*
Romy and Martin were furious with Etta for losing her Ludlow betting slip – the money would have boosted a dwindling Sampson Bancroft Fund – but they were frightfully excited about Bonny joining the syndicate and wanted an invitation pronto. They’d just landed a battle-against-obesity charity, and felt slender Bonny would be the ideal target role model.
Etta sighed. If only she was still living at Bluebell Hill, she could have given a little party to welcome Bonny.
Instead she bit the bullet and sent her a very pretty card of snowdrops, saying how thrilled everyone was that she was joining the syndicate and how they all looked forward to meeting her when Mrs Wilkinson ran again. She also sent Valent a birthday card from Wilkie and Chisolm.
Willowwood made acquaintance with Bonny sooner than expected when she appeared on television winning a BAFTA.
Etta was touched and surprised when, on the same evening, Corinna asked her round for a drink. She brightened up her pale blue jersey with the pink and lilac scarf Corinna had given her.
When she arrived, Corinna was already three parts cut and watching the awards with Seth, Alan and Priceless who was stretched out on the sofa chewing a nearby table but jumped down flashing his white teeth and snaking his long black nose all round Etta’s hips.
Seth handed Etta a glass of champagne.
‘Bonny’s been nominated for Best Actress in a film called
The Blossoming
,’ he explained, ‘about a woman who overcomes the trauma of rape and child abuse.’
‘Valent sent us a tape,’ said Corinna, ‘but Bonny mumbles so badly you can’t hear a bloody word she says.’
Bonny’s acceptance speech was long and tearful, thanking her ‘significant other, Valent Edwards’, who was blushing and squirming with pride and embarrassment in the stalls.
‘Beetrooted to the spot,’ said Seth scornfully. ‘Talk about Bonny and Clod.’
‘Valent looks sweet,’ protested Etta.
Bonny was wearing a short strapless pale grey silk sheath dress which seemed to merge into her luminously pearly shoulders, touchingly slender neck and long fawn’s legs. She had the huge-eyed, hauntingly sad face of the Little Mermaid. Life would be spent treading on knives.
At that moment, Corinna’s mobile rang. It was Phoebe.
‘Quick, quick, Miss Waters, so exciting, Bonny’s on television, she’s won a BAFTA.’
‘We know,’ said Corinna and hung up.
‘Just look at her gorgeous diamonds,’ murmured Alan. ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star.’
‘Valent must have emptied Asprey,’ grumbled Corinna.
Bonny was now paying tribute to everyone who’d helped her on her life’s journey.
‘Why doesn’t she mention Mr Whiskers the gerbil and Gordon the goldfish?’ snorted Corinna. As she threw a cushion at the television, lots of feathers fell out. ‘I’ve always thought BAFTA stands for Bloody Awful Film and Television Actress.’
Seth laughed and topped up her and Etta’s glasses.
‘I wonder if she’ll make the races tomorrow,’ asked Etta. ‘After such celebrations, she’ll have a hangover.’
‘She doesn’t drink,’ said Alan.
‘That’s a hammer blow,’ said Seth. ‘Christ, you can see why Valent’s besotted.’
The Major was also turned on. Debbie, who had wanted to look as nice as possible tomorrow, was irked when her beauty sleep was disturbed again by the Major’s cock nudging her coccyx.
‘Wakey, wakey,’ murmured the Major, ‘here comes Snakey.’
Debbie sighed and rolled over.
Before she and Phoebe even met Bonny, they had decided to hero-worship her, knowing how much this would enrage Corinna.
The telephone was ringing as Etta got home from watching the BAFTAs. It was Valent to say he had a meeting in North Yorkshire tomorrow so he and Bonny would be joining the syndicate at Wetherby.
‘I’m sending you a DVD of her new film,
The Blossoming
.’
‘I’ll watch it then we’ll have something to talk about,’ said Etta, not sure how au fait she was with abuse and rape.
‘Bonny comes across as super-confident but underneath she’s shy, talks a lot of highfalutin stoof.’
‘She’s very young,’ said Etta, then, regretting it: ‘She adores you, lovely the way she singled you out this evening.’
