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  Until the accident, of course. She was now spending a couple of hours each day after work sitting with him—time she didn’t really have to spare. She felt guilty every time she turned up because invariably Bill and Daphne were already there—Bill reading the paper and Daphne knitting. It was a jumper for Jack, made from chunky homespun natural grey lamb’s wool.

  Claire tried to tell herself it was different for them because they were retired, but felt guilty all over again when she remembered that they’d driven nearly forty minutes to be there, not ten as she had. But they didn’t have an inbox full of six hundred emails waiting to be read and responded to. Claire had tried to sit and do nothing, but on the third day had given up and started bringing her laptop to make better use of the time. She didn’t think you were allowed to use electronic equipment in hospitals, but no one had told her off yet.

  Claire checked her watch—visiting hours at the hospital were starting soon. She ran down the stairs, grabbed her laptop bag from the kitchen bench and her keys from the bowl on the hall table. Having punched the code into the security system, she deadlocked the door and pulled it shut behind her.

  * * *

  Claire sat in the vinyl chair beside her father’s hospital bed, looking up from her laptop to study his features. Thank God he hadn’t needed to be hooked up to a ventilator. She couldn’t imagine the agony of deciding when and if to turn it off.

  Lying there under the pale blue cotton blanket, he looked peaceful, as though he was just sleeping. Maybe the nurses were right: his body needed the rest and time to heal. When it was ready he’d just wake up.

  A week or so ago, one of the nurses had said she thought he needed to be given a reason to wake up. But Claire had nothing to offer. She couldn’t chatter with excitement about her life with Keith. There was now no chance of her bringing news she was pregnant with his first grandchild. And the only other important thing in her life—her job—had never interested him much anyway. And it wasn’t as if she could tell him what she’d done with the horses.

  She hadn’t really had a choice. Bill and Daphne had offered to look after them rather than see them got rid of. But they weren’t horse people, and there was a lot more to it than just chucking a bale of hay over the fence every few days. Bernie had offered, but Jack McIntyre hated the idea of being a burden as much as Claire did. And she sure as hell couldn’t be driving up there every day.

  It really had been the only thing to do. She was certain her father would have agreed. So why did she feel so guilty? And why couldn’t she get it off her chest, even if she wasn’t totally convinced he could hear her?

  She felt like a complete idiot—and totally self-conscious doing it—but the nurses were adamant that he could hear everything she said, so while she tapped away on her keyboard she would chatter about the mundane details of her weekend, and about Bernie if she’d caught up with her. Jack McIntyre had had a soft spot for her friend since she’d first visited the farm when they were teenagers. Back then Jack had loved a good debate, no matter what the topic, and didn’t care if he lost, which he usually did when it came to the stubborn Bernadette. They’d both mellowed since then, but Bernie and Jack still enjoyed the occasional good-natured verbal tussle.

  Sometimes Claire felt her friend was more the kind of daughter he wanted—laid-back and earthy. Bernadette at least had a job he understood, even if he didn’t see why people would pay so much for old junk to stick in their gardens. In fact, Bernadette had done very well from the bits of ‘old junk’ he’d given her.

  Claire put her hand over her father’s limp, weathered one and squeezed. She was disappointed, but not surprised, to receive no reaction. She took a deep breath. It was so hard to hold a one-way conversation about nothing in particular.

  * * *

  Feeling rejuvenated at home after a Radox bath and quick bowl of pasta, Claire got out her laptop again. She’d been putting it off for a few weeks, but now put ‘coma’ into the search engine.

  She’d heard lots of amazing stories relating to coma patients. Apparently there was a guy in the United States who had woken up after twenty years with no idea there was such a thing as email or the internet. Having never been in the shoes of a desperate loved one, she’d always been a little sceptical. Now she was beginning to understand the lengths people went to.

  She read about Dr Fred Burrows’s controversial Stimulation Therapy, where family members undertook a routine of controlled auditory, visual and physical stimulation to encourage the patient to wake up. Apparently some read the newspaper aloud every day, some sang, some had a positive mantra they said over and over. It was fascinating, and it made sense, but there was no way she had the time that was needed—up to six hours a day.

  Claire felt as though she’d done nothing constructive so far except talk to Jack. She’d paid the odd bill and made sure the house was secure. Of course, she’d got rid of the horses, but that didn’t really count, did it? She was beginning to think she’d been too hasty—maybe she should have at least waited a few weeks to prove to everyone it was the only workable solution. She vowed to make more of an effort trying to get Jack better.

  The doctor couldn’t tell her whether the kick from the horse had caused the stroke or if the stroke had made him fall under the horse’s hooves. Though it didn’t actually matter. From what she read, what mattered was getting him awake and out of bed. Apparently four weeks was okay, but much longer and the patient risked contracting pneumonia—the biggest killer of non-vegetative coma patients. It had already been a month. Lucky he was a tough old nut and there was so far no sign of any other problems.

  Claire shut down the computer. She needed something Jack would see as worth summoning every ounce of strength to wake up for. But what? There were no home fires burning, no warm bed and wife to return to. His beloved horses had been sold off and he’d recently lost his son-in-law—and with him the chance of grandchildren.

