‘It’s so crazy, the money here!’ Signe exclaimed, playing with Luca’s hair. They had slept together the previous week – he’d been very drunk, full of determined charm, and only had partial recall – and now that seemed to give her permission to stroke him all the time, like a pet dog. He couldn’t decide whether he liked it. ‘If you could have any musician play at your birthday, who would it be?’ she asked.

‘Leonard Cohen.’

‘Depressing duh?’ She had a cute huck to her laugh. He missed a lover’s laughter. ‘Shouldn’t you have an Irish singer?’

‘That’s like saying you have to choose Abba because you’re Swedish.’

‘I would choose Abba.’

‘Good on ya.’

‘Only they split up before I was born.’ She pulled a sad face.

‘Too bad.’

‘I bet the boss here could pay enough for Abba to get back together.’ She sighed, eyes sparkling.

Luca doubted that, his own battered heart heavy at being bought. Taking on this contract, he’d imagined that immersing himself in patriarchal, male-dominated isolation would be cathartic, a marche ou crève crusade, far from the woman he loved but could never have. Instead, living in a country so controlling it kept its mothers, wives and daughters behind veils and closed doors, felt like joining a cult of perdition. The expat women like Signe, with their deep tans, white teeth and tight breeches, were a predatory, self-protective tribe, equally bad for his health.

Blue-eyed, ruddy-faced and athletically seductive, Signe was like a lot of horse professionals Luca knew, who rode hard all day and viewed recreational sex as the after-party. They were cut from the same cloth, nomadic work riders who followed the competition seasons round all continents, love and commitment top-shelved. Probably in her early thirties, she was old enough to know what she was doing and was good company, with her melodic voice, upbeat attitude and ready laugh. The perfect no-strings fling was being dangled in front of his eyes, had he not been so tied up in knots, counting the days until he was free from his royal noose.

Keeping his head down and grafting harder than ever, Luca was determined to stick it out. He was here to help the most talented horse he’d ever worked with get to the Olympics – and he was being paid a lot to do it. His only obstacle was the lad who would be riding him there.

‘Golden boy fall off again today?’ asked Signe, unbuttoning his shirt as deftly as she plaited a mane.

‘Yep. That’s five days in a row. They’re competing again tomorrow, so they are.’

‘Your accent is such a turn-on.’ Her kiss tasted of vodka. He liked that. Grey Goose, the kick pure as sea surf in this hotbed of fake rain, steel high rise and plastic trees.

Coming up for air and turning away to refill their glasses, he dwelt reluctantly on the memory of the boy at his last competition, unable to get the horse out of the collecting ring, dumped in the silica sand at the FEI official’s feet. Luca had worked the stallion for an hour beforehand, privileged to be balanced on a fast-thinking powerhouse, the rocket detonating over practice fences, a warhorse ready to lay down his life to win, his trust total. But when the boy had taken over, his skills sketchy and his nerves tight, his faith was not in the horse or in Luca, but in a birthright and advantage beyond their reach. Luca couldn’t have done any more to help, short of brainwashing the stallion to believe that the kid could ride.