The Horse Dancer (26 page)

‘Okay . . . so I still haven’t quite mastered the timing,’ Mac said. ‘Sorry. The beef might be a bit overdone.’

‘What’s that?’ Sarah prodded at the sludgy mound. It looked, Natasha thought, trying to keep a straight face, like something her horse might have left behind.

‘That’s refried beans,’ Mac said. ‘Haven’t you had refried beans before?’

She shook her head, mildly suspicious, as if this might be some practical joke.

‘It tastes better than it looks. Honest.’

He waited, watching them.

‘Oh, okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s get a takeaway.’

‘There are no takeaways, Mac,’ Natasha said. ‘It’s the country. Look,’ she broke open the packet of tacos, ‘if we smother it all in sour cream and cheese it’ll taste fine. That’s all Mexican food’s about anyway, right?’

After supper Sarah disappeared for a bath, then emerged to say that, if it was okay by them, she’d go to bed. She clutched a battered paperback under her arm.

‘It’s only nine thirty!’ Mac exclaimed. He and Natasha had moved to the little front room where his feet rested on the log basket. ‘What kind of teenager are you?’

‘A tired one, I should imagine,’ Natasha said. ‘You’ve had quite a day.’

‘What’s the book?’

Sarah pulled it out from under her arm. It was covered in red paper, held together with sticky tape. ‘It’s my granddad’s,’ she said, and then, when they looked expectant, ‘It’s Xenophon.’

‘You read classics?’ Natasha couldn’t hide her surprise.

‘It’s about horsemanship. Papa used to read it so I thought it might help . . .’

‘The Greeks can teach you about riding?’

She handed it to Mac, who examined the cover. ‘Nothing very much changes,’ she said. ‘You know the white horses of Vienna?’

Even Natasha knew of the gleaming white stallions. She had assumed they were just a decorative tourist attraction, like Beefeaters.

‘Their riders still work from the Treatise of La Guérinière and that was written in 1735.
Capriole
,
croupade
,
curvets
 . . . The airs, the movements, that is, haven’t changed since they were performed in front of the Sun King.’

‘A lot of the principles of law date back that far,’ said Natasha. ‘I’m impressed that you’re interested in classical texts. Have you read
The Iliad
? I’ve got a copy upstairs. You might enjoy—’

But Sarah was already shaking her head. ‘It’s just . . . it’s just about teaching Boo. While Papa isn’t here.’

‘Tell me something, Sarah.’ Mac reached for a taco and put it into his mouth. ‘What’s it all about?’

‘What?’

‘This fine-tuning stuff. All this making sure your feet are in exactly the right place. That your horse moves his legs exactly this way or that. That his head is exactly
here
. I mean, I can see the point of jumping things or racing. But I watched you in the park, going over and over the same things, again and again. What’s the point of
that
?’

She was startled, Natasha thought, as if the question had been heretical.

‘What’s the
point
of it?’ Sarah said.

‘Of doing those little movements so obsessively. I can see it looks lovely, but I don’t get what you’re pursuing. Half the time I can’t even see what you’re aiming for.’

She had washed her hair and, damp, it still held the tiny, regular furrows of the comb’s teeth. She looked at him steadily. ‘Why do you keep taking pictures?’

He grinned, enjoying this. ‘Because there’s always a better one to take.’

She shrugged. ‘And I could always do it better.
We
could always do it better. It’s about trying to achieve the perfect communication. And a little movement of your finger on a rein or a tiny adjustment of weight might do that. It’s different every time because he might be in a mood or I might be tired, or the ground might be softer. It’s not just technical – it’s about two minds, two hearts . . . trying to find a balance. It’s about what passes between you.’

Mac raised an eyebrow at Natasha. ‘I think we get that,’ he said.

‘But when Boo gets it,’ Sarah continued, ‘when we get it right together, there’s just no feeling like it.’ Her eyes drifted sideways, her hands closing unconsciously on imaginary reins in front of her. ‘A horse can do beautiful things, incredible things, if you can work out how to ask him properly. It’s about trying to unlock that, unlocking his ability . . . and then getting him to do it. And, more than that, getting him to do it because
he
wants to. Because doing it makes him the best he can be.’

