The Horse Dancer

by Jojo Moyes

  Sarah hugged her bag. She wanted to hide in her room, but if she went upstairs she might look as if she was taking sides, and she wasn't sure how she felt about what had just happened.

  'You know . . .' Natasha raised a hand to her cheek. Colour had returned to her face, and she was quite pink now. 'You know . . . I think I might . . .'

  They heard a door open and laughter. Then Mac was scrambling down the stairs, his hands on the banisters. He was wearing jeans and his top half was bare. 'Tash.' He halted halfway down. 'I'm sorry. I thought you were . . . I thought Sarah was . . .'

  Natasha stared at him. She looked, Sarah thought, suddenly very tired. 'Classy, Mac,' she said, in a small voice. She stood there a little longer, nodded, as if confirming something to herself, then turning on her heel, walked out of the house, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  Fifteen

  'For what a horse does under constraint . . . he does without understanding. Under such treatment horse and man alike will do much more that is ugly than graceful.'

  Xenophon, On Horsemanship

  Sarah lay in her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. The goosedown duvet rested lightly on her curled form, creating a soft nest, a cocoon she pretended she need never leave. The Egyptian cotton sheets still held the delicious linen-spray smell that the cleaner used when ironing; it contained lavender and rosemary. The curtains, a heavy grey silk lined with voile, let in a soft light that buffered her from too abrupt an awakening. But as the room, with its antique chest of drawers and huge Venetian mirror, its little glass chandelier, lightened, she felt herself grow darker.

  She stared at the wall, concentrating on her breathing. If you didn't think about it, your breath just travelled in and out of your body regardless. Didn't matter what you did, running, riding, sleeping, it just went in and out, doing its job, keeping you alive. As soon as you thought too hard about it, it became a passive thing. Waiting for you to fill your lungs. Stalling when you thought bad thoughts, when you felt your stomach tighten with fear.

  There was no avoiding him now. He would be there on Friday; he always was. He would be there at the weekend. He would not be fobbed off with what she had scraped together so far. She closed her eyes, forcing the thoughts away, breathing in and breathing out again.

  Papa would probably be awake now; he had always been an early riser. Was he staring at the wall? Waiting until daylight revealed the images of the horse, the granddaughter he loved? Was he picturing himself on lost horses he had known, locked in silent concentration as they danced their way across some vast arena? Or was he drugged into a half-sleep, dribbling, being sponged brusquely by agency nurses who talked to him as if he was not only too old to understand but stupid? Sarah hugged her knees tighter, a shudder escaping her.

  The previous evening, Papa had held her hand in his trembling fingers. His skin had felt papery, his old scent now replaced by something sharp and disinfectant. He was no longer himself. Every time she saw him, no matter what they said about recovery, he was a little more distant, a little more despairing, as if the bits of him that made him Papa, the Captain, Nana's adored husband, were being expelled with each breath. Sometimes it seemed she knew exactly how he felt.

  Two miles away, Natasha woke to the sound of her neighbour's bath running and mused sleepily on the selfishness of people who thought it acceptable to turn their television up to full volume even at a quarter past six in the morning. Why did anyone need to listen to the television while they were in the bath? Was there nowhere they could simply sit in silence?

  A news break. Half past six. She could even make out the time through the paper-thin walls. She pushed herself upright, felt the first warning shots of a weighty headache and, for a moment, struggled to work out where she was, a nagging sensation of some half-remembered event already hinting at a greater problem. A cloud was creeping overhead towards her. And there it was: an unfamiliar bedcover. Her handbag, slung over the back of a chair. Patterned beige carpet. A near-empty bottle of red wine.

  The previous night flooded back to her and she lay on the hotel pillows, closing her eyes. The way that woman had looked at her, as if she was an irrelevance. The laughter in her eyes that hinted at secrets exposed, a past derided. How could he have done that? She wiped her eyes. Then, why would he not? What had this been for, after all, if not their final separation? What could she expect of him? So many images: Mac, when they had been together, surrounded by women who seemed to regard her as something less than an obstacle. The look of him: a man who turned women's heads, always one step higher than her on the ladder of human attraction, and the women knew it. They had let her know it too. At first she hadn't thought it mattered, when he had shone the full beam of that charm only on her, when she had felt adored, needed, wanted. She had told him jokingly, at parties, to 'go off and flirt', watching as his eye met hers later, telling her they were nothing compared to her.

