by Jilly Cooper
‘Not much to write about.’
‘He can write about today, it’s been a great party.’
He kissed her on the cheek and she resisted the urge to cling to him. ‘Thank you for the lovely champagne and being so sweet to everyone.’
‘Hetta!’ Lester Bolton accosted her five minutes later. ‘Will you introduce me to Valent?’
‘I’m so sorry, he’s gone.’
Bolton looked furious. ‘We need to have a serious talk about the syndicate,’ he said ominously.
Etta was relieved to be distracted by the arrival of Dora, who had passed all her GCSEs and had spent a lot of the holidays teaching Mrs Wilkinson new tricks.
Mrs Wilkinson frequently stuck out her tongue when she was trying hard in a race, or, knowing it would get a laugh, for a Polo. She had now learnt to make faces. When asked to do her John Prescott face, she would screw her mouth and nose up, but, much more dangerously, when asked to do her Tilda Flood face, she curled her lip and stuck out her top teeth, which had people in stitches.
Alas, Trixie in a brief attempt at conciliation had told her mother, Carrie, about this trick. Increasingly irked by the closeness she saw developing between Alan and buck-toothed Tilda, and punchy on too much champagne, Carrie asked Dora to make Mrs Wilkinson do her Tilda Flood face.
Not realizing that Tilda, who’d been dealing with a hot water failure upsetting the holiday-letters in Shagger’s cottage, had just wandered in late to the party, Dora and Mrs Wilkinson obliged at length, to screams of laughter.
Witnessing everything, utterly mortified, Tilda clapped her hands over her teeth. Instantly the laughter petered out. Looking round, Dora felt as though she’d missed a step in the dark.
‘I’m so sorry, Tilda,’ she wailed. ‘It’s only a silly joke.’
‘Come on, Tilda,’ called out Carrie. ‘Can’t you laugh at yourself?’
But a sobbing Tilda had fled up the road, back to School Cottage. She must somehow scrape together the money to get her teeth fixed. She’d been home for the weekend to a mother with eyes full of questions, who so longed for a grandchild to boast about at bridge parties. Learning Tilda was coaching the ravishing Trixie, one of the Greycoats teachers had asked her if she was coming out at last.
Back at the party, this was definitely a Miss Bates moment as an outraged Alan bawled Carrie out for being an absolute bitch.
Carrie was not the only bitch. As Trixie was clearly having a row with Josh in the orchard, Seth returned to the cool of Etta’s bungalow with Romy.
‘Move, dog,’ she ordered Priceless, who ignored her, so she had to sit very close to Seth. Opening the last bottle of Valent’s champagne, he filled up their glasses.
‘Awful she hasn’t got a single photograph of Sampson here,’ chuntered Romy. ‘There’s one of Trixie and that ghastly goat and Mrs Wilkinson and Valent, but none of Drummond and Poppy.’
‘She sees enough of them,’ said Seth reasonably. ‘Sampson sounds a brute.’
‘He was Yang personified.’ Then Romy added roguishly, ‘Have you noticed my mother-in-law has such a crush on you she gave you the biggest mountain of chilli and she trembles every time you speak to her?’
Seth was transfixed by Romy’s smiling, full, red lips and the warm brown softness of her cleavage. Were her breasts brown all over? Very tanked up, he murmured that he had a confession to make.
‘I intended to ask you to lunch back in July, but Stefan by mistake took my letter to the wrong Mrs Bancroft.’
Romy couldn’t stop laughing, peal after peal worthy of Tower Captain Pocock.
‘Etta thought you were madly in love with her? Oh Seth, how priceless.’ She gave the dog a light tap. ‘She does give herself airs. Did you explain you meant me?’
‘I couldn’t disillusion her.’
‘That isn’t fair, leading her on, letting her look after your dog all the time.’
‘“I do love nothing in the world so well as you,” ‘ murmured Seth, taking her hand. ‘“Is not that strange?”’ Then, when Romy raised an eyebrow: ‘Much Ado – Act 4. I’m devoted to Etta, she’s terrific for her age and must have been stunning in her youth. It was a genuine mistake.’
‘When are you going to come and watch Martin’s DVD?’ asked Romy.
‘When he’s out,’ murmured Seth, running an idle finger down her cleavage.
Next moment Trixie had stumbled past them, tears pouring down her face, and locked herself in Etta’s bedroom.
