by Karen Swan
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you! He’s still staying with you, isn’t he? He’s still your guest?’
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘So then he’s indebted to you. He owes you for the way you’ve gone out of your way to help him. It’s more than reasonable for you to call in a favour from him in return.’
‘Bertie, he’s not going to call off a lawsuit for three million euros just because I’ve given him a bed and made him some meals . . . He won’t listen to me.’
‘Otts, baby,’ he said, his voice changing, becoming softer. Cajoling. ‘Surely you and he have become friendly now? He’s living in your house. You’re the closest thing he has to a friend over here. An ally. I know he’d listen to you if you just had a chat with him, made him see that this isn’t reasonable. This isn’t what the Ultra community is about. It goes against our values. We’re about solidarity in the face of adversity. Team spirit. We don’t sue one another. Risks are inherent in an event like this.’
Ottie bit her lip, remembering the sight of Ben out here every single day, limping across the sand, willing himself back to strength again with the same grim determination that enabled him to run ultramarathons in the first place. She couldn’t see him being talked out of anything. ‘He’s his own man. I couldn’t talk him out of a paper bag.’
‘Not true. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.’
‘Oh for Chrissakes, don’t be ridiculous! He—’
‘A man knows whenever another man is sniffing around his woman, Ottie.’
Her eyes closed at his words. She was his woman. ‘Talking of which . . . Have you spoken to Shula?’
There was a pause, followed by a sigh. ‘No, not yet.’
‘Bertie—’
‘How can I deal with telling Shula our marriage is over when Gilmore’s going after my business, Otts, my name? I can only put out one fire at a time.’
She was quiet for a moment. ‘Okay, look, I’ll speak to Ben and try to bring him round. And you can focus on breaking the news to Shula.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’
She could hear the smile beaming down the line. ‘Jeesht, you’re a cracking girl, Ottie Lorne.’
‘I know. When will I see you next?’
‘I’m not sure. But soon, though – as soon as I can get away. Just keep your phone with you and I’ll call when I can slip away.’
She inhaled shallowly, feeling the usual sensation of her heart being trussed with ropes. ‘Okay.’
‘I’ve got to go, but I love you, Ottie. Don’t forget that. We’ll be together soon.’
‘Soon,’ she echoed, putting the phone down and wondering why she never felt more alone than when she was with the man she loved.
She was just walking back round to the cottage when Ben limped up the garden path, forty-five minutes later. She had tried to lose herself in the process again, but she had been rattled by Bertie’s news and she had lost her flow. She had only just closed up the boat store, rinsed out her brushes and pulled off her tunic, setting the easel a good way back from the door to protect it from any rain ingress, when she had heard Seamus’s car and his hearty cheerios to his passenger.
‘Hey!’ she said brightly, noticing too late the paint still on her hands as he hobbled towards her. His cheeks were slapped pink – either by the wind or his own exertions – his eyes shining with an almost feverish brightness. ‘God, that felt good,’ he gasped as she opened the door for him and he came into the warm protection of the house, the moan of the wind shut out behind the closed door.
‘You must be exhausted,’ she said, watching how he winced a little as he walked to the kettle.
‘No, it’s all good.’
Ottie wasn’t so sure. She was getting to know him – to read him – and she knew he was used to pushing past his pain barrier for his ultramarathons. Was that the best thing now, though? ‘Here, let me do that. Have a rest,’ she said, trying to take the kettle from him, her hand over his on the handle.
He looked back at her. ‘Really, I’m fine. I can do it. You want a coffee too?’
She fell back, knowing better than to insist. He was always so determined to be independent, never to show vulnerability of any kind. ‘Sure.’ His limp was noticeably worse than when he’d left earlier. ‘I really think you should have some painkillers after that session, though. It’s bound to inflame the joint.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, putting his weight on his good leg as he leaned against the counter while the kettle boiled, his head tipped back with relief and exhaustion. ‘I’ll take the coffee into the bedroom and lie down for a bit. Elevating it should be enough to ease the pressure.’
