Chapter 3
CHAPTER
On Friday evening, after checking on Charlie and the other cockatiels, I take a shortcut to the staff accommodation through the stable complex.
The thoroughbreds have been put to bed for the night, so the paved corridor with stables either side is dimly lit.
Some horses, including Delphinium, are already lying down, others hang their heads over half-doors.
Trapezium, an ink black colt that’ll sell as a yearling for hundreds of thousands of dollars, is in the last stall on the left. I scratch between his ears.
‘I hope you’ve had a better day than me.’ When the colt hangs his head over the door, I comb through his forelock. ‘We lost one of our birds, a wedge-tailed eagle, this morning.’ My eyes prickle. ‘She was a beautiful girl.’
Trapezium looks content to have company, so I carry on.
‘You want to hear more about my day? You won’t judge me for complaining out loud?
’ The horse nuzzles my hip. ‘Josie has elected to come back from maternity leave early. As it was her job I was covering, I’ll be finishing in just a few weeks—three months sooner than I thought I would be.
’ The colt lowers his head for another scratch.
‘When the HR director pointed out that I’d gone from one job to another since I’d graduated and it might be good to have a break to think about my long-term plans, I held back from telling her I needed an income. ’
Headlights wind through the darkness to the oversized parking area at the back of Martin’s house. Slammed doors. Laughter. The visitors will follow the garden lights that lead to the enormous porch.
‘Thorsen asked me to call and I haven’t. Given I’ve lost my job and Tilly’s school fees are going up next term, maybe I should have.’
When my phone pings and pings again, I glance at the screen. Texts from my mother.
Can you upgrade Tipsy-Cat’s booking from the executive to the presidential package? He’s so fussy with his food! It’s only $200 more.
My landlord says the new lock is my responsibility, and he won’t reimburse you. $500.00!!!! What was I supposed to do?
I count on my fingers, my chest tightening.
Even before I’d transferred the funds to pay the dental bills for Mum’s veneers, I had an overdraft.
I don’t need to check the date, but I do it anyway: 17 August. We’re only halfway through the month.
Last month it was the same, as was the month before that.
When my nails dig into my palms, I prise open my fingers and rub my hands against my legs. I don’t want to be angry and resentful.
I don’t want to be like her.
Another ping. Can I make one teensy change to my flights so I can stay an extra night?
I find an empty stable, shut the half-door behind me, sit in the wood shavings and lean against the timber.
Then, bending my legs, I press my eyes against my knees.
If Mum thought about anything other than her own needs, she’d know the answers to these questions.
That the executive package is already more than I can afford.
That she shouldn’t have locked the door behind her if she didn’t have keys to open it again.
That changing flights will incur a fee and another night away adds to the cost of the trip we already can’t afford.
If I take her on, she’ll ghost me, then she’ll buy herself things on the pretext I’ve abandoned her. After that, she’ll come to me for help.
In some ways, I facilitate her spending, but how do I turn her down?
She kept Matt and me safe when we were children and that was a lot more than other kids had.
Many of the girls I met in juvenile detention had been kicked out of home because they didn’t get on with their stepmothers or -fathers.
Others had alcoholic fathers or drug-addicted mothers who had abused or neglected them, sometimes both.
Girls younger than I was had been hurt by not only strangers but men they should have been able to trust.
I swallow the lump in my throat, hold out my phone, type in words with shaky fingers.
I’ll call tomorrow. We’ll sort everything out.
Mum won’t have remembered that Matt died thirteen years ago today. Or maybe she has remembered, which is why Tipsy-Cat gets the upgrade and she gets another night away; spending money makes her feel better. And maybe she needs that, even today. Especially today.
The walls press in all around me. A plane on fire. A fierce heat. Explosions behind my eyelids. A thousand aftershocks, shards of spiralling glass. Head between my knees, my boots obscured by wood shavings, I suck in breaths. I’m not there with Matt. I’m safe and sound.
A minute passes. Maybe ten. After sniffing, wiping my cheeks, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes, I pull myself up on the stable door. My body is stiff like I’ve been running. My eyes are sore. I stand on my toes and lean over the door to release the latch.
I’ve only taken a step outside when the walkway between the stables lights up. I jump back into the stable as Martin’s voice booms out.
‘Hello, there!’
A young woman’s laugh. ‘This place is amazing!’
‘Up to scratch for your warmbloods, Natasha?’ Martin replies.
‘How many can you take?’
