Hard Lessons (17 page)

I can only stare at him, my confusion and I suppose my bitter disappointment plain to see. I have always failed miserably to conceal what I’m feeling, and the quiet sympathy I see reflected in his expression is almost more painful than the desolation caused by his words. He has no wish to be cruel, he doesn’t intend me to feel rejected or let down, but he fully intends to send me away. In a couple of weeks he’ll be done with me, school will be out and I’ll be sent home. An occasional, casual encounter at the Collared and Tied will be the only prospect to look forward to as far as Nick Hardisty is concerned.

I’m baffled, truly and utterly at a loss. How can we be so close in so many ways, so attuned to each other physically, and yet poles apart emotionally? And how did I get this so wrong? I may not be the most intuitive person in the world, but I’m not insensitive, I can pick up on the vibes of those around me, especially those I care about. Nick has, certainly in the last couple of days, treated me as though I was much, much more to him than just his student. Surely I didn’t imagine that? Surely I didn’t just let wishful thinking cloud my judgment?

From the grave, unsmiling expression on Nick’s face I apparently did. He shows no sign of relenting. It’s clear that he means me to take his words on board, to accept the limitations on our relationship as outlined at the outset and again just now. I see him shimmer in front of me as my eyes fill with tears. I don’t mean to turn on the waterworks, and I know it will garner me no sympathy whatsoever, but the crushing disappointment coupled with acute humiliation is more than I can bear. Suddenly, needing to be on my own to collect my shattered thoughts and regroup, I tug my hands from between his and flutter a brief sign about needing the loo. I don’t wait to see if he nods his permission or not, I just grab my bag and make for the exit.

Nick doesn’t follow me so I assume that my sudden departure has been permitted. I head for the bank of ladies toilet cubicles, the portable sort that event organizers hire in for the day, lined up discreetly behind the main stand. I stumble blindly up the wooden steps and lock myself in behind the first door.

The first ten minutes in the cubicle are spent thinking, giving myself the good talking to I so thoroughly deserve. What an idiot. What an absolute fool I am. What on earth possessed me to just blurt it out like that? The clues were there—‘Some Dom…’ Even though I still can’t quite let go of my conviction that Nick Hardisty
is
that Dom, he obviously isn’t of the same mind. At least, not yet. I should have just kept my hands still and waited. He’d have come around eventually. He’d have had to. But not now. Now I’ve gone and brought it all to a head. I’ve pushed him into a corner, and he’s pushed back. Hard.

And I’m quite at a loss as to where I go from here. My only immediate option is to gather my wits and go back out and face him, try to apologize for my part in any misunderstanding. And hope he doesn’t decide to cut our month short, in the interest of avoiding any further false impression. I couldn’t stand that.

So, I concentrate on breathing deeply, steadily. I use up nearly half a roll of loo paper dabbing at my eyes, then spend a further five minutes bent over a sink in the makeshift lobby outside the cubicles trying to make my face look halfway presentable. Eventually I feel ready to face the world again, and just possibly Nick Hardisty.

He’s waiting for me outside, leaning casually against one of the stilt poles at the back of the stand. He straightens as I emerge from the toilet block and comes toward me, his hands outstretched.

“Are you okay, Freya? I was just beginning to think I really would need to come in there and look for you…”

Gone is the stern, serious expression from earlier. Now his slate gray eyes are full of warmth, sympathy, and the approval I so crave. I nod briefly, flattening my lips tightly to avoid them quivering again at the mere sight of him. A few seconds, and the wave of emotion passes. I’m able to meet and hold his gaze.

“I’m fine. And I’m sorry about…what I said. I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” I sign the words quickly, but he’s watching carefully and gets it all. He nods.

“That’s fine, Freya. Don’t worry about it. This stuff can get pretty intense, and you
are
still learning. It’s not unusual for a new sub to become attached to a trainer. I’m the old hand here and I should have seen it coming. Let’s both just chalk it up to experience, yes?”

I feel a rush of relief, and realize that I was half expecting to be punished for my presumption. Those vile nipple clamps would have been more than my battered emotional state could have borne, I suspect. Intuitive as ever, Nick smiles at me softly. “Don’t be afraid of making mistakes, Freya. That’s why you’re here with me. I’ll correct you when you go wrong, but discipline will always be proportional. Disobedience and lying to me earn you the heavy punishments, not your honest mistakes. Do you understand the difference?”