‘Want some ice?’
‘Hmm, maybe. I’ll see.’
‘Ben.’
He glanced across at the tone in her voice.
‘I’m worried about you. You’re pushing yourself so hard.’
‘And that’s a bad thing because . . .?’
‘You’re risking overdoing it and injuring yourself again.’
‘Worried you’ll be stuck with me?’
She groaned. ‘You’re the one who can’t get away fast enough.’
He shot her a funny look. ‘I promise I know what I’m doing.’
She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling awkward somehow. ‘I don’t think you have the normal pain receptors of most people.’
He looked at her strangely. ‘Sure I do.’ He turned away as the kettle boiled and he reached for the cups, pouring their hot drinks. ‘I just choose to ignore them.’
She gave a short laugh. ‘You choose to ignore pain? I wasn’t aware it was a choice.’
‘Everything’s a choice, Ottie,’ he said simply, holding out her coffee. Even he had conceded it was still too difficult for him to walk on crutches and carry hot liquids at the same time.
She took it from him.
‘– The trouble is, people assume pain should be avoided.’
‘Because it should! That is precisely the point of it! It keeps us safe!’
‘Yes. Pain tells us when something is wrong and must be avoided. But it’s also the thing that tells us we’re alive. It’s a signal of our vitality. I’m far more afraid of the idea of not feeling things: apathy and numbness terrify me. They’re more dangerous.’
‘But do you never worry it’ll be too much? More than you can handle?’ she asked.
‘No. I believe we’re all infinitely more resilient than we know. It’s only in the hard times that we get a chance to see what we’re capable of.’
Ottie stared at him. If this ‘dig in’ attitude was his mindset, there was no chance he was going to climb down from this lawsuit against Bertie. She didn’t have a hope of persuading him otherwise.
‘Most people sleepwalk through their lives, Ottie. They stay in their comfort zones because it’s easy, familiar, safe. But life is none of those things. It can turn on a switchblade. You can think you’re happy, go off to work one day and in an instant—’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Everything can change. Nothing and no one is as you thought. We need pain. It tells us to move on, move away, it keeps us safe.’
She stared at him, suddenly hearing the hardness in his voice, seeing the tension in his mouth, the way his lips were pulled tight, his words becoming clipped . . . What had happened to him? Something had set him on this path to extreme experience: the need to face up to pain, to push through it. The ‘wake-up call’, he had said.
She realized he was staring at her but not seeing her. He was lost to another moment, another time.
‘Ben?’ His gaze switched back to her. ‘Are you okay?’
He forced a smile and she knew even what he said next would be a lie. He never fake-smiled. ‘Sure.’
She faltered, wondering where his mind had gone to, for in that moment of relapse, his body language – his energy – had changed, becoming slack. Weak even. She put her hand on his arm, feeling the sinew and muscle, the heat from his exhausted body. ‘Ben, is there som
ething you want to talk about?’
He looked down at her hand, as though startled by the touch, and then back up at her again. ‘No.’
‘I feel like . . . something happened to you.’
‘It did. It’s called life.’
Her hand dropped away and she turned to go. If he was going to be sarcastic—
‘Ottie, wait, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean –’ He sighed. ‘I’m tired. I know you’re just being nice.’
Nice. Was that how he thought of her? For some reason, it felt like a jab in the ribs, a stamp on the foot. They stood in awkward silence again, somehow at odds with each other today, both clumsy, neither saying the right thing.
‘Have you been painting?’ he asked as she went to move past him.
‘No,’ she fibbed. It was her reflexive answer to that question these days. It was her secret, no one else’s business how she chose to waste her time; she knew nothing could ever come of it; that she had a mediocre talent at best. But he picked up her right hand and turned it over. A streak of indigo paint had smudged along the outer edge of her hand.
Oh. She looked up at him. ‘That’s . . .’ But she didn’t know what to say, how to lie straight to his face. Standing so close, he suddenly felt different. All this time they’d spent together, she had been so focused on making amends that she’d somehow seen only the injury, not the man.
