The Day We Disappeared

by Lucy Robinson

  ‘Mostly hissing. Although their kid did a lot of shouting. She’s fierce!’

  Becca grinned. ‘I love that little devil,’ she said, suddenly tender. ‘She knows herself better than either of her horrible parents know themselves.’

  I nodded thoughtfully. Ana Luisa’s language might have been unusually fruity for a six-year-old but she was the only one in that room who’d actually expressed her feelings. Her mother was curdled with passive aggression and her father was a column of frost, while Sandra and I had merely cowered, like Labradors.

  ‘Maria told her off and she tried to run away.’

  A little chuckle. ‘Aye. As usual.’

  ‘Oh! Really?’

  Something unreadable crossed Becca’s face. ‘Mmm. But we always find her.’

  ‘Where does she go?’

  ‘To my room, mostly.’

  ‘How funny! Actually, Maria said you’d find her. How come?’

  Becca was not enjoying all my questions. ‘Dunno.’

  I left it. I had enough skeletons in my own closet and, besides, we had reached the first stable door, over which hung a handsome chestnut face that looked very happy about the haylage I was carrying. ‘Kangaroo’, his name plate said.

  I smiled, nervous but delighted to find myself face to face with a horse at last. There had been horses around me all day – being groomed, being ridden, being fed, and a bunch of mad ones galloping and bucking on the iron-hard frozen ground of the paddocks earlier, much to Tiggy’s dismay – but I hadn’t met a single one of them yet.

  As I looked at this magnificent beast, however, I wavered. Not only was he absolutely enormous but it was now clear that I hadn’t the faintest idea how to approach him. What to say to him. How even to give him some hay. ‘Um, hi, Kangaroo!’ I said uncertainly, sticking my spare hand out in the direction of his face. Kangaroo swung his head away, back into his stable.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, laughing to cover my disappointment. ‘Kangaroo doesn’t like me.’

  Becca smiled. ‘Come here, lad,’ she murmured, and held out her own hand. Kangaroo eventually came over, snuffling at her with his lovely soft nose. I wanted to kiss it.

  ‘They can always tell when you’re nervous,’ Becca said. ‘They pick up on everything. Just relax, pet, he’s a lovely boy.’

  I hadn’t done much relaxing of late, but I tried to loosen up my body a bit and concentrate only on the beautiful horse in front of me. He was a delight. Smooth, muscled, perfectly groomed, snug in a smart red stable rug with Mark’s initials in the bottom corner.

  ‘Hi,’ I said to him. ‘Hi, Kangaroo.’

  Kangaroo eventually took a few wisps of haylage from my hand, although he didn’t seem entirely convinced by me. We moved on to the next stable, marked ‘Stumpy’. He was out being lunged by Mark so I loaded his hay rack under Becca’s supervision.

  What lovely names, I thought, shutting his stable door behind me. Kangaroo and Stumpy. There was a Harold somewhere, and an Alfie. And a whole load of others whose names I couldn’t remember, but all of them were good. None of this ‘Spotty’ or ‘Neptune’ nonsense. I wondered who’d given them such sweet names. It certainly wouldn’t have been Mark.

  ‘So are they always fighting, then?’ I asked, as we moved on. ‘Mark and Maria.’

  Becca nodded. ‘Sometimes I wonder if we’re in Camp sodding Bastion, not Somerset. The problem is, she owns his best horses so he can’t ever tell her to go and do one.’

  I stopped wheeling the barrow. ‘She owns his horses? Seriously? Why doesn’t he own them?’

  Becca peeled some haylage off the pile and put it into a stable marked ‘Steve’. Steve snatched a mouthful, then let half of it fall on Becca’s head. She laughed, rubbing his nose. ‘Thanks, Steve,’ she said. ‘A horse that can compete at four-star level – which is the very top – costs about two hundred grand,’ she explained. ‘So even the richest riders don’t own all of their own horses. Zara Phillips included, pet. The real money in this game is with the owners.’

  Two hundred grand!

  ‘Mark’s horses are owned by all sorts of people but his five best ones – including Stumpy, who’s his World Class horse – are owned by Maria. Or, precisely, Maria’s dad. But she’s in charge. Daddy just signs the cheques and swanks around in the owners’ tents at the events.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I said, handing Becca some more haylage. ‘So it’s a marriage of convenience?’

