The Horse Dancer

by Jojo Moyes

  'Just a few books,' she said, and added something else that Natasha could not hear.

  They walked along the balcony, unlocked the door and closed it swiftly behind them, Natasha grateful for the solid protection of Mac's iron brace on the frame. Inside, the flat was cold. Sarah had last been here several weeks previously, with Ruth the social worker, and they had turned off the heating and collected more of Sarah's things. She disappeared into her bedroom now, while Natasha stood in the front room. It was tidy, but bore the chilled, neglected air of a long-empty home. All the photographs had been removed, either to Sarah's room at their house or to the hospital ward, and the walls were blank and unfriendly.

  She heard the sound of drawers being opened and closed, and the zip of a holdall. Sarah would not be returning to this home, she was sure. Even if the old man recovered he couldn't manage those stairs. The thought hung heavily on her. Did Sarah realise this? She was an intelligent girl. What did she think would happen to her?

  She caught sight of a photograph that had not been moved - on the hall wall, of Sarah, three or four years old, being held by a grey-haired woman with a smile that matched Sarah's. She was like any other child: safe, anchored in the embrace of her family, her clear eyes untainted by fear or uncertainty. Within a matter of years she had become dependent on the kindness of strangers.

  Natasha's head sank into her hands. This was the downside of parenting, the utter, utter responsibility for someone else's happiness.

  'I tell you what, let's go out to eat,' Natasha said, as they climbed back into the car, brushing raindrops from their sleeves. 'How d'you fancy a pizza?'

  Sarah looked sideways at her and Natasha realised, with shame, that she was surprised by this casual invitation. She had seemed withdrawn the past few days, even by her self-contained standards. She had asked to eat alone in her room twice, and barely communicated, even with Mac, who had previously made her laugh.

  Natasha thought back to what her sister had said. It was her responsibility to do something, at least to try. 'Go on. I don't fancy cooking, and it's been a long evening. I know a nice place at the far end of the high street.' She tried to sound cheerful, relaxed. God, it would have been so nice if Sarah could show some enthusiasm, even pleasure. How often had she gone out in her old life, for goodness' sake? 'The pizzas are pretty good,' she said.

  Sarah clutched her holdall on her lap. 'Okay,' she said.

  The restaurant was only half full, and they were shown to a table near the window. Natasha ordered garlic bread and two colas, while Sarah gazed out at the busy, darkened street, the holdall tucked neatly under her chair. She chose a ham and pineapple pizza from the menu, then barely touched it, picking at the slices so slowly that Natasha wondered whether she was developing an eating disorder.

  'So,' she said, when the silence between them became uncomfortable, 'have you always been interested in horses?'

  Sarah nodded, pushing a piece of mozzarella across her plate.

  'Through your grandfather?'

  'Yes.'

  Sarah's eyebrows rose just enough to tell Natasha how stupid she thought the question.

  'Which part of France did he come from?'

  'Toulon, originally, and then he lived at Saumur. At the academy.'

  Natasha persisted: 'How did he end up living here?'

  'He fell in love with my grandmother. She was English. That was why he stopped riding.'

  'Wow.' Natasha pictured the French countryside, the move to an estate like Sandown. 'And what did he do when he got here?'

  'He worked on the railways.'

  'That must have been hard for him. To leave the horses. France. His whole life.'

  'He loved her.'

  To Natasha's ears, that had sounded almost like a rebuke. Were things really so simple? If you loved someone that much, should your environment become unimportant, the sacrifices you made disappear into your past? It was clear that horses were the old man's passion, a passion that had not been extinguished despite his self-imposed exile. But how had he come to terms with what he had lost?

  She remembered the picture of Sarah's grandmother, a woman used to being loved. Her face bore nothing but content, despite the loss of Sarah's mother. Natasha thought of the petty squabbles, the relentless accumulation of toxic ill-feeling that had led to the end of her own marriage. Was her generation simply deficient in being able to maintain love on such an epic scale?

  'How did you meet Mac?'

  Natasha's fork halted by her mouth. She put it down on her plate. 'It was on an aeroplane.'

  'Did you like him straight away?'

  Natasha thought for a moment. 'Yes,' she said. 'He . . . he's an easy person to like.'