There was a short silence. She was a little awkward now, as if she had revealed too much.

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘he’d rather be at home.’

‘Well, you’ll have him back soon,’ Mac said cheerfully, ‘after his little holiday. And we’ll be just a bad memory. Something for you to tell your friends about.’

‘I don’t think,’ Sarah continued, as if she hadn’t heard, ‘he’ll be very happy when I’m not here in the week.’

Natasha felt impatience swelling within, sharpening her tone. ‘But we’ve been through this. Even if he’s in London you wouldn’t be able to see him. At least here you can be sure someone’s taking care of him. Come on, Sarah . . .’ She hadn’t meant to sound irritated, but she was exhausted.

Sarah made as if to leave the room, but turned back. ‘Are you selling your house?’ she said, from the doorway. ‘I heard you talking when I was in the bath,’ she added.

It was too small a house for secrets. Natasha looked at Mac, who blew out a long breath. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, we are.’

‘Where are you moving?’

He threw the box of matches towards the ceiling and caught it. ‘Well, I’m probably moving to somewhere in Islington, and I’m not sure where Natasha’s going, but you needn’t worry. It isn’t going to happen for a while, long after you’re back with your grandfather.’

She dawdled in the doorway. ‘You’re not together any more, are you?’ It was an observation more than a question.

‘Nope,’ said Mac. ‘We’re just staying together for the sake of the children. That’s you, by the way.’ He hurled the book at Sarah and she caught it. ‘Look, don’t worry about us,’ he said, catching her discomfort. ‘We’re good friends, and we’re happy to stay together until everything’s sorted out. Aren’t we, Tash?’

‘Yes.’ It came out as a croak. Sarah was watching her and she felt that the girl could see through her, sense her discomfort.

‘I’ll sort out my own breakfast,’ Sarah said, tucking the book under her arm. ‘I’d like to go down the lane as early as I can, if that’s okay.’ And then she was gone, creaking up the narrow stairway to bed.

The first night Mac and Natasha had spent in their London house they had slept on a mattress on a dusty floor. Somewhere in the move from her flat the bolts that fitted the two parts of their divan bed together had disappeared and, exhausted after a day’s unpacking, they had laid the mattress in front of the heater in the living room and covered themselves with a duvet. She remembered it now, lying in his arms beneath the bare windows that looked out on to the darkened street, a distant plane crossing the night sky. They had been surrounded by teetering cardboard boxes that would stay unsorted for months, someone else’s wallpaper, the strange feeling of sleeping in a house that they owned but was not yet theirs. The two of them, camping in that space, had somehow added to the sense of otherness, of unreality. She had lain there, her heart beating too fast, not even picturing where they would be, what this house would become, but relishing one small, perfect moment, a convergence of happiness and possibility that she suspected she knew even then could not last.

Feeling his arm resting across her body, the vast space of the old house around them, she had been filled with the sense that they could do anything. As if this was simply the starting point for something as endless as that sky. And she had turned to gaze at him, this beautiful, besotted man, running her fingers lightly over his sleeping face, dropping kisses on his skin until he woke slowly and, with a sleepy murmur of surprise and pleasure, pulled her against him.

Natasha poured herself a large glass of wine. She stared at the television, unsure what she was watching. She felt strangely exposed and realised, with horror, that her eyes were pricking with tears. She turned a little away from Mac, blinking furiously, and took a long swig from her glass.

‘Hey,’ said Mac, softly.

She couldn’t turn round. She’d never been able to weep discreetly. By now her nose would be glowing like a beacon. She heard him get up and walk across the little room to close the door. Then sat down and turned off the television. She cursed him silently.

‘You okay?’

‘Fine,’ she said briskly.

‘You don’t look it.’

‘Well, I am.’ She lifted her glass again.

‘Has she upset you?’

She pushed herself upright. ‘No . . .’ This wasn’t going to be enough. ‘I guess I find the whole horse thing a little exhausting. Actually, just having a teenager around is pretty exhausting.’

He nodded.

‘It’s not been . . . straightforward, has it?’