  Becca glowered. ‘They fell in love for a bit,’ she said darkly, ‘then realized they were both arseholes. But Maria doesn’t want to lose out on Mark’s fame and Mark can’t lose out on Maria’s fortune. It’s a dark situation, pet, and I’ll tell you that for nothing. Sharing the lorry with those two is a fate worse than death.’ She straightened up a row of shovels and forks.

  ‘They were arguing about that at lunchtime,’ I said, as we moved on. ‘The horsebox.’

  ‘No surprise there. It cost him three hundred and seventy grand.’

  ‘It cost WHAT?’ I stared over at the huge silver truck with awe. ‘MARK WAVERLEY, TEAM GBR’, it said on the side. I could have bought a mansion with that money!

  ‘The living quarters are like a palace,’ Becca added. ‘Room for eight of us to sleep. Flatscreen TV, wardrobes and underfloor heating. Even a bog and a shower!’

  ‘Whoa,’ I breathed. ‘He should live in it. His house is so sad and run-down.’

  ‘They had money, once, the Waverleys – well, you can see the size of this place – but Mark’s dad died with his finances in a mess and they’ve had to sell nearly everything just to stay afloat. It’s all a bit Downton Abbey, pet.’

  I looked back at the vast, hulking horsebox. ‘So you’ll all sleep in it when you go to competitions?’

  ‘Aye.’ She indicated for me to throw her some more haylage.

  ‘Mark and Maria too?’

  Becca stopped by the wheelbarrow. ‘Why are you so interested in them?’ she asked.

  ‘Er … just morbid curiosity.’ I pulled my hat down over my ears as a biting wind punched through the yard. ‘My own folks are still so happy together I find it odd when I see couples who hate each other. I mean, why do they bother?’

  ‘GALWAY!’ It was Joe, approaching us on a vast, sweaty horse, which was jiggling sideways and snatching at its bit. Joe sat easily on top, grinning down at me. ‘Will we be having a cuddle later?’

  ‘We will not,’ I confirmed.

  ‘Ah, Galway! Come on!’

  I loaded haylage into the next loose box. ‘I’m not after the sex with you,’ I told Joe, who had swung himself off the horse and was loosening its girth.

  ‘Can you sponge him down?’ he asked Becca. ‘I’ve got to get that silly tit Harold out before it’s properly dark.’

  ‘Can you do it quickly yourself, pet?’ Becca asked. ‘I’m still showing Kate the ropes.’

  Joe looked sulky. ‘I want to show Kate the ropes. I want to show her my rope. I want to make sweet love to her and hold her all night. Get her some Shreddies and a nice cup of tay in the morning.’

  Becca picked up a broom and waved it threateningly. ‘If you and your nasty peen go anywhere near this girl, I will deck you. Now, fuck off.’

  ‘She fancies you, Galway.’ Joe winked, leading the horse off.

  ‘So what colour is that horse Joe’s got there?’ I asked, as he walked away. ‘Would you call it tabby?’

  Becca, who’d gone bright red, roared with laughter. ‘It’s a roan, pet,’ she said. ‘Although I prefer tabby!’

  We were loading another wheelbarrow with haylage just as Mark walked into the yard leading the most beautiful horse I’d ever seen. He was the one from the photo in the dining room: brilliant white, except for the dark grey mess creeping up his legs from being in the outdoor school, with lovely fat rounded ears like little satellite dishes. A very soft-looking white mane and forelock framed his sweet, open face. He stared keenly at our wheelbarrow of hay. ‘Ho-ho-ho,’ he whickered, and I fell in love on the spo
t. ‘Stumpy needs more lunging,’ Mark said in Becca’s general direction. ‘He keeps dropping his inside leg. Here,’ he said to me. ‘Can you sponge him down and give him his waffle?’

  His what?

  He held the long lead-rope to me and turned back to Becca, who was trying to engage with him while keeping an eye on me. ‘I’ll get Tigs to work more lunging into the schedule,’ she was saying.

  ‘Well, Tiggy says she passed the job on to you,’ he snapped, moving away, with Becca trotting anxiously at his side. ‘I want to sort this out now. Is she in the tack room?’

  I fingered the lead-rope and looked up at the big, powerful animal, an extraordinary feat of natural engineering. He gazed at me, one of his comically fat ears sliding backwards. He didn’t seem anywhere near as happy as he had ten seconds ago with Mark. ‘Come on,’ I whispered nervously, moving off towards the washing-down area that Joe was already vacating.

