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Was Gus with a client? She waited, unsure whether to go inside or not. But when the voices became raised, she left the porch and went over to the window. She recognised Gus’s voice but any warmth she felt at hearing his velvety tones faded when she saw him mid argument with a tall, slim woman with the same pale skin tone as Abigail. It had to be her mum, still in their lives, after all. And she looked pretty upset.
Hazel knew she should go. But something kept her feet rooted to the spot.
She looked again and could see fury in Gus’s expression. The woman was backing away, perhaps having had enough, maybe because she was scared?
This man was the same man she’d seen that night after art class, not the one who’d watched her and his daughter as they bathed Denby, not the man who’d talked with her about his feelings and worries over his daughter, the man who’d cared for Cinnamon professionally and with that little bit of extra attention horses needed to feel at ease. She knew from their own family business that that sort of personality trait wasn’t taught; it was intrinsic. And the man before her now certainly wasn’t the one who’d enforced her self-belief when he put an arm around her.
Hazel stood rooted to the spot, her heart beating hard, her palms clammy, terrified that if she walked back to her car, Gus might see her, and she didn’t want to have to hear him try to explain away what she’d seen and heard. Not that she could make out the words; the tone and the fury were enough. Just as it had been the night of the art class.
And she knew then that she couldn’t teach his daughter. Not when she’d been reminded, yet again, that when you taught a kid, you answered to their parents.
And those parents could be unpredictable, spiteful, and almost ruin you.