Hearing cries, lots of laughter and whooping outside, Seth went to the window and groaned.
‘Oh God, the fair Weatheralls have arrived.’
‘Oh, it’s little Phoebe,’ cried Romy, leaving her champagne and running outside.
‘Promise not to say anything to Etta,’ Seth called after her, then turning back, hearing sobbing, he banged on the bedroom door.
‘You all right, lovely?’
‘Bugger off.’
‘What you need is a large glass of champagne.’
Catching sight of his reflection in Etta’s mirror, Seth was faced with a dilemma. He wanted to look younger, and if he cut his hair short and spiked it upwards with product, he’d look trendy. This, on the other hand, would reveal the lines on his forehead and round his eyes, which would be covered if he combed his hair forward like Mark Antony.
‘Come on, babe.’ He banged on the door again.
‘How are you, how are you, long time no see.’ An ecstatic Sethfuelled Romy pushed Debbie aside and was hugging Phoebe.
‘Shagger and Toby are dropping off our stuff, but I wanted to come straight over,’ cried Phoebe, who was wearing a grey and white striped smock.
‘Have a glass of bubbly,’ said Romy.
‘No, no, just a glass of orange squash.’
‘Have you had a good summer?’
‘Heavenly. We had such a great time staying with the Lennoxes. Such a beautiful house. Do gather round, everyone, I’ve got such lovely news for you all. I’m expecting a baby in February. If it’s a boy that’ll mean another willow in the churchyard. I want all the syndicate to be honorary godparents.’ Then, as Romy, Debbie and even a newly arrived Cindy hugged her: ‘I know you’ll all be there for me.’
‘Roughly translated as free babysitting and presents Christmas and Easter,’ murmured Alan to Etta.
‘Must go to the lav,’ said Phoebe, adding, as Mrs Wilkinson wandered up to her, ‘Hello, Wilkie. So glad you’re out and about again.’ She patted her pink nose. ‘How soon can we come and see you racing?’
Toby, hugely congratulated by everyone, was whinnying with nervous laughter.
‘Shagger’s going to be chief godfather,’ he said.
Despite discovering Tilda crying her eyes out at School Cottage, Shagger hadn’t stayed to comfort her. Etta’s free drink was too important to miss.
Tilda wept on, not answering door or telephone. ‘In loveless bowers, we sigh alone.’
Much later, there was another knock. Creeping downstairs, Tilda found a vast bunch of white flowers on the doorstep. Someone must have stripped Etta’s garden.
‘Darling Tilda,’ said the scrawled note, ‘so very sorry. We all love you. All love, Mrs Wilkinson.’
83
The syndicate grew increasingly restless. So many had seen Mrs Wilkinson cavorting around at Etta’s party, why couldn’t she run sooner? Bolton was the chief stirrer: if the mare wasn’t race-fit, she could at least play Lady Godiva’s horse. This would merely entail a week or so’s filming, carrying a naked Cindy through some deserted town with only Peeping Tom as a witness.
But to Bolton’s rage, Marius flatly refused. Mrs Wilkinson must concentrate on getting fit, not star in some grubby porn film.
An apoplectic Bolton proposed a motion of no confidence in Marius and demanded a meeting in the skittle alley of the Fox the following Saturday evening, the first in October, coinciding with the beginning of the winter game. Bolton’s mood was not improved when Joey greeted him with the news that Furious
had ‘pissed all over the three fifteen at Fontwell’ that afternoon.
All the syndicate were present except for Alban, who’d gone to a charity dinner in Oxford, Trixie and Dora, who were at school, and Tilda, who had a PTA meeting and anyway only owned half a share with Shagger. He was already banging out ‘Horsey, Horsey, Don’t You Stop’ on the skittle alley’s ancient upright.
The Major and Cindy, quickstepping round the floor to much laughter, did nothing to dispel the underlying tension. Feeling hillocks of silicone pressed against his Rotary Club-blazered breast, the Major shuddered. What if he were to lose Cindy and his Portuguese villa? Somehow he must ensure victory.
The syndicate sat round a table, armed with drinks and mocked by hunting prints on the walls of fit horses hurtling across country. Willowwood rugger team, who’d thrashed Limesbridge that afternoon, were getting drunk downstairs. Chrissie, who couldn’t bear to miss a chance of smouldering at Joey and learning the outcome of the meeting, was serving drinks in a little bar in the corner.