  Stumpy, behind me, didn’t move. I pulled a little bit harder, terrified Mark would turn and see us. ‘Please, Stumpy,’ I whispered. ‘Come with me.’

  Both of Stumpy’s ears swung back and he refused to move. I didn’t need to know much about horses to understand that this was a fairly bad situation.

  Becca, seeing all of this going on, pretty much shoved Mark into the tack room.

  I tugged on the rope a final time and Stumpy, if anything, leaned back. Desperate, I walked back to his shoulder. ‘Please tell me what I’m doing wrong.’ I gave him a stroke on the neck in case that helped. There was a curious whorl of hair just under his mane, like a little hurricane. I fingered it. Suddenly, Stumpy turned to me. A big kindly eye, fringed by long lashes, took me in while he had a good sniff of me. ‘What’s wrong, you weirdo?’ he seemed to ask.

  I remembered what Becca had said about horses tuning into our mental states. ‘Come on!’ I said brightly. ‘Come on, old chap!’

  I tugged at the rope but he didn’t move, just continued to stare at me, sniffing delicately.

  Putting on a confident voice wasn’t going to be enough. I wasn’t calm and this horse knew it.

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, still stroking Stumpy’s warm, smooth neck. I could feel the muscle beneath my hands, and the sweet, comforting smell of horse. Relax, I told myself.

  Nothing happened.

  Relax, I repeated.

  Something warm and heavy suddenly landed on my shoulder and my eyes opened. Stumpy had just calmly rested his soft, velvety muzzle there, as if that were the most natural thing in the world to do right now. I felt the warm plumes of his breath through my jacket and – just like that, without any further effort – my body slackened. It was the first time in months.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said quietly. I stroked the dark grey tip of his nose, which he wiggled under my hand like a funny hamster. Without warning I gave him a little kiss. And then we were walking calmly over to the washing-down area, with me still at his shoulder, and him ambling along beside me, a gentle giant. A feeling of deep joy and accomplishment washed through me. What a lovely thing Stumpy was. How deeply, unbelievably grateful I was to be here looking after him, rather than back in my old life, feeling frightened and out of control.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you, you beautiful thing.’

  It was only when we got to the washing-down area that I realized Mark had been walking quietly on the other side of the horse.

  ‘You forgot his head-collar,’ he said briefly, slipping off the more complicated lunging head-collar that Stumpy was wearing and replacing it with a simpler version. In a two-second movement he tied Stumpy up to a piece of baling twine on a ring in the wall.

  ‘Good boy,’ he said softly, scratching between the horse’s ears. ‘There’s my good man.’ Stumpy, as if drugged, lolled his head down towards Mark’s stomach. ‘Silly thing.’ Mark grinned, suddenly human. Smiling beautifully, he continued to scratch Stumpy’s head, fondling the horse’s flappy ear with his other hand.

  ‘He’s my favourite,’ he said to me. I was standing, like a tool, by Stumpy’s shoulder, watching this most unlikely scene with amazement. ‘My weak spot. We bred him here so I sort of feel like his dad.’

  ‘He’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘Absolutely stunning.’

  Mark was clearly pleased. ‘And what a great name!’ I added.

  Mark was smiling at his horse as if he might actually burst with pride. It made my eyes prickle a little bit, that intense and so wholly unexpected display of love.

  ‘His show name is Distant Thunder.’

  ‘Like a fart.’ I grinned. Mark’s eyes, now gunmetal in the fading light, swivelled round to me. His smile had gone.

  ‘Right then, silly,’ he muttered, giving Stumpy one last scratch. ‘Time to get sponged down.’

  ‘They trust you if you trust them,’ he said, in my direction. ‘And they don’t respond kindly to being towed across the yard. You have to walk alongside them.’

  I nodded dumbly, appalled he’d seen it all.

  ‘But, of course, you already know that, with your lifetime spent on the back of a horse.’ Suddenly he smiled again. ‘Watch out. He likes you.’

  I turned to find Stumpy’s nose at my elbow. Without even thinking about it, I reached to scratch him between the ears, like Mark had, and once again his head lolled happily downwards, sending warm jets of air down my cold legs. ‘I like him too.’ I beamed. ‘He’s the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen. Hello, Stumpy. Hello, you nice boy.’ Stumpy pushed his head closer into my legs, eyes drooping closed.

