by Jilly Cooper
Goodness, that glass of Krug on an empty stomach had unhinged her.
‘And that’s some post,’ she added, seizing his penis, which soared higher than his navel, then running her tongue round the knob. ‘Are you going up the inner?’
‘Stop making stupid jokes,’ snarled Shade.
Grabbing her, he chucked her on the bed and without preamble thrust his penis deep inside her, back and forth until she cried out in amazement and a little pain. But she still kept up the patter.
‘Don’t go to the front too early.’
‘Going too firm for you?’ countered Shade, giving a few more thrusts. Then he pulled out and rolled on his back, pulling her on top of him, giving her two very, very hard slaps on her bottom.
‘Ouch!’
‘Stop playing silly buggers then and prove you’re good enough to ride my horse.’
‘It was a done deal,’ hissed Amber, burying her teeth in his shoulder, ‘a ride for a ride, or I’m going home.’
‘OK, OK,’ conceded Shade, as she began to move, crouching low over him, thrusting and driving, muscles gripping his cock with all her strength, riding the finish of her life.
She was gratified to see his heavy eyelids closed, to hear the groans of pleasure, as she kissed the bite mark on his scented shoulder and tried to read if the tattoo said ‘Olivia’.
Suddenly, he wriggled out from under her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he made her kneel between his legs, ramming his cock into her mouth, shoving with real violence until she gagged. Thank God she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She couldn’t scream.
Just before she choked to death, Shade had changed positions, making her lie back on the bed, tipping her legs right over in a U-turn. Her knees rested on her shoulders, her toes against the leather headboard, so he could ride his own finish, forcing deep inside her, then, ramming a long finger up her exposed anus to tighten the fit, he exploded inside her. For a moment he let his full weight collapse on her, then he rolled away.
‘I thought you’d rammed the winning post up me as well,’ gasped Amber.
Shade laughed or, rather, flashed his teeth.
‘Well done, definitely winners enclosure.’ Then he added brusquely, ‘Now get dressed. I’ve got a conference call from Beijing,’ he glanced at his vast watch, ‘in a few minutes. Use the bathroom in there, then hop it.’
Amber didn’t move. ‘A ride for a ride. I need proof.’ There was steel in her voice.
‘I gave you my word.’
‘Doesn’t mean a thing.’
For a second they glared at each other. She was so beautiful, so golden against his dark blue silk pillows, and so fearless. Shade was more jolted than he cared to admit.
‘My mother’s a very dangerous journalist,’ said Amber. ‘My father works for the BBC. You don’t mess with us, Mr Deadly Night Shade.’
She wasn’t moving. Shade was in a hurry. Even though it was the middle of the night, he reached for his mobile and punched out a number. The other end took some time to answer.
‘H-H, good morning. Change of plan. That new Irish horse running at Wincanton next week, what’s it called? Oh yes, Bullydozer. I want you to put up Amber Lloyd-Foxe.’
Amber could hear the howl of protest rising to a crescendo at the other end.
‘It’s my fucking horse, I say who rides it.’ Shade hung up.
‘Bullydozer is a very good name for its owner,’ said Amber.
‘Did you enjoy that?’ Once more Shade’s hand slid between her legs.
‘Not a lot. There is something called the clitoris, in case you’d forgotten.’
‘I know. Tonight was for me. Next time, I’ll make you yell your head off. Now bugger off.’
Rafiq was all delicacy, Shade all brutality, she reflected.
As she drove out through the gates, she heard his helicopter revving up, and swore as she realized she’d left her lucky pants behind.
96
Amber was terrified Shade would rat. Declarations have to be in by ten o’clock on the previous day, reaching the Racing Post website around lunchtime. Checking with shaking hands and pounding heart, Amber yelled with joy. Ten horses were entered in the 3.15 Edward Thring Cup at Wincanton tomorrow, including Bafford Playboy ridden by Killer, Rogue on History Painting, Awesome Wells on Count Romeo and Amber Lloyd Foxe (who had the 7-lb advantage of being a conditional jockey) on Bullydozer.
If only Dora was in England to tell all the world. Amber rang her father, who was thrilled.
‘I’ll try really hard to get down there. Saturday afternoon’s a bit of a bugger. So much going on.’
Amber was gratified to be emailed by an agent nicknamed ‘Special’ Donaldson, who she’d been pestering for months.
‘Good luck in the Edward Thring. Let’s do lunch.’
The big time – at last. If only she hadn’t left her lucky pants at Shade’s.
Marius, who’d been to Sandown the previous day and stayed overnight to look at a couple of horses, was going straight to Wincanton. Amber, knowing Harvey-Holden wouldn’t welcome her at Ravenscroft, took advantage of Marius’s absence to ride out at Throstledown on the Saturday morning.
