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ALEXANDER WIPED THE sleeve of his suit across the frost whitening the windscreen of his car. He sat on the cold leather seat, staring ahead through the clearing glass. Nine forty-five. His tyres crunched on the sharp gravel.
He’d known it would be a mistake, and it had been. Ill considered. Not considered at all, in fact. The calling had come, and he’d followed it. Badly judged. He was a fool.
He hadn’t wanted to leave.
More questions than answers filled his head as the car hummed along the lane. Was he deliberately hurting everyone close to him? Had that been his intention when he went to Hettie? His mouth tasted acid.
He put the radio on, changed down through the gears, cornered hard on the angled bend. At least he wasn’t agonising about his father anymore. All he could see was Hettie, spread across the table, her neck arched in pleasure. His groin hardened; he shifted on the seat. She had wanted him too. They’d both filled a need. Was that so terrible? Maybe occasional, mind-blowing sex was the solution. But who was he trying to kid? He wanted her again already.
She was an addiction, and he’d just thrown himself off the wagon.
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HETTIE WOKE EARLIER than usual. She put on her socks because the kitchen floor struck cold even through the rug. Still pitch-dark outside, a spread of stars across the sky when she let the dogs out. It would be a clear day. The kettle boiled. She sat at the wiped-clean table and nursed her cup of coffee. She should have stuck with no.
She carried her coffee back to the bedroom. She might as well make use of the early morning. If she made a start on the stables she could take Lockie out for a ride as soon as it got light enough. Bert would tell her off, but that would be the least of her sins this morning.
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GREY LIGHT, A TINT of palest blue in the sky. Lockie was keen to get moving. He fidgeted and stiffened his back when she tightened the girth, jogged and swung his head as they rode out of the yard. The insides of her thighs were tender against the saddle, taunting her, but so what? She’d wanted to, he’d wanted to. There was nothing wrong with that.
She only had to loosen her reins to allow Lockie to trot. His hooves struck a smart staccato on the tarmac. He snatched at the reins in her hands when they turned onto the bridle path, and extravagantly sidestepped a frosted thistle, leaping onto the field beside the track. He bunched his stride and kicked his back legs when Hettie tried to correct him.
She hadn’t let him run before. He was meant to be learning how not to be a racehorse, so she always rode him in a calm and considered way. But this morning she sensed that he longed to let go. She wanted to let go too.
She loosened her fingers, the smallest movement. He bounced into a canter, his stride short and agitated, jarring the saddle against her thighs. She took the weight of her body onto her feet through the stirrups and crouched over his mane, pushing her hands forwards. She felt Lockie pause, a half-beat, then he stretched his neck out, his stride ungainly as his legs geared up, then long and low.
They were flying. His front hooves flashed into her vision with hurtling speed. Was it wrong to let him do what he wanted? He was bred to gallop. Cold air rushed into her face. Her eyes streamed with tears. Divots of mud flew out beside them. Fuck it. Today, they both needed to run.
And she felt alive.
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THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT a rush of clients asking about lessons. Word spread wider, producing a waiting list of owners wanting to move their horses to Redfern Equestrian. Hettie pencilled more and more dates into her diary, for classes, training clinics and competitions for the riding club. She placed classified adverts for two more grooms. The builders carved out foundations for the new stable block.
Nat was blossoming, too. She visited more often now, her stomach rounded and taut beneath her clothes. Impressed by the transformation, Hettie went to her mother’s whenever Natalie came home, nipping out between lessons and riding, and riding and teaching again.
Snatching snacks when she could on her way past the bungalow, Hettie became leaner than she’d ever been. She finished her days with a scalding shower and sometimes a small glass of wine. It settled her stomach, which swooped every time she saw headlights on the lane. She often dozed off on the sofa, a ready-meal going cold in the microwave.
Tiff arranged to have security lighting put in place around the bungalow and stables. Hettie padlocked the gate at night, and they discussed CCTV. The new lighting jangled Hettie’s nerves the first few evenings when it flicked on for no obvious reason. Pig growled a couple of times. Hettie circled the bungalow, flashing her torch’s beam across the field. The dogs were no use, chasing off into the night, always yapping at something. They came back jaunty. Hettie pulled her coat tight, and called them back inside.
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HE COULDN’T GET NEAR the bungalow now. Fucking lights. They brought her outside, which was interesting, but the dogs pissed him off. Soft fucking mutts, one pat and they were happy enough, but there was the always the risk that she would come looking for them. Risk or thrill? A buzz, disturbing her evening, disturbing her. The gate had been a lark, his calling card if you like, so she knew someone had been there.
He saw her shadow move past the curtains. The bathroom light came on. Was she taking a piss, or stripping off...? He shuffled on his feet. He might wait and see if the bedroom light was next. The kitchen was best, no blinds on the window. He could see her in there alright.
The wind was cutting and bitter tonight. The bathroom light went out, then the kitchen, leaving the bungalow in darkness. He edged along the fence, out of range of the lights, awkward, his feet fumbling on ground uneven where frozen hoofprints cut into the earth. His bad leg pinched. He tipped the last of the beer into his mouth and flattened the can between his hands, then wedged it into the slot where the slatted post met the wooden rail.
Hunching his shoulders against the wind he stumbled back across the field, thinking about his next move.
Hettie pulled the can out of the fence. How the hell had that got there?
Zoe was going to sit on Lockie that morning. It would be good for him, part of his training, to have a different rider on his back. She mustn’t get stupidly protective. Zoe was a quiet and careful rider and under strict instructions to sit still and do nothing.
They led Lockie to the arena together.
