Bahama Blues

By

Sabrina

 

Sequel to “Christmas at Follyfoot”

 

Colourful ribbons were woven into the mane that grew wispily from the bay horse’s ewe neck. Bobbles bounced from the headband of the bridle, and the horse rested a tired leg as Steve climbed into the carriage.

 

The carriage had a canopy, thankfully, for the Nassau sun was warm, and more red, yellow and blue bobbles made a colourful fringe around the top.

 

The driver, a young black man with the hugest grin Steve had ever seen, turned to check his passengers were seated, widened the grin a bit more, and clicked his tongue to the horse, who moved his bony haunches into a trot with an almost audible sigh.

 

Steve had misgivings about this carriage ride and just about everything else about the holiday so far. The tropical colours of Nassau, the graceful Georgian buildings in their gelato paint, the smells and sounds of the Bahamas, the uplifting Goombay music played by energetic bands that wafted from countless doorways, the mix of motorscooters, old cars in violent colours, arrogant Rolls Royces and huge American limousines all passed him by. He sensed them remotely but was smouldering at the swift work of Dora’s parents that had neatly excised him and the stranger sitting next to him, throwing them together on a ride that with Dora would have been romantic and exciting.

 

He ignored his fellow passenger, and instead reviewed what had led to this moment…

 

It had been a hectic three weeks since Christmas. Steve didn’t have a passport, so Dora’s father had to pull a number of diplomatic strings to get one issued in time. A strike against him, Steve realised sadly, remembering the terse phone call Dora had had with her parents to organise it.

 

He had no clothes suitable for a Bahamanian holiday at a posh beachside hotel. A trip to Leeds failed to produce the necessary shorts and shirts, so Steve had packed jeans with a shrug and hoped a cheap local market in Nassau – if one existed in that jetsetter’s paradise – would kit him out.

 

After flying low over some of the most amazing blue sea Steve had ever seen, they had landed at Nassau International Airport and been whisked by a chauffeur-driven, airconditioned limousine to one of the most superbly ugly buildings either of them had ever seen. Any thoughts that they might be staying in one of those lovely old hotels they had just passed – the ones that oozed charm and grace -  vanished.

 

Dora wrinkled her nose and looked up at several stories of pale pink concrete box. “I do wonder about my parents sometimes.”

 

“Only sometimes?” Steve raised an eyebrow and followed her out of the car.

 

It got worse when they checked in. Dora’s parents had arranged for Dora to have a beach view room on the seventh floor, near their own, while Steve was to stay on the second.

 

“Don’t say anything.” Dora put a hand on his arm, seeing the familiar dark scowl on his face. “Just take the key and move your stuff into my room.”

 

“I’m still Steve the stable boy, aren’t I?”

 

“They invited you here, didn’t they?”

 

“Only because they knew you wouldn’t come on your own.”

 

“Oh, cheer up! We’ve got two weeks in the sun. We don’t have to spend our time with them.”  Dora watched the porter whisk their bags away towards the lifts. “Come on, let’s look at the view.”

 

The hotel was as chilly as the car had been. Steve wondered why visitors came to a warm island to stay cold.

 

Dora’s room, decked out in wild shades of orange, lime green and pink, featured every convenience known to man. It had a huge ensuite bathroom with an odd bath, which had little metal outlets set all around the inside of it.

 

She hid a smile at Steve’s bemused face. “It’s a spa bath,” she said. “The latest word in luxury.”

 

“Looks uncomfortable.”

 

“I’ve never tried one but they’re supposed to be great. Especially with a nice bottle of wine.”

 

Steve had a sudden flash that this was the world Dora was born into; he’d forgotten that over time, seeing her every day in jeans and sweaters, hay in her hair and wellies on her feet.

 

The bowl of fresh, almost luridly coloured fruit that sat on the coffee table; the amazingly stocked bar fridge; the push button radio, the colour television, the lights with their little dimmer switches…Steve wandered around the suite pressing buttons and opening doors and drawers. It was like something out of the movies.

