The Horse Dancer (15 page)

 

Spending time with the seriously rich was a bit like reading interiors magazines, Natasha thought, as she eyed the clothes on her bed. It made you dissatisfied with your lot. As she had watched that woman with her flawless skin, her exquisitely cut cashmere and silk clothes, her tiny designer shoes, Natasha’s serviceable wardrobe had seemed suddenly frumpy, her no-bigger-than-average figure lumpen and overweight. Mind you, she thought, folding her jeans, she had survived marital separation better than Georgina Persey. The woman had rattled on for a further hour, not hearing the advice offered to her, contradicting her own statements, in a confusion of fury, bitterness and perhaps genuine anxiety. By the time she had left even Michael Harrington had been shattered.

Now, standing beside her bed, Natasha jumped when she heard the front door open. There was a brief pause, as if he was weighing up what to say, and then she heard him offer, tentatively, ‘Hi,’ from the hallway.

Her jaw clenched involuntarily – hi honey I’m home, as if they were somehow a happy family again. She waited a moment, then shouted, ‘I’m upstairs,’ making sure it didn’t sound like an invitation.

Maddeningly, he came up anyway. His head appeared in the doorway, and then he was filling it. ‘I’m thinking of getting a takeaway. I wondered if you wanted some.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I – I’m going out.’

‘Going away,’ he corrected, clearly having noted the suitcase.

‘Just for the weekend.’ She walked to the chest of drawers and took out two folded tops.

‘Anywhere nice?’

‘Kent.’ She had wondered whether to tell him about the cottage she had rented since he had gone. But she was afraid he might assume she had somewhere else to live, which would add to his sense of entitlement over the house. Conor had warned her not to reveal anything to Mac, no matter how nice he seemed –
It all comes back to bite you in the end
. ‘So you can have the house to yourself for the weekend,’ she added. She laid the clothes in the case and went into the en-suite to gather up her moisturiser and makeup.

Mac had thrust his hands deep into his jeans. He was looking around him awkwardly, as if the spectre of their time in this room had floated up to haunt him. She had changed nothing in it since he left, she realised. It was one of the reasons, she suspected, that Conor didn’t like staying here.

‘So,’ he said, ‘all-night party for me, then.’

She whirled round.

‘I’m joking. You forgot your hair brush.’

She hesitated, then took it. She couldn’t tell him she had one at the cottage.

Mac rubbed a hand over the back of his head. ‘I take it this is with Conor?’

She kept her back to him now, putting things into the case.

‘Yes.’

‘How is he?’

‘Fine.’

‘If this is because I’m here, don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘You just say the word and I can go out for the evening. I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes. Don’t feel you have to go.’

‘I’m not. I mean you’re not,’ she lied. ‘We go away most weekends.’

‘I’ve got places I can go. Just say the word.’

She continued to pack, his presence making her feel increasingly self-conscious and oddly invaded. The bedroom was her sanctuary, the one place she had been able to feel was still hers since his return. Having him there was a grim reminder of the times they had fallen gleefully into bed, the days they had spent watching DVDs and eating burnt toast . . . the nights when she had lain six cold inches away from him, feeling like the loneliest person in the world. Trainers, boots, jeans. Hairbrush. She struggled to order her thoughts.

‘Where in Kent are you going?’ he asked.

‘What is this?
Twenty Questions
?’ It had flashed out before she could censor it.

‘I’m just being polite, Tash. We’re skirting round each other every day. I’m trying to act as if we can at least have a civil conversation.’ He continued, his voice even, ‘In fact, I’m the one standing here waving my wife—’

‘Ex-wife.’

‘—almost ex-wife off to a weekend with her lover. I think that’s pretty civilised, don’t you? Can you not meet me halfway?’

She wanted to tell him she was finding this difficult, far more so than even she had anticipated, but even that small admission felt like giving too much away. ‘Just . . .’ she said ‘. . . a little village near the Sussex border.’

He frowned, shifted his feet on the varnished floor. ‘Well, I shouldn’t be around much longer. The agents rang to tell me they’d finished the details. It goes on the market tomorrow.’