In his pursuit of the patrician, Bolton was looking particularly absurd in a new mauve cashmere jersey which fell to his calves. His face was bronzed by fake bake, which made him look more like a red squirrel than a grey one. He kicked off, saying he was fed up with Marius’s appalling rudeness.
‘He insulted my wife Cindy by suggesting she would take part in anything other than a tasteful erotic fantasy, and now he’s denying Mrs Wilkinson a chance to star. And what is more, our producer was prepared to offer five grand for Mrs Wilkinson to take part, which would mean around four hundred to each share-holder, which I’m sure you would all appreciate.’
The syndicate agreed they would.
Then Phoebe spoke. In a billowing flowered smock, she was playing the pregnancy card for all it was worth, making everyone carry her glasses of orange squash and even her mobile, on which there was already a message: ‘This is the voicemail of Toby, Phoebe and Bump.’
‘While we were in Scotland,’ she began, ‘we met the most charming man called Henry Ponsonby, who runs the most wonderful syndicates. He knows all about horses so he’s great at handling trainers, which you aren’t really, Normie. They’re getting loads of winners and seem to have such fun. Last open day at Nicky Henderson’s they had the most delicious lunch and met loads of famous horses, jockeys and owners.’
‘Which is more than happened at Marius’s open day,’ grumbled Bolton. ‘I wasn’t introduced to anyone that mattered.’
‘I may be sticking my neck out,’ went on Phoebe, ‘but I think we should not only look for a new trainer but also sell Mrs Wilkinson.’
Etta gasped, feeling as though a huge ball had taken out all her skittles.
‘I’m sorry, Etta, but I’m giving up work and on one income a hundred and eighty-five pounds a month is too much to pay for a dud horse. If we went to Henry, he’d find us a decent replacement and make sure we had a ball. He’s so owner-friendly and there’s a confidential owners’ line you can ring for information any time.’
‘We can always ring Joyce,’ protested Etta.
‘Of course,’ Phoebe was all dimples, ‘but she’s not on call twenty-four hours a day. Also I think it would be fun for Wilkie to star in a blue movie.’
‘Who’s she going to shag? Count Romeo, Sir Cuthbert or Horace?’ Toby brayed with laughter.
‘I can’t see why she can’t,’ said Alan, thinking what a wonderful chapter it would make in her biography.
‘Nor can I,’ said Joey, who needed the money.
‘I’m all for dumping Marius,’ said Shagger.
‘Ay can’t say Ay’ve warmed to him,’ said Debbie. ‘He’s been so uncooperative with the Major, who’s trayed so hard.’
‘Marius is very shy,’ protested Etta.
‘And he’s been through a horrid marriage break-up,’ volunteered Painswick, alarmed she might soon be without a job. As it was, she was having great difficulty paying her monthly subscription.
‘We can’t sell Mrs Wilkinson,’ said Woody in outrage.
‘Even if she gets better, we don’t know if she’ll be any good,’ drawled Shagger.
‘And Marius implied there’s another thousand-pound vet’s bill coming up,’ huffed the Major.
‘Henry Ponsonby specializes in affinity marketing, which means arranging syndicates that really get on and enjoy each other’s company,’ said Phoebe.
‘We did at the beginning,’ said Debbie, glaring at Cindy. ‘We need a decent horse to unite us.’
They were interrupted by a burst of cheering from the rugger club and, clanking up the steel staircase, in walked Seth, a leading actor making an entrance.
Priceless lifted his tail. Etta leapt to her feet. Feeling her shaking as he kissed her, Seth said, ‘Darling, what’s up?’
‘Thank God you’re here,’ she whispered. ‘They want to ditch Marius and sell Mrs Wilkinson. Please help.’
Seth was about to reply when Bonny, flushed by pleasantries from the rugger club, appeared behind him.
‘Bonny, Bonny,’ everyone crowded around, ‘we thought you and Valent were abroad.’
Joey went green. He’d done none of the things Bonny had asked for at Badger’s Court.
‘I’ve been filming in London. Seth told me this was a key meeting and I’d better show up.’
Alan grinned at Etta and nodded knowingly. ‘What d’you both want to drink?’ he added, going towards the bar.
‘I’d like a large Scotch,’ called out Shagger.
‘What’s been going on?’ asked Seth.
‘Marius won’t let Wilkie star in Lady Godiva,’ giggled Phoebe. ‘Being a thesp, Bonny, you’ll know how disappointed she must feel.’
