He slows the horse to a walk as we enter the woods. Here the air is colder and darker and full of the scent of summer, wildflowers and clover. Squirrels and small animals scamper in the underbush and trees. When we get out of the woods we are suddenly on a beach.
‘Wow,’ I whisper.
‘Hold on tight,’ he says, and puts the horse to a gallop along the shoreline. For a few seconds I am shocked and a little bit afraid and then I laugh. The wind tears at my hair, tossing it about wildly. Beneath me I can feel the stallion flexing gracefully as he flies over the ground with amazing speed.
The hard man against my front, the horse underneath me, and the fantastic sensation of total freedom: it is old magic. Magic that can only be conjured up when all the trappings of civilization have been stripped away. The horse stops. Jake throws a leg over and deftly jumps to the ground. With his hands around my waist, he lifts me down. He pats the horse’s sleek neck and it runs away from us.
I look up at him. ‘The horse…’
‘He’ll be all right.’
I notice then that he is barefoot. And unlike all the other times I have seen him, he is wearing an old, ripped T-shirt and faded brown corduroy trousers. I take my borrowed shoes off and hold them in my hand.
‘Come on,’ he says and we walk together, our hands almost touching but not quite. We never speak. There is not a soul in sight. Salt water laps at our bare feet. Above our heads a lone seagull circles the sky. I cannot explain the sense of peace or the inevitability of the moment. It feels as if there is no other life for me but this. I am not a dancer in a gentlemen’s club and he is not a gangster.
I want to ask him why—why is he sharing his paradise with me?—but I find the words choke in my throat. Maybe because I know that this is temporary and words will only taint it. Once, I turn sideways to look at him and find him watching me. His hair is windswept, the hard cheekbones flushed, and his eyes bright in the morning sun.
‘What?’ I mouth.
He shakes his head and whistles. The horse flies toward us, mane flying. A beautiful sight. It stops in front of him and he carefully cups its face and in hush tones speaks to it in a language I cannot understand. Maybe Gaelic.
‘What are you saying to him?’ I ask.
‘I am introducing you to him. We gypsies have always talked to our animals.’
‘What are you telling him about me?’
‘That’s our secret.’
He takes my hand and brings it to the horse. I feel its hot damp breath on my palm. I touch its cheek and see a flare of panic in its eyes. It paws the ground. He cups its face and soothes it.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Thor.’
‘He loves you,’ I whisper.
‘I love him,’ he says simply and kisses the horse between the eyes.
With a clean hop he mounts the horse and, sitting squarely on it, reaches for my hand. With me securely seated behind him we return to the house. The journey back seems much faster and too soon we are outside the front entrance of the house. He dismounts and helps me down.
I look into his face and already he has changed, become distant. He regards me carefully. ‘I have other matters to attend to and will not join you for breakfast. After breakfast Ian will take you back to London.’
Other matters to attend to. And suddenly I remember the woman he spent the night with. A flash of jealousy rips through me. Fuck her. Fuck them both.
‘Thanks,’ I call out casually as I walk away from him.
I am dying to, but I don’t watch him gallop away.
Inside the house, I find Maria hovering in the living room. She seems to be fluffing some cushions, but she must have been at the window watching us arrive.
‘Good morning,’ she says brightly.
‘Morning.’
&nbs
p; ‘Well then, young lass, what would you like for breakfast? Waffles, cereal, full English, continental, or something different?’