‘I’d like smoked salmon and roast loin of pork,’ said Shagger.
‘This is Etta, Bonny,’ said Valent.
Relief was the primary emotion on Bonny’s face as she looked Etta up and down. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ she said truthfully.
‘Come and sit opposite me, Valent,’ called out Corinna, who’d been busy powdering and lipsticking.
‘Go and get dry, Etta,’ ordered Valent.
Such a sweet man, he made everything all right, thought Etta, dizzy with gratitude as she dried her hair on the roller towel in the Ladies. God, she looked tired, the shadows under her eyes were darker purple than Debbie’s hat.
Taking the seat next to Alan on her return, she whispered, ‘Bonny is so beautiful.’
‘Only if you shut your ears and think of England,’ he whispered back. ‘The pillow talk would be excruciating, although it’d be a good sleeping pill. There was a terribly funny moment when she went up to Direct Debbie and said, “Oh, you must be Etta, Valent’s told me so much about you” and evil Seth said not nearly sotto voce enough, “That’s not Etta, Etta’s beautiful.”’
‘Seth didn’t,’ gasped Etta. ‘He didn’t?’
Alan laughed. ‘He did, angel. Seth’s got a very soft spot for you, got a very hard spot for Bonny.’
‘Seth said I was beautiful?’
Ringing to check if Painswick was OK, Etta found her very indignant.
‘Marius didn’t bother to tell me he’d scratched Wilkie.
Telephone’s never stopped ringing, people wanting to know if she’s OK, complete strangers. She’s got a lot of fans.
‘Chisolm’s driving us all crackers, she never stops bleating. She escaped to the village and got into Ione’s vegetable garden. She’s eaten Michelle’s scarf, don’t tell her. Wish Furious good luck. Rather horrid for Rafiq having Rogue on his precious baby.’
Furious didn’t have an owner except Marius. That afternoon he nearly didn’t have a jockey.
Rogue and Dare Catswood got caught up in traffic after a smash on the A1. Dare Catswood left his car in the road and ran all the way to Wetherby, making it just in time. Rogue, held up by all the policemen gathered round Dare’s car, didn’t.
‘I expect he’s got caught up with another girl,’ mocked Michelle.
‘I expect he’s scared of Furious, the great wuss,’ snarled Amber.
At that moment Rogue rang Marius.
‘I can’t get through, terribly sorry. I might make the ride on History Painting.’
Driven crackers by the Major and Painswick’s grumbling, Marius, who’d reached screaming pitch, was forced to give the ride to Amber, who was very reluctant to take it.
‘Furious is a bugger,’ she snapped. ‘He’s carted me and decked me enough times and once he’s got me on the ground he’ll go for me.’
Rain was lashing down, hats being blown away, umbrellas turning inside out like wounded crows, as the runners in the 3.15 splashed round the parade ring. Besides Furious, they included a grey with a lot of ability called Umbridge, which Harvey-Holden had recently run on the wrong trip to keep his handicap down, and Fur Calf, whose name had somehow got through the Weatherbys watchdogs, a lovely dark brown gelding trained by Isa Lovell and owned by Amber’s old schoolfriend, the extremely wicked and dangerous Cosmo Rannaldini.
The Willowwood syndicate opted to watch the race from the warmth of the Owners and Trainers bar. The television cameras,
whose lenses were pearled with raindrops, picked up the arrival of Cosmo’s mother, the great diva Dame Hermione Harefield, smothered in fur, who was making a great fuss about the rain and icy wind endangering her voice as she swept into the bar.
‘Why in hell did they make that stupid cow a dame?’ grumbled Corinna.
Bonny, however, sidled up to her.
‘Dame Hermione, you are an icon, I so admire your oeuvre.’
‘What a pleasant young woman,’ cried Dame Hermione. ‘My son Cosmo’s horse Fur Calf is running in this race and there, about to mount, is Amber Lloyd-Foxe, a very old friend of Cosmo’s and god-daughter of my very good friend Rupert Campbell-Black. She’s riding a horse called Furious.’
Furious at first refused to go into the parade ring, then refused to leave it, spooking at everything, lunging indiscriminately with hooves and teeth at humans and horses. Marius was reduced to legging Amber up on the path down to the course.
‘There are good horses in this race,’ he shouted as he hung on to Furious’s reins. ‘Hold him up as long as possible, don’t let him tire himself, keep out of trouble and make a late run. He’s very forward going,’ he added as he jumped free.
