‘Fierce, funny, fearless.’ Green eyes met hers. ‘She’d been the original wild child. It drove the boss mad, even though we all knew she was a daddy’s girl at heart. I was a part of her rebellion. She married another hard-bastard showjumper like her dad, a protégé of his.’

A car swept by with a swish of displaced air.

‘And you flew back in to find the wedding tent still up?’

The green eyes held hers. ‘They were living at the farm while they were waiting for their new yard to be built in Vermont. She used to come and talk to me, cry on my shoulder. Said that her husband was cold, all ego, useless in bed, that she’d never wanted to go through with it. I was still more than a bit in love with her, so you can guess the rest.’ A finger tapped fast on the wheel.

Pax wanted to grab it and still it.

But the metronome cranked up to allegro. ‘It was crazy exciting. I suppose we both got off on all the secrecy. We decided to make a run for it, planned a fresh start in Ireland together; I bought the tickets, drank vodka in my coffee, rum in my Coke, fantasising myself as Hemingway. When she couldn’t stop chucking up every morning, I thought it was nerves; I threw up plenty myself, knowing her dad would kill us both if he found out what we planned. Then, the day we were due to fly, she told me she couldn’t go through with it. There was no talking her round. Said she wanted to make her marriage work. My first experience drinking myself stupid long-haul. Not my last.’

‘She didn’t tell you she was pregnant?’ Pax felt a crash of empathy for the new young wife, forced to choose between safety and freedom, her first life-changing decision as a mother.

‘I had no idea.’

‘How long before you went back?’

‘A couple of years. The old man wasn’t letting me go and, if I’m honest, I needed the money. There’s not many bosses who don’t care if you ride drunk or sober as long as you ride well. I could go months without a drop, but then I’d just go off on one, y’know?’ His gaze stayed fixed on hers.

‘My habit’s more of a daily dose.’

Luca nodded. ‘You mould your life round it, don’t you? I’d started taking jobs for that rather than the horses, places where hard-drinking was a part of the culture: big Dutch and German barns full of Slovak workers with their vodka, the South African dipsos, macho Brazilians lunchtime drinking. My Canadian friend was by far the worst for running a bar through the day, from Bloody Mary breakfast to triple measure nightcap; I went back there every year after that.’

‘Did you ever see her?’

‘Never saw, never asked. Her dad’s not the sort to talk about family. There are pictures of horses on walls there, not grandchildren. But then last summer I flew in and she was living back home.’