I nod, and he loops his arm around me, pulling me in for a hug. “Great. I’m glad we got that clear. Now, you managed to miss the first race. Shall we go get our places in the stand and see if we can’t pick a winner for the second?”

I nod gratefully and trot alongside Nick as he leads me toward the entrance of the stand. An eternal optimist, I’ve not entirely given up hope for a happy ending, but I know when I’ve lost a round. For now, then, I’ll settle for enjoying his company. And if I can win a few quid at the races, so much the better.

* * * *

I managed to pick the horse that came in second in the second race, but my tired old nag was still sauntering around the course long after the rest had gone back to their stables in the third. As we’d agreed to only place our bets to win, second was worth nothing to me. I seat myself on the concrete steps of the stand to study the race card carefully.

I have a system for picking ‘winners’. I go for the horses whose jockeys wear pink. Simple enough, though not terribly effective so far. Nick is more systematic, looking at the form over the most recent three races and reading the blurb on the race card. Even so, he only managed to get third place in the second race, and repeated that in the third.

Now, the fourth race is apparently designated for fillies, female horses less than five years old. Nick suggests we go and watch them circling the paddock and maybe base our selection this time on that. I decide to go for the one with the most prettily plaited mane as that seems every bit as reliable a method as jockey’s colors.

Close up, the horses are beautiful. I’m glad I bought my wooden replica, though it doesn’t really do justice to the elegant grace of the real thing. I lean on the barrier surrounding the paddock, Nick behind me, and gaze in rapt wonder at the gorgeous creatures parading before us. Even their names seem to reflect their grace and refinement, the perfect bloodlines so carefully recorded. I gaze in awe at number seven, Arctic Princess, and at number three, The Moonstar. Then number eight, Sheer Perfection, catches my eye. They are all so beautiful. I think back to my brief flirtation with the notion of buying a racehorse, and wonder if I allowed myself to be too easily dissuaded. I can afford the odd ‘high risk’ endeavor, surely… Maybe I shouldn’t even think of it as a risk at all. Maybe I should simply write it off as a form of entertainment, and not expect to make any money out of it. Perhaps Peter Sarstedt had it right—I could buy myself a racehorse
and keep
it just for fun, for a laugh, ha, ha, ha.

So, it must have been fate, had to be pure destiny, that made the announcer choose that moment, that very instant, to announce that number two, a filly by the name of Dancing Queen, was to be auctioned at the end of the fourth race. An auction. A racehorse for sale, here. Now.

I eagerly scan the enclosure looking for number two. I catch sight of her, surrounded by interested parties, and my heart is lost. She is absolutely exquisite. A gleaming chestnut color, her dark chocolate mane intricately braided and her tail likewise, she’s immaculately turned out. Her owners clearly intend to show her off to best effect and their efforts are not wasted. Her legs are long, beautifully formed as far as my untutored eye can make out, her neck equally proud as she prances around under the eager and assessing gaze of would-be purchasers. Like the prize she is. I wonder if her new owners will take care of her as well as her current one clearly does, and I hope so. I expect they will—a racehorse is an expensive toy at best and you don’t damage it if you can help it.

She dances over in our direction, her jockey perched high on her back, decked out in green and blue checks. Not my normal pink, but I definitely intend to place a bet on Dancing Queen. As they pass close to the barrier where I’m leaning I see the jockey lean forward and whisper something to her, his hand gently stroking her long neck.

“Easy, Queenie, won’t be long now, girl…” Then they’re gone, out of earshot but still very much in sight. Close up she’s even more beautiful, and now I know she goes by the pet name of Queenie. And that’s it, that’s all I need to convince me.

Fate is still miraculously on my side when Nick leans down to murmur in my ear that he’s just going for a pee before the fourth race goes off, and do I want him to place my bet for me on his way back? I smile and point to Queenie.

“Right. Number two to win then?”

I nod, and he’s gone. No time to lose, I pull my smartphone from my pocket and bring up my email account. I quickly type in a message to Max Furrowes at Lloyds Private Banking.
Please, please be there, Max…

Hi Max,

Auction about to start at Cartmel racecourse for sale of filly called Dancing Queen. I want to buy her. Please represent me. Price no object, just make sure I get her.

