Hard Choices

by Ashe Barker

  I did wonder about Manchester, and whether I was expected to show up there some time soon. Again, Nick didn’t say, and I’m reluctant to make contact with him to seek clarification. I will if I have to, but settle first for emailing Ange to ask how it’s all going at the new club and if she needs me. Her reply is typically generous. She assures me they’re managing fine. Ange, Frank and apparently Portia are making a great team so far—I’m to just concentrate on my horse and join them when I’m ready. She finishes by saying that if things get hectic Nick’ll have to get his hands dirty. I get the impression that whilst she clearly knows about Queenie, Nick hasn’t told her anything else. I appreciate that.

  The apartment itself is stunning. A penthouse with a rooftop terrace and a fabulous view across the Leeds skyline. It’s fascinating by day and breathtaking at night. The terrace even has a lawn, and two life-size models of sheep grazing. I gather the master bedroom has all sorts of cunningly designed features—not quite a dungeon, but not far off. I did have a peep in there, but apart from a few hooks in the ceiling and the fact that the huge bed is situated in the centre of the room, the only really obvious piece of kit is a St Andrews cross mounted on the wall opposite the window. This is the tallest building around, though, so no danger of peeping Toms unless they’re in a passing aeroplane. Not that any of that need concern me—it’s hardly likely I’m going to be partaking of the facilities.

  I’m using the guest bedroom, and now that Summer’s brought my things from Black Combe I have everything I need. Except for Nick.

  The days drag by, and become a week. Then two weeks. I change my appointment from Barrow orthopaedic department to St James’ in Leeds, and I have the plaster cast removed from my arm. My wrist emerges a little skinny and pale, but none the worse really for the ordeal. And as Queenie continues to improve, slowly, I begin to think that maybe I could go back to Kendal. It’s time. I email Nick.

  From: Freya Stone

  To: Nick Hardisty

  Date: 2 November 2013

  Subject: Coming Home

  Hello. How are you?

  Queenie is doing well. I think I could come back to Cumbria now. I’ll be back at my apartment tomorrow sometime. I hope that’s OK with you.

  I love you, and I miss you. Please, don’t be too long.

  Freya

  I agonised over that last line, deleted and rewrote it several times, then just pressed ‘Send’. It’s done now.

  * * * *

  The next morning I get up early. My plan is to drop in at the clinic first, then head off to Kendal from there. I carefully collect all my belongings from the guest bedroom and the bathroom and shove everything into a holdall. I dump it by the door and rummage in the fridge for something for breakfast.

  As I munch on scrambled eggs on toast I think back to Nick’s curt response to my e-mail yesterday.

  From: Nick Hardisty

  To: Freya Stone

  Date: 2 November 2013

  Subject: Coming Home

  Thank you for your email. All noted.

  Regards

  Nick

  Well, at least he didn’t seem any angrier than when we last spoke. It’s been ten days—he must be calm by now. Surely.

  I’m just heading for the lift, my holdall in one hand and Nathan’s key card in the other, when my phone pings to let me know I have a text. Hoping it might be Nick, maybe even something along the lines of Welcome back, or better still, Come to Cartmel, I drop my bag on the floor while I dig my phone from my pocket.

  It isn’t from Nick, though. The text is from Pat.

  Please come to clinic. Urgent.

  My heart lurches. This can’t be good news. I text my reply.

  On my way. 30 mins. What’s the problem?

  A few seconds later I’m in the lift headed for the eighth floor where I’m going to drop the key card off at Nathan’s office, when the phone pings again.

  We’ll talk when you get here.

  Oh shit! I break into a trot as I head for my car, glad at least that I no longer have the pot on my wrist and can drive myself easily.

  Pat’s waiting in the car park when I pull up, and he rushes over to my car to open the driver’s door. He looks as though he’s not slept all night, and I soon learn that he hasn’t.

  “There’s a problem. Queenie’s developed a complication. Come on. The vet’s with her now. He’ll explain.”