  And then, with each miscarriage, her confidence in her own femininity had shrunk. She would find herself silently assessing other women's fertility, comparing herself unfavourably. To her eyes, they looked fecund, ripe. Young. She had begun to feel old, dried up inside. And there he stood, charming them, perhaps already planning some new relationship with a younger, more beautiful partner. One who would give him children. How could he be expected to hang around now? He got angry when she said as much. In the end it had been easier to say nothing. Conor had been the first man to make her feel that Mac had been the lucky one.

  Mac was not hers. It was entirely possible he never had been. It had simply been disguised again by their having lived together, the artificial closeness forced upon them by circumstance.

  Natasha got heavily out of bed, walked into the bathroom and turned on the taps. Then she went into the bedroom and turned on the television. Very loudly.

  Sarah's mastery of the near-silent footfall would have put an Indian tracker to shame. These last weeks it had not been uncommon for her to appear unheralded behind him on the stairs or beside him in the kitchen. It was as if she had decided to be as unobtrusive a presence as possible, to take up no space, disturb the house with no sound. Normally the faint creaking of a teenage girl making her way downstairs would not have roused him. But Mac had been awake for hours.

  The previous evening Maria had left shortly before eleven, a good half an hour after Natasha had driven off. There had been little point in following her: he had had no idea where she was going or what he would say to her if he found her.

  Maria had snorted scornfully when he came back upstairs, sat heavily on the bed and declined the glass she held towards him. 'She is pissed off about the wine? I will buy her a new bottle. Is only supermarket wine anyway.' She took a sip. 'In Poland is very rude to be so inhospitable.'

  He knew that Maria knew it wasn't about the wine and, just for a moment, he felt intense dislike for her. It had been deliberate cruelty, and she had enjoyed it.

  'I think you'd better go,' he had said.

  'Why you care anyway?' she exclaimed, pulling on her jeans, wiggling ostentatiously. 'You not even see her for a year. You getting divorced in weeks. You told me this.'

  He couldn't answer her. Because he didn't want to hurt Natasha's feelings? Because when he had first moved back in he had thought, in some stupid, optimistic way, that they might somehow end up as friends? That once they had made their way past the mess and trauma of divorce, that funny, sarcastic, brilliant woman might still be in his life? Or because the sight of her face, pale with shock and hurt, the reproach behind the glittering fury in her eyes, would haunt him through the small hours?

  He rose, splashed his face with cold water, pulled on his jeans and padded downstairs. Sarah was in the kitchen, her school uniform neatly pressed, making a sandwich. 'Sorry,' he said blearily. 'I should have made your lunch.' He rubbed at the bristles on his chin, wondering if he had time to shave.

  'Natasha usually does it,' she said.

  'I know. I guess
I wasn't thinking straight last night. You off to the stables?' He glanced at the clock. 'You'll be cutting it fine.'

  'I'll be okay.'

  'I'd give you a lift but I've got--'

  'I don't need a lift,' she interrupted.

  'You want an apple for Boo?' He reached into the fruit bowl and threw one at her, expecting her hand to shoot out and catch it. It had become something of a routine for them. But she stepped aside, letting it thump on to the limestone floor.

  He picked it up and studied the stiff, slim back, the self-consciously erect posture. 'Are you angry with me?'

  'Not my business,' she said, packing the sandwiches neatly into her schoolbag.

  Mac picked up the kettle and filled it. 'I'm sorry about last night.'

  'I don't think it's me you should say sorry to.' She was pulling on her coat.

  'I didn't know she was coming back,' he said.

  'But it's still her house.'

  'Our house.'

  'Whatever.' She shrugged. 'Like I said. It's not my business.'

  He made himself a coffee, astonished at how bad a fourteen-year-old girl could make a grown man feel. He had known Natasha would be angry. He hadn't expected this.

  'Can I have some money?' She was standing behind him, ready to leave.

  'Sure,' he said, glad to do something, anything, that might lift the atmosphere of opprobrium. 'How much do you need?' He began to rifle through his pockets.

