by Sara Forbes
“Look, I know you’re dying to question Greer and do your Sherlock Holmes thing,” she says. “I’m just going to get out of here and let you get on with it.” Why don’t I find the ladies’ room and take a breather outside?”
It’s as if she’s read my mind. I didn’t want to involve her in my discussions with the other owners or have to explain her presence, which would no doubt be the first question on their gossiping lips.
“Yes, very good. Let’s meet at the refreshment stand outside in an hour?”
11
LIV
I WANDER DOWN TO the parade circle where the horses are being walked before the next race. I try to imagine all these garish jockey colors in black and white and shades of gray, as Ken would see them, but it’s impossible. It brings home to me how people’s perceptions of the world are different and yet we never fully appreciate it because we’re limited to our own perceptions of reality.
As the horses leave the ring, I feel the surge of pre-race excitement as people bustle back from the bookies, their last chance to lay money down on their chosen horse and rider.
It brings me back to two summers ago, when I went to four race meets with Ken and various members of his family. The sheer headiness of excitement mixed with the feeling of being in love for the first time made my head spin, and I do remember putting a little too much money on some losers. It was so easy to get caught up in it all.
Innocent fun. I never stopped to think that Ken might have a problem. Or that his problem would have such a negative effect on my father’s opinion on him. That innocence got smashed when Ken came to my home for dinner and got put in his place by Daddy who spared no vitriol in his tirade against the depraved gambling community of which he assumed Ken to be a prime member.
Just as I’ve mentally chosen my winner—horse number three, a brown-gray four-year-old gelding whose jockey’s silks are red and blue with stripes on the arm—my eye is drawn by someone in the crowd.
My stomach plummets to the ground and I break out in a cold sweat. It’s Peter. My darling ex-husband Peter George Winston Maxwell. What the hell is he doing here? Of all the places where I expected to see him again, it wasn’t here. And who is he with? Even though I’d hoped never to lay eyes on him again, I find myself craning to see past the bodies jostling their way from the VIP enclosure by the parade ring toward the grandstand.
As most people have left for their seats to watch the race, there are only a few groups of people loitering. I need to scram too, or else he’ll see me, and I really don’t want that.
This can’t be fear I’m feeling—he’s never physically harmed me. He just tore my ego apart. He can’t do anything to me now. I should show him how strong I am, having had two months’ respite from his constant verbal attacks and sullen moods. Yes, when you remove the poison, the body starts to recover again, ; funny how that happens. And with an elixir like Ken Belgrave, that recovery happens even quicker.
But just as I’m debating whether I’m strong enough to face my ex, he vanishes rather annoyingly. I have to re-scan the crowd for several minutes before I see him again, standing in front of the owners’ bar.
I inhale a sharp breath. Last thing I want is for Ken to see him now and for a fight to start—because I could totally see that happening. Peter is joined by a group of three men, blocking him from view. The largest man is gesticulating towards the racetrack. He’s waving a cerise pink umbrella. Of course, it’s Greer.
I turn away. Fact is, I know Edward Greer. He’s an old friend of Peter’s. We even went on a yachting trip once. I never liked the chubby, self-made millionaire, but I can’t claim not to know him. But I don’t want to talk to Ken about my ex or his horrible friends.
The sun has slid behind a humongous cloud and I feel the cool breeze of impending rain. My thin linen jacket is fashionable but impractical. All thoughts of sleuthing are gone. I just want to find Ken and get out of here. The joy I felt at being back in a racetrack has dissipated.
The men head for the grandstand to watch the race as the loudspeaker starts blaring quite near to me. Umbrellas pop up all around—everyone’s come prepared, except me. I skitter towards the owners’ bar again.
The warmth of the bar is welcoming. Everyone’s riveted to monitors now. Ken cocks his head, beckoning me over. Of course, he’s as glued to the race as everyone else.
“Find out anything?” I murmur when there’s a brief lull in the announcer’s listing of the horses and their jockeys.
“Not much. Tell you later. Let’s just watch the race.”
When I settle down on the stool beside him and cock my head to see past the heads of the people in front of me, my head grazes Ken’s cheek. I pull back in embarrassment but his immediate reaction is to wrap his big arm around me as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do.
I lean into him, feeling the reassuring solidness of his hard biceps. I was scarcely aware of how unsettled I was feeling until I let myself sink into him. I let out a sigh and close my eyes, just relishing this, this sensation of protection. My very own Thor.
My heartbeat decreases from panicked to merely happily excited—still high but in a much more pleasant way. My breathing gets deeper.
I’m happily listening to Ken’s commentary on the race, which continues well past the excitement of the finish.
“Baghdad Thief is still doing well on the flat for a seven-year-old,” he’s saying.
“Really? A seven-year-old?” I may not be a walking encyclopedia like him, but I do know that seven’s old for a racehorse.
“I wouldn’t race a horse past six. I think they deserve a break.”
“What’s the alternative?” I ask. “Retirement on a sunny beach in Spain?”
“Not quite,” he mutters.
“Really, what happens?” I ask again. I hear of rehab of ponies, but never racehorses.
“I don’t think you want to know,” he says.
“Well, now I really do.”
