Hard Choices (20 page)

“I bank with Lloyds Private Bank. It’s a different sort of banking system, I suppose, for people with a lot of personal wealth. I have a contact there, called Max. He looks after everything for me, and he did the bidding at the auction on my behalf.”

He looks less than convinced. “Max? What is he? A bank manager or something?”

“Max Furrowes. He’s my personal wealth consultant. He looks after all my financial transactions, does everything, really.”

“Buying racehorses, though? That’s got to be above and beyond…”

I nod, and shrug. I don’t doubt Max does more for me than he does for other clients, but he’s never complained and I do appreciate him. I can’t help thinking, though, that it’s a relationship that Nick won’t find it easy to get his head around. I try to explain again, “He’s always very helpful… Probably because he knows I find things difficult sometimes. He’s a bit like a kind uncle.”

Not the best way to get my message across, I realise, as Nick’s explosive “Fucking hell…” ricochets around the car. “A kind uncle! Girl, you’re priceless. Absolutely fucking priceless.”

I’m conscious of Dan and Summer listening to at least Nick’s side of all this, and I’m embarrassed, mortified even. At Nick’s thunderous expression I start to panic, too, my hands flying now as I try desperately to explain, “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s a professional relationship. He’s a financial adviser, but I like him. He’s kind and he, he…”

“I’m trying to understand, but coming up with nothing much as yet. Max Furrowes can wait though. Back to the racehorse. How did this Max know you wanted to buy it? As far as I knew you’d never even heard of the bloody horse until that afternoon.”

Now this is simple. I dig my phone out of my bag and quickly go back through my emails to find the exchange between Max and me that day. I hand the phone to Nick.

“I saw Queenie in the enclosure. I thought she was beautiful, and then I learned that she was to be auctioned after her race. It was an impulse really, but I wanted her so much. I emailed Max while you were at the toilet. It’s all there.”

He takes the phone and scrolls through the series of messages, glancing up at me from time to time. At last he’s done. He regards me carefully before shaking his head slowly. “Well, quite the resourceful little sub, aren’t you?” He turns to Summer. “Miss Jones, do you know this Max as well?”

“Yes, I’ve met him once or twice. He’s very efficient. A bit crusty, I suppose, but that’s what you get with elderly bankers.” Summer’s quick to respond, obviously wanting to help me. She must have been watching my signing because she seems to know what I’m trying to say. “Freya meets up with him about twice a year, I think, to sign papers and such like. They usually meet in Glasgow but his office is in London normally. Is that right, Freya?”

I nod, grateful to Summer. ‘Elderly banker’, ‘efficient’, ‘crusty’. Yes, that’s what I’m trying to get across. It seems to be working.

“Okay, let’s leave your crusty banker for a while then. So, why didn’t you tell me you wanted to buy the horse? That you
were
buying it? Why do it all secretly, behind my back?”

Isn’t it obvious? By the time I was at Cartmel races buying Queenie my deception was so ingrained I couldn’t tell him, couldn’t let him know anything about this other, secret self of mine. It wasn’t even as if I thought he’d try to stop me buying Queenie. It was just…separate. A different world entirely. Slowly, haltingly, I sign all this the best way I can. I glance at Summer, who’s turning in her seat to watch me, ready to chip in again if she can, but I know my secrecy about my money is as much a mystery to her as it is to Nick. And to me, if I’m honest. How can I properly explain why I hid it for so long when I don’t even understand it myself?

When I finish, he says nothing, just watches me. Finally, “Is that it? Is that the best explanation I’m going to get?”

I nod unhappily. I do believe it is, though not because I’m trying to conceal anything anymore. There’s nothing much to add, except to plead once more for him to understand, or if he can’t understand, just to accept what has happened, mete out whatever consequences I’ve earned, then forgive me.

Ignoring our audience, I sign my last plea, “I know it was wrong. Stupid. I’m truly sorry. I know you’ll punish me, and I deserve that. I’ll accept whatever punishment you think is right, but please forgive me. I need you. I love you.”