 

And the view! He followed Dora onto the balcony – thank God the doors opened and they could get some salty, warm sea air into the room – and put an arm around her as they watched people run down the white sands and into the water.

 

When he went down to his own room to retrieve his bags, he found it was half the size, didn’t have a spa bath, but did have a view of the kitchen of the hotel next door.

 

It also had an ominous note waiting on the coffee table, next to a fruit bowl one fifth the size of Dora’s. “We hope you can join us for dinner with Dora tonight at 8 in the hotel dining room. Please dress. Regards, Arthur Maddox.”

 

Steve had a wild thought of turning up naked just to see what impact it would have. Then he understood what “Please dress” meant. Feeling suddenly like a girl, he realised he didn’t have a single thing to wear.

 

Any thoughts of running down that exquisite pale sand into that inviting aqua water vanished. Steve, after a hurried phone call to Dora, spent the afternoon doing something he hated: clothes shopping.

 

Feeling foolish and foppish, Steve escorted Dora to the dining room at five to eight. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, which was fine, but also a tie and lightweight dark blue trousers he’d never have a use for back in Yorkshire. However, he put it down to a good cause, because the young woman on his arm looked absolutely beautiful.

 

Dora had bought herself a low cut short kaftan in flowing greens, blues and gold. She was a goddess, especially with the ridiculously expensive gold sandals she’d teamed with it. Steve’s silver locket gleamed around her neck, the only jewellery she wore. She’d taken extra care with her hair and makeup and plastered her white winter legs and arms with ManTan. Dora hated clothes shopping and the resulting dressing up as much as Steve did, but it was important to make a good impression on her parents, for both their sakes.

 

It was the right decision. Her mother, Prudence, glittered in a gold and white kaftan that was suitably cut for an ambassador’s wife, showing a discreet cleavage and a massive gold necklace that glittered with what had to be diamonds. Arthur Maddox was dressed, to Steve’s relief, in clothing much like his own, and shook Steve’s hand perfunctorily before hugging his daughter.

 

“Dora, darling, so lovely to see you again. You look wonderful,” her father pronounced. “Now, what will you have to drink before the others arrive?”

 

“Others?” Dora faltered.

 

“Oh, we’ve bumped into some people we know. One does, in places like this,” her mother said smoothly, so Dora had the instant impression she’d been set up.  “Charles Buckley, you remember, Rollo’s son. He’s a very successful merchant banker these days. And Patricia Gordon, with whom I went to Roedean, and her daughter Eustacia. Patricia can’t join us but young Stacey will be along soon.”

 

Steve and Dora exchanged uneasy glances, which became even more uneasy when the other two guests joined them and Dora’s father swiftly sat Charles next to Dora and placed himself between Dora and Stacey, with Steve on Stacey’s other side.

 

Charles was precisely the sort of florid thirtyish man Dora’s parents approved of, down to the crimson silk cravat around his neck and the glittering signet ring on one little finger. His fair hair was brushed back in wings from his face and his arms tanned, he said, from spending Christmas playing polo in Argentina.

 

“Charles is a superb rider,” Prudence cooed meaningfully to Dora; if you want a man who rides, her eyes sparked, have this one!

 

Stacey, whose long red hair somehow didn’t clash with the wildly short hot pink mini dress she was almost wearing, was clearly meant for Steve. Her mother might have gone to the poshest girls’ school in England, and from Stacey’s voice so did she herself, but her clothes and her manner were those of a girl out for a good time. She gave Steve an appraising, then appreciative gaze, and her shining pink mouth widened.