That feeling of being winded again. She stood in the middle of the room, a pair of boots dangling from her hand.

‘We did agree, Tash,’ he said, catching her expression.

‘Don’t keep calling me that,’ she said irritably. ‘I’m Natasha.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘If I had enough money not to do this, I wouldn’t. I don’t like the thought of the house being sold either. Don’t forget how much time I spent on it.’

She held the boots to her. Outside someone had started to play music, the beat bouncing relentlessly off the frontages of the terraced houses.

‘But perhaps it will be easier in the long run.’

‘I doubt it,’ she said briskly. ‘But if it’s got to be done, then let’s get it over with.’ She zipped the case shut and, with a brief smile that wasn’t very much like a smile at all, Natasha walked past her soon-to-be-ex-husband and down the stairs.

 

 

 

They had moved him again, and it took Sarah twenty minutes to locate him. He was in the stroke ward, where he had been until last week when pneumonia had sent him back to Intensive Care.

‘We did hope he’d be a bit further along by now,’ said the nurse, as she showed Sarah to his curtained area, ‘but it’s the dysphagia – the trouble swallowing. Poor old boy, he’s struggling a bit.’

‘He’s not a boy,’ Sarah said curtly. ‘He’s seventy-four.’

The nurse’s stride faltered, as if she was going to say something but then she simply walked faster so that Sarah had to skip a little to keep up. She stopped outside a blue floral curtain and pulled it back to allow Sarah in.

Sarah drew a chair close to the bed. The back had been raised so that he sat half upright. Sarah ached at the sight of his greyed chin, resting loosely on his chest. She had never seen her grandfather with more than overnight stubble, and this forfeit of his personal care would pain him.

She opened the cabinet beside his bed quietly, trying to assess whether his belongings had been brought back to this ward with him. Often she had to chase the nurses to find out where they were. Since he had been at the hospital two pairs of pyjamas had disappeared, with the new bar of soap she had brought and a bag of razors. She scanned the shelf, noting with relief his washbag, a small towel, and the picture of him and Nana. She lifted it out and put it on top of the cabinet. If she positioned it carefully he could look at her all day.

She glanced at her watch, trying to work out how much time she had. The Hewitts had strong ideas about routine. They wanted her at their house by four o’clock, even though she had told them where she was going. It was almost two now, and nearly impossible for her to get to Sparepenny Lane in time to take Boo out.

She touched her grandfather’s hand. His skin, dry and papery, made something inside her contract. Four weeks in hospital seemed to have sucked the essence out of him, shorn him of his robustness. It was hard to see him as someone who had ridden a rearing horse just weeks ago. The reversal in their positions made her feel giddy, rootless, as if nothing in her world made sense any more.

‘Papa?’

He opened an eye and peered vacantly at the blanket. She wondered whether he was working out where he was. Then he lifted his head slowly.

‘Papa?’

His expression was blank. She glanced at the array of medicines on the trolley beside him. He would be given antibiotics for some weeks, the nurses had told her, just to be on the safe side. She reached forward and put his glasses on his face. ‘I brought you some yoghurt.’ Now that they had removed the tube from his throat, she tried most days to bring him something he could swallow easily. She knew he detested the hospital food.

His eyes softened, and she could see that he knew her now. She laid her hand on his. ‘The black cherry. The one you like.’ His hand clenched under hers. ‘Just thought I’d tell you, Boo’s starting to get his winter coat already, but he’s really well. We did lots of walk to canter yesterday, and he didn’t hot up once. I’ve upped his food a bit, as the nights are colder. I’m giving him an extra scoop of sugar beet – is that okay?’

It was the slightest nod, but it was enough. Things were as they should be now: her seeking his approval.

‘I’ll be heading over to him when I leave here. I thought I might take him for a walk up to the marshes. I can’t go to the park because it’s Saturday afternoon. Too many people. But he’ll enjoy a nice stretch out.’ This was a lie but, these days, Sarah edited everything. It was important that he had only good things to think about while he was here, with nothing else to do.