  'Fifty?' she ventured.

  He sorted through the money in his hand. 'Here,' he said, holding out a silver coin.

  'Fifty pence?'

  'You wanted fifty pounds? Very funny. Look, I've got a job this morning. I'll get some money out of the machine this afternoon. You can have a tenner. Treat yourself. Go for a burger with your mates later.'

  She didn't seem as pleased as he had hoped she might. But it would be better if he didn't have to worry about what he was going to do for supper this evening and if Sarah was safely out of the way.

  He needed to speak to Natasha. But he didn't know what the hell he would say when he did.

  Each legal brief received by a barrister - other than those concerning government business - was tied with a pink ribbon. This anachronism was not just a matter of tidiness, or some arcane method of filing. The ribbon had a purpose; it symbolised the barrister's ability to detach him or herself emotionally from the case. The barrister was instructed specifically for their independence, their objectivity. When the ribbon was retied, the brief was returned. The barrister left behind the facts of the case.

  That said, some cases, Natasha thought, as she sat opposite Michael Harrington, were easier to be objective about than others. They had met at his office to discuss the Persey divorce case, which was about to begin. 'You look tired, Natasha,' he said, and called for his pupil. 'I hope the details of this brief aren't keeping you awake.'

  'Not at all.'

  'I think we should have a con with Mrs Persey tomorrow morning. I see we're also awaiting statements from the forensic accountants. Can you bring them to that meeting? I'd also like to finalise which witnesses each of us will take.'

  He was staring at her, and she wasn't sure how long she had been peering down at the papers.

  'Natasha? Are you okay?'

  'Fine.'

  'Can you be there?'

  She glanced at her diary; one day was already hideously tight. 'I'll make time.'

  'Good. Right. That's probably it for today.' He stood, and she gathered her things together. 'No, no. I didn't mean you to go immediately. Do you have a few minutes? Time for a quick drink?'

  She thought back to the previous evening. 'Tea will do me,' she said, and sat down again. 'Thank you.'

  'Good.'

  His pupil had stuck her head around the door.

  'Beth, can you make us two cups of tea, please? Sugar? No sugar in either. Thank you.'

  Abruptly, he changed the conversation. He talked about his adult children, his rediscovered passion for yachting. They discussed a lawyer they both knew who had recently been involved in a legal-aid scandal. 'Actually,' he went on, 'I've been meaning to talk to you for a while. We've been attempting to restructure things here, change the balance of our chambers. And we're likely to have a vacancy.'

  She waited.

  'I've been watching your career with interest. I liked your work in Richmond versus Turner, and the case you did with the abduction triplets. A lot of the instructing solicitors I speak to mention your name and they have only good things to say.'

  'Thank you.'

  'If a vacancy were to arise here, might you be interested?'

  Natasha was taken aback. When she had been in training, Harrington Levinson had been held up as the epitome of a modern, progressive chambers with a fearsome reputation. Now Michael Harrington, the founder, was actively seeking her out. 'I'm very flattered,' she said. His pupil came in with the tea. They waited until she had closed the door behind her. 'I should tell you that there is a possibility I'll be made a partner at my current firm.'

  'I'm not sure that's the best move for you. You know that many solicitor advocates are now choosing to move into full-time advocacy?' he said. 'The stepping-stones are in place. And we would be happy to have you as a probationary tenant. You could be at the bar in less than two years.'

  She tried to digest what he was saying, its implications. She would leave the day-to-day chaos of her solicitor's job behind, and adopt the more distant stance of a barrister. There would be none of the daily involvement with her clients' lives that took place now. Since Ali Ahmadi, she had no longer known if that mattered. 'Michael, this is a big move, obviously,' she said, thinking of Conor. 'I'll need to consider it carefully.'

  He scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to her. 'My numbers. Don't try to reach me through the clerks - they guard me like mastiffs - but do speak to me. Any questions you want to ask about our set-up - money, pupillages, offices, anything.'

  'Would you want references?'

  'I know everything about you that I need to know.' He smiled. 'Where are you off to next? Another con?'