 

Dinner, despite the delicious seafood that appeared in luxurious quantities, was a disaster. Dora pushed her conch soup around with a spoon and refused to eat the rock lobster as it had been boiled alive. She didn’t have to say much as Charles kept up a haw-hawing running commentary that her parents seemed riveted to. Steve discovered the infamous Caribbean rum punch and drowned his sorrows in it, barely listening to Stacey, who was blatantly chatting him up and pushing a bare foot against his legs at regular intervals.

 

“Why don’t you young people go and dance?” Charles suggested when the waiter had cleared the plates. A band had set up in one corner and was playing Harry Belafonte covers.

 

“Come on, Steve.” Stacey was up in a flash, dragging at Steve’s arm with long satin-pink nails.

 

“Sorry, I don’t dance. Anyway, I haven’t finished my drink.”

 

Stacey gave a pout that had steel behind it. “I’ll teach you.” She pulled at him so hard he nearly fell off his chair, and Steve had no option but to follow her to the tiny dance floor, which was already so crowded there was no option but to dance closely with each other.

 

Dora contemplated storming off to her room – or thumping Stacey, which would have been far more fun. However, she let the braying Charles clamp his damp, warm hands around hers and lead her to the dance floor.

 

After an awful minute, with Charles’ face too close to hers and his voice muttering, “God, you’re beautiful, Dora. Can I see you tomorrow? Your parents told me Steve was your workmate so I’m sure he won’t mind…”, Steve tapped Charles on the shoulder.

 

“My dance,” he said smoothly, and Dora moved gratefully into his arms.

 

Stacey’s pout crumpled her face, but vanished when Charles, after looking like a landed fish for a moment, mouth agape, began to gyrate in front of her.

 

“I’m so sorry. I had a feeling something like this would happen.” Dora swayed to the music, her arms around Steve’s shoulders.

 

He stroked her back, letting himself move to the music for a minute. If it hadn’t been for Dora’s parents and their awful guests, he’d enjoy holding Dora in his arms and shuffling around the dance floor.

 

“Let’s get out of here, girl,” Steve said, “before friend Charles cuts in again.”

 

Dora’s parents had faces like thunder as Dora returned to the table. “Mummy, Daddy, we’re both horribly jet-lagged. I need to go to bed, so please excuse me, I’m asleep on my feet. See you at breakfast,” she promised, in the hope it would mollify them. She kissed her parents’ cheeks and with a huge sigh of relief walked out of the restaurant with Steve.

 

The Caribbean air was still warm and fragrant from the sea when Dora opened the balcony door off her room. She wasn’t tired in the least, and, as she watched Steve take the new shirt and trousers off with undue care, she saw that he wasn’t, either.

 

“I’ll show you how the spa bath works,” she suggested softly, shrugging the kaftan off into a silken pool around her ankles.

 

And as Dora and Steve sank into each other’s arms and the bubbling, energising water, Charles earnestly spoke to Dora’s parents about his life and plans and what a delightful daughter they had, and Stacey knocked uselessly on the door of Steve’s room.

 

*   *   *

 

Plans had obviously been made in their absence. Over breakfast Prudence announced that they would all be going on carriage rides around Nassau that morning, Charles and Stacey included.

 

“I thought you’d both like it, as it’s something to do with horses,” she finished. “Charles tells me there is also horseriding available on one of the beaches on the island, and he’d like you to be his guest, Dora. As Stacey isn’t much of a rider, Steven, you might like to escort her to one of the other beaches for a swim sometime.”

 

Steven? Only the magistrate had ever called him that! Steve scowled. “I’m sure a girl like Stacey wouldn’t be short of escorts,” he said tightly.

 

“And Steve and I intend to go to the beaches ourselves,” Dora said hotly. “Mother, please stop interfering. I’ve no interest in Charles. I love Steve. I don’t want anyone else.” She pushed her chair back from the table, throwing the elegant damask napkin onto her unfinished fruit platter.

 

Steve touched her arm. “Cool it, girl, I’m right here. You and I on a carriage ride, that sounds nice.”

 

Dora reluctantly sat down again. “Just stop trying to organise my life,” she muttered.

