The Day We Disappeared (9 page)

Stephen grinned. ‘She's
never happy with me.'

There was a blanket of tiny freckles all
along Stephen's shoulders and, as he breathed in and out, I imagined them
filling my hands, like warm little pebbles. He was more knotted than before, and had
a large spasm in his lumbar region. I thought about what he'd said, about
having had a really shitty year, and wished I could give him a hug. I knew all about
that sort of year.

I pressed my entire weight down into my
interlaced palms, feeling his muscles release, stretch out, relax. I loved every
minute of his hour: me, him, the gentle rhythm of breath and the clouds trundling
slowly past.

Massage had been my only constant since
I'd crashed out of school, wrecked and hopeless, with only four GCSEs to my
name. Without massage, and the respite it brought me from a head that felt like it
would never heal, I was quite sure I wouldn't have survived.

Up, along, round. Up, along, round. I
started on his bunched trapezius and found myself staring fondly at the soft hairs
on the back of his neck.

Careful
, I warned myself.

I'd learned massage in places
where the focus was on
chakra
s and biorhythms, rather than things like
ethics, but that didn't mean I wasn't clear where the line was.

Although what was I worried might
happen? Stephen was almost certainly married. And, if not, he'd be in a
relationship with a dynamic woman. And, if not, he'd never be interested in
–

STOP IT, YOU
TIT
, I imagined Kate snapping.
Stop wallowing around in the Bad
Shit!

A tiny slice of pale blue eye opened as
I tiptoed out to leave Stephen to dress. ‘You've ruined me,' he
moaned. ‘Help …'

I sat at my desk, waiting for him to
change, and grinned like a teenager. I loved having this effect on my clients, but I
particularly loved having it on Stephen Flint.

He texted me at eleven thirty-seven
p.m.

I was in the bath, poking a finger into
my belly button and thinking again about Kate, whose phone had been switched off
when I tried her. A tiny part of me was worried, even though Kate was made of
tougher stuff than I and was, no doubt, fine. Knowing her, she'd have taken a
sabbatical and gone to build a school in Venezuela or somewhere. It was just
slightly odd that she'd not told me: during the course of our close eight-year
friendship we'd never gone longer than a week without talking.

I was thinking also about the stupendous
evening I'd had. During my welcome drinks, Stephen's PA, Tash, had told
me that I was invited to a secret gig taking place in the music venue in the
basement. Expecting some beardy bloke singing rubbish folk music, I'd been
fairly astounded to see Elton John wander in. He'd done six songs, then left
the room in a state of pandemonium.

‘This is UNREAL!' I shouted
in Stephen's ear, when he appeared halfway through Elton's performance.
‘I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING!'

Stephen was clearly very pleased.
‘This is how we roll.' He touched my shoulder briefly. ‘Wonderful
to see you
smiling,' he said, then
turned to talk to Jamilla, who seemed perkier now. She'd told me earlier
she'd not been in touch with Claudine for a while, and I thought, privately,
that I didn't blame her. Claudine was teetering on the brink of downright
offensive at the moment. Last week she had told me that if I was entertaining
notions of a crush on my boss I was being a deluded child. ‘Don't be
stupid, just for once,' she had said. ‘Men like him are bad news. And
they never go for women like you.'

Thanks
, I'd thought.
Thanks a lot.
I wondered if Claudine would be so bloody rude if she
actually met Stephen and saw for herself that he was just a really nice bloke.

Beside me in the crowd, Jamilla was
listening to Stephen with a slight smile on her face. In spite of her improved mood
she still seemed shattered. Stephen patted her back kindly before wandering off. I
loved that he made an effort to talk to everyone, no matter what rank they held.

I'd floated home on my bike,
boggled and delighted. My world, I saw, had become very small over the last few
years. My time had been divided between the tube, silent treatment rooms and
exhausted, dreamless sleep. I'd lost the energy and courage that had once
flung me across Asia with a rucksack on my back, and I'd kind of lost the
ability to interact with other humans, which wasn't good. But suddenly,
gloriously, I could see the sky again.

When my phone beeped from my bedroom,
even though there was no reason on earth why he would be texting me – especially at
this time of night – I somehow knew it was Stephen.

I lasted sixty
seconds before I heaved myself out of the bath to go and look.

