The Horse Dancer

by Jojo Moyes

  This was what she had always assumed was her future; she had known it as clearly as she had known Boo's. But she had seven pounds fifteen pence from the sale of her CDs and ornaments, Mac's ten pounds, and a Premium Bond certificate that would take at least three weeks to redeem, and only then with her grandfather's signature.

  That knowledge gap looked as if it would close sooner than she had thought.

  'I need to talk to you.'

  'You got my money?'

  'That's what I wanted to talk to you about.'

  'So talk.'

  She nodded across the yard to where his men were standing. 'Not with them here.'

  He was packing away his grooming brushes, each one gleaming, immaculate, as if it had never seen the dust on a horse. He shoved the last one into place and now looked up at her, registering. 'What do you want, Circus Girl?'

  She lowered her voice, twisted the strap of her schoolbag around her left wrist. 'I wanted to know,' she said, quietly, 'how much . . . how much you would let me off . . . if . . .' He didn't answer at first. He didn't smile. He didn't show surprise, pleasure. He didn't, as she had half hoped, burst into noisy laughter and tell her he was only joking and what kind of man did she think he was?

  He nodded a little, as if confirming something to himself, then looked at her and turned on his heel. He walked over to his men, who were standing around the brazier, the cold air clouding their breath so that you couldn't tell what was smoke and what was simply the cold air. He was gesturing at them, muttering something she couldn't hear. They shrugged, patted pockets for keys and cigarettes, flicked waste paper into the fire. Ralph looked at her from across the yard as if he was reassessing her. Perhaps it was just jealousy that she had Sal's attention, but she suspected she was someone else in his eyes now. Not the granddaughter of the Captain, a mate with whom to share the odd adventure, just someone to be traded, of no value. He did not look at her as he left.

  She walked up to Boo's stable and let herself in, fiddling with his rug, laying her head against his warm skin to glean some comfort from it. His great head swung round to investigate her, to work out what she was doing, and she stroked his face, her fingers tracing the bones beneath the soft skin.

  She could see Sal through the doorway, walking jauntily, a cigarette held lightly between thumb and finger. He saluted, shouted something in Maltese as the men disappeared through the gates. Then as the last car pulled away, he wedged them shut, pulling the heavy chain through in a loop. It was dark now, and Sheba paced restlessly at their base, perhaps waiting for Cowboy John to return.

  And then he was walking up to Boo's stable, whistling like someone who hadn't a care in the world.

  'So,' she said, trying to sound tough, when he stood at the door. She tried to mimic the girls from Sandown, the ones she heard screeching at the boys on bikes. Hard. Nonchalant. As if nothing could hurt them. 'How would this work?'

  He acted as if he hadn't heard her. He took a deep drag of his cigarette, then walked into the stable and shut the door. Boo had lost interest in her and gone back to his hay, chewing steadily behind her. Only the sodium light from outside the yard crept in now. It was hard to see his face, although she saw that the light illuminated her, turning her body a ghostly orange.

  'Take off your top.'

  He said it so casually; as if he'd asked her to lock the gates.

  'What?'

  'Take off your top. I want to have a look at you.' He took another drag of his cigarette, his eyes not leaving hers.

  She stared at him. Not now, she thought. I'm not ready for this now. I just wanted to work out what you were suggesting. 'But--'

  'If you don't want to sort this out . . .' He made as if to turn away, his face closing. 'You're just playing kids' games. You let me think I could take you seriously.'

  He took his cigarette from his lips with two fingers and flicked it out on to the concrete. It glowed briefly before it was extinguished by the wet. Then she saw the cold, hard set of his face and her mind raced.

  Almost before she knew what she was doing, she pulled her top over her head. She had been wearing a sweatshirt. Without its fleecy lining she felt the cold air licking at her, the draught through the door penetrating with icy fingers what had been warm and protected.