 

“Darling, we’re not,” her mother said. “After all, you live up in Yorkshire now; we never see you. I’m sure you don’t get many nice treats up on that farm of yours; your father and I are just trying to give you a lovely time with some different people on a beautiful island.” As an insult to Follyfoot, Dora’s chosen life and her penniless boyfriend, it rated ten out of ten, Steve thought.

 

After an uncomfortable cup of coffee, during which Arthur and Prudence asked Steve pointed questions about his parents and his past, it was time to meet the others for the carriage ride.

 

Three gaily decorated carriages waited outside the hotel, and before Steve or Dora could protest, Dora and Charles were chivvied by Prudence into the first carriage.  She watched sternly as a giggling Stacey, followed by a fuming Steve, took the next one.

 

All the horses had seen better days. Given that there was so much money thrown in all directions on Nassau, Steve wondered why the drivers didn’t use younger, fitter animals.

 

Bells jingled on the horse’s traces as it trotted through the main streets of Nassau. Stacey snuggled up against Steve’s side, her perfume expensive and pervasive. “You’re my kind of man,” she whispered. “I adore strong, silent types.”

 

Silent is right, Steve thought, unable to think of a single thing to say to her aside from asking her to get away from him. As he opened his mouth to speak, Stacey leaned over and planted her own on it.

 

Steve tried to push her away but she was stronger than she looked. Her hands were in his hair, holding his head firmly so there was no escape without violence. And she didn’t kiss like a nice girl; she was all tongue, probing his mouth then sucking his lower lip hard. Finally she let him go, licking her own lips like a cat and gazing at him with green eyes whose pupils were dilated with desire.

 

Dora! thought Steve. What if she saw that? Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Steve looked past the driver and weary horse.

 

Dora’s carriage was nowhere in sight.

 

“Driver,” Steve said urgently, “Where did the carriage in front of us go?”

 

“They turned left, sir. We’ll go this way, show you Government House, much prettier.” He clicked his tongue and the horse flicked an ear towards him and momentarily quickened his pace. The fringe of bobbles danced.

 

“Driver, find them. Please. Turn around.”

 

“Can’t do that here, sir, too much traffic.” The driver shrugged. “We’ll catch up with them somewhere. We all do much the same tours of Nassau.”

 

Steve sank back against the cracked leather seat, wishing the back of the seat were higher so he could rest his head, but the eccentric old carriage had seats that reached barely to his shoulders.

 

He looked miserably out at Nassau, at the smiling tourists spending money hand over fist, at the exquisite dark children laughing, and wished himself back in cold Yorkshire, where it might be snowing, and he and Dora could be happy in the world they had created. He pushed Stacey’s slim hand from his leg.

 

“What kind of man are you?” she asked, when Steve had placed her hand back on her own leg for the third time.

 

“I’ve got a girlfriend. I love her. She’s with that stuffed shirt in the other carriage, which is where I should be. Driver…driver! Please try and find the other carriage…”

 

*   *   *

 

“Of course,” said Charles, “While the polo ponies in Argentina are agile, they’re not a match for the lovely string I’ve got back in Hertfordshire. Dora, you must come and see them.”

 

“I don’t like polo,” Dora said stiffly. “You players are so rough on the ponies’ mouths.” She looked sadly at the horse trotting stiffly in front of them. The old grey was favouring one leg; off fore, perhaps? Maybe if she asked the driver to stop, she could have a look at it.

 

“The ponies love it,” Charles said airily. “A good polo pony barely needs you to touch his mouth, he watches the ball by himself. It’s an enormous adrenalin rush, polo. Almost as good as sex –“

 

Dora refused to look at him.

 

“ – when you gallop down towards the goals at full tilt, knowing you’re going to score. The speed! Talking of which, can’t this old nag go any faster?”

 

Their driver, an older man wearing a cap that was blinding in its multitude of colours, said: “We only trot, sir. It’s not safer to go faster.”