“Okay,” he says with a sigh. “Not all owners have the same relationship with their horses as I do. Many are simply part of a syndicate with twenty or more others, so they don’t feel individually responsible for the animal—not while it’s racing, and certainly not afterward.”
“So what happens? I mean, a thoroughbred can live what? Twenty years?”
“Thirty, more like. They get disposed of.”
“How?”
Ken seems annoyed at my question, or my naivete, but I have to know. “How do you think, Liv?” he mutters.
“I truly don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
“They get sent to disposal plants, slaughterhouses. Most of the animals who could live to thirty get killed before they turn five.” He shifts in his seat. “And then they get sold as gourmet meat in one of those countries. Ever seen a horse-burger joint in Slovakia, or been offered an entrée in France with horse meat?”
“Yes, actually. But now you’re pulling my leg.”
“No.” His eyes are deadly serious. “This is what happens. Not only that. Too many foals are born to supply the industry and two thirds of them don’t get to race and need to be dealt with. You won’t get anyone talking about it, though. Mass disposal of thoroughbreds is the dirty side of our sport.”
“But why doesn’t someone do something?”
“There are sanctuaries, but they can only take in a tiny fraction. I mean, an old racehorse costs around five thousand pounds per year to look after—I can vouch for that personally—so sending them to slaughterhouses is the only option for some owners who can’t sell them on in auctions. It’s not illegal. Others are sent to knackers' yards or turned into meat to feed hunt dogs.”
“Where are all these slaughterhouses then?” I demand. “Why have I never heard of one?”
Ken grimaces. “What are you going to do? Swoop down there in your cape and rescue a dozen horses and cart them all the way up back up to Strathcairn estate?”
“I could give sanctuary to two doz
en horses,” I say with a pout. “Along with your Silmarillion,” I add pointedly.
At the mention of his own horse, he turns to me, sitting forward against the table, arms crossed.
“Are you serious?” he says in a tone that says you’d-better-not-be-messing-with-me. “Because this is something that’s bugged me since I started writing Sill’s memoirs. Once I looked beyond the sunny, royal tea-party ambience of race gatherings, I saw the murky underworld of waste and animal cruelty. I’ve addressed it in my book, but I’ve always wanted to do something to change this, not just talk about it.”
It’s a combination of his earnest gaze and the solemn conviction of his words that gives my heart a jolt. I hardly know this side of Ken. He’s deadly serious about this cause. Horse disposal is a topic he’s obviously put thought into, not just here and now, and I’m certain that when he puts his mind to it, he’ll touch hearts and minds when his book comes out, probably causing a revolution in the industry.
“I want you to show me the nearest slaughterhouse,” I say before I can change my mind.
“Keep your voice down,” he says.
“Will you do it?” I say in a quieter voice, but just as insistent. I’m not giving up on this. “Like, after the races here?”
He scratches his head, while his eyes roam my face. “Well, it’s not quite what I had in mind for our first date.”
That stops me in my tracks. I swallow a gulp of air and feel my cheeks burning as I grapple for a comeback. “Well … what did you have in mind?”
His facial expression is an adorable mix of self-restraint, confusion, and longing. “Something with less blood and guts and gore, maybe?”
“Oh, Ken,” I laugh. “Did you seriously think our first date was ever going to be normal?”
12
KEN
HOW DID I GET talked into this anyway? We’re driving on one of York’s back roads where, not too far away, there’s a slaughterhouse, conveniently located near the A1. This is not how I imagined this trip going. I suppose I didn’t give it much thought at all. I simply took her along, partly as pay-back for letting Sill stay in her stables, and partly because I can’t say no to the woman.
But now? A slaughterhouse? We’ll have to sneak around, that’s for sure, as these people do not like snoops. There have been one or two exposés in the press over the years—albeit far fewer than you’d imagine—and they’re not keen on any more exposure, even though they can always fall back on the claim that they’re providing a service, employment, and are fully legit. Shades of gray.
Liv’s sitting glum in the passenger seat. She’s been quiet since the first race, in fact. I wonder what’s gotten into her. Is it just the slaughterhouse issue or is it something else?
Best to just get this over with and get back home. All this talk about dead horses is making me jittery about Sill.
Twenty-five minutes later, the navigation system announces that our destination is on the left. It’s a long, one-story brick building set in from the road and surrounded by a low wall with barbed wire on top, and thick shrubbery.
“Well there you have it,” I say to my passenger as I slow the Rover to a stop. “Can we go home now?”
And have a proper first date?
“Not so fast. I want to see.”
“What? Come on, this place gives me the creeps.”
“It gives me the creeps too—that’s why I want to see it.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, turning off the ignition.
We get out and snake around the five-foot-high perimeter wall like criminals because she’s obviously not going to be happy until she sees something that’ll make her vomit or until, better still, we get arrested.
Parked on the large concrete yard out front are dark-colored vans with no logos. It’s an old building, possibly once used for more conventional cattle slaughter. The windows are large and dusty, some cracked, some boarded up. Inside, I can make out the specters of ominous machinery of some kind but there’s no sign of movement, which comes as a relief.