‘What you don’t realize,’ said Alan mock-seriously, ‘is that this movie is social commentary. The poor peasants were being taxed out of existence – there were no state benefits in those days. Lady Godiva rode out to save them, she was a heroine. It’s so topical. It would make such a wonderfully colourful chapter in her biography,’ he pleaded. ‘Not much else to fill it until January.’
‘You won’t have a book at all if you sell her,’ implored Etta.
‘Where are you staying in London?’ Phoebe asked Bonny.
‘Just off the Little Boltons.’
‘Wish those two were off there too,’ muttered Woody.
Etta, despite the danger, got the giggles.
Bolton cleared his throat.
‘Let’s get on with the meeting. As a majority shareholder,’ he reminded them ominously, ‘I’d like to donate a Mercedes Sprinter so we’ve got something decent to travel in. I also propose we sell Mrs Wilkinson.’
‘You can’t,’ cried Etta.
‘Let me finish, please. I propose to buy two babies. I’ve got my eye on a pretty filly I’d like to call Cindy Kate.’
‘Oh Lester,’ shrieked Cindy, looking up from Hello! ‘Do let’s buy some flat ‘orses, racing’s so much nicer in the summer. Then we can go into the Royal Enclosure at Ascot.’
‘Hardly think she’d get in,’ murmured Bonny.
Cindy and Bolton had powerful allies: Shagger, Phoebe, Toby, Major Cunliffe and Direct Debbie, who’d give anything to dump Cindy but liked the thought of the Portuguese villa.
Chrissie polished glasses and edged closer to hear what Woody and Joey were arguing about. Joey, who had terrible gambling debts and had spent too much money on Chrissie, was reluctantly in support of the motion.
‘Marius doesn’t do flat horses,’ said Shagger. ‘And I’m sure we’d do better with Harvey-Holden – Ilkley Hall won again yesterday – or Rupert Campbell-Black.’
‘We would.’ Cindy, Bonny and Phoebe licked their lips.
‘Isa Lovell’s set up on his own,’ said Joey, ‘and Cosmo Rannaldini’s got all his horses with him. Dermie O’Driscoll’s taken a yard in North Gloucestershire, which should be a riot.’
‘Marius is really working to get Mrs Wilkinson fit again,’ cried a frantic Etta. ‘He feels sure she’ll be b
ack in the New Year. He’s so grateful you’ve been so patient.’
‘Funny way of showing it,’ snapped the Major. ‘There’s no guarantee she’ll win again. We could all go on pouring money into her for ever.’
‘I think we should vote,’ persisted Bolton.
‘What are the rules, Major?’ asked Bonny.
‘Members must abide by a majority decision,’ intoned the Major, ‘and we must hold a syndicate vote before any horse is allowed to run in a selling plate.’
‘Mrs Wilkinson can’t run at all at the moment,’ said Woody.
‘Then she must go to the sales,’ said Shagger.
‘She’d fetch nothing,’ said Joey.
‘She would as a brood mare,’ said Seth. ‘Father’s Peppy Koala, mother’s Little Star.’
‘She must go through the ring then. I’m sure she’d find a good home,’ said Phoebe.
‘Rubbish,’ said Painswick. In her fury she dropped three stitches. ‘You know no such thing. We couldn’t possibly sell the dear little soul like that.’
‘Let’s follow the democratic process and have a vote,’ urged Shagger.
‘We can’t,’ gasped Etta. ‘Alban isn’t here, can’t we try him on his mobile? He wouldn’t want to sell Wilkie, nor would Dora and Trixie, let me try and ring them.’
‘Alban doesn’t have a mobile,’ said Alan.
Neither Dora nor Trixie answered theirs.
‘They’ve got better things to do. Bagley’s got a dance with Marlborough this evening.’ Alan didn’t meet Etta’s eyes.
‘If Wilkie goes, you won’t have a book to write,’ a distraught Etta told him.
Bonny, talking to Seth, looked round.
‘If her career’s over, he won’t have one anyway.’
‘Joey and Woody,’ pleaded Etta, ‘you were in at the start.’
‘Sorry, Ett, but it’s a lot of money to fork out each monf, particularly along with Crowie and Doggie,’ said Joey.
‘I don’t want to sell her,’ insisted Woody, ‘or leave Marius. He’ll get her right.’
Bolton glared at Woody. ‘I thought you liked working for me,’ he hissed.