  I follow him, running to keep up as he hustles me along the familiar trail around the building to the stables and paddock at the back. As we turn the corner the first thing I see, which I really should not be seeing, is that the door to Queenie’s stall is open. That’s wrong. What’s to stop her just hobbling out? She’s not supposed to move around much, certainly not go strolling around the paddock or stableyard. There’s no way they’d leave her door open unless…

  Sure enough, when we reach the stall I can see that Queenie’s not on her feet any longer. She’s lying on her side in the straw, and a vet is kneeling beside her, his stethoscope pressed against her sides. Her breathing sounds awful, laboured and harsh. I don’t need a stethoscope to tell me she’s poorly. Really poorly. The vet glances up as we enter, then stands to come and talk to us. I’ve seen him regularly over the last ten days, we’ve chatted. Well, sort of. He chats and I write on my phone. He’s called James Winterton. I understand that his wife has just given birth to twins.

  His expression tells it all. He’s sad. Desperately sad. And, worse than that, he looks beaten. He takes my hand, shakes it, and I just stare at him, waiting for some sort of explanation for this setback. Because surely that’s all it is. Queenie was getting better, the worst was over. It was, I know it was.

  “She’s developed laminitis. That’s an inflammation of the tissues in the hoof. It can be a complication of a fracture, especially in the front hooves, but it’s rare. We weren’t expecting it. Unfortunately, Queenie started to show signs late yesterday, and it’s developed very rapidly since. She’s in a lot of pain now.” His voice is soft, I think as much so as not to disturb Queenie as for my benefit.

  My phone is in my hand immediately and I’m stabbing at the screen desperately, begging for good news.

  Inflammation. That doesn’t sound too serious. Surely you can treat it.

  I hand my phone to James.

  He glances at my note, then back at me. “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. The problem is, she’s developed the laminitis in her left front hoof. It’s probably been caused by undue strain as all her weight has been placed on that side as she’s tried to get around on three legs. Maybe aggravated some existing underlying condition. But it’s very uncomfortable, agony for her, in fact, as you can probably tell. And now she has no usable front legs. She can’t manage like that, Freya. It would take weeks for either leg to heal sufficiently for her to stand again, and for a horse that’s just not an option. I’m sorry…”

  I shake my head, unable to comprehend that this disaster has just come at us, out of nowhere. She was fine yesterday, doing so well, and now—this.

  So what are our options? What do you think we should do now?

  I thrust the phone back under his nose.

  He looks at my note, then at me. “We’re out of options. I’m so sorry…”

  I just gape at him, uncomprehending. He can’t mean… No, not possible. It’s just a hoof, for God’s sake. Just a bit of inflammation.

  Pat steps forward, drapes an arm across my shoulder and squeezes me. “We tried. We really tried everything, Freya. It was worth having a go, but we never anticipated this…” Neither man wants to actually put into words what’s now staring us in the face.

  Euthanasia. They want to put her out of her misery. But what about me? What about my misery?

  I close my eyes, draw a long, shuddering breath. I dig deep for whatever shreds of resilience might be buried. I sure as hell need them now.

  This really is not about me, or about how I feel. I’m going to feel like shite, that’s a given. But my
responsibility at this moment is to my beautiful, dying horse. I turn to the vet as I tap in my last note.

  When?

  I know the answer to that. I only have to look at Queenie, gasping on the floor of her stall, her eyes rolling in her head, to know. But I ask anyway.

  James is quite clear about what’s required. “We need to act quickly, for her sake. Do I have your permission to go ahead?”

  I gaze at him for a moment, searching his face for some sliver of optimism, some faint glimmer of hope, however small. I find none. This is it. I nod, and drop to my knees beside her, cradling her huge head.

  “We’ll give you a moment…” That’s Pat’s voice, and I hear the slight shuffling as they both leave the stall, leaving me alone to say my goodbyes to a horse I hardly know really, but absolutely adore. My tears are trickling off my chin and onto her face as I stroke her long, lean neck, still beautiful and sleek even when she’s come to this. Silently I wish her well, wish her anything that would make these next moments more bearable. I lose track of time as I crouch beside her, my heart still refusing to accept this catastrophe, whilst my head knows the truth and has taken over. I’m on some sort of autopilot when, maybe ten minutes later, Pat’s hands are on my shoulders, lifting me away.