I'm so pleased you're working for us. You are a dream!
Everyone's raving about you already! X

Do I reply? I wondered.
Certainly
,
said my furiously texting thumb.

You're welcome!! Thanks for taking me on board!!

Too many exclamation marks.

As his reply arrived in my inbox my
excitement turned to something I wasn't so familiar with.

After my massage today I realized I really wanted to get well. Learn how to
relax, eat healthily. All the things Jamilla keeps telling me to do. But it was
you and your wonderful work that convinced me it's time for a change.
Thanks again, Annie. x

I took the phone to bed and popped it on
a Japanese silk cushion, as if it were a sacred object.

‘PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER,' I
whispered fiercely into the empty room. ‘HE'S YOUR BOSS.'

But I couldn't. I had never been
able to let my guard down with strangers, especially men. Yet with Stephen Flint my
guard had vanished into thin air. It was April; it was spring. Maybe today really
had
been the first day of the rest of my life.

Six thirty a.m., a Tuesday in April. A
lone girl walks through an empty landscape at daybreak. Around her is a web of fine
white lace, a million tiny pearls of water scooped up from the English Channel and
carried high over Exmoor before settling in the fields. Her footsteps follow the
line of the hedge, which is stuffed with blackthorn flowers and early-morning
bumblebees already hard at work. Every few paces she turns and looks at the little
footsteps she's left, as if to check she is still alone. She listens,
straining to hear something, but all that's audible is a steady drip, drip,
drip from the little coppice of beech trees behind her. Up ahead a tired light
appears in the window of the old stone farmhouse and she walks on towards it, both
relieved and disappointed that her solitude is to be broken.

Sometimes I did that. Pictured myself as
if I were in a film script: a lone woman picking her way through an empty landscape,
checking every few steps for predators. It was the sort of thing that only the
maddest article would do, probably, but it kept me on my toes. ‘Never forget
the man in your shadow,' I muttered to myself, sliding into the yard without
setting off the squeaky gate that Sandra kept forgetting to oil. ‘Never forget
that
some aul' bastard could pop out
and grab you any time, Kate Brady …'

I giggled. I sounded like an old man in
a shebeen somewhere in the wilds of Connemara, not an ex-Google employee from Dublin
who'd run off to hide with the horses. Which was a good thing, because Joe
said I was already beginning to sound English. ‘The shame of it,
Galway,' he'd tutted.

I inhaled deeply as the smells of the
yard snaked in. Thank God for this place. Here all I had to think about was whether
the water buckets were full; whether I'd cleaned the right tack for Mark
tomorrow; whether we were running low on haylage or chaff. Becca had been right: I
had learned quickly, and that was because here in this remote corner of Somerset
there was peace and simplicity, absolute freedom from the incessant noise of my old
life.

An early starling was watching me from
the dovecote, but apart from that, the yard seemed empty; most of the horses would
still be lying down in their stables. I felt a great swell of affection for my
beautiful new friends, stretched out on their beds, trusting that soon people would
appear to feed, exercise and love them just as they did every day, come hell or high
water. They were so trusting, those creatures, so gentle. One in particular.

In the far corner of the courtyard, a
handsome white head was already hanging over the stable door. Stumpy made a quiet
whickering sound as I approached him, his satellite-dish ears strained far forwards
and his eyes focused excitedly on me.

‘Hello, silly,' I said
quietly, reaching into my pocket for the pieces of carrot he knew I was
carrying.

‘Hoo-hoo-ho-hoo,' he whispered, and – just as
I did every morning – I smiled like a little girl. I was completely in love. Hooked.
Done for.

‘Oh, you are just so
lovely
,' I said, and kissed his nose. He butted me gently,
impatient for the carrot. Food before love, he was saying. Come on, Kate Brady, you
know my priorities.

I gave him some carrot, then scratched
underneath his forelock, smiling as his big head drooped and his eyelids closed.
‘I love you, Stumpy,' I said. ‘I think you're the nicest
person I've ever met. I wish you were a man. Actually I don't. Men are
horrible! But you, my boy, are perfect.'

I kissed one of his now-floppy ears,
running my nose up the fine, soft hair, brushing my eyelashes with the tip of his
ear. Everything about working on this remote farm was helping me heal, but if there
was one thing, one person, responsible for bringing me back to life, it was Stumpy.
(He was definitely a person. Far more a person than many humans I could think
of.)