“I know you do. I do believe all that. And it only makes this whole charade more bizarre.” His tone softens. “We need to come back to this, Freya, but that’s a conversation for when we’re alone. Now, I see that there’s a lot of email traffic between you and Mr Fellowes on your phone. Would you mind if I read some of it? That might help me to understand how all this works.”

I nod, wishing I’d thought of that. And I’m pleased that he is at least asking my permission—he could just have taken my phone and I wouldn’t have stopped him. I sit quietly as he scrolls through my inbox, pulling up emails to and from Max. I know that the tone of all those messages is entirely proper and formal, and will reinforce what both Summer and I have said.

Despite the tension of the situation with Nick, my thoughts are quickly back with my poor Queenie. I feel my eyes start to tear up, and I rummage in my bag for a tissue. Ill-prepared as usual, I can’t find one, but Summer hands me a small pack from the front. Nick glances at me, knows what I’m feeling. What I’m thinking, dreading.

“We’ll be there soon, Freya. If there’s anything that can be done for your horse, we’ll find it and we’ll do it. Right, Dan?”

Dan’s voice is firm, confident as he tosses his reply back over his shoulder, “Right. It’s a tricky injury, but until we’ve seen full X-rays we can’t know the extent of the damage or what treatment might be best. I reckon we’ll be there in about half an hour, probably before your horse, in fact.”

I nod gratefully. I realise we’re not out of the woods yet, not by a long chalk, but at least there’s a chance. And at least I’ll see my beloved Queenie soon.

The remainder of the journey is spent in near silence as Nick reads my e-mail correspondence. He asks occasional questions, just clarifying facts really, but does now seem to accept that Max is my friend and my professional adviser, nothing more.

“When are you next due to meet with Mr Furrowes?” The question breaks the shaky silence between us as we negotiate the leafy roads of north Leeds.

“Next month. In Glasgow.”

“I see. And how were you going to explain to me that you needed to go to Glasgow?”

“I don’t know. I really hadn’t thought about that.”

“I suspect I’d never have known where you went, would I, Freya?” His tone is soft now, almost gentle.

But I’m not fooled for a moment. He’s very, very angry, and that spells bad news for me, extreme discomfort at the least. And the trouble is, he’s probably right. Done with lies, I just nod, feeling more and more ashamed of my continuing, mounting deception. I’d piled lies one on top of another, and would have probably gone on doing just that
. Christ, what a mess. How did I ever let it come to this?

“I’d like to come with you. To meet with Mr Furrowes.”

I glance up in amazement, hope flaring. He’s interested in this, in me, my ‘other’ self. I nod quickly. “Yes, of course. I’d like that.”

“Right. And just so’s we’re all perfectly clear, forty odd million, I think you said, Miss Jones? Would either of you care to be more specific?”

Summer looks to me, and I sign my answer slowly, “I won forty-four million, seven hundred and thirty-seven thousand, two hundred and ninety-seven pounds.” I watch his face as it turns from incredulous to absolutely baffled.

“Let me get this right? You won something not far short of forty-five million pounds?”

I feel the car lurch slightly as Dan hears this, but to his credit we’re soon purring along smoothly again. I nod slowly.

“And you spent, what, about two million?”

Again I nod. “I spent a couple of million at the start, then banked the rest with Max. I spent nearly a million on Queenie, but I suppose the money I’ve earned since, from investments, would cover that.”

He grunts, eying me narrowly, but clearly at last coming to appreciate the scale of this. Then suddenly, he’s all business again. I can’t help thinking that Nick and Max will probably get on very well.

“In his email to you confirming the purchase of the horse Mr Fellowes mentions insurance. Now might be a good time to email him and ask if he did buy any and what you’re covered for.” He hands me back my phone, and I hit compose.

Hello Max

Queenie had a fall. She’s broken her leg. Do I have insurance to cover vet’s costs?

Best regards

Freya

Max’s answer comes back within minutes.

Dear Miss Stone

I’m sorry to hear of this, though I recall advising you that racehorses do constitute a moderate risk.

With that in mind I can confirm that you have insurance to cover most eventualities, including accidental injury, to a maximum of two million pounds. If you let me have the details I can instigate claim proceedings on your behalf.

I hope your horse makes a speedy recovery.

