Sylvain entered the cosy little flat in silence and slumped down into the chair, still wearing his riding boots and quilted jacket. They would usually have been strewn across the floor by now and I knew, without even looking at his face, that something was badly wrong. He was twenty-two - four years my senior, in many ways more immature, and yet, perversely, more burdened with problems. They were clearly at their worst this morning, but I wasn’t prepared for just how bad the current problem was.

A dead horse? An injury out on the gallops? Or simply the ever-increasing discomfort of constant starvation? They were all hazards of Sylvain’s profession, a French flat race jockey working in Britain for the season. I had encountered them all during the time I had known him; together with more personal problems such as home-sickness and affairs of the heart. I was his emotional crutch, his best friend - as he was mine - but we had never been lovers. Behind his back I often complained of what I termed his ‘constant whinging and whining’, but the truth was, I owed him far more than he owed me.

He had taken my passion for horse racing into a new dimension. I couldn’t ride, but my own lack of ability only made me admire those that could all the more. I loved to meet the jockeys I so greatly admired, to discuss races with them and to learn something of their methods. But Sylvain had taken me a step further - into a vicarious life in which I could ride races by proxy. Together we spent innumerable hours studying form and discussing riding tactics. When he rode an impeccably judged race to win at Newmarket, I was out there with him; taking pride in a skill that wasn’t my own, revelling in the glory that belonged to someone else.

When Sylvain finally broke the fretful silence to announce that he had been sacked by the trainer who employed him, I felt the crushing blow personally.

‘Why?’ I asked weakly, my mind racing through all the possibilities. Sylvain wasn’t the best of jockeys riding, but Adam Cartwright was one of the few trainers who appreciated the untraditional riding style of the French and he had been more than satisfied with Sylvain’s results. They were on good terms, Sylvain’s handling of the horses was beyond reproach. There could be no possible grounds for such a bombshell.

Sylvain depended upon Adam’s horses. Most jockeys could expect to ride in six races a day, while Sylvain was satisfied with six rides a week. He earned his living in Egypt, during the winter months, where he was Champion Jockey. Adam’s support was just enough - just enough to keep him riding, just enough to get him noticed, just enough to attract the attention of other trainers. Only just enough. Without Adam’s support, his time spent in Britain would be an unpaid holiday. Why on earth had Adam fired him? There could be no reason, no reason at all.

‘He knows that I have been seeing Terry,’ he said at last, his voice cracking. ‘He no longer wants me in his stable, among his stablelads. He doesn’t trust me.’ He spoke parrot-fashion, as though using someone else’s words - Adam’s. The blow had suddenly cut very much deeper.

Terry was a fellow jockey, a good friend to us both; to Sylvain something very much more than just a friend. As lovers, they were discreet. There was a lot more at stake than the occasional disapproving scowl. Once, in a Parisian bar, Sylvain had been dragged out into the street and beaten. A confused adolescent had become a frightened young man; only now, over the past few months, had he really come to terms with himself. He still preferred people to regard us as a couple and readily encouraged any false ideas.

I could never understand his fear, even after hearing of the attack in Paris. I told him often enough to stop being so stupid, to ignore the disgust of the ignorant and to make people accept him for himself, on his own merits. I had always thought it good advice; but now I began to feel differently. Thoughtless, careless advice, issued in response only to the irritating whinging and whining. Just a selfish order to make him change his tune.

I looked at him, and for a moment his features were not those with which I was so familiar. I was experiencing prejudice for the first time; and even now it was second-hand. From his expression it was obvious that this was not new to him - and this was his problem, not someone else’s. In an instant I had become an outsider, looking in. And I shouldn’t have been. I had let him down. I felt the pang of guilt and shame just as surely as if it had been me who had voiced Adam’s views. I hated Adam, so bitterly angered by his attitude. But I couldn’t direct the anger and disgust beyond myself.

I didn’t know what to say; couldn’t remember what I did say. But I said a lot. Blustering angrily about the senselessness of it all, the lack of understanding, the insult and the insolence. Pacing up and down in frustration at the sheer loss. Loss of the job, loss of self-esteem; the imminent loss of a friend.

He just watched me; waiting for it to blow over, waiting for the chance of a rational talk, but there was nothing rational to be said. Moralistic values had been blown sky high.

Adam wanted to protect his stablelads from Sylvain - those same lads who would happily have dragged him out of a pub and given him a kicking had they known what their guv’nor knew. Those same spotty irks who attracted flies more easily than women. I wouldn’t have given any one of them a second glance, what gave Adam the right to flatter himself into thinking Sylvain would? How dare he be so insulting, so ignorant, how dare he!

And who was to replace Sylvain? Pete, perhaps, who rode regularly for the stable. Was Adam going to show the same concern for his stablegirls, of which he had an equal number? Did he care that letting Pete near a handful of stablegirls was tantamount to letting a wolf into the fold?! Perhaps he credited Pete with more taste. Less desperation. But Pete was as devoted to the playboy image of his profession as he was to the secondary matter of riding in races. At his best he could be considered as good a rider as Sylvain; but more often than not his mind was elsewhere, distracted by the young girl leading his mount out onto the course. He was to be Sylvain’s replacement, because Adam disapproved of Sylvain’s sexuality?

Perhaps I voiced all my feelings; jumbled and incoherent though they felt. Sylvain remained silent for the most part, occasionally muttering that it didn’t matter, there was no point in fighting it. At last my steam evaporated, leaving me with nothing but a feeling of helplessness. I offered to make a cup of tea, because tea was the great cure-all - if not in the drinking, then at least in the making of it.

From the kitchen I heard the video turned on and listened to the unintelligible commentary of Egyptian races. The prestige of British racing versus the security of obscure Championship status in Egypt. I already knew which choice he would make. I fetched in two mugs of tea from the kitchen and found the video playing to itself. It was easy to guess where Sylvain had gone, but I didn’t seek him out immediately.

When I had taken a few sips of tea and considered myself to be more capable of offering support than needing it, I left the flat and walked quietly down the stairs to the stableyard outside. A small chestnut filly lived in the box directly below Sylvain’s living room, and that was the hiding place I knew he would choose. Even when nothing troubled us, we both liked to sit in the far corner of Amber’s box, absorbing the smells and atmosphere of the stable. The hoof oil on the little filly’s feet; the musty smell of her coat; the comforting aroma of straw bedding, whether clean or soiled; the fresh scent of hay in the rack. It was a sanctuary where time could stand still; where nothing else mattered but the reassuring scent and sounds of a horse dozing in her box.

Sylvain was there; huddled miserably in the far corner, with Amber standing over him, intrigued by his tears. She gently nuzzled his face, her soft lips sampling the salt on his wet cheeks and her whiskers forcing a smile from him. He attempted to brush her away, but she sneezed and snorted over him, showering him in the process, and we both laughed. I slid down beside him and rubbed Amber’s muzzle; knowing that it would be for the last time.

Time did stand still for us that day, locked within Amber’s box. But when we stood up to leave, it raced away from us once more, never to be recaptured. We said our goodbyes without speaking, and stepped out of a world loved...

and lost.