He grinned at her.

Don’t be nice, she thought. Don’t do this. She bit her lip.

‘Is it . . . the house?’

She forced her face into an expression of blank nonchalance. ‘Oh . . . I suppose it was always going to be a little strange.’

‘I don’t feel too great either,’ he said. ‘I love that house.’

They sat in silence, staring into the fire. Outside, the cottage was enveloped by the black night of deep country, muffling sound and light.

‘All that work, though,’ she said. ‘All those years of planning and decorating and imagining. It’s just . . . hard, knowing it’s all going to disappear. I can’t help thinking about what it was like when we first got there, when it was a wreck but with all that potential.’

‘I’ve still got the pictures,’ he admitted. ‘A print of you knocking through that back wall, all covered in dust, with your sledgehammer . . .’

‘It just seems weird, the idea of someone else being in there. They won’t know about any of it – about the reclaimed wood banisters or why we put that round window in the bathroom . . .’

Mac seemed suddenly lost for words.

‘All that work. And then nothing. We just move on.’ She was aware that the wine was prompting her to say too much and was somehow unable to stop herself. ‘It feels . . . like leaving a piece of yourself behind.’

He met her eyes, and she had to look away. On the grate, a log shifted, sending a burst of sparks up the chimney.

‘I don’t think,’ she said, almost to herself, ‘that I could put that much work in somewhere else.’

Upstairs she heard Sarah opening and closing a drawer against the dull crackle of the fire.

‘I’m sorry, Tash.’ He hesitated, then reached across and took her hand. She stared at their fingers, intertwined. The strange, yet familiar feel of his skin on hers knocked her breath from her chest.

She pulled away, her cheeks colouring. ‘This is why I don’t drink very often,’ she said, and stood up. ‘It’s been a long day. And I suppose everyone feels like this when they sell somewhere that they’ve spent a long time in. But it’s just a house, right?’

Mac, face revealed nothing of what he was thinking. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘It’s just a house.’

 

 

 

Despite her exhaustion, Natasha slept fitfully. The silence of the countryside seemed oppressive, the proximity of Mac and Sarah too great in the confines of the cottage. Downstairs, she could hear the creak of the sofa when he shifted, the diplomatic pad of bare feet to the bathroom as Sarah crept to the loo in the small hours. She thought she could even hear them breathing, and wondered if that meant Mac could hear every move she made too. She slept, and woke from brief, fitful dreams of arguments with him, or hallucinatory imaginings that strangers invaded her home, until finally, as the blue light and Arctic orange sun rose above the distant trees, she stopped trying to force her eyes shut. A kind of peace descended, as if her mind had been persuaded by physical circumstance to be still. She lay there, staring at the lightening ceiling, until she pulled on a dressing-gown and climbed out of bed.

She wouldn’t think about Mac. Allowing herself to get upset about the house was foolish. Dwelling on the touch of a hand was the road to madness. She had been drunk and had let down her guard. God only knew what Conor would have said if he had seen her.

She checked the time – a quarter past six – then listened for the dull roar that would tell her the central-heating timer had kicked in. She gazed at her closed bedroom door, as if she could see through it to where Sarah lay sleeping on the other side of the landing.

I’ve been selfish, she thought. She isn’t stupid, and she can sense my discomfort. How must it feel to have lost so much, to be so dependent on strangers? Money, her age, her background gave Natasha choices that Sarah might never have. For the next few weeks, she resolved, she would be friendlier, disguise her inbuilt reserve and distrust. She would make this short stay useful. A small act, but a worthy one. If she focused more on Sarah, she might be less diverted by Mac’s presence. She might be able to prevent herself ending up in the situation she had last night.

Coffee, she decided. She would make coffee and enjoy an hour’s peace.

She opened her bedroom door as silently as she could and stepped out. The spare-room door was ajar, and Natasha stared at it for a moment before, on a whim, stepping forward and pushing gently against it. This was what mothers did, she told herself. All over the world mothers were pushing bedroom doors to gaze at their sleeping children. She might feel a little of what they felt. Just a little. It was somehow easier to feel something, to try to feel something, when the girl was asleep.