‘Relax, Zoe, you look terrified, and he’ll pick up on that.’
‘It’s not him I’m terrified of. How can I relax when you’ve been on at me all week about not messing up?’
‘Sorry, he’s my baby, and I’m not good at sharing. It’ll be fine. Soft seat, soft hands. We’ll just have a little walk and trot.’
Lockie’s ears flicked when Zoe landed gently on his back. His head came up as his muscles tensed. Hettie stood by him, her hand on a rein. ‘Let’s move straight away so he doesn’t have time to think about it. I’ll stay next to you for now. Is your helmet done up?’
Lockie walked when Hettie did, with stilted steps, watching her. She praised him and stroked his neck. His ears twitched again. She had to walk fast as he found his long stride. She looked up at Zoe. ‘How does it feel up there?’
‘Good. He’s gorgeous.’
The muscles in Lockie’s shoulders rippled beneath his black coat. His thick tail swung with each step.
‘Isn’t he?’
They grinned at each other.
‘Pick up your reins and let him feel your legs now.’
Zoe did, and Lockie rounded his neck, mouthed the bit and collected his stride. Zoe’s grin got wider. Hettie moved away from them. She felt a thrill to see him like that, her brave man stepping out into the world with someone else on his back. He was impressive: calm, obedient to Zoe’s aids. Okay, so she wasn’t kidding herself that he would ever be a saint, and where was the excitement in that anyway?
Lockie was Lockie, and she was so proud of him she forgot all about the beer can.
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ALEXANDER MANAGED TO stay away two full weeks, resisting. They’d met with the solicitors earlier that day, and he hadn’t wanted to be there. Discussing money, estates, fucked-up codicils he didn’t want to even think about. He’d kept his mouth shut. He didn’t trust himself not to say something he would later regret. It wasn’t James’s fault. He was just the poor bastard left to deal with the mess as executor to a will that he was excluded from. A god-awful mess. What the fuck had his father been thinking...?
Bert kept telling them to do whatever they thought best, but he didn’t seem to grasp that they couldn’t do anything without him there, and Bert wanted little to do with the solicitors. Alexander had a lot of sympathy for that, but how in hell they were going to sort it without Bert’s being there was beyond him. He could see years of tireless negotiation ahead, and possibly all for nothing. James looked shattered. Ted had been useless in the meeting, and he’d been worse than useless himself. They were rudderless, out of control. Had his father hated them this much?
He hoped in some twisted way that Hettie would turn him away, but she didn’t. She opened the door without comment. He followed her through to the sitting room.
‘Drink?’
‘No.’ He pulled her against him and lowered her onto the sofa.
So hard to move away in the aftermath. Even harder to leave; but he would, he was determined.
He hated that she was making this so easy for him. He hated her, on some confused, irrational level. What was the matter with her, where had her pride and her fight gone?
It was Hettie who got up from the sofa first, and moved away from him. There wasn’t a second offer of a drink this time. ‘Stupid question,’ she said as she held the front door open. ‘But you don’t hang around up here at other times, do you? You know, without calling in?’
‘What? No, why the fuck would I do that?’
‘You wouldn’t, of course. Forget I asked.’
She opened the door wider, and shut it behind him as soon as he’d stepped out.
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HETTIE LEANT HER BACK against the closed door. That question had been a long shot. Creeping around was not Alexander’s way. It was silence or full-on attack with him, but there had been more beer cans randomly popping up around the property. She locked the door.
It would have been nice to have company tonight, but she was damned if she would let him know that. He’d say no if she asked anyway. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Maybe this suited her fine. Good sex now and then, none of the complications.
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FOR ONCE, THE SECURITY lights had been a blessed relief. Stopped him getting caught in Melton’s lights a second time. Tricky to explain that away.
The slut was still at it then. And he’d watched, while she was in his house fucking that Melton cunt. As he lifted a fag to his mouth a tremor shook his hand. The lights were still on, triggered by the cunt driving away. He crept nearer to the bungalow. There she was, in the kitchen window, leaning over the sink. Head down though. He couldn’t see her face. She disappeared from view, reappeared with one of the mutts in her arms, her head laid against it. She sure was stupid over those fucking dogs.
He bent through the fence, a squeeze, heavy limbs, heavy coat snagging on the rough surface. Keeping to the edge of the pool of light, Julian lurched towards the nearest stable door, released the lock, kicked back the foot bolt, then on to a second stable, and a third that crashed open before he got out of the way, cannoning into his leg and the puckered burn scar there, firing pain so fierce he swayed. A blur of black as the horse surged past. Julian dragged his leg away and fell back through the fence.
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THE CLATTER OF HOOVES on concrete drew Hettie to the window. The white glare of security lights showed horses where they shouldn’t be. ‘Shit. Fuck!’
She pulled on her wellies and ran to the yard. Lockie and two of Bill’s hunters were out. How in hell had that happened? Thank God they hadn’t got far. The hunters stood outside their doors, as if bemused by their freedom. Hettie held their manes, steered their noses, and managed to turn them and shove them back into their stables.
Lockie was different. Head high, nostrils flared, he backed away when she stepped towards him. He leapt forwards when he felt the wall behind him. She got his head collar and a bucket of feed. It started to sleet, driving icy splinters through her cardigan. She couldn’t get near him.
Ten minutes turned into twenty. Her hair dripped ice down her back. ‘For God’s sake, Lockie, it’s nearly midnight. Please come inside.’ Half an hour before she even got close, another five minutes before she could put the collar over his nose, and then he jogged into the stable.
She changed his sodden rug, switched the lights to stay on and decided she was calling the police first thing in the morning.