Everyone was transfixed with interest.
‘How in hell did you swing that ride?’ asked Josh, as he legged her up on to a new, worried-looking bay mare called School Fees.
‘Natural talent,’ crowed Amber.
‘You’re mad,’ said Tresa, as they rode out through the drizzle. ‘H-H will murder you, he’s psychotic about anyone involved with Mrs Wilkinson. Marius will murder you for riding one of Shade’s horses, particularly if you beat Rogue and History Painting.’
‘I’ve beaten Rogue often enough,’ scoffed Amber.
Rafiq said nothing. He and Amber had already rowed furiously about her taking the ride.
‘H-H has a different agenda.’
‘Marius should have kept his promise.’
‘Why he promise in first place?’ hissed Rafiq, who had heard rumours of goings-on at Stratford.
As they pounded up the gallops, past bleached fields and beech trees flashing their silver trunks and crows’ nests in the rising sun, Amber really got to work on young School Fees.
‘Go easy,’ shouted Josh in his new role as head lad, as he caught up with her. ‘You’re not riding a race yet.’
‘I’m not getting a chance to ride Bullydozer beforehand,’ shouted back Amber, who had been studying videos of the horse with declining confidence. He looked a brute and a huge one at that.
As they rode home, a deer shot out of a copse, School Fees spooked and Amber, who’d been fretting about seeing Rogue again, flew through the air. There was a sickening crunch as she landed in the long blond grasses, then pain blotted out all thoughts of Rogue. Suppressing a groan and cursing, she struggled to her feet as Rafiq, who’d caught School Fees, cantered back, his face full of concern.
‘You OK?’
‘Absolutely fine.’
‘Let me look.’ He jumped off.
‘It’s OK for fuck’s sake,’ lied Amber, her wrist aloft. She couldn’t miss the ride of a lifetime.
By the time she got to Wincanton, her wrist was agony and very swollen. She didn’t let on to Tommy or Rafiq, who would have stopped her riding. Instead she took four Nurofen and swore Awesome Wells to secrecy.
‘Are you sure you’re up to it? Bullydozer pulls double, no, quadruple,’ warned a worried Awesome as he bound up her wrist with vet wrap behind the lorry. ‘I must remember not to tell Bertie that new mare Marius sold him, which I’ve got to ride in the two forty-five, is fucking useless.’
So’s my wrist, thought Amber.
Having weighed out, in return for Shade’s magenta and orange silks, she handed over her saddle to Harvey-Holden. She was shocked by the venom in his twitching, sallow face, the quivering hands itching to throttle her, the acid sourness of his breath.
‘It’ll be the last time you wear these colours,’ he hissed. ‘What in hell did you give Shade
to get this ride? You may be OK on clapped-out donkeys. Bullydozer’s in a different league. You just see how you fuck up,’ and he was gone.
Jolted to the core, Amber managed to wriggle into her body protector and the silks, pulling the sleeves down over her vet wrap and wrist brace, before the valet helped her on with her breeches, boots and helmet. In the mirror her face was grey and sweating. Was she insane to carry on?
Then Rogue erupted into the weighing room in just dark blue underpants and leapt on to the scales.
‘Traffic’s so bad, I had to undress in the car and streak through the car park,’ he told his grinning valet, who was waiting with his racing clothes.
In order to put on the transparent ladies’ tights jockeys wear under their breeches, Rogue whipped off his dark blue underpants. Amber fled.
Entering the paddock in a haze of pain, she saw Bullydozer, a huge dark bay bucking bronco. Michelle and Vakil stood on either side of him, hanging on to a lead rope attached to a vicious bit.
Michelle, with Harvey-Holden’s encouragement, had confined Bullydozer to his box for two days and stuffed him with oats. This had necessitated Vakil twice clouting him across the head with a spade before they could get a bridle on him earlier. Determined to win the turnout, Michelle had also rubbed baby oil into his face, which made it shine but had also made his reins slippery.
Bullydozer was the biggest horse in the paddock and demonstrably the most bloody-minded and out of control.
‘How’s Wilkie, how’s Chisolm?’ the punters called out to Amber.
‘Left them at home.’
Billowing black clouds promised rain any minute. There was Shade, looking much less attractive in a belted camel-hair coat and a fedora, and Olivia looking bleak, both talking to evil Killer, who was also wearing Shade’s colours to ride the mighty Bafford Playboy.
Big bright bay Playboy, despite his frivolous name, had grown into a bully like Shade, his owner. In the yard at home and out in the field, other horses nervously deferred to him. On the race-course he was equally determined to assert his mastery, as was his jockey, Killer.
Killer wanted his revenge on Amber for getting him suspended for ten days at Cheltenham. Both he and Rogue were on one hundred and twenty-five winners apiece.
