A new Golf GTi screeches to a halt in the middle of the farmyard and Mark lets out two blasts on the car’s horn. A grey mare in the stable block rears up on her hind legs and whinnies, and a child-sized man dressed in wellingtons, faded jodhpurs and a green rollneck jumper runs out from the end bay and taps on the driver’s window. Mark lowers it fractionally using a button on the steering wheel.
‘You can’t use your horn in the yard,’ the stable hand says. ‘It scares the horses.’ He’s Irish, has a pallid, drawn face and only his head is visible from inside the car.
‘Yeah, I noticed that, mate,’ Mark says.
‘You can’t park here either. We’ve got the hay delivery coming in a minute.’
‘I’m looking for Jenny.’
‘And you are?’
‘Mark.’
‘Ah, so you’re Mark.’ His eyes narrow. ‘I’m Eoin. I think Jenny’s up in the top field with Augustus.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘A horse,’ Eoin says, picking at one of his dirty fingernails.
‘Where’s the top field?’
‘You walk up that road there. It’s not far.’ Eoin points up a muddy track running between a fenced-off show jumping area and an overgrown copse. ‘You can park at the back of the house.’
‘I’ll drive it. I’m not walking, I’ll ruin my shoes,’ Mark says pointing down at his Timberlands.
‘It’s a bit bumpy up there. If I were-’
Mark closes the window with Eoin mid-sentence and drives off with a loud wheel-spin.
The narrow track is littered with horse manure and water-filled potholes. Mark drives carefully up the incline, slowed by his wheels sinking into the soft mud, until he’s forced to stop to let through a scowling, ruddy-faced old woman on a horse.
He waits until she is out of sight and presses hard on the accelerator. The wheels send mud shooting into the air and over the rear of the car, which goes nowhere. He jerks the steering wheel left and puts his foot down again. The car shoots across the track straight into a wooden post, knocking it flat and causing the barbed wire fence to sag. Mark swears, reverses and ploughs on.
The further he drives, the firmer the ground becomes. He reaches the brow of the hill and the track stops abruptly. In the distance, a huge figure with a long copper-coloured mane is nosing around in the mud. Mark lowers the passenger window and leans over the seat.
‘JENNY! JENNY!’ he shouts, his face splattered by drizzle.
Jenny gets to her feet and marches across the field. Her riding boots and jodhpurs are muddy and her gilet is soaking. She removes her riding hat, scrapes her hair off her rosy face and clambers over a stile. She bends down into the car window and kisses Mark on the cheek.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asks, happy to see him.
‘Hello, babe. I thought I’d surprise you,’ Mark says, wiping off the wet lip marks.
‘What a lovely surprise. How did you find me?’
‘The kid in the yard told me.’
‘Which kid?’
‘The Irish one’
‘Eoin? He’s older than you. He works here.’ Jenny coughs and takes a blackcurrant lozenge from her pocket. ‘How did you drive all the way up here? I’m surprised you didn’t get stuck.’
‘It was fine.’
Jenny eyes Mark’s clothes. ‘Since when have you had a Barbour?’ she asks, referring to the green quilted coat he’s wearing.
‘I’ve had it ages. Where’s the horse?’
‘He’s being used for a riding lesson.’ Jenny rummages in her pocket. ‘I was looking for my earring, one of the special ones you bought me for my fifteenth birthday. Do you remember?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve found it now anyway,’ she says, showing him a miniature silver teddy bear on a hook. ‘Can I have a lift back?’
‘Jen, no way. You’re covered in mud.’
‘So is the car. Please can I have a lift? Haven’t you got anything I can sit on?’
‘No, walk. It’ll be good exercise. Or you can go in the boot.’
‘Mark, I’m not going in the boot.’
He reverses back down the track and Jenny follows on foot, stopping briefly to inspect the broken fencepost.
Eoin is spraying the yard with a power hose. Mark parks beside the stables, checks if there is any damage to the front bumper and looks back up the track. Jenny is about fifty yards away.
‘Mate, you couldn’t just give the car a quick once over with the hose could you?’ Mark calls out to Eoin.
‘There’s another hose round the back, you can use that.’
‘I’d rather you do it. I’ll pay you.’
Jenny waves at Eoin and Mark follows her into a portakabin which is the staff changing rooms and kitchen. There are posters of horses on the walls and riding paraphernalia litters the floor: hats, crops, stirrups, rugs covered in horse hair, and old saddles. It smells of animals and chemicals. Mark sits on a plastic chair which strains under his weight and plays with his iPhone as Jenny hangs up her riding gear and goes off to have a shower. Weak sunshine creeps in through the meshed windows.