‘And the new family I’m staying with are nice. Lots of food, but not as good as ours. When you get back I’m going to treat us to a great big fish stew with lots of garlic, like you like it.’

His fingers twitched under her hand. This was his bad hand, the one he struggled to lift. She kept talking, as if mundane chat could persuade some normality back to their lives. ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked finally. She held up the plastic beaker with his water. A slight inclination of the head. She held it to his lips, and tilted his chin a little with her other hand, so that the water would drip into his mouth. She had lost her squeamishness about doing such tasks for him now. She had found that if she didn’t do them, they were unlikely to be done at all.

‘
Temps
,’ he said.

She looked at him.

‘Bread.
Chapeau
.’ His eyes closed in irritation.

‘You want the nurse?’

A frown.

‘Let me set you upright a little more.’ She reached behind him for the pillows, trying to prop him so that he was less collapsed. She adjusted the bed with practised hands, then arranged his pyjama jacket around his neck so that he appeared a little more dignified. ‘Better?’

He nodded. He looked defeated.

‘Okay. Don’t get upset, Papa. The doctor said it will come. He said it can be the last thing to come. You remember. And you’ve not been well so I’m sure all the drugs didn’t help. They might have muddled you up.’

Disapproval shrouded his eyes. He didn’t like her to patronise him. And then, as she watched, his gaze slid towards the table, towards her bag. ‘The yoghurt. You want some of the yoghurt?’

He sighed, relief flooding his features. ‘
Chapeau
,’ he said again.

‘Okay,’ said Sarah. ‘
Chapeau
.’ She pulled a teaspoon out of her bag and peeled off the lid.

Even with the benefit of a year’s distance, it was hard to see the truth of what had prompted the end of their marriage. Perhaps it was impossible to find truth in such situations; perhaps all you could ever expect was two people’s truth. Court truth – no absolutes, just points of view, dependent on who could argue them better. Except somehow it had ended long before they ever got the chance to argue it out at all.

In the early days after Mac had left, Natasha had told herself that it had been for the best. Their characters were fundamentally different. Feeling angry all the time had drained her, turned her into someone she didn’t like, and it was clear that last year neither had been happy. It was possible that if they had spent more time together they would have grasped this sooner. She told herself so many times.

But she had been unable to sit alone in the London house. It was, after all, he used to joke, ‘The House That Mac Built’, and he had permeated every inch of it. Every room held an echo of what she had lost: the staircase he had rebuilt, the shelves he had had to put up twice, the spaces where books, CDs, clothes had been. Most of what he had taken with him, he had put into storage, and even that bothered her: the things they had loved, had chosen together, sitting in some impersonal space because he would rather have them locked away than suggest that any part of him still shared her life.

‘I’ll pick the rest up in a week or two,’ he had said, as she stood rooted to the hall floor. She remembered feeling conscious of the cold stone beneath her bare feet. She had nodded, as if somehow agreeing that this was a sensible course of action. And then, as the door had closed behind him, she had allowed herself to slide slowly down the wall and on to the floor. She had sat there for an unknown period of time, made catatonic by the scale of what had happened.

For weeks afterwards, long before her family and friends knew that her marriage was over, at weekends, early in the morning or late at night, in the spaces when it was impossible for her to be in her office and lose herself in work, she had climbed into her car and driven. She drove through city streets, across elevated motorways, under bridges and on to dark, sparsely lit dual-carriageways, pausing only to refill her car with fuel. She drove and listened to the radio, to the talk shows whose callers were supposed to remind her that her life wasn’t that bad, but somehow didn’t. She listened to the political programmes, the documentaries, the dramas and soaps. She didn’t listen to music – the aural equivalent of strolling across a minefield. Just when you thought you were fine some meaningful song would shatter you without warning. We danced to that, had a barbecue to that. She would fiddle with the dial as tears streamed down her cheeks. Better to listen to the news, tut at the headlines, marvel at the rabid views.