 

“Bollocks,” Charles said cheerily.

 

To Dora’s horror he reached forward and grabbed the whip out of the driver’s hand, and delivered a smart crack onto the old grey’s rump. “Giddyup, Dobbin!”

 

It was hard to say who was the most surprised: the driver, who gaped open-mouthed, or the horse, who was used to jogging, loose-reined, for hours each day. The grey grunted, swished its tail, and broke into a rough canter.

 

“Faster,” yelled Charles, delivering another hard and accurate smack onto the horse’s rump.

 

“Charles, no!” Dora screamed, and snatched at his arms as he raised them again.

 

The driver was hastily gathering the reins, and trying to pull the grey back to a trot, but the old horse had had enough and tried to outrun the sting on his rump.

 

The carriage creaked as the horse set his neck and cantered along the boulevarde. Cars and motorcycles honked their horns, people shouted and screamed from the footpaths, all of which added to the horse’s alarm.

 

The animal took steering into his own hooves, weaving in between other traffic while the driver leaned back, tugging at the tough old mouth.

 

Charles grinned. “That’s more like it, eh, Dora?  I like excitement in my life, and you’re VERY exciting!”

 

Dora, clinging for dear life to the old, leaning metal pole that propped up the canopy, was unprepared to fend off Charles’s lurch.

 

He wrapped his arms around her, pinning her to the side of the carriage. Dora tried to kick him away but she was wearing another stupid kaftan, a long one because all the ManTan had washed off in the spa, and the wretched cloth twisted around her legs.

 

“Jimmy!” shouted the driver. “Jimmy, stop, mon! Whoa, Jimmy, whoa, Jim!”

 

The carriage rocked furiously as Jimmy, ears flattened, heard the clattering and creaking of the carriage behind him and feared yet another sting on the rump. His stables were along this road, and the horse was determined to get to the safety of his home. He ignored the pull on his mouth, painful though it was, and kept cantering on. If he was younger and fitter, he would have lengthened his stride to a gallop. As it was, cantering with the load behind him was taxing enough on his stiff old legs.

 

Dora tried to slide down so she was lying on the seat; she’d come close to pitching headfirst out the side of the vehicle. She squirmed and wriggled as Charles’s mouth tried to find hers. The horse was going way too fast, they were in danger, and this unbearable, stupid man was either laughing or trying to kiss her!  She buried her face in the back of the seat, gagging at the ages of sweat that had leeched into the leather.

 

After what felt like a year, Jimmy’s place broke and slowed to a limping trot then a halt. Dora heard the horse’s ragged breathing as the poor animal sucked in air desperately. She didn’t move until she felt Charles’s weight lift off her, then shakily raised her head.

 

Heaven only knew where they were. This wasn’t the glitz and graciousness of Nassau’s town centre. Wooden houses and shacks with peeling paint stood by the overgrown, weedy side of the road, rusting cars parked in front. Raggedly dressed children watched interestedly from sagging verandahs.

 

The driver had jumped down and was holding Jimmy’s head while letting fly a tirade at Charles. The words “Idiot”, and “Rich prick” featured again and again.

 

Charles protested, “For heaven’s sake, man, it was only a bit of fun. Probably gave the old chap a boost to have a canter for a change.” He smoothed his hands over his hair and smiled ingratiatingly.

 

Dora pulled herself up and carefully climbed out of the carriage, trying not to trip on the kaftan. She was trembling and had to hold onto one large wheel before her heart rate slowed enough for her to feel she could walk without falling over.

 

She opened her mouth to join in the driver’s sentiments, then looked closely at the horse.

 

Jimmy’s off fore was stretched in front of him, taking as little weight as possible. The knee joint was swollen to at least twice its normal size.