  He’d adored Keith—had often referred to him as the son he’d never had. But the loss of the prospect of grandchildren had hurt almost as much as the loss of his ‘son’ and best mate. Claire tried not to let herself think about the fact that she’d as good as forgotten to have children.

  Two

  The next day Claire was pleased to be back at her desk, where she could focus on her projects and paperwork and the upcoming Melbourne Cup. It was a struggle to get out of bed and into the shower in the mornings, but she always felt better when she’d escaped the house and its silent, haunting memories of Keith.

  Obsessively organised and habitual, Claire started every day with a list. Her job at Rockford was to deliver advertising projects. Some of her larger clients had campaigns covering all media—television, radio and print—so she had a lot to keep track of: ensuring tight deadlines were met, pre-empting any delays and managing everyone’s expectations. It was a juggling act that saw much of her time on the phone with creative and graphics staff, and clients’ personal assistants. It was a sign of a very, very bad day when the CEO of a client actually called her. The only way she could keep track of everything was with several lists.

  Luckily, a lot of projects had been completed in the past few weeks. There was always a short lull while the campaigns were running, then afterwards when their success was being analysed. And then the chaos would start all over. Before that she would make the most of the peace and quiet.

  This morning, while she waited for her computer to boot up, she wrote ‘Client Phone Calls’ and twice underlined the heading at the top of her company-issued A4 pad. Below she added the names of her top five clients. It was no coincidence that they all occupied corporate boxes at the Melbourne Cup. She’d already received a couple of invites, but she wanted to make sure she’d exhausted all options before making her decision.

  Years ago, Keith had teased her for only staying in her job for the Cup. She’d taken offence at the sugges
tion she would be so shallow and calculating and had taken a long time to realise he’d meant it not as a criticism but mere observation.

  Anyway, there had to be perks—other than lots of pay that attracted lots of tax.

  It wasn’t that Claire didn’t enjoy her job—aspects of it anyway—but she certainly liked the personal recognition such invites implied.

  The first time Keith had accompanied her he’d been blown away by the opulence, finally admitting through a mouthful of lobster that he could see why she spent a whole year waiting for this day.

  Rather than being insecure, he’d enjoyed being her handbag for the day—especially being free to ogle all the beautiful tanned, touched-up and terrific women strutting about like the fillies out on the track. Later that night, when they were tucked up in their hotel’s five-star sheets, Claire had teased him that it was lucky he wasn’t expected to make intelligent conversation and represent a business.

  Claire smiled sadly at the memory—this would be her first Cup without him in eight years. This time, when the horses thundered past the mirrored finish line and the nation finally let its breath go, the tears that escaped her eyes would be different. Nothing was the same anymore. That was what she was having so much trouble with—the little things. She even missed his habit of leaving his shoes in the lounge room, having kicked them off while settling into the couch.

  But Keith would want her to go, wouldn’t he?

  She felt guilty even thinking about leaving Jack—even if he was recovering at home by then. But what if he was still in hospital? How could she get all dressed up, sip free champagne, be merry? What would he want her to do? That was an easy one. Jack McIntyre was one of the most humble, gracious men on the planet. Not only would he urge her to go, he’d drive her to the airport himself if he could and offer tips the whole way.

  Claire was still lost in her thoughts when Derek Anderson—her boss—appeared beside her.

  ‘Morning, Claire. I like the new haircut—it suits you.’

  ‘Hi, Derek. Thanks,’ she said, blushing slightly and putting a hand to her head. She’d completely forgotten that no one had seen her new look. Now she felt self-conscious. He looked as if he’d had a recent haircut as well, but she wasn’t about to say anything. His full head of thick, mid-brown hair, dusted with grey, was shorter on the sides and standing up a little more on top than usual.

  ‘Good weekend?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, and you?’

  ‘Good, thanks. My young colt had his first run at Morphettville. Thought we might have to cull him there for a while, difficult sod. My trainer thinks he’s not worth the trouble, but something tells me he might do all right once we iron out the kinks. He’d better—he’s cost me an arm and a leg.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Claire was a little unsettled by the warmth in his blue-grey eyes.

  ‘Owning racehorses outright is an expensive hobby, but a man’s gotta have one, right? Maybe I should sell some shares, set up a syndicate to spread the load. What do you think?’

  ‘Sounds good, Derek.’ The last thing Claire wanted to hear about was racing, especially Derek’s success—he was, after all, a rival to Jack. ‘Was there something you wanted?’

  ‘How’s your dad doing?’

  ‘Same, but thanks for asking.’

  Derek seemed uneasy perched on the corner of her desk. He hadn’t casually picked up any of her items and wasn’t swinging his leg as he usually did.

  ‘Was there something else, Derek? I have a heap of calls to make and a report due at twelve.’

  ‘Well, um, I...’ Derek fumbled with the thick knot of his red-and-gold-striped tie.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was thinking it might be a good time to take some of that leave you’re sitting on, since all those campaigns have been wrapped up. You know, spend a bit more time with Jack. Get your head around everything.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m fine, Derek.’