She felt the tenor of the room change. Did he know he was still holding her hand? She saw his gaze roam her face, as though he was seeing her differently too, and as he reached forward, her breath caught –
The tiny movement betrayed her and he paused, their eyes locking in a moment of searing, exposing honesty. He was going to kiss her. The moment pulsed . . . and faded away.
‘You’ve got a little . . . I don’t know what that is.’ He dabbed her skin lightly and turned his finger to show her the dot of raw umber.
‘Oh.’ Her heart was beating at double time but not her mind. She couldn’t think. ‘That’s . . . putty.’
‘Putty?’
‘Yes. There was a leak, one of the pipes in the shower block. I just . . . sealed it.’
‘Huh.’ He nodded but he had that look again in his eyes, the one she could never read but that she feared saw through her little white lies – and the big ones too. ‘You’re good at putting things back together again, aren’t you? Leaky pipes. Broken runners. You’ll be signing up for Humpty Dumpty next.’
She tried to smile. It was a decent quip – enough to break the ice again and rescue them both – but she was feeling unnerved by what had just passed between them. She pulled her hand from his and stepped away. ‘Do you still want to go into town later and get some new clothes?’ she asked, her eyes looking everywhere but him.
He paused, watching her, always seeing her. ‘Sure.’
‘I mean, do say if you’d rather not. We can always go tomorrow if you’re tired after the physio –’
‘I’ll be fine after a short rest.’
She nodded. ‘Shall we say two hours then?’
He watched her as she reached for her coat and headed for the door, forgetting all about her coffee. ‘Sure. Two hours. Me and my leg will be looking forward to it.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thursday, 19 December
Pip stood at the door and tucked her chin into her chest like a roosting pigeon – but it wasn’t warmth she was looking for. She needed courage and lots of it. Her hands balled into fists as she ran through the speech she had prepared on the way over and all last night as she had lain sleepless in bed, staring up at the ceiling. She had to do this. She couldn’t not. She had tried taking her defeat on the chin, tried to be honourable about losing her beloved mare but the loss was like an ache in her side, keeping her awake at night and preoccupying her every waking thought. She had to get Shalimar back.
With a burst of bravado, she rapped quickly on the door and marched in before the occupant could even respond. She knew he was in here; one of the grooms had told her as she’d parked up, her eyes roaming enviously over the smart stables, the yellow horseboxes embossed with the black Cuneen logo.
‘Hey,’ she said breezily, disturbing Sean who was clearly watching something he shouldn’t be watching on the desktop.
‘Jeesht!’ he cried, scrabbling to get his feet off the desk, hurriedly closing down the screen. ‘Can’t you knock?’
‘I did,’ she said with her sweetest smile. ‘You must have been absorbed in your work.’
Sean had the grace, at least, to look sheepish and she watched with relish as he raked his hands through his hair and tried to look presentable. He was wearing jeans and a Cuneen funnel-neck fleece, his portly physique trying to escape in the middle like a squeezed tube of toothpaste. ‘Pip,’ he stammered. ‘I’ve been thinking about you –’
Pip glanced at the black screen with a grimace. She sincerely hoped not.
‘– I was wondering how you’ve been. I was going to call, check you were all back on track.’
Back on track – another euphemism for ‘not dead’. She was tempted to start keeping a record of them. She shrugged. ‘Of course, why wouldn’t I be? You saw me the other day at the yard, after all. I’m right as rain.’
‘Some people might . . . struggle after going through what you went through.’
Oh, she’d struggled all right, she thought to herself, but not on account of nearly drowning. It was the losses that were difficult to accept: her father, Lorne, Shalimar. ‘I’m fine.’
He gave a nervous chuckle. ‘You’re a hard nut, Pip Lorne.’
‘Well, you certainly haven’t cracked me, Sean,’ she said with a lopsided grin. ‘Which is why I thought I’d drop in on my way past. I’m just on my way back from Cork.’ That was a lie. She’d not left the estate all week, the dratted cold and cough she’d been trying to shake off laying her low.