Then she told Valent about Furious making his debut at Wetherby with Rogue. ‘I wish Rafiq was riding him, he’s the only one who can get a tune out of Furious. If only Marius’d send him on a jockey’s course, then he could get a licence. He feels he’s not going anywhere and he’s so worried about Pakistan. He’s such a sweet boy.’
‘Wilkie’ll be getting jealous,’ said Valent. ‘Don’t forget the
orchard’s booked for her and Chisolm in the summer. And thunks so much for the bulbs, Etta, the garden looks smashing and thunk you for writing to Bonny and for the birthday card, so nice of you to remember. See you at Wetherby.’
Etta always felt so much happier when she’d been talking to Valent.
There are great problems for trainers in having horses owned by a syndicate. You never know when and if a horse is going to run. People take a day’s holiday from work, fly down from somewhere, charter a plane or a box, then horses get colic or pull muscles on the gallops. It’s desperately difficult to get it right.
Racing is also ruled by the weather. A scorching day of sun or thirty-six hours of deluge or a sharp frost can put a horse out of a race. But it’s a brave trainer who pulls a horse if the entire syndicate is descending from all over the country to watch it and is booked into hotels, having cancelled board meetings, sports days, major speeches, and arranged later liaisons with mistresses, only to discover their horse has been withdrawn. Owners, in addition, are often rich men and women used to calling the shots.
Unlike Harvey-Holden, who overran his horses to appease his owners, Marius frequently drove horses miles to races then refused to run them unless the going suited them perfectly, particularly if a horse had been off as long as Sir Cuthbert or was a beginner like Mrs Wilkinson or Furious. Painswick’s new job involved a lot of time emailing apologies or fielding expletives.
Due to leave at nine, the Willowwood syndicate set off very late for Wetherby. Stefan the Pole, making Corinna up and attempting to repair last night’s ravages, had great difficulty applying lipstick because she kept yelling at Seth. A new short citrus-yellow coat, worn with a big black Stetson, needed different make-up. Tempers were not improved by four hours in a hot bus.
The traffic was frightful. Marius’s horses had a nightmare six-hour journey through gales and torrential rain. Mrs Wilkinson arrived in a terrible state, sweating up despite the cold and badly
gashed in the shoulder where Furious had bitten her. She was missing Chisolm and Tommy, and Rafiq, the other lad she particularly loved, was preoccupied with Furious.
Deluge followed by brilliant sunshine had dried out the course, a fast-galloping clay track which could get waterlogged in places. Mrs Wilkinson hated soft ground. Marius was tearing his dark brown hair out. It was Bonny Richards’s first visit to the races and, as Painswick assured him, most of the syndicate had bought new outfits.
Amber, who took her all-too-few rides seriously, had arrived early and spent a long time walking the course, measuring strides, looking for boggy ground and angles that might cause trouble.
She had also dragged along her father Billy, ex-Olympic showjumper, television superstar. Although he was adored by the public, Billy’s job was under threat. Having drunk too much over the years, he was given to fluffing lines and speaking his mind on air. He had expressed horror at possible relocation to Manchester and was also considered ‘too posh’, which didn’t go down well in the penny-pinching, puritan, egalitarian mood at Television Centre. All equine sports were being pruned and plenty of young turks were after Billy’s job. His tousled light brown curls were touched with grey, but the enchanting smile and the air of life being a little too much (which it was now) hadn’t changed.
Having escaped from the BBC for the day, he was extremely helpful at pointing out hazards.
‘Go steady or you won’t get round. Ground’s bottomless and very wet, tell Mrs Wilkinson to bring her bikini. Don’t go for gaps in hurdles, she’s got a short stride, might catch her little feet. Very proud, darling, if you win today it’s three out of three.’
‘Thanks, Dad. Marius is such a shit, he never encourages me or gives me advice. It’s just “Why’d you do that?”, “Why didn’t you do this?”’
‘Rupert was like that when we were showjumping,’ said Billy. ‘Christ, I need a drink.’
A bitter east wind tugged at the last lank curls of old man’s beard hanging from the bare trees. It was only eleven in the morning and Billy had smoked all the way round. Amber was horrified how grey he looked in the open air.
‘You OK, Dad? Mum playing you up?’