Eoin jogs up the steps and removes his boots at the door. ‘I sprayed your car,’ he says. Standing up, he’s only at Mark’s eye level.
‘Cheers mate. You’re a legend. Do you want some money?’ Mark asks, taking a handful of change from his jeans.
‘No, don’t worry about it. It only took a minute.’
Mark accepts Eoin’s offer of a cup of tea but then changes his mind after seeing the grubby kettle.
‘Jenny said you work in London,’ Eoin says.
‘Yeah, I’m in investment. In the City.’
‘Do you enjoy it?’
‘I can’t complain,’ he says, cleaning his phone. ‘It’s long hours.’
‘Is that why you don’t come back very often?’
‘Yeah.’
Eoin pulls off his jodhpurs and stands in front of Mark in a pair of bulging y-fronts.
*
Wokafellas is a vast, canteen-style Japanese restaurant on Epsom High Street. After queuing outside for five minutes, Jenny holds the door open and Mark ducks under the arm of her baggy polo shirt. Another brief wait ensues before a waiter leads them to benches at a faux pine table near the windows.
Jenny squeezes onto the bench causing the people either side to shift along as the waiter scribbles their drink orders on the paper place mats.
Two teenage goths on the end of the table pay and leave so the couple to their right slide along, giving Jenny enough space to move her arms. She reaches into her bag for a two-for-one voucher as Mark accidently snaps his chopsticks.
Mark tugs at his Abercrombie t-shirt which clings to his paunch.
‘Chicken katsu curry?’ a teenage waitress asks, checking the scrawls on their mats.
‘That’s mine,’ Mark says, finishing off his last duck gyoza.
‘And chilli chicken ramen.’ She places the bowl of noodles in front of Jenny and picks up the empty starter plates.
‘No. That’s mine too.’ Mark slides the bowl over to his side. ‘We should have some kind of salad coming as well.’ He stuffs two spoonfuls of rice into mouth and attacks his noodles with a fork.
‘Don’t eat too quickly,’ Jenny warns, sniffing her wine.
‘I won’t,’ Mark says as he chews.
‘How’s work been this week?’
‘Really good.’ Grains of rice fall from his mouth back onto his plate. ‘Made loads of commission.’
‘Well done. You should be promoted soon with the amount of hours you’ve been working.’
‘Yeah I know. I haven’t left the office before ten thirty any night for the last few weeks. That’s why I haven’t been able to answer my phone, babe. If you’re caught on a private phone call, Justin goes ballistic.’
‘I’d hate to work somewhere like that.’
‘It’s just the culture at MenDax, babe. I can’t change that.’ Mark sips his beer. ‘What’s been going on at the farm?’
‘Oh, we had quite an interesting week. Remember I told you that we were getting a new horsebox?’
‘No,’ Mark says with his mouth full.
‘Well, it arrived this week. It’s amazing. It’s so luxurious inside. You could have a party in there. It’s about twice the size of that horrible old thing we used to drive around. It’s got a really good shower and the beds are bigger. And do you remember in the last one the saddle racks kept breaking? Well in this one, they’re metal instead of plastic. And it’s got a microwave so we can actually heat food up rather than having to use those horrible little gas stoves. And there’s more room for the horses as well. It was so exciting when it arrived that-’
‘It sounds it, babe,’ Mark butts in. ‘Is there any chance we can save the rest of this story until later? It’s just a bit boring.’
The Golf mounts the pavement and screeches to a halt outside Jenny’s parents’ large semi-detached cottage. She undoes her seat belt.
‘Cheers, babe. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow,’ Mark says.
‘Aren’t you coming in?’ Jenny turns her body to face Mark and the car wobbles.
‘I’ve had a really tiring week, babe. I just want to go back to my own bed and sleep.’
‘I’ll come back to yours then.’
‘No, babe. I just need a good night’s sleep on my own. You know what it’s like at mine. There’s barely enough room for us both in my double. It’ll keep me awake. I can’t afford to be tired all week.’
Jenny’s mouth drops.
‘What’s up?’ he asks.
‘We haven’t seen each other for weeks. All I want you to do is come in. We hardly ever… I thought that…’ Her lips start to tremble. ‘I miss you when you’re not here. We’re meant to be a couple, Mark.’ A tear runs down her cheek.
‘We are.’
‘It doesn’t feel like it.’
‘It’s just work, babe. It’s been manic the last few weeks. I’m at the office pretty much non-stop. When it slows down we can see a lot more of each other. I miss you too.’
‘You’re just saying that.’
‘No, I’m not. You mean the world to me.’