Freya Stone

I hit send, and wait. A few moments later, my phone pings. I check my emails, and sure enough, God is still in his heaven and Max was clearly at his desk when I needed him. His reply is formal, as ever.

Good afternoon, Miss Stone,

A racehorse? Are you sure?

M. Furrowes

I punch in my reply.
Yes. Absolutely positive. Dancing Queen, at Cartmel. And I want to be anonymous if possible.
I hit send again, and wait.

Max doesn’t hang about.
Very well, Miss Stone. The bank will act on your behalf. I’ll be in touch when the auction is concluded regarding the details.

Best regards

M. Furrowes

“Shall we go round to the finish post, watch from there?”

I jump at the voice behind me—I hadn’t heard Nick returning. I’m not sure why it seems so important to me that he doesn’t get wind of what I’m doing—after all, buying a racehorse isn’t exactly a crime. And I know full well that I’ll be wearing those nipple clamps for a week if—when—he does find out that I did this behind his back. But in that moment I don’t care. I want my Queenie, and I’m not letting anything stop me, not even the threat of dire Dom retribution. Maybe there’s an element of belligerent rebellion at work, borne of his casual rejection earlier. Whatever, I shove my phone back into my bag and take Nick’s outstretched hand.

The race passes in a blur, and Queenie comes in second. Not a bad result, but Nick seems unimpressed as he crumples his Tote slip and drops it in a bin. “Right, let’s see if we can pick ourselves a winner for the fifth while the auction’s going on. Do you have the race card?” He sits down on the concrete steps to ponder his next investment.

I pull the race card from my bag and hand it to him, settling myself next to him on the steps. But my attention is firmly fixed on the large screen across the course as I watch the horses and jockeys parading again around the paddock. The attention of the crowds both in and outside the enclosure is divided between Arctic Princess who came in first, and my lovely Queenie.

Soon the auction gets under way, and the progress of the bidding is scrolled across the big screen. It seems like only moments before the price tops seven hundred and fifty thousand and there are just two interested parties left—a minor Arab sheikh and an anonymous UK bidder. My heart sinks. I may be wealthy, but even I have my limits. Arab sheikhs, on the other hand…

Then, suddenly, it’s all over. The sheikh has dropped out and Queenie has been sold to the UK bidder for the princely sum of eight hundred thousand pounds.
She’s mine!
I wait there, transfixed, staring at the screen.

“Diamond Geezer looks promising. What do you think?”

I turn to Nick, baffled. “What?”

“You were miles away. I said, how do you fancy Diamond Geezer to win in the next race? His jockey’s wearing pink stripes…” He adds the last comment helpfully, aware of my strategy, such as it is.

He seems quite unaware of the drama unfolding in the winner’s enclosure, on the big screen, and now on my phone as I hear the ping deep in the bowels of my bag.

“You’ve got a text.” He nods at my bag. “Don’t you want to check it?”

I shake my head, and sign, “Later.”

He shrugs and returns his attention to the race card. “So, Diamond Geezer or do you have another fancy? Or would you rather go round to the paddock and see if the new owner’s there?”

“What? Why should I want to do that?” I sign my response, and can’t miss the gleam of calculation in Nick’s eyes. He can’t know, surely he can’t…

“Well, you do seem fascinated by the auction. I just thought you might like to check out the new owner.”

So much for thinking that he was unaware. I should never underestimate a good Dom’s powers of observation. They miss nothing. Except when they’re at the loo. I shrug and accept his invitation. I can’t resist another close-up look at my lovely horse, and Max can wait. The sale details will still be there to deal with when I next get to slip away to use the facilities myself. Which won’t be long.

Chapter Nine

I nip off to the loo as soon as we agree on our next investment strategy—a fiver to win on Diamond Geezer. Once in the cubicle I drag out my phone and find Max’s email.

Dear Miss Stone,

The sale is concluded and you now own a racehorse. As I’m sure you’re aware, the purchase price was £800,000 but there will be an agents’ commission on top of that, and tax. I’ll confirm the final, total cost in due course. I have also taken the liberty of agreeing that the animal remain with its current stable in the care of its existing trainer until such time as I receive further instructions from you. There will be an ongoing cost associated with that, and you’ll need to insure the animal, which I will include in your regular transactions from now on.