‘I.e., an absolute sod with no brakes,’ snarled Amber.
Rafiq, ignoring her and gazing stonily into space, had noticed Amber’s reddened eyes. Maybe it wasn’t going so well with Rogue. As he led her down to the start, he addressed her for the first time in days: ‘Eeegnore Marius. I know Furious. He hate other horses, let him make it and he will run like a wind to get away from them. He like daylight. You will not see another horse. Good luck,’ he added, giving Furious’s ear a last pull.
The start was by the B1224. Amber wished she was hurtling away in one of the cars as Furious, tail lashing, ears glued to his head, took a lunge first at Umbridge, then at Fur Calf, then at Ilkley Hall to a chorus of fuck offs.
And they were off, hurtling through the downpour, except Furious, who reared up and nearly right over, before taking off and carting her. After four furlongs, she gave up hauling on his mouth and let him go. Trees and houses flashed by as, bucketing over each fence, he landed running.
‘Got a plane to catch?’ yelled Dare Catswood as she overtook him and Umbridge.
Having walked the course, she was able to steer Furious away from boggy ground. The rain lashed her face, harder than the jockeys’ whips. As other young horses in the race exhausted
themselves trying to keep up with her, others were forced by the headlong pace into making errors.
Dame Hermione was giving tongue in the Owners and Trainers: ‘Go on, Fur Calf, go on, Fur Calf.’
‘Did Dame Hermione really shout fuck off ?’ whispered Debbie to the Major in horror.
Poor Fur Calf fell at four out, Umbridge at the next.
Looking round to left and right, Amber saw the rain-shiny hats of the rest of the jockeys bobbing like seals in the distance. The race was at Furious’s mercy as the winning post flashed by.
‘You glorious horse,’ gasped Amber, brandishing her whip in the air. Furious punished her by taking about three weeks to pull up.
Rogue, who had no opinion of Furious, had from the motor-way seen the horses circling at the start and noticed Amber on board. She’ll be riding me later, he thought complacently. For the moment, she wouldn’t have a hope of holding up Furious. Contemptuously parking his blue Ferrari at an angle, he loped towards the paddock.
But no one ran faster than Rafiq, as he raced up to welcome Furious, hugging him, patting him over and over again, kissing his sly chestnut face, crying, ‘Oh, thank you, thank you,’ then praising Allah and patting him again.
‘Don’t pat him so loudly,’ mocked Amber, ‘or I won’t be able to hear myself boast.’ Then she smiled. ‘Oh Rafiq, this is an absolutely fantastic horse, he could win a Derby, he could go round again. He’s hardly blowing, couldn’t blow out his own birthday cake. You were right, I didn’t see another horse.’
Looking down at Rafiq’s dark, arrogant, sulky face totally transformed by happiness, split by a huge white grin, Amber ignored Alice Plunkett’s microphone.
‘Welcome me home,’ she murmured and bending down, kissed Rafiq long and lingeringly on the mouth, only drawing away as Marius came striding up.
‘Amber,’ he roared, ‘why in hell didn’t you hold him up? He’s beaten so many good horses by so many lengths, he’ll be top weight in his next race.’
‘You bloody well try riding him. Don’t be so ungrateful,’ howled Rafiq, turning on an amazed Marius, at which point Furious, in support, bit Marius sharply on the arm, to distract him from firing Rafiq.
As quickly as it had started, the deluge stopped and the sun came out to admire this wonderful horse. The Willowwood syndicate, who’d backed him for a joke, were ecstatic.
‘I’d like to lead Furious in,’ cried Bonny and Corinna, reaching for their powder compacts.
‘I’m afraid he’s not our horse yet,’ laughed the Major, ‘but by Jove, he ran well.’
‘I think we should try and buy him,’ said Seth, putting his arm round a cheering, sobbing Etta. ‘Your baby’s come good, darling.’
‘Hasn’t he?’ gasped Etta. ‘But he’s Rafiq’s baby, he made him, he always had faith.’
Dame Hermione, who’d intended to lead in Fur Calf, was most put out.
Fur Calf’s owner, her son Cosmo, was even angrier, eyes blazing, face white with fury above his late father’s black astrakhan coat. He had flown back from New York especially and bet very heavily. So had Harvey-Holden, who’d put £10,000 on Umbridge at 30–1 and had expected to clean up.