Jenny mops her tears with her fleece. ‘The last ten years with you have been the happiest time of my life. But now, I just, I just feel like we’re growing apart.’
‘Don’t be silly, babe. I won’t be in London forever. I know how much you love the farm, and of course we don’t see each other as much as we’d like, but it’s only short-term. Look, with a bit of luck I might be promoted to director level in the next few months. When that happens I’ll be on far more money and perhaps we can look at getting a place together, around here somewhere.’
‘Do you really mean that?’ Jenny asks, sniffing.
‘Of course I do, babe.’
‘I love you, Mark,’ Jenny says, putting her arms around him.
‘I love you too.’
They kiss briefly. Jenny says she’ll come over to Mark’s for lunch tomorrow and heaves herself out of the car. She blows Mark a kiss from the front door and crouches down so she doesn’t hit her head as she lets herself in.
*
The Hunter house is silent. Mark rolls out of bed and opens his curtains. There are no cars on the driveway and the gates are open. Mark’s parents’ detached mock-Tudor house is on King Road, one of the main routes into Epsom. Cars and 4x4s zip past as Mark looks out across the fields to the driving range at Epsom Hills golf club.
He opens his antique wardrobe. All it contains are three coats covered in plastic from the dry cleaners and his old school blazer. He digs around in the matching chest of drawers, puts on a tight pair of tracksuit bottoms and an old England rugby shirt and goes downstairs.
Mark sits at the breakfast bar in the spotless kitchen and gazes out into the garden. It’s raining again and the lawns need cutting. Someone has left the door to the summer house open and the cover hasn’t been put over the gas barbecue.
The fridge is fully stocked. Mark claps his hands, puts two griddle pans on the range and turns on the grill. ‘Where’s the George Foreman?’ he asks himself as he searches the cupboards. He pours oil into a pan and loads it with three Cumberland sausages and four rashers of bacon. He chops a tomato in half and places it under the grill next to a portobello mushroom. He then microwaves a can of baked beans and drops two slices of granary bread into the toaster.
He stands over the crackling pans, rolling the sausages and flipping the bacon before messily cracking an egg. Large fragments of shell are lodged in the white but he only makes a half-attempt to pick them out. He turns the heat up and holds the pans at arms’ length as fat spits all over the wall and the slate-tiled floor.
He loads his breakfast onto a serving plate and backs into the living room through the double-doors which stick in the thick carpet. Three oatmeal-coloured sofas are arranged in a U-shape around a circular coffee table. Mark lowers his plate onto unread copies of the News of the World and Mail on Sunday and turns on the giant plasma television which doubles as a mirror above the fireplace.
He demolishes the breakfast. After forcing down the last forkful of beans, he burps fiercely and lays down flat on the middle sofa holding his stomach. He flicks through the Sky channels, stopping at My Super Sexy Sixteenth on MTV. A spoilt girl from Hampstead has organised a disastrous diamond-themed birthday party. The rappers she booked - Stabbing Crew - haven’t turned up, the hotel has to be evacuated after a fire alarm, and she bursts into tears when a spotty boy called Ryan says he thought her parents were going to buy her a helicopter. When the credits roll, Mark turns down the volume and closes his eyes.
The front door slams and moments later his name is shouted from the kitchen. Mark’s mum, Patricia, bursts into the living room wearing a white tennis tracksuit and trainers. She is slim and her damp, dyed-brown hair is brushed back. She has a large nose and small dark bags under her eyes. ‘Mark, what have you been doing in the kitchen? Get up now and clean it up.’
‘I’ll do it in a minute. I’ll put it all in the dishwasher.’
She kisses him on the forehead. ‘Why did you cook breakfast anyway? I’m doing lunch at two o’clock. Have you had a shower yet?’
‘No, I’ll have one in a minute. Where have you been?’
‘Tennis.’
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘He and John have gone to see Grandad. He thought you might have wanted to come, but you were still in bed.’ Patricia pulls You magazine from the Mail. ‘Have you phoned Jenny?’
‘Can you do it please? I’ll sort the kitchen out.’
‘Oh, and there’s another thing I was going to ask you, Mark Hunter,’ she stops to say as she is leaving the room. ‘Why is there a dent on the bumper of my car?’
‘No idea. Why do you always assume it’s my fault?’
Jenny excuses herself and leaves the dining table. She and Mark are sitting opposite Uncle John, with Patricia and Mark’s dad, Graham, at either end. Patricia has prepared a roast banquet.
John smirks and waits until the bathroom door shuts in the hall. Patricia, who has changed into a sparkly black jumper and jeans, warns him not to say a word.
‘What does she normally eat for lunch? Human growth hormones?’ John says, reaching for one of the cans of Stella by his feet. ‘She’s like one of those East German hammer throwers from the Seventies. How tall is she these days?’