Placed all around are signs warning us that trespassers will be prosecuted and that surveillance cameras are in operation. To say the place looks unwelcoming is an understatement.
Liv trails up and down the road, seeking a good spot to infiltrate. I’m worried about what she has in mind. There are animal activists who get arrested doing all kinds of silly things, and this would be a prime spot for it. But Liv’s got this manic look in her eyes that’s telling me not to interfere.
After ten minutes of her prowling around the perimeter, and me following at a distance, constantly scanning for traffic or signs of life within the building itself, she seems satisfied.
A crow swoops down near her face, adding to the macabre ambience.
When we’re back at the car and I can hardly get inside the driver seat fast enough.
“Have you ever eaten horse meat?” she asks me suddenly.
“Not knowingly.”
“You know, we were in this bistro in Menton, in the Riviera, and Peter laughed at me for not wanting to eat horse meat.”
It's a throwaway comment, spoken in a light tone, but I grip the steering wheel hard, wishing it was the bones of Peter’s face. Seriously, how could she choose someone like that over me?
Did I ever give the impression of being anything other than deliriously happy with her? My only crime, surely, was to wait long enough to let her parents get to her.
Did I not give her that feeling of complete devotion she deserved? How can I do that? How did a horsemeat-eating bastard like Maxwell with his black heart manage to do what I couldn’t?
Then it’s my turn to be silent because I can’t think of what to say anymore. Peter Maxwell has managed to ruin my first date.
13
LIV
KEN’S QUIET AND IT'S not because he’s concentrating on driving. I think it’s because I mentioned Peter. I didn’t mean to—it just popped out. I really need to stop doing that.
It’s my fault that we’ve lost a good two hours off our return trip. By my calculation, we’ll be in Suffolk around 3 am. I don’t fancy that. On the other hand, we could be back in York well before midnight.
“It’s quite a trip back down to Suffolk, don’t you think?” I say, breaking the silence.
“Well…” Ken slides me a look as if to say ‘what’s the alternative?’
I take out my phone for a hotel app, unwilling to answer the unspoken question until I know what my options are.
“There’s the Claremount and the Kemp Townhouse, they’re the only two five stars.”
“Oh, I like the Claremount,” he says quickly. “Cozy. Great gardens, and view over the town.”
“Okay. The Kemp seems to be booked out anyway, so let’s hope it has rooms.”
“It’s just up ahead.” Ken swerves into the parking lot outside the hotel. “Let’s go in and ask.”
The elderly receptionist straightens up when we walk in, and the warmth of her smile seems targeted at Ken.
“Lord Belgrave,” she says in a tone that’s just the respectable side of sycophantic. She’s old school and I’m impressed. Most receptionists wouldn’t know the Duke of Edinburgh if he walked in.
“My dear Mrs. Mitchell.”
“You’re in luck.” She beams, her gaze appraising us over the top of her monitor. “We have one room left, the Edwards room—deluxe, with four-poster bed.” Her smile hitches up a notch as if we’re supposed to react to this last bit.
“So only one room?” I ask in my stiffest voice. Maybe I sound petulant, but she’s making assumptions that she shouldn’t.
Her eyebrows raise as her eyes dart between us, visibly revising her assessment of us. “Yes, ma’am, it’s the last one. The guests cancelled at the last minute. Normally we’d have no vacancies at all this time of year.”
I glance at Ken. There’s a look of barely concealed delight on his face. It’s going to look ridiculous if I start making a huge fuss about the number of beds when he
’s grinning his face off.
I decide to figure it out once I actually see the room. There’s bound to be an elaborate sofa, if nothing else, that one of us can sleep on. Everything is negotiable. Besides, every last bit of this is my fault. I can hardly start whining now.
We walk up the stairs to the second floor. I try to keep well away from Ken but he insists on bumping into me as we squeeze up the narrow staircase, neither of us wanting to trail behind the other.
The room is beautiful but, as expected, there’s only one bed—a massive four-poster bed, as advertised, and a couple of chairs that nobody other than a tiny baby could sleep on. There goes that option.
“Right,” I say rubbing my palms together.
Before I realize what’s happening, Ken kicks off his shoes, flops onto the bed, lying down in the center of the white duvet, on his back with his elbows crooked behind his head, looking very pleased with himself. “Your call.”
“I say we hit the bar,” I snarl.
“There is no bar to speak of. Except the mini-bar over there.”
I grip the pole of the four-poster and stare down at him.
“It’s just you and me now,” he says.
“Ken, I—”
But I don’t get to finish that because he sits forward, grabs my hand and pulls me onto the bed. I land face down into the soft Egyptian cotton of the duvet cover. Scrambling onto my knees again, I glare at him.
“Not funny.”
I kick off my shoes and remain sitting on my haunches with my spine pressed into the pole, ready to jump off again if I need to.
Ken scoots down in one swift movement and straddles me so I’m kneeling between his legs, which dangle over the side of the bed. He reaches around me to clasp the pole, trapping me in a tight space of powerful arms and chest. Up close, I smell his wonderful lime soap, his musky scent, and his utter determination to have me. Because I’m not kidding myself any longer. It’s been leading up to this ever since I finagled this trip.