  He turned. She couldn't see his eyes, but she felt them on her, extracting every last bit of what he would decide was her value. It was, apparently, not hers to define. She felt invaded by his gaze, as if he could see past her bare skin to the raw flesh underneath. It will soon be over, she told herself, forcing herself to stand straight, almost defiant in her posture. And then I will owe him nothing. It will all be okay.

  'And your brassiere.'

  He spoke slowly, but it was a command. The voice of someone who only ever got what he wanted.

  She checked she had heard correctly. 'But what do you want--?' she protested. 'You haven't said--'

  'You're telling me what to do now? Dictating terms?' His voice hardened.

  She was shivering, goosebumps rising on her arms.

  She closed her eyes. Her heart thumped so loudly she could barely hear him.

  'Take it off.'

  She swallowed hard, then reached behind her, her jaw clenched to to stop her teeth chattering, out of fear or cold, she wasn't sure. Without opening her eyes, she removed her bra. It was a cheap, flimsy thing, slightly too big. Papa had been buying socks at the same time, and she had been so embarrassed at the prospect of him noticing her purchase in the department store that she had run out without trying it on. He took it from her now, dropped it to the ground at one side of her. She was naked from the waist up. She felt the cold air on her skin, her nipples tightening in protest. She heard his sharp intake of breath, the footsteps bringing him closer, and realised she had toppled into an abyss. One she hadn't even known was there.

  She couldn't open her eyes, couldn't breathe. She stood there, a thing, a nothing, extracting herself from her body so that this was not her, Sarah, standing bare in the stable, with Sal's new horse whinnying in the next arch and the dog barking outside and the sound of someone talking on the street. This was not her, with this man's hot, dry hand now sliding across her cold skin, his warm breath near her face, his foul, alien words murmured into her ear. A strange, alien scent in her nostrils, his sharp belt pressed painfully against her hip as he pushed her back against the chilled stone wall. The real world receded until it was just him and those words and his insistent, relentless touch that was not hers to stop. It was not her. Not her. What had happened to Sarah anyway? This was no longer her life, her family, her future. She had no say in any of it. So what difference did it make to have this man now claiming possession of her, inch by kneading, explorative, hot-breathed inch? She was hypnotised, absent, a nothing.

  It was not her, after all, whose hand he now enclosed and pulled from her trembling side towards him, as her clenched teeth choked back her fear. It is just one small thing, she repeated, her voice repetitive in her head. One small thing, and then it will all be over. She heard a zipping sound, his laboured breathing, now growing in intensity, rasping. She heard the words and thought - dully - do I?, and felt against her fingertips rough denim, then something soft and warm, yet unyielding. Something that instinct told her she should not be touching.

  And she could not help herself. She snatched back her hand as his own strong fingers clamped around hers, propelling them back on to warm flesh, insisting, not even persuading. Telling. But it had unleashed something in her, released her. A shout escaped her, and she was pushing him, hitting him, yelling at him - 'Get off! Get off me!' as Boo flinched and jumped sideways, his hooves crashing against the stable wall. And then, snatching up her bag, she was out of his grasp, away, out of the dank lock-up, running for the gates, and then, wrenching them open, the pavement, towards the bright lights of the rush-hour high street even as she pulled her sweatshirt on over her head.

  'I wondered if you'd be here.' Conor was standing in front of her,
holding a pint. 'Richard wanted to talk to you this afternoon. I had to make excuses for you.' When she didn't speak, he added, 'And Linda's worried about you.'

  She leant back in the booth. 'Linda is far too interested in everybody's lives. You can see for yourself - I'm fine.'

  Conor's eyes travelled across the empty glasses in front of her. He removed his coat and slid into the booth opposite. It was the end of the working day and the pub was filling up. He took a sip of his beer. 'I rang your home. But your - your young houseguest had just got in and said she didn't know where you were.'

  She took another sip of her drink. If you drank enough white wine it tasted like acidic grape juice. 'I'm not staying there.'

  He stared at her. 'Okay, Natasha. What's going on?'

  'Oh, you're interested now?'

  'Look, I can see that something is going on with you. You haven't missed an appointment in five years, and suddenly you're taking the afternoon off for no obvious reason whatsoever.' He didn't add, 'And you're drunk.' He didn't have to.