 

As Charles and the driver continued their argument, Charles’s voice louder and more arrogant now, Dora knelt beside the horse. Jimmy flinched at her touch, feather light though it was. The horse’s knee burned under her fingers, puffed tight against the skin.

 

She stood up, took a deep breath, and slapped Charles’s face as hard as she could. Jimmy snorted and threw his head up at the smacking sound, and Charles involuntarily stepped backward, almost losing his balance.

 

The driver had nothing on Dora in full flight. She began with, “You disgusting, arrogant bastard!” and finished two minutes later, Charles unable to get a word in, with “You bloody horrible heartless man, you should have been drowned at birth!”

 

Then Dora, shaken and spent, leant her face against Jimmy’s sweaty neck, smelling so beautifully and comfortingly of horse, and cried hot tears for her own fear and Jimmy’s pain.

 

Charles fingered his cheek wonderingly. “I like a woman with spirit,” he said finally.

 

It was only the rattling sound of another carriage approaching that stopped the driver from punching Charles himself.

 

Dora, clinging to the grey’s darkened neck, heard running feet then felt a pair of familiar arms around her. “I’m here, girl. What happened?”

 

“Oh, Steve… Charles whipped the horse…made him canter. He’s hurt his leg,” she hiccupped as Steve held her close.  She wiped her cheeks and sniffed, and after another deep breath turned her face from Steve’s shirt to look at Jimmy and his driver, who was stroking the horse’s nose comfortingly.

 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” exploded Charles. “It was only a lark!”

 

Steve had a vision of Charles as a poisonous small boy, pulling wings off butterflies or tying cans to the tails of kittens and describing it as only a lark, too. If Dora wasn’t so upset he’d deal with Charles in a way the man deserved. As it was, he said, “Least you could do is pay for a vet, mate.”

 

His blazing dark eyes glared dangerously at the other man.

 

Sighing theatrically, Charles pulled a wad of money from his trouser pocket and counted out enough to make the driver’s eyes widen. “That’s for your broken down nag,” he sneered. “So you can fix the useless thing up to trot tame tourists around.”

 

But Steve and Dora, seeing the amount of money that changed hands, knew it was Jimmy’s death knell. There was enough there to buy a new horse, maybe TWO new horses, if the look of shock on the driver’s face was anything to go by.  There was far too much to waste on vet bills for an old horse with a gammy knee.

 

Dora said: “Steve, can’t we do something?”

 

“What? This is the Bahamas girl, there’s no Follyfoot here.”

 

“But if we –“

 

“We can’t do anything. Except hope that the driver does the right thing and calls a vet.”

 

Dora’s eyes sparkled with new tears as she pulled away from Steve and hugged Jimmy’s tired old neck.

 

“I get a vet, miss,” the driver said softly. “I promise, I get a vet.”

 

She didn’t see the look that passed between the driver and Steve, the one that said the vet would only have to call once.

 

Steve gently pulled her away and led her to where a sulking Stacey waited in the second carriage.

 

“Back to the hotel,” Steve ordered, and his driver, eyes wide, clicked the horse into a trot before Charles could catch them.

 

*    *    *

 

Steve took Dora down to the beach that afternoon, where the sun and warm water did their best to heal her shaken nerves and sad heart. After a couple of hours she was thinking more positively, as Steve had convinced her the horse would receive veterinary care. “The man promised, sweetheart. You heard him.”

 

“I want to go back and visit Jimmy, just to see he’s okay.”

 

“No, girl. This is a holiday, remember? This is another country, not England. You can’t save every old horse in the world. You’ve done your best, now let it go.”  He dropped a kiss on her hot, bare shoulder.

 

Dora finally agreed to stop worrying about Jimmy, and was more worried about what she was going to say to Charles next time she saw him; it would be hard to be polite.

 

To their relief there was no sign of either Charles or Stacey at dinner. Dora had the opportunity to tell her side of that morning’s story.