As Willowwood swarmed down to congratulate Amber and Rafiq, they were overtaken by Rogue, racing towards the winners enclosure.
‘That guy’s appealing,’ observed Bonny.
‘All the time,’ said Joey.
Having placated and congratulated Marius – ‘Desperately sorry, bad crash outside Wakefield. Ill wind though, I probably wouldn’t have won on him’ – Rogue turned to Amber, who’d probably have slapped his laughing, unrepentant face if she hadn’t been clutching her saddle on her way to weigh in.
‘Well done, darling, brilliant. You’ll probably win Ride of the Week, might win it later.’ Dropping his voice, he drew her aside.
‘Not with you on my back,’ hissed Amber.
‘Hush, hush, darling, we’ll discuss it over dinner.’
‘We will not, you never confirmed it. I’ve got a better offer.’
‘But I’ve booked 20 The Calls, a lovely hotel in Leeds,’ said Rogue softly, ‘and the unbridled suite for later.’
‘You’d better take Tara Wilson then,’ spat Amber. ‘She looks as though she needs a good night’s sleep,’ and she stalked off to weigh in.
The water in the shower was cold, bringing her back to reality. All the joy of winning was extinguished because she’d stood up Rogue. As she talked briefly to the press, she could see him doing a number on Bonny.
As she drove home in the dusk, she passed a crash outside Wakefield, still holding up oncoming traffic for miles. Maybe he had been delayed. Maybe he had just been escorting a drunken Tara Wilson out of that nightclub. Tears poured down her face.
People kept ringing and texting to congratulate her, but each time, because it wasn’t Rogue, she had difficulty being polite. She was asphyxiated by the smell of burning bridges.
Bloody jockeys.
Her thoughts drifted towards Rafiq. That had been a great kiss and he’d stuck up for her to Marius and risked getting the sack. Marius hadn’t praised her and he hadn’t even noticed Rafiq kissing her.
Bloody trainers.
All the way home, Michelle and Josh went on and on about the wonder of Bonny Richards. A silent Rafiq, ripped apart by emotions, gazed out at the stars and a sickle moon, with which he’d have liked to cut down both of them. His beloved Furious, after such an impressive victory, would be a target for every owner. His beloved Amber had kissed him and asked him to welcome her home, and she’d clearly had a blazing row with Rogue.
As the lorry left, she had told him she just might drop into the yard later to break the journey home to Penscombe. And Rafiq had found himself saying that, as Tommy was away, why didn’t Amber crash out on her bed?
Why had he said that? Now he wouldn’t sleep all night praying she turned up.
That was the worst part of being a lad. Trainers and owners swanned off and drank champagne all night while you faced an endless journey home, after which you had to unload, feed, water and settle the horses, fall into bed and be up again at six to ride out. The horses didn’t get champagne either, thought Rafiq, only a net of hay.
Without Tommy around he had to put Furious and History Painting to bed as well as a thoroughly depressed Mrs Wilkinson, to whom the races had come to mean lots of clapping and cheering in the winners enclosure. She was in no mood to hear Chisolm’s grumbling about boxed ears and indigestion after raiding Ione’s veggie patch and eating Michelle’s scarf.
Having patted Dilys and given Furious a final good-night hug, Rafiq emerged from their box, wondering if he’d ever been so tired in his life, to find Amber outside, her hair as gold as the
sickle moon which, across the valley, was setting into the dark arms of the Willowwood Chestnut.
‘I looked in at the Fox, everyone’s drinking to you and Furious. I wanted to buy you a drink to thank you,’ she said. ‘I bought a bottle instead. I’ve had a few, don’t think I ought to drive home. Thought I’d take up your offer of Tommy’s bed.’
Josh, already plastered, had urged her to go back and shag Rafiq. ‘Might improve the moody sod’s temper.’
Rafiq’s face betrayed no emotion.
He might kiss me, thought Amber sulkily, but having showed her the bathroom and Tommy’s room, he bade her good night.
Amber was touched by Tommy’s room. Just as Tommy would never leave a horse’s box unskipped out, she had put a clean sheet and a duvet cover, patterned with jaunty Jack Russells, on her bed ready for her return. You could hardly see the walls for photographs of horses Tommy’d looked after, alongside pictures of Rafiq, Etta, Marius, Amber herself and of Tommy’s parents and her sister’s wedding.