Hard Lessons (23 page)

Half an hour later my bag’s packed and I’m in the dining room gathering all my sewing paraphernalia together. This takes longer, but by five o’clock I have all my stuff in a pile of boxes and bags by the front door. Nick appears and helps me to carry everything out to my car, filling up the boot and the back seat. No further words are exchanged, there’s nothing left to say. I hand him back his key as I turn to get into the driver’s seat.

It’s only as I’m driving through Cartmel, heading back to the main road in the direction of Kendal, that I realize I’m still wearing his waist chain.

I need to remove that too. But not yet. Not quite yet.

I drive back to Kendal on autopilot, the details of the journey a hazy blur. I pull up in my private parking space in the underground garage below my apartment building with absolutely no recollection of how I got there. I don’t even get out of the car at first. I just sit there staring at the cream-painted breeze block wall four feet from my windscreen and wondering how it all fell apart so quickly.

I rewind the final few hours with Nick repeatedly in my head, combing through the wreckage for some other possible outcome, some way I could have possibly retraced my steps and made different choices. What could I have done differently? Everything. Nothing. I could have allowed myself to be handed over to Daniel without protest, and it really wouldn’t have been so bad. Really, it wouldn’t. He’s nice, considerate. Kind. A lot kinder than Nick, I’m beginning to suspect.

But he’s not Nick, so it’s no use. I might have actually done what Nick wanted if Daniel didn’t call time on the whole thing. I might have stifled my objections, might have managed to somehow distance myself from what was happening to my body and just allowed it to flow over me. On reflection, though, I doubt that either Dom would have stood for that.

No. What happened was inevitable, a foregone conclusion really. I made my position, my aspirations clear at the race meeting, and Nick made it his business from then on to show me that it couldn’t be, And where his words failed, his actions did not. He did what he had to do to force the issue and ram his point home. Christ, he was merciless.

Maybe half an hour goes by as I sit in my car, tears coursing unchecked down my cheeks as I grieve for a future that was never going to be mine. I might have stayed there all night but for the sharp rap on my window, which startles me out of my well of self-pity. The night security guard has noticed me as he strolled around on his hourly patrol and has decided to come over to investigate. I daresay he’s checked already for suspicious attachments to the exhaust pipe before he approaches me—it wouldn’t look good on his record if residents in his charge gas themselves in the car park.

“Are you all right, Miss?” His voice is loud in the otherwise silent car park, echoing around the space. I turn, wipe frantically at my eyes, and nod sharply. I just wish he’d go away and leave me to drown in my misery undisturbed. Can’t he tell I’m busy?

Apparently not. He raps on the window again, just in case I haven’t spotted him, and tries the door handle. I’m glad it locks automatically and can only be opened from inside. “Do you need anything, Miss? Are you lost?”

In a manner of speaking
. But I shake my head, and bow to the inevitable. If I want privacy to wallow in my grief I’ll need to go to my apartment for it. I grab my couple of bags from the passenger seat and open the door. The security man recognizes me, or more likely he recognizes the car, because he doesn’t seem unduly surprised when I don’t talk to him. Or maybe he’s just come to the conclusion that I’m a miserable cow on all levels and he just wants me out of his nice, trouble-free car park.

I make my way to the lift and press the call button. I’m not sure which of us is most relieved, me or the security man, when the lift doors slide shut encasing me inside and the metal box glides upwards.

Once in my own apartment I wander around vaguely for a few minutes, touching my furniture and making half-hearted attempts to clear the clutter. Then I abandon all pretense of control and drop weeping onto the sofa where I spend the next hour or so immersed in my misery. I sob, sniff, blow my nose, and sob some more. I’m a mess but I don’t care. The only feeling that compares to this is the sense of desolation I experienced in the days following my gran’s death. But I had Margaret then, my anchor. Now I have no one to help pick me up, not even Summer.

I suppose I could go to see Margaret. That might be therapeutic. Somehow, though, I can’t drum up any enthusiasm for booking flights or hotels, and I’d be just as bereft when I eventually had to come back home again. Unless I decide to emigrate permanently. I quickly reject that notion. Being miserable and lonely is bad enough in a place where I feel at home—how much worse would it be to feel like this and be homesick as well? No, I’ll cut my losses and stay put.