‘No, no,’ lied Billy.
‘Rogue’s asked me out this evening,’ she couldn’t resist telling him.
‘Don’t get hurt, darling. He’s charming, but an even worse womanizer than Rupert used to be.’
‘I can look after myself. Don’t tell Mum, she’s bound to tell the press if Dora doesn’t get there first.’
Amber had been so busy, rising early, driving up and walking the course, she hadn’t looked at the papers. On her return to the stables, Michelle with a smug smile handed her the
Evening Standard
, which had been brought up by a southern owner.
‘Rogue’s been a naughty boy again.’
On an inside page was a picture of a plastered Rogue with his arm round an equally plastered, very pretty actress called Tara Wilson, as they emerged from a nightclub at one o’clock in the morning.
‘He’s always had the hots for Tara,’ smirked Michelle.
Determined not to show how outraged and desperately hurt she was, Amber stumbled off to see Wilkie and ran slap into Marius, who, sheltering his mobile from the downpour, was shouting out his code number and declaring Mrs Wilkinson a non-runner in the 3.15.
Then, as Amber gave a wail of horror, he turned on her.
‘She’s boiled over, sweated up and used all her energy. I’m not risking her on this ground, she’s not right.’
And Amber lost it. She wouldn’t get paid now and she’d spent a fortune on petrol, getting herself waxed and on a clinging catkin-yellow jersey dress to ensnare Rogue … Fucking Rogue, fucking Marius.
‘It’s pathetic not to run her when she’s come all this way. I’ve just spent hours walking the course, I know where the danger spots are.’
‘This going’ll put six inches on the fences. Unlike Harvey-Holden, I don’t run unfit horses to appease owners,’ growled Marius.
‘At least he gets results,’ screamed Amber. ‘It’s only a drop of rain.’
At that moment, God turned the tap on, drenching them both. Hearing shouting, Etta ran out of Wilkie’s box in alarm.
‘Marius isn’t going to run Wilkie,’ stormed Amber.
Etta’s first emotion was profound relief, followed by alarm for Amber, who, as grinning staff from other yards braved the down-pour to eavesdrop, would certainly never get another ride from Marius if she didn’t shut up.
The syndicate had arrived half an hour ago and immediately repaired to the famous White Rose restaurant in the stands for large drinks and an early lunch. Etta, however, had sloped off to
the stables to find a distraught Mrs Wilkinson, reminiscent of her terror in the early days. To compound the image, here was Valent, splashing through the puddles, looming more menacingly than the huge black clouds overhead. He’d go berserk, having brought Bonny up here, if Wilkie didn’t run.
Knowing Marius needed a bottle of whisky before telling an owner his horse had broken down, Etta waded in.
‘I’m desperately sorry, Mrs Wilkinson’s not going to run. She’s a little horse and this kind of going puts six inches on the fences,’ she stammered, wiping rain which Valent thought was tears off her face. ‘And the light’s awful and Wilkie’s only got one eye, and the mud can kick up into her face, and she didn’t travel well. I’m so sorry you’ve come all this way.’
Valent had just left Bonny in the warmth of the White Rose. Already that morning, he had made a detour in the North Riding with the intention of introducing Bonny over breakfast to his son Ryan, the football manager. Bonny, who was very much aware of and resented Valent’s children’s disapproval, had needed a lot of coaxing. She had spent a great deal more than Amber on a demure little dove-grey dress, so as not to appear a wicked step-mother. She had also seen photographs of the handsome Ryan and, assuming instant conquest, was furious on arrival at the club to find he had flown off to Spain to look at a new striker.
Ryan loved his father and would have liked to discuss the possible new signing with him but, watching the BAFTAs, he had been dazzled less by Bonny than by the £50,000 worth of diamonds round her slender neck, which she later told the press was a present from Valent. Disliking Valent squandering his in-heritance, Ryan had pushed off to the airport.
Bonny had never been so insulted. Valent, shy and ill at ease among luvvies, had drunk heavily at the BAFTAs. Bonny had not. In the argument that followed about the appalling way he and Pauline had reared their children, Bonny’s screams had pierced his hangover like needles dipped in acid …