Through the heavily-carpeted doorway, I followed Nick into the bar.

“I’ll get them in. You find us some stools over by the TV.” He turned back to speak to me, almost shouting above the ambient chatter. “I’ve got some, er… interest in the next race.”

Nick joined me, two beers in hand, then, placing them carefully on the shelf, pulled out a slip of paper.

“There we are. £20 to win on Slinky Suzie”.

I raised my eyebrows. “Suzie? I thought you told me you’d split up? What’s all that about?”

“Meh. I figure this is a sign. If it comes in, who knows?”

We watched the race. Despite Nick’s long-distance encouragement, Silky Suzie finished third last. No more was said. At least about horses. As we enjoyed a couple more beers, much was said about Suzie. Mostly by Nick. He was hurting.

As we rose to leave, Nick found the betting slip in his pocket, pointedly tearing it to shreds, and dropping it into his empty glass,

“Fucking useless old mare”, I consoled.

Taking me completely by surprise, Nick then grabbed my lapels and violently shoved me against the wall. As quickly as he’d snapped, he regained his composure and smoothed my jacket.

“But I love her, mate.”