Eventually I fall asleep on the sofa, and when I open my eyes again there’s bright sunlight streaming through my windows. For a moment, just a fraction of a moment, I’m happy. Then I remember and my mood blackens—once more I’m suffocating under a claggy blanket of misery and rejection. I roll over and try to go back to sleep where everything’s less painful, but my body’s not having that. After a few minutes I drag myself to my feet and head off to the kitchen to rustle up a cup of tea. I happen to know I have no food in except a few tins—I cleared out my fridge when I thought I wouldn’t be here for a month. I suppose I’ll need to go shopping later but I recoil in horror at the thought of battling through Asda. The supermarket in Kendal is one of those twenty-four hour ones so maybe I should go at three in the morning, with all the shift workers, insomniacs and other antisocial misfits.

I make myself a cup of tea then head for the loo. I catch sight of my ravaged face in the bathroom mirror and decide I really must do something about that. I start with a shower, wash my hair then clean my teeth. I’m starting to feel more human, and despite my aversion to Asda my stomach is starting to demand sustenance. As a diabetic I know I need to eat regularly, and my ingrained healthy habits are hard to shake. By mid-morning I’m hungry enough to force me out of the apartment once more in search of food, and I wander down into Kendal town center to pick up a jacket spud or whatever else I might see. An hour later, my appetite satisfied for the time being, I’m back in the solitude of my apartment staring at the walls.

I’m a natural optimist—I usually manage to bounce back. I can invariably see something positive in whatever life throws at me, but this latest setback has totally floored me. I have literally no idea, no idea at all what to do next.

At last, for want of something, anything, to do, I pick up the bags I dragged in here last night and take them into my bedroom to unpack my stuff. And it’s in one of those bags that I find my inspiration.

Queenie. Well, the wooden model of a racehorse actually, still wrapped in the crumpled stallholder’s bag and stuffed down the side of my sexy and now redundant underwear. In my heart I think of the carved galloping horse as Queenie, the elegant lines and grace symbolizing my own lovely racehorse. And I want to see her. Max told me I could and sent me the trainer’s contact details. I dig in my jacket pocket for my phone only to find that the battery has died overnight. Never mind, a temporary setback. I plug it into the charger and wait for the little green light to start flashing. It does, and I’m in business.

I scroll through Max’s emails for the details of the trainer’s stable close to Nantwich in Cheshire. He’s called Malcolm Paterson, apparently, and I send him a message introducing myself and asking when would be convenient for me to visit my new acquisition. He replies within minutes to tell me I’m welcome any time so I suggest the following day.

I daresay he didn’t expect me to be quite that eager, but he offers no objections so arrangements are made for me to spend the following afternoon at his stables. He provides detailed directions to help me find the place and declares himself delighted to be able to meet me at last. I reply thanking him, and add a few lines to explain my communication issues to him. It’s probably better to get all that sorted in advance. He emails me back, again very promptly, to tell me that if I have no objection he’ll invite Maddie, one of his grooms, to join us. Apparently she has a brother who uses BSL so she’s fluent and can translate.

This seems like an omen to me, and I start to look forward to tomorrow.

See? Natural optimism.

* * * *

The following afternoon I pull up in the neat and scrupulously tidy cobbled yard at Talltrees, the racing stable where apparently Queenie has been a resident for the last few months. And if I’m not very much mistaken I can see the lady in question watching me with intelligent interest. Her head is peering inquisitively over the half stable door of her stall on the far side of the yard. I’m just opening my car door intending to go over and introduce myself when a hand is thrust at me, helping me to my feet. I take it and find myself staring up at the second most attractive man I think I have ever seen in my life. He’s stunning. Absolutely gorgeous, a blond, green-eyed Greek God come to life. He’s tall, about the same height as Nick, and broad-shouldered from a lifestyle spent outside or riding. The jodhpurs and riding boots do no harm to his general attractiveness either. He introduces himself as Malcolm Paterson, the owner of this stable and current guardian of my lovely Queenie. He continues to hold my hand, shaking it slightly by way of greeting, a rather surprised smile on his face.

