locked. He looked away first and gulped his tea.

  'Oh, by the way, I bunged a load of washing in last night and there was some stuff of yours in the basket so I put that in too.'

  'What stuff?'

  'Ah . . . blue T-shirt. And underwear, mostly.' He finished the tea. 'Lingerie, I should say.' He flicked a page in the newspaper. 'Gone up a notch since we split, I noticed . . .'

  Heat flooded Natasha's face.

  'It's okay. I put it on a low temperature. I know about these things. I may even have put it on the hand-wash setting.'

  'Don't,' she said. 'Don't . . .' She felt horribly exposed. The thought of it.

  'Just trying to be helpful.'

  'No. No, you're not. You - you're--' She picked up her briefcase and pushed past him towards the door, then spun around. 'Don't touch my underwear, okay? Don't touch my clothes. Don't touch my stuff. It's bad enough you're staying here without rifling through my pants as well.'

  'Oh, get over yourself. You think the biggest thrill I could get is going through your laundry? Jesus Christ, I was only trying to help.'

  'Well don't, okay?'

  He slammed the paper down on the table. 'Don't worry. I won't go anywhere near your pants in future. Hardly ever did anyway, if I remember.'

  'Oh, that's nice,' she said. 'That's really, really nice.'

  'Sorry. I just--' He let out a long breath.

  They stared at the floor, before their eyes lifted, met and locked. He raised his eyebrows. 'I'll do my washing separately in future. Okay?'

  'Fine,' she said, and shut the door firmly behind her.

  Sarah was bent low over her horse's neck, her toes jammed in the stirrups, the wind whipping tears that tracked horizontally from the corners of her eyes. She was going so fast now that her whole body ached; her hands, braced on his withers as she gripped the reins, her stomach as she fought to maintain her position against the joint forces of wind and gravity, her legs as they struggled to stay against his sides. Her breath came in gasps, her arms pressed against his neck as he flew, the thunder of his hoofbeats filling her ears. She wouldn't stop him. He had needed this for weeks, and here the marshes were wide and flat enough for her to let him go until he was tired.