 

Her parents were horrified when she told them how Charles had whipped the horse and put herself, Charles and the horse and driver in danger, belting through the Nassau traffic, unstoppable in a creaking, ancient carriage.

 

“And he called it ‘just a lark’,” Dora finished angrily. “If Steve hadn’t turned up when he did, who knows what might have happened. That poor horse would have been just left to die a horrible, slow, painful death.”

 

Dora’s parents exchanged glances. “Dora, darling, we had no idea Charles could be so irresponsible,” her mother said.  “But are you sure about the loyalty of your friend Steve here?”

 

“Of course I am!” Dora flared.

 

“Naturally, any young man on a tropical island could have his head turned by an attractive young lady,” Prudence went on smoothly, and pulled something out of her handbag.

 

Dora saw it was a photograph, the glossy black and white kind taken by professional press photographers or private detectives with long lenses on their cameras. Although it was grainy, it showed Steve unmistakably in a clinch with Stacey in their carriage that morning.

 

Steve groaned. “Dora, I can explain! SHE kissed ME!”

 

But it was too late. Dora, kaftan swirling about her sunburnt legs, had stormed out of the restaurant.

 

“Thanks, Mrs Maddox,” Steve said bitterly. “Thanks for setting Stacey up with me. Is she really your old friend’s daughter? Or how much did you pay her for that?”

 

Prudence’s eyes narrowed. “We want the best for our daughter, Steven. She’s our only child.”

 

“Then why didn’t you bring her up with the love and affection of normal parents, instead of shunting her off to schools and aunts? And do you really think a thug like Charles would look after her? He’s an animal loosely disguised as a human,” Steve growled. “I was hoping you and I could get to know and respect each other during this holiday. Respect is obviously out of the question. For me, anyway.”

 

Tugging his hated tie loose, Steve didn’t wait for a response, but hurried out after Dora. The stars were out, the moon was rising, and she was nowhere to be found. Her room was empty, but from the balcony he could see a lonely figure sitting on the beach, gazing out to sea.

 

She didn’t hear him come up behind her; he moved like a gypsy on the silken sand. Dora jumped when Steve sat beside her, and pushed a wineglass into her hand before popping the top on a bottle of champagne. She watched silently as the bubbles overflowed onto the sand.

 

“Your parents paid Stacey to kiss me,” Steve said flatly. “I could see it in their faces. The whole thing was a setup to break you and I apart.”

 

“I know,” Dora said simply. “I’ve been sitting here thinking about it and came to the same conclusion.”

 

“This has been a bloody horrible day. Let’s start it again. Now.” He filled her glass with gurgling gold. “And tomorrow let’s move out of this hotel and find a cheap beach shack to stay in. If one exists here.”

 

The full moon, and the light reflecting off the sand, made the night shine with an incandescent blue. Steve traced down Dora’s cheek with one finger, and the champagne was forgotten as they kissed.

 

*   *   *

 

It was the second last day of their holiday. Dora and Steve had found cheaper accommodation on the far side of the island, and while they’d met her parents twice, and accepted a rather grudging and unexpected apology from them for their manipulative behaviour, they’d gone their own ways. Dora and Steve were nut brown from days on the beach. They’d caught and cooked their own fish, gone snorkeling and were finally having that ride on the beach they’d promised themselves.

 

The horse was gleaming chestnut, almost the same red gold as Copper, and she could feel his muscles rippling as they cantered bareback along the beach, dancing in and out of the waves. The salt air tugged at her hair, the sun caressed her back, the horse’s ears pricked in front of her; she urged him into a low, flat gallop, hunched over his neck like a jockey.

 

His hooves thundered on the hard sand and he snorted happily with each stride.

 

She heard the thunder of hooves behind her, and knew it would be Steve on the bay horse he’d chosen. She slowed the chestnut so they could gallop side by side.

 

The beach stretched forever, in a long white curve that convinced her that Nassau could be paradise after all.

 

The end

 

© 2005 Sabrina Davis