  'Brilliant, Holmes.' Her voice was low and measured. She realised she actually loved Chardonnay, as unfashionable as it might be. Why had she not discovered this sooner? 'I went to look at the home of the woman Ali Ahmadi attacked.'

  'Why the hell did you do that?'

  'I don't know.'

  'I thought you'd left all that stuff behind. Why the hell are you still worrying about it?'

  She blinked. 'Because it still troubles me. I keep thinking about her. I keep thinking about him.' A pair of slim brown hands held in supplication. Around a woman's neck.

  'This is ridiculous, Natasha. You're not . . . you're not behaving rationally.'

  'Ah. That will be because I'm drunk.'

  'Okay. I'll put you in a cab home. Come on, Hotshot.' He took her hand, but she pulled it away.

  'I'm not going home.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I'm staying in a hotel.'

  He regarded her as one might an unexploded bomb. 'You're staying in a hotel.'

  'The Holiday Inn.'

  'Can I ask why?'

  No, she wanted to yell. No, because you bailed out of my life long ago, at the first sign of trouble. No, because you've ignored me and made me feel like crap for weeks. No, because you've behaved like my happiness was none of your concern. 'It was simpler.'

  She heard the question in his silence. She could just make him out on the other side of her table. Why didn't he go? 'It was easier, okay? You were right. It got too complicated at home. I made a mistake even thinking I could cope with it. Happy now?'

  He said nothing. She swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on the glasses in front of her, but they kept swimming up to meet her. She frowned at them until they fell obediently into some kind of order.

  Finally she gave up and looked at him. His eyes were kind, his expression sorrowful.

  'Oh, Hotshot. I'm sorry.' He got up and walked round to her side of the table, sat down beside her and sighed. 'I'm sorry,' he said again.

  'Don't worry. It was a ridiculous thing to attempt. I must have been mad.'

  'Well, yes, there is that.' He put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her to him. She leant against him a little reluctantly, unbending in his arms. 'I'm sorry,' he murmured into her hair. 'I'm a jealous fool. I never wanted to see you unhappy.'

  'Liar.'

  'Okay. I didn't want to see you happy with him. But I never wanted . . . this.'

  'I'm fine.'

  'Obviously. And I'm not. And it's all my own fault.' He stooped, held her face and tilted it towards his. 'Come to mine.'

  'What?'

  'You heard me.'

  She shifted out of his embrace. 'Conor,' she said, 'I don't know. My life is a mess. I've got myself into a complete hole and I don't know how I'm going to dig my way out of it.'

  'I know how.' He pushed her hair out of her eyes. 'Come to mine.'

  'I told you, I've got--'

  'To stay.' He paused. 'To live, if you like.'

  She didn't move, unsure she had heard him correctly.

  'Let Mac clear the whole thing up,' he continued. 'He's got you into this mess. And you come . . . come and live with me.'

  'You don't have to do this.'

  'I know I don't. But, believe me, I've thought of nothing else this past couple of weeks. Imagining the two of you eating dinner together, chatting away, doing . . .' he rubbed his face '. . . God knows what. Don't tell me if you have, by the way, because I don't want to know. But it got me thinking. Let's just get on with it.'

  '"Get on with it,"' she repeated. 'You old romantic.'

  He had said it. He had offered her the thing she had wanted for months, even if she hadn't been able to admit it to herself. Perhaps it was the shock of the previous evening, or the last weeks, but she didn't know how to respond. 'It's a big move, Conor. We're both . . .'

  '. . . a mess. Matching messes.'

  'You make it sound so inviting.'

  'I mean it, Natasha.' He hesitated. 'I love you.'

  She emptied her glass. 'I don't know. This is a little out of the blue.'

  'You'd rather stay at the Holiday Inn. I knew you always had a thing for that roundabout.' He was speaking a little too fast now, his laughter brittle.