I'd discovered quickly that Stumpy
was like a mirror to my often-turbulent mental state. If I was upset, Stumpy knew.
He would stand quietly while I leaned, exhausted, on his shoulder the morning after
one of my still-frequent nightmares, or he'd blow on my neck when I got upset
about lying to my family all the time. If I flinched when my phone went off, or
stared fearfully at cars coming down the driveway, he would stiffen or turn away,
signalling clearly that he found my anxiety unpleasant. Whatever was going on with
me, the horse knew and, however bad it was, got me back on track.

He was a miracle. I still had a long
journey ahead of me
but with Stumpy at my
side I felt certain that I'd be my best self again one day.

‘Look what you've done to
me!' I said, and kissed his nose again. ‘Look! It's pathetic!
I'm the lovelorn moron over here!'

‘He has the same effect on
me,' said a man's voice. Mark gave Stumpy a Polo and patted his neck,
then caved in and kissed his nose too, even though I was watching. He blushed as he
did it, but couldn't stop himself. ‘You've really fallen for him,
haven't you?' he said, not quite looking me in the eye.

‘How could I not? He's the
most adorable horse in the world.'

Stumpy reached up and rested his muzzle
on Mark's head, even though it was six feet off the ground and made the horse
visibly uncomfortable. ‘Get off, idiot.' Mark grinned.

He turned and looked straight at me,
with the lopsided expression I was coming to recognize as a smile. ‘You come
out here every morning,' he said. ‘Stumpy's always waiting for
you. Sometimes you go for a walk first but you always come and see him. Every day,
before the rest of us are up. You always seem so happy.'

How had he seen me? (And why was he
watching?)

‘My room looks over the
yard,' he explained, almost kindly, as if to spare me discomfort.

‘Oh, I see.' I concentrated
on getting fine pieces of bedding out of Stumpy's mane. ‘He makes for a
good start to the day, don't you think, boss?'

Everything I felt about Mark was
confused. In many ways, he was exactly as Becca had said – cold,
monosyllabic, completely disengaged from the lives of
his team. And yet I'd catch him, sometimes – he caught me too: we seemed to
have an odd habit of coming across each other during a soppy moment with Stumpy –
betraying a softness that I found incredibly touching.

‘So,' Mark said, ‘how
do you think it's all going? Your month's trial is up today.'

‘Oh.' Shit, I'd
forgotten. What if he thought I wasn't up to scratch? What would I do
then?

‘I've had the best four
weeks of my life,' I said simply. I couldn't stand the thought of
leaving; trying to sound detached and professional would be a waste of time.
‘I love the work, I love the craic, I love the horses and I love watching you
ride. Watching how you are with the horses – I didn't know competition riders
were so sweet with them, I …'

I trailed off and chanced a look at him.
To my amazement, just as my eyes met his, he smiled properly. A big, beautiful smile
that creased the skin around his eyes like tracing paper. ‘Er, thanks.
Although I thought we'd agreed. No blowing smoke up my arse.'

I tried to ignore the strange lightness
in my stomach. ‘Sorry. No flattery. I think you're a terrible
rider.'

Mark actually chuckled.
‘You're doing a great job,' he said. ‘I'd be delighted
to keep you. In fact, even though it'd be peanuts, I'd like to offer you
a tiny salary. You're not keeping a horse here, after all.'

He rubbed Stumpy's velvet muzzle.
‘Unless you want to bring your horse,' he said casually. ‘We could
do that instead, if you wanted?'

‘No, no!' I said quickly.
‘And there's no need to pay me
either. I'm happy. Your mum feeds us beautifully
and I enjoy the work.'

‘Well, that's nice to hear,
Kate, but I still want to pay you.'

‘No!' It came out far too
loudly. ‘Sorry, I mean, no, thanks, you're all right. Keep your money
for the eventing season, boss. You're bound to need it.'

‘Are you turning down
money?'

‘I am. Money's not an issue
for me. I had a great job in Dublin.'

‘Could we pay you in another way?
Do you want some lessons, maybe? I never see you exercising the horses …'

‘No, really! I'm fine! I
enjoy my shit-shovelling more than you'd know!'