Best regards

M. Furrowes

I hand my phone back to Nick, who scans the reply and nods. “Right, best ask him to start making a claim then. And what does he mean by ‘moderate risk’?”

Summer snorts in the front seat. “Don’t tell me you’ve thrown caution to the winds and done something moderate. Max will have been having kittens.”

Nick turns his attention to her now, leaving me to type in my request to Max to get the claim process under way.

“Miss Jones?”

She swivels in her seat to face the pair of us, just as Dan signals to turn right and we swing through the large gateway past the sign for North Leeds Equine Veterinary Clinic and Research Centre.

Summer shrugs, glancing at me to check if it’s okay to tell him about my risk score. I gesture to her to continue.
Why not?

“It’s just something I always thought sort of funny. When she first won the money Max spent ages quizzing Freya about what level of risk she wanted to take with it, what sort of investments he should make on her behalf, I suppose. She has a ‘risk tolerance’ rating. Medium, I think…”

Nick looks from one to the other of us, and eventually his mouth quirks in amusement. When I look up from finishing my email he narrows his eyes at me. This time, though, it’s not in anger. “
Now
you tell me. Risk tolerance of medium, is it? Well who’d have thought that the first time I saw you at the club? And to think I spent all that time and effort with whips and spanking paddles to discover your limits, when all I really needed to do was ring up your bank…”

Summer looks shocked but Dan’s laughter is ringing around the car as he pulls up into a parking space. And despite everything, I think this might eventually turn out all right.

Once inside the clinic we’re offered coffee and invited to make ourselves comfortable in the waiting area until the horse transporter from Thirsk arrives. None of us has much to say. I notice that Dan keeps checking his watch.

Queenie arrives at the clinic about half an hour after we do. She’s sedated and has been brought to Leeds in a specially designed equine ambulance. The staff winch her onto a huge trolley and she’s wheeled straight off to be X-rayed from every conceivable angle. I can only manage a quick glimpse of her before she’s whisked away, but it’s enough to send me dissolving into floods of tears again.

Once more Summer’s quick with the tissues and hugs, and it’s left to Dan and Nick to interrogate Pat and the course vet about what actually happened.

“They were on the final straight when two fillies fell in front of her, and she got tangled up in it all. Took a nasty fall and couldn’t get back up. Broken front fetlock, right side. No other injuries that we could find, but they’ll soon know for sure. The other two horses got up and limped away.” It all sounds distressingly simple. And the consequences so dire.

Pat turns to me. “I’m sorry, Freya. I genuinely thought she was ready for this race. And she was. These sorts of accidents are rare, but they do happen.”

I sign that I don’t blame him. It never occurred to me that I might. He looks at me blankly, and Nick interprets. Pat’s probably wondering who Nick is, but he doesn’t ask and I’m grateful for that. I don’t want to even attempt explanations or introductions, especially as I’m not entirely certain myself what the status of my relationship with Nick now is.

The clinic staff are soon back with the news. A compound fracture, nasty but potentially treatable. I sag in Summer’s arms with relief, oblivious to the rest of what they’re saying. They seem to agree absolutely with the prognosis, though—even if the fracture does heal successfully, Queenie’s racing career is over. I don’t mind that—she can retire, live out her days with Pat if he’ll have her, somewhere else if not. Breeding’s still a possible option, or she could just be a pet.

Through Nick I ask them to do whatever’s needed, assure them that the costs will be covered either through insurance or from my own funds. The director of the clinic looks a bit dubious, but a call to Max at Lloyds soon reassures him, and Queenie’s wheeled off, still heavily sedated, into their operating theatre to have her leg set. I somehow think this is a much more delicate procedure than my wrist was.

We spend the next two hours in the waiting area with more coffee, but eventually the director of the clinic comes back to tell us that as far as they can tell the operation has gone well. Queenie will be in plaster for at least two months, and her recuperation will continue long beyond that. For now, though, we can only wait.

Dan drops Nick and me off at the entrance to Nathan’s apartment building on the Leeds city centre waterfront, and explains how to use the key card. He’ll be going back to Black Combe with Summer. They haven’t said as much, but I assume they just feel that Nick and I are better left alone now, to sort out our differences. I have to agree.