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THE JOHANNESBURG BAR was clubby with moody lighting and a heavy throb of pulsing bass notes. A searching blue strobe swept over Hettie, turning her copper hair purple. She squinted at the people around her, the group of ex-pats and bankers who had gathered to toast her departure.
‘Another drink!’ Cynthia, her friend and boss, called to the bartender.
Hettie gave a lopsided smile, her eyes heavy lidded. ‘It won’t work, drinking me senseless. I made Alexander a promise, and I am going home.’
‘Alexander.’ Cynthia’s lips tightened. She leant in to talk over the pounding music. ‘I’m not giving up until your flight takes off, and probably not even then. You know you’re better off here. You just haven’t admitted it yet.’ She waved her debit card at the bartender, then glanced back at Hettie. ‘The horses will miss you. They’ll go into a total decline. Now stop propping up the bar and come dance.’
Hettie’s laugh was earthy, her words slightly slurred. ‘You’ll have to give me a minute. If I stand up now, I’ll fall over. Force-feeding me alcohol is dirty play. I never could keep up with you.’
She stirred the olive in her cocktail. To stay, or to go? An image of Alexander slid into her woozy brain, the corner of his mouth turned up in that take-the-piss smile, and those blue, blue eyes that seemed to get darker when he looked at her. His strong hands, with their promise of so much pleasure... Warmth filled the pit of her stomach. If only he were there right now. She could have her job, the horses and Alexander.
Her thought-path stuttered as she tried to picture him in South Africa, uprooted from Draymere, disrupting her flat with his unsettling presence. Her body stirred at the recall of his, but her mind lurched from doubt to question. Would he leave Draymere for her? Would she really want him to? Why was she going back? Had he been faithful?
Hettie forced herself upright. She wouldn’t let those thoughts take hold again.
The room swayed around her as she teetered haphazardly towards the dance floor, edging her slight frame through the press of people. Cynthia’s group was easy to find, and their wild abandon was tempting. The throng of bodies thrust her forwards. She felt a buzz of recklessness.
Fuck it. Tonight she was going to party and enjoy herself. She still had three days before she had to go back to the UK, to Draymere, to Alexander. She allowed herself to be swallowed into a masculine hug. Her eyes flickered over the man’s familiar face. Bugger, she must be pissed. She couldn’t remember his name.
‘Hello, gorgeous.’ He smiled down at her.
His breath tickled her neck, and his hands warmed the skin through the silk of her top. She breathed in his woody aftershave, the heady aroma of man. His stubble was coarse on her cheek. She tilted into his chest.
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HETTIE’S FINGERS FUMBLED for the snooze button to quiet the rude shriek of her alarm. How many times had she pressed it already? Dragging one eye open, she squinted at the numbers pulsing in and out of focus with the blood thumping through her head.
Bollocks, she was going to be late.
Reality hit with a painful throb as she grabbed her jodhpurs and hoody. She’d never been late for work in her life. Cynthia was going to love this.
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SHE WAS RIGHT ABOUT that. She could tell Cynthia was crowing before she even said hello.
‘Well, well! The workaholic shows a chink in her armour! I’m marking that up as a win!’
Hettie hoisted a wheelbarrow from its resting place, clenching her teeth against the pain that shot through her skull. ‘It’s your fault. The boss can’t blame me for being hung-over when she’s the one who caused it.’
‘No need to thank me. Call it a leaving present. I’m allowed to be smug. I finally succeeded in loosening the ice queen’s chastity belt. You are alive below the waist! I’d almost given up hope.’
Her mucker-booted feet stopped on the brick path as Cynthia chuntered on. Memories rushed to the surface: a man’s cotton shirt under her cheek, her arms curled around his neck. Lips, an embrace. What else?
She turned to face Cynthia. ‘Shit. What did I do?’
Cynthia laughed. ‘Nothing any hot-blooded female wouldn’t have done when she’s footloose and free in the City of Gold, surrounded by shiny nuggets.’
‘God, no.’ She pressed her hands to her temples.
‘A moment of pash, that’s all. Do you really not remember? He can’t have been very impressive! Hardly a cardinal sin, anyway, so don’t get your knickers all in a twist—’
‘But I’m not footloose, or free! How much pash? I do remember kissing him, but what...?’ Hettie dragged her fingers through her hair. ‘You’d better tell me everything. Shit! Three days before I go back! How the hell do I face Alexander now?’
‘You can’t tell him what you don’t remember.’ Cynthia hoisted her own laden wheelbarrow and pushed it towards the muck heap. She threw a final comment over her shoulder. ‘And, of course, you don’t have to go back and face him at all.’
She stared after Cynthia but forced her feet to move into the shade of the American barn. Eager horses arched their necks, whickering for attention. Wide double doors at the end of the barn gave a view to the rugged brown and gold landscape stretching to meet a sky hinting at a temperate day and endless possibility.
She struggled to settle into the ordered and usually comfortable routine of her day. Physical work couldn’t shut out the nagging guilt or the questions running through her head and the disquiet of knowing what faced her back at home now. She rested her cheek against the solid neck of a placid chestnut gelding as she fastened his head collar on. Her empty stomach churned queasily.
At least she could always come back.
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ALEXANDER EASED OPEN the wire-mesh door. ‘Hello, old girl, how are you tonight?’