‘Oh yeah?’ Sean’s small dark eyes narrowed in his pale fleshy face, lending him a porcine look.
‘Yeah. I’ve come to lay down a challenge.’ Her wording was deliberate. Making an ‘offer’ would give him too much wriggle room to say no to her, but presenting him with a challenge spoke to his pride.
‘What sort of challenge?’ he asked, sounding as nervous as he was suspicious.
‘I want the opportunity to win back Shalimar.’
He sat back in the swivel seat and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Oh no. No way,’ he chuckled. ‘I’m no fool. I know what I’ve got in her. You may have taken the punt for something better but she’s steady and well bred, and exactly what I need here. I’m not risking losing her back to you.’
She sighed. ‘Yeah. I told them you’d say that.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘Just all the folks who think you came by her dishonourably.’
‘I won her fair and square!’
Pip pursed her lips together in consideration. ‘Hmm, I’d agree you won her in the legal definition, but I wouldn’t say it was fair and square. That race was weighted against me from the start. Sheer BMI difference meant I never had a chance in those temperatures. Even if I could take on your extra height advantage and stride length, your extra muscular power . . .’ She saw how his ego swelled at the veiled compliments. ‘It didn’t matter how fit or determined I was, surviving those water temperatures was a simple matter of physics and I didn’t have the mass to make it. Of course, I’d have known that if I hadn’t been so off my head. That was my bad. But a lot of people are saying you took advantage of my inebriated state.’
‘I was wasted too,’ he argued, swinging side to side in the chair, like a little boy allowed to sit in his dad’s office. ‘Plus the bet was your idea.’
‘Yes, but put it all together: the inebriation, BMI difference, and the fact that I very nearly drowned . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve had a lot of comments from folk saying it wasn’t honourable of you to press for your prize under those circumstances.’
‘Who? Who’s been saying that?’
&nbs
p; ‘Just lots of folk, round and about.’
He swung the chair again, looking at her intently, trying to think. ‘Yeah, well, they can say what they like. A deal’s a deal.’
‘I know. That’s exactly what I told them,’ she shrugged, perching on the side of the desk. It was covered with papers – medical charts, event timetables, auction lists, old copies of the Racing Post – and a 2017 Emily Ratajkowski calendar was stuck on the wall.
‘You did?’
‘Sure. Christ, I don’t care whether your behaviour was honourable or not. Who am I to take the moral high ground? I just told them that pride be damned, you’d take the win because you knew you couldn’t beat me in a fair fight.’
‘You’re kidding?’ Sean laughed, slapping his hand against the desk. ‘You think I couldn’t beat you?’
‘You think you could?’ she asked back in equal disbelief.
They stared at one another for a long moment, a small grin beginning to play on her lips. He was a sucker, reeled in by his own ego.
‘What would this challenge be?’ he asked finally.
‘Just a straightforward, old-fashioned race. You on whichever horse you choose, me on mine, a straight drag along Lorne beach.’
‘. . . When?’
She shrugged. ‘Tomorrow afternoon? Unless you need more time to prepare?’
‘Tomorrow’s fine,’ he said briskly. He stared at her suspiciously, clearly looking for a catch. ‘So if you win, you get back Shalimar?’
She nodded, her heart fluttering at the prospect of having her beautiful mare back.
‘And what about me? What do I get? No disrespect, Pip, but trek nags aren’t any good to me and you don’t have anything else I’d want.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s true,’ Pip smiled, crossing her legs and leaning towards him. ‘I’ve got something money can’t buy.’
He frowned but leaned in closer too, unable to stop himself. ‘Oh yeah? Like what?’
‘Sorry it’s such a squeeze,’ Willow said, shuffling her armchair a little further back so that at least their knees weren’t touching.
‘Not at all, I think it’s cosy,’ Ferdy smiled, his eyes doing a polite, interested sweep of the small parlour. ‘You’ve made it look like a home already.’