‘John, keep your voice down and don’t be so bloody rude,’ Patricia says.
‘Sorry, Pat, but honestly, look at the poor girl. What is she Mark, your bird or your bodyguard?’
‘We don’t really see that much of each other any more,’ Mark says, glancing through the bay windows at John’s Mercedes M-Class.
‘Mark, that’s your girlfriend you’re talking about. I know she’s a bit big, but she can’t help it,’ his mum whispers.
John helps himself to more potatoes. His stomach swells beneath his Ralph Lauren shirt and there are broken veins all over his bulbous nose. His cropped hair is badly receding and he has a small bald patch. ‘Lost your appetite, Mark?’
‘No, I’m just not that hungry,’ he says, looking down at the untouched vegetables on his plate.
‘Don’t eat it if you don’t want to,’ his mum says.
‘I’m just a bit full. I’ve just been trying to cut down a bit recently, trying to get fit. I’m thinking about entering a triathlon.’
Graham brings in a second bottle of white wine from the kitchen. He has grey hair, worn in a side parting, a grey moustache and glasses. He is far slimmer than his younger brother and has a fresh, healthy complexion.
‘No better.’ Graham’s speech is more formal and softer than John’s. ‘There’s no way he can go home at the moment. The doctor said he might have to be transferred to a care home.’
‘All he needs is a few more days of rest and he’ll perk up,’ John interjects. ‘There’s no need to start thinking about care homes. You know what he’s like, he’ll be up and walking by the end of the week and probably discharging himself.’ He shuffles in his chair and scratches his head. Gravy drips down his chin as he chews another chunk of beef. ‘How’s work going, Mark?’
‘Pretty good.’
‘Justin said that he might get promoted,’ Jenny says. She has put on a baggy v-neck jumper.
‘I think that Justin’s a pompous little dwarf,’ John says. ‘He swans around like he owns the place. I hope you don’t take any shit from him.’
‘John, do you always have to swear?’ Patricia asks.
‘Sorry.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Mark assures him. ‘Justin leaves me to get on with things. He’s not in the office most of the time.’
‘Is that Jane girl with the fake cans still there?’
Patricia glares at him.
‘Julia? Yes, she’s still there.’
‘I tell you what,’ John says, ‘I’m surprised you haven’t had a go Mark. I would have done by now.’
Mark cringes.
‘Well Mark’s not like you,’ Jenny says defiantly.
‘No, sorry Jen, you’re right, of course he not… not that I’d blame him. She’s a pretty girl-’
‘John, for god’s sake,’ Patricia says.
Jenny looks to Mark, but he keeps quiet. Her bottom lip starts to tremble. Patricia asks if she could help her out in the kitchen and glares at John as they leave.
‘I’ve told you to watch what you say around Jenny. She can be very sensitive,’ Graham warns him.
‘Sorry, I know. Sorry, Mark,’ John says, emptying another can of lager.
‘It’s not him you should be apologising to. Mark, don’t you think you should go and talk to her?’
‘No. She prefers Mum. Can I have another drink?’
John passes Mark a can. ‘What do you reckon your bonus will be this year?’
‘Umm, I’m not sure. We’re doing pretty well, so I’m hoping for better than last year.’
‘What did you get last year?’
‘Twenty grand.’
‘It wasn’t anyway near that much was it?’ his dad says, with a baffled look.
‘Yeah, it was.’
‘When do you find out?’ John asks, rubbing his stomach.
‘Second week of August.’
Graham starts piling up the plates in the middle of the table as the gold carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimes.
‘How long have you been there now? Three years?’ John asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘With your experience you should be earning about… ummm… four times what you were when you joined. If they try to fob you off with anything less, I’d threaten to leave. It’s all a game of bluff, mate.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Remember to tell them you’re underpaid and ask for ten grand more than you think’s reasonable. That way they’ll meet you halfway and they’ll think they’re getting a good deal and everyone’s a winner. There are a lot of golden tits at your place, Mark. You’ve just got to make sure you’re sucking on the right one.’
‘I’d be very careful about making extravagant demands,’ Graham says. ‘The last thing you want is to price yourself out of a job. There are plenty of other young men out there with your qualifications who’d happily work there for what you’re earning, so don’t talk yourself into redundancy.’
John waits until Graham leaves the room.
‘Don’t take a blind bit of notice,’ he says. ‘You don’t get anywhere by playing it safe. That’s fair enough if you’re an accountant, but to make the big money you’ve got to take a risk. If they won’t pay you what you’re worth then walk out and find someone who will.’