  “Come with me, now.”

  Unresisting I let him herd me towards the door, where we pass James. He’s standing just inside the stall. He smiles sadly at me as I pass, and nods briefly.

  Then I’m back outside, in the fresh morning sunlight. I look up, watching the leaves on the trees around the edge of the yard rustling in the slight breeze. How can everything seem so normal, so commonplace when—this—is going on just a few yards from us? Suddenly I turn, try to get back in there. I might still be able to stop this, I need to stop this. Pat tightens his hold, stops me from rushing back into the stall. I’m struggling, but half-heartedly now.

  “Don’t, Freya, don’t…” he’s murmuring in my ear.

  He holds me and I bury my face in the front of his padded jacket. Suddenly, I’m conscious of total silence. The faint sounds of Queenie’s breathing, almost indiscernible moments before, are now deafeningly silent. She’s gone.

  Even then, I might have rushed back in, but Pat stops me, firmly but gently. “No, Freya, not now. Leave it now.”

  Moments later James re-emerges. He pulls the stall door closed behind him, and locks it before turning to us.

  “It’s over. Let’s go inside.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I have absolutely no recollection of returning to Nathan’s apartment. I’m not sure I even meant to. Certainly when I left earlier this morning it was with the definite intention of driving home to Kendal after I’d visited Queenie. But after I left the clinic, the formalities completed, arrangements made for Queenie’s body to be cremated, I stumbled blindly to my car and just turned left instead of right at the gates. And forty minutes later, I’m in the lift headed back up to Nathan’s penthouse. Just in time I remember I dropped the key card in at Nathan’s office, so I stop the lift at the eighth floor and make my way to the reception desk to ask for it back.

  The pleasant young man on the desk who was all smiles when I popped in earlier stands when he sees me. He looks shocked, concerned. He comes around his desk and across the carpeted reception area to meet me. I suppose I must look only marginally better than Queenie did at that moment. From the relative comfort of a plush red sofa I manage to type out my requirements on my phone, and he quickly retrieves the key card from a drawer in his desk. He also shoves a plastic cup full of chilled water into my hand, which I only now notice is trembling.

  “Here, miss. Drink this. Do you need anything else? Can I get you a doctor?”

  I shake my head, and point to the ceiling, indicating I just want to go back upstairs.

  “Are you sure?” He looks distinctly worried about me. I suspect that Nathan Darke will know about my unexpected return within moments of my leaving the office. I can probably expect Summer turning up some time soon then, or possibly Eva. I get to my feet, do my best to smile my thanks at the solicitous young man then head for the door. Sure enough, when I glance back as the lift door opens I see him already on the phone.

  I let myself into the apartment, dump my jacket over the back of a sofa, and head for the guest bedroom. I strip off quickly and step into the shower, thinking that it may be possible, somehow, to rinse at least some of the wretchedness of this day away. I lean on the tiles, warm water streaming down my back, my head full of that last sight I had of Queenie, lying in the straw, in pain, needing our help. And we gave it, the only help that we could. I know it was the right decision, the courageous, selfless decision. But it was hard, and it hurts so much. I hardly knew her but I already miss her so much.

  And I miss Nick too. I wish, desperately wish he was here. Or that I could at least text or e-mail him. I would if he wasn’t still so angry with me, so angry that he doesn’t want to talk to me, or hear from me. Surely, though, if he knew about this? He was kind when I first got the news of Queenie’s accident, despite his fury at my deception. He helped me, and he would again. I know he would. I hope he would. The truth is, I’m really not sure of anything anymore.

  I stagger out of the shower and make my way, bundled up in a huge fluffy bath sheet, to my bed. I dig around among my discarded clothes for my phone, and find Nick on my speed dial. I press the little envelope icon to send a text, but I’ve no idea what to say. I settle for Please, and press ‘Send’.

  * * * *

  I’m awoken by the sound of the outer door closing. Someone’s here, someone has just let themselves into the apartment. How? Why am I here, and in bed?