  She felt a sudden tenderness and reached for his hand. 'I'll come tonight,' she said. She leant against him, letting herself be enfolded. She closed her eyes as he rested his chin on her shoulder, oblivious to the glances of those at the next table. 'But let's just take things one step at a time.'

  Sixteen

  'When he finds himself in close proximity to the foe, he must keep his horse well in hand. This . . . will enable him to do the greatest mischief to the enemy, and to receive least damage at his hands.'

  Xenophon, On Horsemanship

  Fifteen times he'd tried to call her between Monday night and this morning, and every time he had gone straight to the answering service. Her office claimed she was 'in court'. That they no longer asked who was calling made him suspect she had briefed them not to put him through. He had stopped leaving messages now, just her name, his name. He had long since forgotten what he had wanted to say.

  He poured himself another coffee, cursing Natasha's jug, which always seemed to spill no matter how carefully you directed it. He remembered suddenly the beautiful Italian coffee-maker they had received as a wedding present, a gleaming Gaggia, which sat in some storage unit in west London. It seemed stupid now that he had been so determined to take what he considered he was owed, even when it meant that nobody got to use it. He would give her the coffee-maker, he vowed. He hadn't used it in a year. He couldn't possibly miss it. He had made several such vows in the past few days.

  Upstairs Sarah was asleep. She had gone straight to her room when she came in on Monday evening, refused food and drink and didn't want to talk. She had been so evasive, avoiding eye contact, hiding in her room, that he had suspected he was still being punished. Odd, really, that she was suddenly so loyal to Natasha. He had wanted to knock on her door, to put her straight, remind her that actually, strictly speaking, it had been Natasha who had been unfaithful first. But as he considered it he realised how ridiculous it would be to harangue a fourteen-year-old girl to justify his own actions.

  Yesterday she had pleaded illness, had spent the day locked in her room. She was peaky, a translucent pallor to her skin. She hadn't had to try very hard to persuade him to let her have the day off.

  At twenty past six, some thirty-six hours after Natasha had left, he heard a key in the front door. She shut it quietly, slipped her shoes off on the doormat and walked down the hall in her stockinged feet. She was wearing the suit she had disappeared in, but with a T-shirt underneath. His T-shirt, probably, Mac thought.

  They stared at each other.

  'I've got a big case on,' she said. 'I've just come to change my clothes and pick up my phone charger.' Her face was pale, free of makeup, her hair still slightly matted from sleep. She looked exhausted.


  'I tried to ring you. Loads of times.'

  She waved her phone. 'Dead. As I said, I need my charger.' She started up the stairs.

  'Natasha, please, hang on for five minutes. We really need to talk.'

  'I haven't time today. I've got to be in my office within the hour.'

  'But we do need to talk. Are you coming back this evening?'

  She stopped halfway up. 'I'll be late. And when I do get back I'll be working on my papers.'

  'Are you still angry with me? About Maria?'

  She shook her head unconvincingly.

  He took the stairs two at a time, pushing past her so that he stood above her, looking down. 'Oh, come on,' he said. 'It's not like you haven't got a boyfriend. Christ.'

  'And it's not like I ever got him to come here and humiliate you,' she shot back. 'Look, I don't want to do this now--'

  'No. You never do. But seeing as we are, how did Maria being here humiliate you? You and I aren't together. You've always been perfectly open about having a boyfriend. All that happened was you actually met her. Look, I'm not saying it wasn't a bit undiplomatic but it was a genuine mistake. I thought you were out. I'd never have invited her in if I'd known . . .'

  She didn't seem to want to look at him.

  'Tash?'

  When she finally did, her eyes were cold. She seemed oddly defeated. 'I can't do this, Mac. Okay? You win. Have the house until it's sold. Have whoever you want here. I don't care any more.'

  'You don't care about what?'

  'I just think it'd be better for everyone if we ended this charade now.'

  Mac spread his arms across the stairs so that she couldn't pass him. 'Whoa, whoa, whoa. What? You're just leaving? And how's that going to work? What are we doing about Sarah? You know I can't take care of her by myself.'