Mark was looking more and more
suspicious. ‘Some time off? I could get you a ticket back to Dublin to see
your family.'

‘Ah, no, I can speak to them on
Skype.'

‘Kate,' Mark said carefully,
‘you're being quite weird. I want to pay you. Please tell me
how.'

I racked my brains. What could I ask for
to keep him quiet? How could I explain to him that just by having me here he was
saving my skin?

‘A competition!' I cried.
‘Let me come to a competition some time. I'd love that! Badminton, maybe
– that'd be a dream come true!' Badminton was not far off, and I knew
there was no way on earth I'd be allowed to go under normal circumstances. On
the rare occasions that Mark needed anyone other than Tiggy he took Becca. ‘I
don't want to put you on the spot,' I added hastily. ‘I know you
need your best people at Badminton. So Belton Park would be fine if that's
better.'

‘Badminton
it is,' Mark said, without turning a hair. ‘You've got to learn
somewhere. And it's a cracking place to start. Absolutely bonkers, about as
old-school as it gets. Bowler hats, shooting sticks, mad old women in pearls.
I'm only taking two horses so it's not like Tigs'll be
overwhelmed.'

‘Are you sure?'

He shrugged. ‘Why not?'

‘But what about Becca?'

‘Like I said, I'm taking two
horses,' he repeated patiently, ‘And Becca comes to events when
I'm running four or more.' He scowled. ‘Although if Maria has her
way I'll be competing all five of her dad's bloody horses.'

I shifted from one foot to the other,
unsure whether to join in. ‘You don't want to compete them
all?'

‘No! Apart from the fact that
it's against the rules, it'd be impossible. I'd die.' He did
a hand gesture that meant ‘enough of that'. ‘So, do you want to
come?'

‘Um, yes!' I said,
delighted. ‘Thank you so much, Mark. How exciting!' I turned to Stumpy,
who was nibbling a piece of hay stuck to my shoulder. ‘I'm going to come
and see you at Badminton!' I told him. ‘I'm going to see you jump
the biggest and scariest jumps in the whole
world
, little
Stumpman!'

I heard Mark chuckle again, and before I
knew it I'd joined in. ‘Your man thinks we're total eejits.'
I gestured at Stumpy.

‘Rubbish. He thinks we're
great.'

We.
My head was getting noisy.
I needed to end this conversation. ‘Well, thanks again,' I said.
‘I'd better let you get on with your day.'

‘Okay,' Mark said. He, too, began to
withdraw, to dismantle the flimsy bond that had sprung up between us. ‘So
that's sorted. You're staying on. Excellent news. I'll get Mum to
put you up on the website as a permanent member of staff.'

‘NO!' Stumpy jumped, his
ears swinging back. ‘Please don't do that! I'm like you. Not in it
for the fame …'

‘Oh,' Mark said, after a
bemused pause. ‘You really are odd,' he added, with another of those big
smiles. ‘Refusing to let us pay you, telling me my horse's show name
sounds like a big fart, roaming around my fields at six in the morning. Are you on
drugs?'

Mark had never made a joke with me
before. It was so nice to see him smile.

‘All of the drugs.'

‘Great.' He chuckled.
‘We'll have some drinks later to welcome you formally to the team, and
you can share your drugs then.'

‘That'd be lovely.' I
beamed. ‘They're great.'

‘I'm glad you like them all.
Joe's not been too much, has he?'

Last night Joe had burst into my room at
eleven o'clock, shouting, ‘GALWAY! ME LOINS ARE ON FIRE! I CAN'T
TAKE ANY MORE! WILL YOU PLEASE SHOW THIS MAN SOME MERCY AND GIVE HIM A
RIDE?'

Becca had thrown a satsuma at him from
her doorway and roared that she'd kill him. He'd roared back that she
was a jealous old lesbian and I'd sat in bed, crying with laughter, amazed at
how well I was fitting in.

‘No, Joe's okay,' I
said, smiling fondly.

Mark was
watching my face. ‘Oh,' he said. ‘Oh, I see.'

‘Oh, Jesus, no, I'm not
after Joe!'

There was a long pause, during which we
both self-consciously reached out to stroke Stumpy, who was getting bored of us
talking outside his door. Then Mark turned on the heel of his riding boot and
marched off. ‘You should probably get them fed,' he called.