Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
‘Look, Nathaniel,’ I say firmly, ‘I have no wish to get to know
Fabrice. I don’t even like her.’
‘But you don’t know her,’ Nathaniel persists. His voice sounds
odd; once again, I get the vague suspicion that there’s something
he’s not telling me.
‘I have to go now, Nathaniel.’
‘OK. By the way, I found my mobile phone. Fred had buried it
near the hydrangeas.’
‘Good. I mean, I’m glad you found it.’
‘What is it, Sally? You sound really weird. Do you want me to
call round?’
Yes. Yes, I do
,
I think.
I want you to call round and hold me. I
want to rest my head on your chest and hear your heart. I want to
make you tea. I want you to tell me your stories. I want to know
you, Nathaniel. I want to love you. I want to stare into your clear
blue eyes and remember my dreams and hopes and who I once wanted to be. I seem to have forgotten
.
Only I can’t say this. It isn’t what he wants to hear. He w
ouldn’t know how to answer; he would be embarrassed. It would frighten him off. ‘No – no, I really
don’t want you to call round, Nathaniel. Maybe… you know… we
shouldn’t see each other for a while.’
‘Yes,’ Nathaniel says slowly. ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have suggested it.’
I know he thinks I’m saying this because of Diarmuid, and I let
him. I can’t just be friends with Nathaniel any more. It would be
easier if he just left my life; then maybe I could forget him.
‘Bye, Sally.’
‘Bye, Nathaniel.’
After I’ve hung up, I stare at the phone. I don’t even know
what I’m feeling. Erika’s cats are all looking at me from the shelf
beside the fireplace. Some are smiling and some are solemn and
some are inscrutable and mysterious. I can’t cry; I’ve cried enough
this morning. Instead I make myself some toast and another cup
of tea, put them on a tray and go back upstairs to my duvet. It is a duvet day. I just want to hide away under it and maybe watch something comforting on the telly.
I am halfway through my second slice of toast when the
doorbell rings. I decide to ignore it, but the person won’t be ignored. Whoever it is thumps the door and shouts, ‘Salleee!’
It’s Erika. I plod gingerly downstairs and open the door. She is
looking very bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and she’s wearing cord
trousers and thick leather boots.
‘You’d better hurry up and get ready,’ she says. ‘We’re supposed to be at the stables soon.’
I stare at her. Then I gulp.
Oh,
feck
!
Today is the day we’re supposed to be going riding. The last thing I feel like doing is
getting on a huge animal who may run off into the hills with me.
‘Fiona’s giving us a lift,’ Erika says. I look out onto the road.
Fiona waves. She’s borrowed Zak’s jeep for the occasion, and Milly is sitting in her baby seat in the back.
‘I tried to ring you, but you were on the phone for ages,’ Erika
says.
I wonder if I should just say I can’t go riding today. If I tell her
about Diarmuid’s phone call, she’ll surely understand.
‘Go upstairs and change. Fiona brought her jodhpurs in case you needed them.’
‘There is no way I could fit into Fiona’s jodhpurs,’ I say grimly.
‘I’ve been so looking forward to this!’
I look at Erika warily. She is almost bursting with excitement.
She needs this, and she needs me to be with her. I sigh and smile.
And then I trudge upstairs to dress.
Chapter
Thirty-Two
The creature is huge
and brown and snorting. She’s called Blossom, and I don’t like the look of her. Saffron, the boot-
faced woman who has herded us and the horses into the paddock,
tells me that Blossom is very gentle, which is clearly a lie worthy
of the most devious politician. Saffron has one of those frightfully
solemn faces that make everything seem very serious. Whoever
named Saffron clearly thought she was going to be someone else
entirely. Saffrons should have long flowing scarves and smell of
patchouli. This one looks as if she’s taking a quick break from the army.
She informs me that Blossom sometimes puffs out her stomach
when you try to fasten her girth. ‘When you get on her, you’ll have to check the girth again and make sure it’s tight enough.’
‘Saffron, do I have to do that with Bluebell?’ Erika pipes up.
‘No,’ Saffron says, unsmiling. ‘It’s only Blossom you have to
watch out for.’
I glower at Blossom, while also reluctantly admiring her
subterfuge. If I had to spend the day hauling strangers around the
Wicklow hills, I’m sure I would resort to all sorts of ruses. In fact,
I might dump the strangers in a large hedge at the earliest
opportunity. Blossom is stamping her feet, and I can’t say I blame her. She probably wanted to lead an entirely different kind of life.
Today might be the day when she finally makes a break for it. She
will probably gallop desperately towards the distant hills, with
me on her back. I glance enviously at Erika’s mount, Bluebell, a
short, stubby creature who is probably half Shetland pony. Why c
ouldn’t I have been given Bluebell? I feel like I’m back at school.