  Mark tried to stop smiling but couldn’t. ‘I love him,’ he said. ‘So much, it’s hopeless.’

  Then he did a double-take, as if astonished to hear the words come out of his mouth. He turned sharply and strode off towards the back stable block. ‘Get him sponged down,’ he called.

  I watched him go, until Stumpy nudged me in the bottom, asking for more of that scratching.

  After a long evening of tack-cleaning with Becca, during which she made me learn what every last piece of leather was called, I dragged myself up to my bedroom and Skyped my family. I told them a pack of lies and hated myself.

  Before bed, shivering in an unseasonal vest, I did a routine scan of the yard from the chink between my curtains and was surprised when my eyes found Mark Waverley standing by Stumpy’s door in a big thick coat, his arms wrapped round the horse’s neck. I stared at him, a solitary figure with a halo of discontent crackling around him, and felt a tug of curiosity. Stumpy poked Mark with his muzzle, as if asking for snacks. Mark reached into his pocket and fed something to the horse, which nosed him for more. Even from this distance I could tell Mark was laughing.

  Ana Luisa came out and stood with her dad, who slid an arm round her shoulders and held her close. Stumpy stuck his nose into the little girl’s face and even from my room I could hear her shriek with laughter. I watched them there, a strange little family, and felt tears fill my eyes as I thought about my own. I’m so sorry, I thought, hoping they might somehow be able to hear me. I’m so sorry. I love you all so much.

  Mark kissed Stumpy’s nose, then glanced up at my window, just as I turned to go.

  Chapter Five

  Annie

  One month later

  The day I arrived at the FlintSpark offices I decided that this was it: the first day of the rest of my life.

  I was shaking with excitement and nerves as I stood in the vast atrium, swarming in all directions with people who wore trendy clothes and used words like ‘programmatic’ and ‘synergy’.

  Holy God, I texted Kate, as I waited for Stephen’s PA to come down for me. What have I done?

  Kate’s WhatsApp showed that she hadn’t been online since mid-March, and it was now 15 April. I made a mental note to call her tonight. It was perfectly normal for her to ignore emails – ‘I spend my day on the fecking internet,’ she’d say. ‘Don’t expect me to email in my free time.’ But her absence from phone activity was plain odd.

  ‘Annie Mulholland!’


  I started. I’d been expecting Stephen’s PA, Tash, but here was the man himself, wearing a beautifully fitted shirt and a glorious suntan he’d not had in March. He was smiling the million-watt smile that I hadn’t quite been able to stop myself Google-imaging over the last month, only it was more dazzling than could possibly be conveyed by an internet photo. This man, I thought, pleasure steaming up my brain, is utterly gorgeous.

  ‘Oh! Hi!’ I squeaked.

  ‘Come and heal this company. And the world.’ Stephen beamed, gesturing towards the security gates. ‘Just like Michael Jackson, only without being weird and dead.’ He put his hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowds. People stared at him and those within his earshot stepped up their use of barmy media words. ‘Platforms’ and ‘cut-through’ and – what? ‘Low-hanging fruits?’ I was lost.

  ‘It’s really lovely to have you here,’ he continued, ignoring them all.

  ‘It’s lovely to be here. Thanks so much for coming to get me. I was expecting Tash.’

  ‘She’s my PA, not my servant. And anyway, I wanted to welcome you myself. You got here okay?’ He swiped me through the glass gates.

  ‘I did, and I’m very excited about starting,’ I told him. ‘Although I feel like I need to ask what a “low-hanging fruit” is. And what “programmatic” means. And several other words besides. Should I have learned all the vocab before starting?’

  Stephen laughed, and I felt a rush of exhilaration. ‘Absolutely not. In fact, I ban you from using that or any other industry terminology. I’ve hired you to be a real person, not another guff-recycler.’

  I grinned, thinking how extraordinary it was that a man in Stephen’s position should be so personable. That he was willing to welcome me himself when I must be one of the lowliest people on his payroll.

  Stephen Flint – as I’d discovered in the course of my, ahem, late-night online research sessions – was a very big cheese. The kind of man whose PA you’d be lucky to be allowed to contact, let alone the boss himself. He was one of the most written-about businessmen and innovators in the country, the head of a huge empire, the template for every young person wanting to Make It.