“Good afternoon. Miss Stone?”

I nod as he reaches behind me to close my car door.

“I expected someone—older,” he explains in a soft Irish accent. His grin at me is appreciative, as he turns to glance around the yard. “Where’s that bloody girl? Always hanging around but never here when you want her, Maddie.
Maddie!”

A small, slim figure emerges from one of the stalls and saunters toward us. Her hair is caught up in a messy ponytail, and I can’t help thinking it couldn’t have been this particular groom who turned out Queenie so beautifully on the day of Cartmel races. Mr Paterson introduces the newcomer as Maddie, apparently our translator.

“She’s a rubbish groom but she cries every time I try to sack her. Still, if she can translate for us this afternoon it just shows she’s managed to come in useful for something at last. It may have been worth keeping her after all.” He slings an arm casually around her shoulders, his affectionate smile belying his words. She digs him in the ribs with her elbow. Hard. Then she sticks out her hand for me to shake.

“I’m a great groom and Pat knows it. I’m Maddie. Pleased to meet you, Miss Stone.” She signs the words, her hands as fast as mine.

“Freya. It’s Freya,” I sign back, and she repeats my words for Malcolm’s benefit. Or is that Pat? He soon clarifies.

“And I’m Pat to my friends. And long-suffering half-cousin or some such distant relative to this little scruff. Her brother’s deaf so BSL is the second language in that branch of the family. I’m afraid I never learned it, though. So, did I understand right, you have no problem with your hearing, you just don’t speak?”

I nod, and briefly explain about my childhood illness. I rarely go into so much detail when I first meet anyone, but I’m immediately drawn to Pat and Maddie. They seem like friends. Family even. I have a good feeling about this place.

I spend the rest of that afternoon following Pat and Maddie around the huge Talltrees operation, Maddie helpfully translating for me but also chipping in her own observations. Especially around Queenie. She’s the groom who takes care of my filly mostly, and despite appearances did indeed make her presentable for Cartmel. My horse is obviously well cared for here and I’m glad I left her where she was. Not that I’d much choice, I’d have had absolutely no idea where else to stable her. Pat explains his plans for training Queenie over the coming months, the race meetings he’s considering entering her for, culminating in the Ebor meeting at York next summer. Much of it is incomprehensible to me, but Pat’s confidence in Queenie’s future is infectious. He clearly believes she has huge potential and he’s keen to continue working with her. I assure him that I’m happy for that to be the case, but that I’d like to be involved myself if possible. Maybe attend the race meetings and spend time with her here. I’m finding the talk of horses and racing strangely fascinating and would like to become part of this world. And I so desperately need something to do that will help me to move on after Nick’s rejection.

I suppose, if I’m completely honest, in my pre-Nick days I’d have wanted to be a part of Pat’s world too. He really is incredibly attractive, funny, intelligent, and truly an expert at what he does. But I’m constantly comparing him to Nick, and it’s too soon for anyone else to come remotely close to usurping my unwilling Dom in my misguided affections. Not that Pat has suggested anything of the sort, but I wonder if maybe I might detect a twinkling of interest in his laughing green eyes. Probably a non-starter, though. Whatever the future may or may not hold as far as Nick Parish is concerned, I am most definitely into kink. A vanilla relationship just wouldn’t cut it, and I don’t pick up any dominant vibes at all from Pat.

What is not in doubt, though, is the potential for friendship here, and the genuinely warm welcome. I even get to stroke Queenie, who does seem to quite like me. I’ve absolutely no experience with horses at all so Maddie has to show me how to feed her apples from the flat of my hand. Then Pat throws a saddle on Queenie and casually tosses Maddie up onto her back for a canter around the large paddock. He leans on the fence alongside me, watching her proudly.

“She really is a beauty. You have a good eye for horses, Freya.”

I shake my head—my translator is out of earshot so more detailed communication is difficult.

He’s not deterred. “Oh, yes. Definitely. But I’m puzzled—I thought I knew all the owners, at least in this country. I haven’t come across your name before. And I’m sure I’d have remembered.”

I pull out my phone and resort to the tried and tested method.