Saffron is talking to us as if we are teenagers.
My marriage is over.
The thought lunges at me, and I suddenly
feel like I’m on another planet.
How can everyone be acting so
ordinarily? How can the sun be shining? How can Diarmuid be
in love with Charlene? How am I going to tell my relatives at Marie’s party? And why, oh, why did I have to meet Nathaniel?
‘Put on your hard hat, Sally,’ Saffron says. ‘Everyone has to wear a hat before we go on the ride.’
I feel like shouting,
Fuck off, you bitch, my husband’s just left
me,
but then Erika and Fiona would know too, and I can’t bear
to talk to anyone about it at the moment. I can hardly admit it to
myself. They said I seemed very quiet in the car, and I said it was
because Diarmuid had been talking about
maybe
moving in with
Charlene. Erika and Fiona were suitably outraged and wonderfully biased; Erika showed no evidence of her annoying
even-handedness. Then they said that riding would ‘take me out
of myself’ and help me to forget my worries. This, of course, is
utter nonsense. It is just a brand new worry to add to the
steaming heap that’s there already.
I plonk the hat on my head and glower at Saffron.
What will I
do with my wedding ring?
I think. Should I give it to Diarmuid or hand it over to Oxfam?
There are five riders in my group, and I am the only one who
hasn’t got on her horse. Saffron offers me a leg up, which I clearly
need, since Blossom is the equine equivalent of Mount Everest.
‘Feel the fear and do it anyway,’ Erika whispers.
‘Oh, shut up,’ I bark at her. Saffron is marching towards me,
and I fear she may lift me up and plonk me on Blossom whether
I like it or not. All the riders are looking very smug. Some of them
must have spent hundreds of euros getting the right gear. Only
Blossom seems to be looking at me with a slight trace of
sympathy. We are both in the same boat: neither of us wants to d
o this. She’d prefer to be munching grass in a field and I’d prefer
to be at home watching daytime television and trying not to think
about my life.
Saffron appears to be hanging on to my left leg. She obviously
expects me to cling onto the saddle and sort of claw my way upwards, while hanging onto Blossom’s mane. I notice a large stone nearby – a stone that has clearly been used many times before by people in my situation.
‘I’m going to use that,’ I say to Saffron, in the gruff military
voice she employs herself. Then I get on the stone and attempt to
throw myself across Blossom’s enormous back. She stands very
still while I make a total arse of myself. Eventually I manage to haul myself aloft, even though the saddle is slipping. And then
Blossom puffs out her stomach, so that the saddle stabilises and I
am not left clinging to it under her stomach. I am actually on her
back. I feel like punching the air like a footballer.
‘Thanks, Blossom,’ I whisper. Her ears twitch back and forth.
She’s listening.
‘All right, now that we’ve got
that
finished with, we can start
the ride,’ Saffron says joylessly. ‘Tighten Blossom’s girth.’ She frowns at me. ‘Bluebell, you go behind me, and…’ She starts to reel off various names, which all seem to be connected with
flowers. Blossom has to be at the back because she occasionally
kicks. I am on a rebel horse. A horse with attitude. How on earth
did I allow myself to be talked into this?
Fiona darts forward as we are all about to set off. She has a
new digital camera. She’s probably been recording the entire saga,
and we haven’t even left the paddock yet. I smile. That’s the stupid thing about photographs: you feel you have to smile. My marriage was like the smiling Olympics.
Nathaniel has such a wonderful smile. It lights up his whole face.
‘Oh my God!’ Erika suddenly screeches.
We all look at her. ‘What is it?’ I enquire. Blossom is dancing
up and down as if she may make her bid for freedom at any
minute; she’s champing at her bit and backing towards Bluebell as
if she’s about to give her a quick belt on the shin.
‘It’s Alex and his wife,’ Erika moans. ‘They’re over there. Look.
In the advanced ride.’
‘What is it?’ Saffron demands. ‘Are your stirrups too short?’ She glides towards us on her gleaming thoroughbred to inspect Erika’s legs.
‘I… I have to make a phone call,’ Erika whimpers.
‘You’ll have to make it later. We’re going now.’ Saffron glares
at her.
Erika ignores her. She takes out her mobile phone and dials,
while Bluebell starts to snatch mouthfuls of grass from the side of
the path.
‘Pull her up!’ Saffron roars. ‘She’s not supposed to eat until we
get back.’
‘Oh, shut up, you bossy woman!’ Erika roars back. Then she starts to whisper urgently into the phone. I wonder if Saffron is going to send Erika back to the stables and tell her to write a
hundred lines, but she seems too surprised to get angry; she
merely waits until Erika stuffs her phone back into her pocket.