The guests, women in heels and men in jackets, are a kaleidoscope of colour. As Martin approaches, I close the half-door behind me and grasp the empty trough. I rub my eyes, sniff again, clear my throat.
‘This is a happy coincidence.’ Martin, shirt too tight across his tummy, has found me. He leans against the door. ‘I hope it wasn’t the cockatiels keeping you up late. You’d be more than welcome to join us. What do you say? A glass of bubbly?’
‘I don’t drink, Martin.’
After sighing regretfully, he brightens again. ‘Mineral water from the French Alps? Bitters from South America?’
‘Thank you.’ I clear my throat again. ‘I’d like an early night.’
‘Of course, but—’ Martin blinks. ‘I’ve had a thought!’
One of his guests, a man, laughs and others join in. Trapezium, three stables down, softly nickers.
‘Could you do me a favour?’ Martin says. ‘One of my guests has hurt his finger. Would you be able to take a look?’
‘I know about wings, Martin. Not hands.’
‘He almost went through the roof when I shook his hand. I hate to think I’ve made things worse. Hands were originally wings, weren’t they?’
‘Hands and wings evolved from fish fins. They adapted for different uses.’
‘They must have something in common.’
I search for a fact that might please Martin. ‘Both bird and human species are endothermic, if that helps.’
‘What on earth is that?’
‘Warm blooded.’
‘You see! I was right!’
Martin doesn’t seem to have noticed I was a mess five minutes ago; his guest with a sore finger might not notice either. ‘If it will make you feel better, I’ll take a look. Where is my patient? Should I go to the house?’
‘And inconvenience you to an even greater degree? Certainly not.’ Martin rushes to the walkway and shouts out: ‘Seb! Over here! Seb!’
If I’d looked more closely at the crowd, I would have seen him, because he’s taller than the others. His stride is long, but as Martin stands aside and Thorsen sees me, his pace slows.
‘Felicity.’
Martin slaps his forehead. ‘You’ve met before! That slipped my mind completely.’
‘At the pool.’
‘Flick has kindly offered to look at that hand of yours.’ Martin seems oblivious to the tension.
‘Not necessary.’ Thorsen speaks quietly but firmly.
‘Martin said it was a finger. What’s the problem?’
‘It’s fractured. I don’t need—’
Martin huffs. ‘You jumped through the roof when I shook it.’
‘I wasn’t expecting it.’ Thorsen’s lips are tight.
‘And that is the crux of the problem. I might have done more damage.’
When a woman with a beautiful face and a short, slinky sapphire dress pulls away from the group, Martin beckons her over.
‘Natasha! You’ll be relieved to know we have a professional offer of assistance.’
After a word to the others, the woman, dark hair falling in well-defined coils, walks towards us. Her makeup is faultless; her smile is genuine.
‘Much as I appreciate the horrifyingly dangerous things Seb gets up to at work,’ she says to me, ‘I hate to see him in pain.’
My cheeks are stiff. Salt from tear tracks? I wipe my hands down grubby jeans. ‘No problem.’
Thorsen takes a step back. ‘I don’t—’
‘It won’t take five minutes to set our minds at rest,’ Martin says, smiling brightly.
Thorsen doesn’t want a fuss and he’ll know that if his little finger is fractured, there’s nothing to be done except immobilise it. But I don’t care what Thorsen wants. Martin has been good to me. I want to please him.
‘I’ll take you to the vet surgery.’
Thorsen looks set to argue again, but then he nods. ‘Thank you.’
‘We’ll see you back at the house.’ Martin threads his arm through Natasha’s. ‘If you happen to change your mind, Flick, you’re more than welcome to join us.’
A few seconds of silence while Thorsen and I walk side by side. Then a glance. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Since the beginning of the year.’
The surgery is used mostly to store equine medicines and supplies. It also serves as a first aid room for staff. The medical box is kept on the middle shelf of one of the many cupboards stacked either side of the fridge. I roll up the sleeves of my shirt before washing my hands.
‘You don’t need to do this,’ Thorsen says.
‘If I don’t, I’ll disappoint Martin.’ I dry my hands on paper towel. ‘You’ll disappoint Natasha.’
Mouth tight, he walks to a stainless-steel bench and sits on a stool and I sit opposite.
He smells good—crisp and clean. When I hold out my hand, he puts both of his hands on the bench.
His fingers are long; his nails are short and nicely shaped.
He wears a silver signet ring on the middle finger of his left hand.
There are two letters, but I can’t make out—
‘It was my grandfather’s.’
Was I staring so much? ‘Are they his initials?’