  She seemed to accept this.

  He's charmed you too, Natasha thought, a little wistfully.

  'Did you leave him or did he leave you?'

  Natasha took a sip of her cola. 'Well, it wasn't quite as straightforward as that . . .'

  'So he left you.'

  'If you're asking me who left the house, yes, he did. But at that point we would both have agreed we needed a breather from each other.'

  'Do you want to get back together?'

  Natasha felt colour rise to her cheeks. 'It's not really an issue. Why do you ask?'

  Sarah pulled a tiny piece of crust from her pizza and placed it in her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, then said, 'My nana once told me she hoped Papa would die first. Not because she didn't love him but because she was worried about how he'd cope without her. She thought she'd manage better than he would.'

  'But you and he coped together.'

  'He's not as happy as he was when she was alive. My nana could always make him laugh.' She thought about it. 'I can't make him laugh. Especially there. He hates it.'

  'The stroke ward?'

  Sarah nodded.

  'It must be hard for him,' Natasha replied carefully.

  'It's worse for him than if he'd died.'

  Natasha's knife and fork stilled in her hands. Sarah's words probably contained some truth, no matter how unpalatable. For someone whose whole life had been spent outdoors in the pursuit of physicality, of agility, to be trapped in an existence like that, fed, changed like a baby, it must be near-unendurable.

  She tried to keep her voice level. 'He'll get better,' she said softly. 'The nurse did say he was progressing.'

  Perhaps Sarah hadn't heard this, or perhaps it contradicted what she suspected to be true, but she closed her knife and fork on her plate, signifying that she had finished, despite the physical evidence to the contrary. 'Do you think he'll be home in time for Christmas?' she asked.

  Natasha lifted her napkin, stalling for time, but even that short hesitation must have spoken volumes. 'It's impossible for me to say. I'm not an expert.'

  Sarah chewed her lip, fixed her eyes on something in the street.

  'I'm sorry, Sarah,' Natasha said. She was so pale. She might even have lost weight. Natasha wondered whether to reach out a hand. 'I know this must be very hard for you.'

  'I need some money,'

  'Sorry?'

  'I need to buy Papa some things. Christmas presents. New pyjamas and stuff,' Sarah said matter-of-factly.

  Knocked off kilter by the change of subject, Natasha put another piece of pizza into her mouth and chewed. 'What does he need?' she asked, when she'd swallowed. 'I can pop into the shops tomorrow on my way to work, if you like.'

  'I can do it, if you give me the money.'

  'You won't have time, Sarah. All your time is taken up with Boo and your schoolwork.'

  'I can go out at lunchtime.'

  'That doesn't make sense. You're not meant to leave the school grounds then. I can't see when else you'd be able to do it.'

  'This is because I took the change from your bottle, isn't it?'

  'No. I just don't want you missing any more--'

  'I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry about that. It was when I couldn't tell you about Boo. I'll pay it back.'

  'Th
at's really not necessary.'

  'Then let me buy some things for Papa. I need to be the one who chooses them,' she insisted. 'I know what he likes.' Her voice rose against the clatter of the restaurant cutlery. 'They keep nicking his toiletries, and his clothes, and I can't buy anything myself because Social Services took his savings books. I wouldn't ask unless I really had to.'

  Natasha wiped her mouth with the napkin. 'Then let's go together on Saturday morning. We'll get whatever you think he needs and I'll drop you at the stables afterwards.'

  Sarah's eyes betrayed her feelings about this idea.

  Why did she want to go by herself? Natasha wondered. Was it that she didn't want pyjamas, and that the money was for something else? Or was it simply that being with Natasha for another outing was too much? She felt exhausted. Sarah was staring out of the window, as unknowable and unreachable as she had been at the start.

  'Do you want anything else? Some ice-cream?'

  Sarah shook her head. She didn't even look at her.

  'I'll settle the bill,' Natasha said wearily, 'and then we'd better go. I didn't tell Mac we were going out.'

  She didn't trust her. Sarah cursed herself for having taken the money from Natasha's change jar. If she'd left it alone, she could have helped herself to some now when it really mattered.