  A moment of confusion, then the whole ugly reality of this awful day comes crashing back. Queenie, the clinic, the horrendous sound of her last breaths as I huddled out in the yard with Pat. Then the drive back here of which I recall precisely nothing. I do remember being in the lift in this building and knowing that I needed to retrieve the key card from Nathan’s office. The young receptionist must have told Nathan that I came back, and that I wasn’t well, or so he thought. It stands to reason that Nathan would send Summer over to check up on me.

  I can hear footsteps now in the lounge area, crossing towards my room. It must be Summer or Eva, though the footsteps do sound a little heavier than either of those. I glance at the clock by my bed—only eleven thirty. I arrived back here at around half past ten, I think, and went straight into the shower. I suppose I’ve only been asleep then for about half an hour, though it feels longer. I realise I feel cold, and reach to pull the duvet up around me, only to find I’m lying on it with just a damp towel covering me. I must have simply dropped onto the bed as I was and fallen asleep. Not like me at all.

  The door opens, and I try to push myself up onto one elbow in some semblance of a greeting, only to slump back, face down onto the duvet again. I feel the bed shift and sink on one side, then a hand in my hair. A large hand, warm, slightly roughened. It feels like…

  I roll onto my back. Nick!

  But how…? My face asks the question, even as I break into the first smile in what seems like forever now. He’s here. I wanted him, longed for him to come, and he’s actually here. He smiles at me gently, then reaching for my shoulders hauls me up against his chest and just holds me there. I stretch my arms around him, sinking my fingers into the thickness of his butter-soft leather jacket and I just hang on. At last, something solid, reliable, an anchor.

  He rubs my back, and I realise I’m as near naked as doesn’t matter but there’s nothing of the sensual in this caress. This is just comfort, safety, a connection. Unable to help myself I start to cry again, just let the grief and loss out as I sob into his sweatshirt. As usual, in my more emotional moments, he makes no attempt to stem the tide, just murmurs encouragement and holds me tighter as he shifts on the bed to lean against the headboard with me snuggled in his lap. I feel the towel slither to the floor, and Nick shifts us both again to pull the duvet f
rom under us and wrap it around me. It’s comforting, I feel protected, cocooned.

  At last my tears are spent, and I glance up at him. He reaches for a handful of tissues from the box beside the bed and gently dabs at my eyes, wiping the wetness away. He leans down and kisses my forehead.

  I remain still, enjoying his care for a few moments, then I wriggle my hands free from the duvet.

  “Thank you for coming. I love you…”

  He kisses me again. “I love you too, girl, even if you do drive me crazy sometimes. Of course I came.”

  “You got my text then?” I’m frowning, I didn’t text him until after I’d showered. How did he possibly get all the way here in less than an hour?

  “No, love. I was on the bike so I couldn’t look at any texts. Was it important?”

  “I just said, please.”

  “Please what?”

  I shrug, not entirely sure myself what I’d been asking of him. Just to come back, I suppose, to forgive me, to accept me again. I don’t try to sign that, though. I settle for something simpler.

  “I was so unhappy, so sad. I wanted you…” I hesitate for a moment, then, “I love you. I’m truly sorry. Please, can you…? Can we…? Are you still angry?”

  He smiles again. “I love you too, you know that. And no, I’m not angry anymore. So yes, I can. We can. But not today. Today you need a friend, someone to care for you. We still have issues to resolve, but all that can wait until you’re in a frame of mind to deal with it. Okay?”

  I gaze at him, puzzled. He seems to know what’s happened, even though I haven’t told him. And if he didn’t even read my text…? I shove all that to one side for now, though, and settle for simply appreciating his generosity in suspending hostilities while I’m so low. But no, it’s not okay. Nothing can be even remotely okay until he’s back, properly back, as my Master again. I shuffle off his lap, kneeling now in the middle of the bed as he lounges against the bedhead. The duvet has slipped to my waist, and I notice he no longer seems oblivious to my nudity. His eyes darken, and the familiar bulge in his jeans tells me he’s aroused. Maybe he’s missed me, too. I hope.