  ‘Just thought a month or so would be good for you.’

  Claire’s hackles rose. She eyed Derek coldly, wondering if it was her imagination, or if he really was having trouble looking her in the eye.

  ‘Are you implying my work is not up to scratch? If so, don’t be so gutless as to come in here suggesting time off...’

  Derek held up his hands in surrender. ‘Your work’s fine, Claire, as always. I just don’t want you regretting your choices later. Family is important. Don’t use work as an excuse not to face certain things.’

  Claire was almost touched by his words, but couldn’t shake the feeling there was something else going on. He was definitely avoiding looking at her.

  ‘I appreciate your concern, Derek, but I’ve got everything under control.’

  ‘All right, I can’t force you to do anything. Just remember, Claire, no one is indispensable. If any one of us got hit by a bus, this place would maybe skip a beat, but the powers that be wouldn’t waste any time filling the role and getting things back on track.’

  ‘Jeez, thanks, Derek. Nice to know how valued we are. Now, if there is nothing else...’

  ‘Well, there was just one other thing—sort of more of a personal nature.’

  Claire’s breath caught.

  ‘That colt, the one Jack registered as Paycheque...’

  ‘Yes?’ Her ears pricked up. She straightened in her chair.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure how to tell you this...’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got him,’ Claire groaned.

  ‘No. Personally I don’t think much of him—too small. But that doesn’t excuse what I saw.’

  ‘What? What did you see?’

  ‘I probably shouldn’t say anything.’

  ‘So why are you?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know—it’s really none of my business.’

  ‘Derek, just tell me. I don’t have time for games.’

  ‘Al Jacobs had him at the...’

  ‘What? Bill Parsons took him. Dad hates how Al treats his horses. Was he all right? Not that there’s anything I can do.’

  ‘Skinny, scared shitless.’

  ‘He wasn’t racing, was he?’

  ‘Afraid so. Well, they tried.’

  ‘But he’s not ready—Dad said he needed another six months at least.’ Claire didn’t want to ask the obvious, but had gone too far not to. ‘So I guess he didn’t do so well?’

  ‘No, wouldn’t have a bar of the barriers, poor little thing.’

  ‘Oh God. After all the work Dad put in.’

  ‘I know. Sorry to have to tell you.’ Derek shrugged. ‘Just thought you should know. I must be going soft.’

  ‘Anything else I should know?’

  ‘Al did mention getting rid of him, but I’m sure it was just his temper talking. You know how hot under the collar he gets.’

  ‘Well, it’s a pity, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘You could take that time off—get him back. I’ve heard you could have been a half-decent trainer if you’d stuck to it.’

  ‘Jeez, Derek, you are going soft. But seriously, I don’t think Dad would want me interfering.’ Claire’s desk phone started ringing.

  ‘Well, if you change your mind,’ Derek said, and left with a wave of his hand.

  Claire stared after him for a second before picking up the phone.

  * * *

  Thoughts of Paycheque niggled at Claire all day. She saw his face in her mind every time she picked up the phone, every time she put it down, while she checked her emails, dealt with her in-tray, and added or scrubbed something from her to-do list.

  She’d sold all four of Jack’s horses. So why was only Paycheque plaguing her? Storm had much more going for him than Paycheque did—he was the right size for a start. God, she really shouldn’t have sold them.
How would Jack react? He’d be angry, sad and disappointed. Of course he would. She’d known that and gone ahead anyway. Why? Because I didn’t have a choice, she told herself forcefully and got up to make a cup of tea. It was three o’clock and she was sick of the distraction.

  But Paycheque was there again while she filled the kettle, turned it on and put a tea bag in her mug. The small bay colt with the unusual enquiring tilt to his head, large expressive eyes and level-headed willingness beyond his age. She thought about what Derek had said. Horses refusing to go into barriers was just part of racing. If they cracked under the pressure, their career was over. Just like any other elite athlete. Only the best horses were worth investing in. And the others... She hated to think about it. But it really was a part of life.

  Paycheque was still on her mind when she got back to her desk. Jack had said over and over that he wasn’t ready to race. He shouldn’t even have been there, shouldn’t have been given the chance to fail. But Jack had also said he’d showed the most promise of any of his horses over the years. They were just words, weren’t they? Jack had always thought big—bigger than he should, if Claire was being honest. But now that she thought about it, Claire didn’t remember him being so vehement about a horse’s potential, or so attached to one. Paycheque hadn’t been just one of many. He’d held a really special place in Jack’s heart. Shit, what had she done? She rubbed a hand across her face.

  Maybe it was part of some sick plan of Derek’s, some sort of reverse psychology. It could be anything with Derek, you just never knew. Or maybe it was even worse than he’d let on—he hadn’t wanted to completely lose his tough-guy, ‘racehorses are just a means for making money’ attitude and was really concerned. If that was true, after what he’d seen in his time at the track and behind the scenes, it meant things were looking really bad for the little horse. But there was nothing she could do now, was there?