  She placed her foot on her holdall, reassuring herself that it was still there. Social Services had taken Papa's pension and savings books, to ensure the rent got paid, but they hadn't known about his Premium Bonds. If she could cash them in, and avoid Maltese Sal for a bit longer, she might still be able to pay him off. She saw him again, felt his hand on her breast, heard his words in her ear, and shivered.

  She needed that money. She thought of the other things she had picked up: an old glass ornament, which she had wrapped carefully in a jumper, and which she thought she might be able to sell to the man in the house-clearance shop. Her CDs, which someone might buy at school. Something. Anything.

  'Goodness,' Natasha said. 'It's a quarter past ten. I had no idea it was so late.' She pulled out her wallet to pay the bill. She put a card into the hand-held machine and was chatting to the waiter as she punched in the number.

  2340.

  Easy to remember.

  She closed her eyes, wincing at what Papa would say if he knew she had even thought in the way she had. Nothing could excuse stealing, he would tell her, when one of the boys downstairs was carted off in a police car for the fourth time that week. You stole something, you gained nothing. You were actually diminished by the act. Papa did not even believe in credit. He had never, he said, owned anything he couldn't pay for.

  But as she walked back to the car, following the crisp click-clack of Natasha's high heels along the wet pavement, those four digits beat a rhythmic tattoo, imprinting themselves on a dark corner of her mind.

  He had promised to drop her home, and now asked her to wait on the steps for two minutes while he ran in and picked up his car keys. Sarah's light was on, he noted. Natasha's car was absent. She had said she might be working late, but he was surprised that she had left Sarah alone for so long. As he stood on the step, fumbling for his key, Maria was suddenly behind him. She pressed against him, her long, sinuous form snaking around his. 'Let's go in.'

  'No.'

  'You owe me. That was the worst film I have ever seen. You owe me an hour and a half of my life back.'

  'Granted. But not here.'

  She pulled a comedy frown. 'But I miss you. It has been more than a week! I will show you my white bits,' she offered, pulling out the waistband of her low-cut jeans to reveal the tanned abdomen beneath. 'They are very, very small,' she added breathily. 'You will have to look very closely.'

  Maria was beautiful, and uncomplicated, and she wanted him. He suspected she didn't love him, or even need him, and he couldn't help but like her for it. He needed this robustness, wanted to know that, no matter what he did, he wasn't going to hurt her.

  'Sweetheart, I can't,' he said.

  'You bring me here at weekends. Why not now?'

  He glanced down the road. 'Because my ex will be back soon and it's not fair.'

  She pulled away from him. 'It's not fair on me. Grrr! Why you letting your life be dictated by this miserable woman? You told me she has boyfriend, yes?'

  'Yes.'

  'She has sex with him?'

  'I don't know,' he muttered uncomfortably. 'I guess so.'

  'Of course she does.' She laid a hand on his chest. 'Lots of sex with this horrible old man. Two horrible dreary people together. So how you know she's not with him now?'

  He tried to remember what Natasha had said that morning, whether she would be out this evening. He had been trying to catch a cricket score and hadn't been paying attention. 'I don't.'

  She grinned. 'Having disgusting sex with him. Horrible, dreary-person sex. But laughing at the thought of her ex-husband, who does not dare have sex with his beautiful girlfriend in his own house in case the thought of this upsets her.' She smiled sweetly at him, revelling in his discomfort.

  'You are a very bad woman.'

  'Oh, I can be much worse.'

  'I don't doubt it.'

  'Then come. You sneak me into your room. We have quickie and then I go. It will be like we are teenagers again. Well, like you are teenager. For me it's not such a leap.' She wrapped her arms around his waist, fed her hands into his back pockets, pulling him towards her.

  He glanced at his watch. He couldn't guarantee that Sarah would be asleep. 'Tell you what, let's go to yours.'

  'My two cousins are staying at my flat. And my uncle Luca. Is like Piccadilly Circus. With bigos.'

  'Bigos?'

  'Is . . . stewed cabbage.'

  'Well, that's a turn-on.'

  'Mac . . .' Her voice dropped to a husky murmur. 'Mac . . . I like your house.' She twirled her fingers in his hair. 'I like your room. I like your bed . . .'