The aged collie’s tail shifted weakly as he stroked her greying head. Still stupefied from the after-effects of her anaesthetic, it was all the dog could manage. Alexander’s voice was low and melodic over the hum from the overhead strip lights, his touch deliberately reassuring as he checked the dog’s pulse beneath her dense coat and smoothed back the hair from her eyes. The wound from her surgery remained covered by bandages, and his attention wasn’t entirely necessary. The veterinary practice nurses would check on her through the night and call him if needed.
The clinical white tiles on the walls were stark in contrast to the black night sky through the window. Alexander glanced at the clock as he refastened the cage door. Ten o’clock, another long day. Midnight in Johannesburg. His mind ran the calculation automatically. It had become second nature. Too late to call her. She’d be asleep by now. At least he hoped so.
He shrugged out of his white coat. His fifteen-hour shift was done. He should get himself back to Draymere for some much-needed sleep. Three more nights and she would be home. The thought made him snort at himself. He needed to get a grip.
He switched off the overhead lights.
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THE NIGHT AIR WAS MILD and soft on his face as he crossed the car park to his Aston for the short drive home. Back at the Gatehouse, he kicked off his shoes, turned on the TV and poured himself a generous finger of whiskey. He resisted the urge to send her a goodnight text. He’d left it too late. He wouldn’t disturb her, though she was disturbing his thoughts again.
He eased his legs out onto the leather sofa, nudging aside one of the four terriers who’d joined him there. His own dogs and Hettie’s two, waiting for her to come back, as he was.
A shoot-em-up movie played on TV, irrelevant noise ignored by all in the room. A lamp glowed in the corner, and the heavy drapes were drawn to hold out the night. He rested the tumbler of whiskey on his chest and let his head drop back. He didn’t fight the pictures of her that floated into his mind and stirred his body with longing. He shut his eyes and accepted the ache that settled low in his belly. Images drifted through his insomnia. He steered his thoughts back, focused on the distraction of his plans for tomorrow – a morning run through the grounds of Draymere, Sunday dinner at the Hall with his brother and the family. Another day faced and ticked off.
She was coming home, but would she stay?
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WITH HIS EXPERIENCE and his contacts in the racing world, it hadn’t been difficult for Julian Greaves to secure himself a post in Newmarket. The title of Head Lad conferred a superiority he wore like a mantle. His stride belligerent as he crossed the yard, he growled orders at the lads. They shrank from his oaths and dropped their eyes to evade his attention. Their number had fluctuated since his arrival. He hurled abuse freely at any who didn’t jump to his shouted orders and took delight in tormenting them all. ‘Why the fuck isn’t my nag ready? You bunch of fucking wastrels.’
The lad nearest to him side-eyed a stable, the only one with its top door shut, closed off to the rest of the yard. The row of neighbouring thoroughbreds weaved from side to side, ears flat against their necks and teeth bared at all who passed.
As staff at the yard shed to other jobs, the head lad’s reputation seeped like gas through the small town of Newmarket. Julian strutted his infamy, growing in self-importance with every soul he hounded away. The newest recruits spoke broken English and rarely addressed him directly, choosing instead to mutter their grievances when his back was turned. Scowls followed his passage.
Fucking gyppos and migrants, he’d have to do it his fucking self.
Cowed and resentful, the lads directed their ire against each other and the horses. Shoving and manhandling, a snarl of abuse and the careless slap of a saddle across a finely muscled back; forced macho bravado screened fear and a lack of skills. The lads could leave, but the racehorses were trapped.
The timid among them lowered once-proud heads and fell into dulled compliance. The feisty and spirited fought back. One horse in particular became increasingly fearsome. Bred to impress on the racetrack, Black Look lost racing form, but grew in reputation – for all the wrong reasons. No one entered his stable unprepared, and few stayed on his back.
Quivering aggression radiated from the young thoroughbred. Julian jabbed his knee into the stomach of the trembling horse. The action gave him a rush of satisfaction. Fury replaced his gratification when bared teeth smashed into his elbow. Julian punched the horse, hard, on his nose. Black Look’s eyes rolled in panic. He shook his head against the rope that held him and threw his weight backwards. Against half a tonne of heaving muscle, the rope snapped. Loose, but unable to flee his stable, the horse attacked. With flashing hooves and snaking neck he turned on Julian, driving him out the door.
Julian ricocheted onto the yard, slamming the bolt behind him. His humiliation was complete when those outside laughed at his graceless exit. He hurled the bridle that hung from his shoulder onto the ground and spun to face them down. The veins on his neck bulged. ‘Get on with your work, you fuckers!’
He marched to the office and sought out the trainer. ‘I want that bastard nag gone. The beast is a waste of oats, and if I can’t control him, no fucker can.’
Ultimatums flew. The yard was already short-staffed, and within a week the decision had been made. Black Look was hauled away in the back of a dealer’s lorry.
Evening found Julian in a drinking man’s pub, slouched across the tacky surface of an unwiped bar, one of only three patrons who sat as far from each other as possible. In the gloomy half-light, he glared at his beer. His eyes grew murky as curt nods at the barman kept the pints arriving. His stomach churned alcohol and bitterness as he staggered the short route back to his staff flat. He paused to gather his balance on the flight of stairs. His thick fingers fumbled to push the key into the lock.
The starkly furnished room held little joy: a bottle of vodka, his laptop, a greying sheet on the bed. He sank into a chair and began his nightly ritual of stalking the Facebook pages of those who had brought him to this. He muttered and cursed as he glared at pictures of the bastards who had conspired to land him in this shithole.
As usual, one person became the particular focus of his attention.