  She stared at the pink ribbon, forcing herself to remember what it was supposed to symbolise. 'Something like that,' she said finally, and put her cup and saucer on the desk. 'I'll ring you, Michael. Thank you. I'll consider your offer very carefully.'

  There had been little to mark it out from the other modern, flat-fronted houses, in an ugly maroon brick, the doorbells at the entrance the only clue that these little dwellings were subdivided into even smaller flats. But on the pavement, still blowing forlornly in the wind, the crumpled dirty length of incident tape under the privet hedge told its own story. Its contrasting colours offered a clue to the gravity of what had gone on behind that door.

  She stood on the pavement, looking up at the blank, net-curtained windows. Where would Sales Assistant, 26, be now? Was she there, peering out from behind the curtains, or still in hospital? Was she too afraid to return home? Had she wondered about the trail of events that might have led the young man to her?

  What had made Ali Ahmadi pick this particular address? How had his epic journey from the other side of the world ended with six short steps up to this particular front door? How had one small omission on her part, on someone else's part, led to such a cataclysmic event?

  An old lady passed her, pushing a tartan shopping trolley. Natasha, stepping aside, attempted to raise a small smile, but the woman merely glanced at her with rheumy eyes and continued on her solitary, determined route.

  Natasha felt a lump in her throat. Perhaps she was not there for clues. Perhaps it was to offer a mute apology. I should have checked him out, she told the woman silently. If I'd checked the name of the town, the distance he claimed to have walked, I might have saved you. In doing nothing to save him, I could have saved you.

  She was interrupted by her phone.

  'You haven't forgotten your four-fifteen? I thought you'd be back by now.' It was Ben.

  'Post
pone it,' she said. She stood by the car, gazing two girls who pushed buggies past on the other side of the road. Both were talking into mobile phones, apparently oblivious to the babies and each other.

  'What?'

  'Cancel it. I'm not coming in for the rest of the day.'

  There was a lengthy silence.

  'What do I tell Linda? Are you okay?'

  'Yes. No, actually, I don't feel great. I'm going home. Say I'm very sorry. Reschedule for later in the week. It's Stephen Hart. He'll understand.'

  It was after she'd disconnected that she remembered going home was no longer an option.

  Jessica Arnold had had twenty-three boyfriends, fourteen from her year, four from the year above, and the rest out of school, from the Sandown and surrounding estates. Her current boyfriends were older men, who waited outside the school gates in low, souped-up cars that roared off down the road, pulsing with loud music, the instant she climbed in. She had slept with most of them - this was not an idle boast, as was much of what was said of who had 'experience' in their year - but detailed in scrawled messages in the toilets, and the empty pill packets, which had been known to drop from her satchel, and in the faces of the men in the cars. They were not the kind of men to be satisfied with a long-drawn-out kiss on a park bench. Jessica wore the purple marks on her neck like a badge of pride. She had to behave like that, as if it was of her choosing, as if it was what she had wanted, or she would simply be a slag.

  If Jessica was at one end of the spectrum of year ten's sexual activity, Sarah was lurking at the other, with Debbie Dermott, who wore thick glasses and braces, and Saleema, who had to wear a burkha whenever she was outside school and never spoke to boys, let alone kissed them. It wasn't that Sarah was ugly, just not very interested in them.

  The boys she knew would not want to hear about Boo and his steady progression from the moves of basse ecole to the more complicated demands of haute ecole. They would not want to come to the yard with her and share a bus ride home. They would make stupid remarks about the yard smelling, shout and worry the horses, and smoke near the straw. They wouldn't understand her life.

  She had never told Papa but sometimes, in the few aching moments late at night when she did feel overwhelmed and her body was filled with a sense of loss for something she didn't understand, she pictured herself at Le Cadre Noir. She would be the finest rider they had ever seen. There would be a handsome young captain in his black uniform with the gold epaulettes. He would be a brilliant horseman, and would understand everything she wanted. He wouldn't drive multi-stickered uninsured cars around the estate, boast of the number of ASBOs or TWOCs he had notched up, and offer slobbery kisses that tasted of kebab and chilli sauce. It was a chaste, horse-driven romance, with huge gaps in knowledge at its heart, gaps that Jessica's satchel and the graffiti only hinted at.