  He tried to stay resolute. 'I'm sure I could get to like bigos.'

  She narrowed her eyes, smiled that catlike smile. 'You know what this word means? In translation?'

  'I haven't got my English-Polish dictionary on me.'

  'Trouble,' she whispered, her lips grazing his ear. 'Is word for trouble.'

  Sarah would probably be asleep. Even if she wasn't, was that really so bad? She tended to stay in her room most evenings anyway.

  They had let her have the small portable television as she didn't want to watch what anyone else wanted. Or perhaps she just hadn't wanted to be with them.

  Maria pulled back a little. She looked down, then lifted her eyes to his. 'You can't say you haven't missed me,' she observed.

  Natasha was probably at Conor's house, he rationalised, as he propelled Maria, giggling, through the front door. And Maria was a woman with a very short attention span. An old phrase jumped into his consciousness, even as he forced away the voice that warned him against what he was doing. It concerned gift horses and mouths.

  'The lights are on. Mac must be home already,' Natasha said, as if she couldn't think of anything else to talk about. Her mouth had compressed into a thin line, Sarah saw. She pulled her key from the ignition and retrieved her bag from the footwell behind her, leaving a faint trail of expensive scent. 'Do you need a hand with that bag?'

  As if she were a child. 'No,' said Sarah. 'Thank you.' She couldn't let go of the holdall. Some parts of this evening it had seemed that holding on to it was the only thing that had kept her upright.

  'You'll have to get the bus in tomorrow,' Natasha continued, as she locked the car behind them. 'Mac texted me earlier to say he's got some job on early, and I'm afraid I have to be in a meeting. Will that be okay?'

  'Yes.'

  'And we'll make sure your grandfather gets some nice new things. I'm happy to pay for them, Sarah.' She opened the front door and turned to face her as she closed it behind them.

  She was wearing her sympathetic face, the one she probably used on her clients. It was warm in the house, a
nd Sarah peeled off her coat.

  'It's not a matter of trust, Sarah. Really. If I didn't trust you I wouldn't have you in my home. I just think it would be better if we did it together on Saturday afternoon. I'll get my paperwork done in the morning and I can pick you straight up from the stables. We'll go to any shop you want. We could get a cab to Selfridges, if you like. How does that sound?'

  Sarah shrugged. Even without looking at Natasha she could tell she was exasperated.

  'Look, it's late. You'd better go up and we'll talk again in the morning.'

  They turned when they heard clattering in the kitchen. Natasha took off her scarf as she headed towards the door. 'Mac? I was just telling Sarah about--'

  She stopped dead as a tall blonde woman dressed only in a man's T-shirt and knickers stepped into the hallway, carrying two glasses of wine. She had the kind of hair you see in shampoo adverts, impossibly fine and glossy, and endless lightly tanned legs. Her toenails were little seashells of rosy polish. 'You must be Natasha.' She smiled, balanced the glasses clumsily in one hand and held out the other. 'I am Maria.' The smile was wide but not friendly. It had something of a smirk in it. Sarah stood behind Natasha, fascinated, as the hand dangled, outstretched, in the air.

  Natasha seemed to have lost the ability to speak.

  'Mac has told me so much about you,' the tall woman said, taking back her hand with no apparent offence. 'I was going to make tea, but you don't have any soya milk, do you? Dairy is so bad for the skin.' Her eyes lingered on Natasha's complexion a moment too long. 'Do excuse me. I must get back upstairs. Someone is waiting . . .' Grinning, she moved past Natasha, her braless breasts buoyant under the T-shirt, a faint musky scent trailing in the air as she passed.

  Natasha didn't move.

  Sarah watched the scene, her mouth slightly open. Natasha was quite pale, and her knuckles had whitened on the handle of her briefcase. She looked like Sarah felt when she was going to cry and didn't want to.

  After a few moments, Sarah took a tentative step forward. 'Do you want me to make a cup of tea?' Someone had to do something. It was awful to see anybody going through that. 'I like normal milk,' she added feebly.

  But it was as if Natasha had forgotten she was there. She looked up, her eyes widening, and forced her face into a smile. 'That's . . . very sweet. But no thank you, Sarah.' She didn't seem to know what to do.