‘That’s what I was planning to do anyway.’
‘How much holiday do you get at the moment?’
‘Thirty-five? That’s nothing. Ask for at least sixty. You’ve got to cash in while you can.’ John slugs more beer and adjusts the waist of his navy chinos. ‘Try to get a car out of them, and ask about doing an MBA or something like that. A lot of companies are willing to pay for it these days. Do some research, and throw a few suggestions at them. It makes you look ambitious. A bloke I know did a three-year business course at Harvard, paid for by his company and they kept him on full salary. You’d be set up for life if you can get that sort of deal out of them.’ He farts and apologises. ‘You couldn’t pop to the living room and get me the News of the World could you mate?’
Everyone bar Graham is back at the table. Patricia picks at fluff on her jumper. Jenny’s eyes are red and she is quiet. John is flicking through the paper.
‘Sorry if I upset you earlier, Jen. I didn’t mean anything by it,’ he says. ‘I was just-’
Jenny sniffs. ‘No, it’s fine. Lunch was lovely,’ she says looking to Patricia.
‘Thank you.’
‘Yeah, it was great. Cheers, Pat,’ John says.
Graham brings in a trifle and scoops generous portions into porcelain bowls. Mark devours his first helping before his dad has even sat down. He then helps himself to more and is onto his third spoonful when he suddenly turns bright pink and runs to the bathroom.
He turns the cold tap on full-blast and hacks up his undigested dessert. He pulls at the collar of his t-shirt, holds his chest and washes his mouth in the bidet. Reaching out for a hand towel, he wipes dribble from his chin and uses the other side of it to dry his forehead.
‘Are you all right, Mark?’ Jenny calls from behind the door.
‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m just a bit hot. I’ll be out in a sec, babe.’
Mark stuffs a recycling bag into his back pocket, unplugs the shredder and carries it into his room, locking the door behind him. He separates the post on his desk into two piles: 1) Barclays, NatWest, Virgin, Egg and Capital One correspondence. 2) Catalogues and anything else.
He feeds the unopened bank statements, credit card bills and letters into the shredder’s metal teeth. It jams repeatedly and when it can’t digest what Mark is trying to feed it, he tears the envelopes apart with his hands.
He empties the waste paper unit into the recycling bag for a third time and brushes the few loose strands of paper on the desk onto the floor. He then thumbs through catalogues from Ferrari, Jack Wills and Bang and Olufsen and slides them into his leather holdall.
There’s a knock at the door.
‘Hang on,’ Mark says, stashing the recycling bag under his bed.
‘Why did you lock the door?’ Graham asks as Mark lets him in.
‘I was getting changed.’
‘Into the same clothes?’
Graham sits on the edge of the bed, with his hands on the knees of his corduroy trousers. ‘You said you wanted to talk to me?’
‘Umm, yes.’ Mark sits down on his old yellow computer chair. ‘I wondered if you could do me a favour.’
‘Go on.’
‘I wondered if you’d be able to give me a slight increase in my allowance.’
Graham stands up. ‘Well this is going to be a short conversation isn’t it? The answer is no. You shouldn’t even be getting an allowance. I cannot believe that you can’t survive on your wages, what are you spending the money on?’
‘It’s the flat, Dad. Since Craig made us move I’m paying out twice as much in rent and bills. I’m actually a lot worse off. The place is costing an absolute fortune. General living expenses are much more as well.’
‘Mark, you’re talking to me like I don’t know how much running a house costs. I think you might have a bit more cash if you didn’t go out getting drunk every night of the week. And despite your protestations I don’t believe for a second that you’re at work until eleven every night. You look hungover every time I see you.’
‘Because I’m not getting any sleep because I’m working so hard.’
Graham looks quizzically at the shredder. ‘If your flat is too expensive you shouldn’t have moved there in the first place. The rent’s not gone up has it?’
‘Dad, please this is a one off. I need eight hundred to tie me over until pay day.’
‘Eight hundred pounds? What for? You get paid on Friday don’t you?’
‘It’s for bills.’
Graham shakes his head and folds his arms. Mark looks at him expectantly.
‘Promise me you haven’t been using any of your inheritance money.’
‘Dad, of course not. It’s all in a high interest account.’
‘Promise. Because if you’ve been-’
‘I wouldn’t.’
‘Good. Look, I’ll give you the money as a loan, and you’ll pay that back the minute you get paid. I’ll check my account on Friday night and if that money isn’t in there I’ll be straight on the phone to you to find out why not. Is that clear?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
‘If you can’t live on your salary then something is seriously wrong.’
Mark says nothing and lunges forward, wrapping up his dad in an uneasy hug.