As Rogue sauntered into the paddock, the crowd nudged each other and smiled. History Painting’s owners, Brigadier Parsons, his wife and two pretty daughters, surged forward adoringly to hear the master’s words.
Beside them, Marius, as grim as the day, was deliberately ignoring his ex-wife and Amber.
‘What are you planning, Rogue?’ asked the Brigadier.
‘To make all. A few will do the same, a few could pop out later. History Painting has won from the front and will do so again.’ He whacked his boots with his whip.
‘Enjoy your ride, hope it goes well, Rogue, come back safely,’ exhorted the Brigadier’s pretty ladies.
Oh shut up, thought Amber, as she nervously approached Harvey-Holden, who was, however, charm itself when he spoke to her in front of Shade and Olivia:
‘Remember to hold Bully up for the first circuit at least. He’s fast but he may not stay, so make a late run.’
Shade put a big leather-gloved hand on Amber’s shoulder. He’d enjoyed their last ride and planned another.
‘Good luck, Amber.’
Bullydozer won the turnout and, kept back to be photographed with Michelle, was the last to leave the parade ring. Feeling Amber on his back, he went up and nearly tipped over, squealing with pain as Vakil swore and jerked on his mouth to bring him down.
‘Have fun,’ Michelle whispered evilly to Amber. ‘Nice change to have someone Olivia hates more than me.’
As she and Vakil unclipped their lead ropes, Bullydozer took off, thundering diagonally across the golf course in the middle of the track, down to the start.
‘I got a birdie here once,’ Awesome was saying, calling out, ‘Are you OK, Amber?’ as she hurtled past him, her good hand hauling helplessly on the reins.
Bullydozer was a hand bigger than History Painting. As Rogue reached out, catching the horse’s reins to steady him as he passed, Bullydozer nearly pulled him out of the saddle.
‘Morning, Miss Lloyd-Foxe,’ said Rogue, righting himself. Then, noticing how pale she was: ‘What did you and Marius get up to at Stratford?’
‘Much less than you,’ spat Amber. ‘Let go of my horse. Poor little Trix, how could you?’
Rogue was fazed only for a second.
‘We were all hammered. You should have joined us.’
‘Don’t be so fucking stupid. Trixie’s only fifteen, you’ve crucified her.’
‘She didn’t stay long. Bonny was sensational, she’d get an Oscar in one of Bolton’s erotic fantasies.’
Amber had no strength to slap his mocking face.
‘You’re just a tart.’
They reached the start, the banter flying as the jockeys circled.
‘I’m going to get two hundred winners by the end of March,’ boasted Rogue, patting History Painting and undoing the bottom plaits of his mane.
‘How d’you know?’ asked Awesome admiringly.
‘I’ve put ten grand on myself, does concentrate the mind.’
The starter looked at his watch:
‘Who’s going to make it?’
‘I am,’ said Killer, glaring round.
‘I might not,’ muttered Amber as Bullydozer leapt about. Amber daren’t ride him down to look at the first fence in case he took off.
She caught Killer staring in her direction, pale squinting wolf eyes hidden by his goggles, thin lips curling in an evil smile. Amber tugged her silk sleeve down over her glove. The Nurofen was wearing off.
Up went the tapes, Bullydozer set off quick enough to win the Derby.
‘Too fucking fast, I’m making it,’ yelled a furious Killer, particularly when a totally out-of-control Bullydozer cut straight across him, barging into Playboy like a drunken dodgem car.
Killer didn’t take prisoners of either sex.
‘Get off my line, you fucking cunt.’
Changing tactics, Rogue decided to cruise at the back on History Painting so he could once more feast his eyes on Amber’s delectable bottom – they must suspend hostilities. Seeing her tugging on Bullydozer’s mouth, he felt a stab of fear. She was pulling one-sided, having no effect. Slowly, slowly Killer was edging her into the rail dividing the steeplechasing track from the hurdle track, which ran along beside it. They were out in the country, hidden by a clump of trees and a small building where the stable lads camped out. Any moment Killer was going to ram an elbow into Amber’s ribs and hoist her over the rail: ‘You’re going hurdling, you bitch,’ and Amber would have no strength in her right hand to tug Bullydozer back. To his horror, Rogue realized the wings of the next fence were hurtling towards her. She was going to crash into them.
Killer was drifting back to the right so no one could blame him. Amber had lost her balance, and her saddle – hadn’t Michelle tightened the girths sufficiently? – was slipping to the left.
Picking up his whip, Rogue thrust History Painting forward, forcing their way between Amber and Killer, reaching up because Bullydozer was so much bigger, grabbing Amber’s wrist so she screamed in agony, tugging her upright, grabbing her reins with his other hand, holding her until she managed to right herself, as somehow, taking most of the brushwood with them, they survived the next fence.
‘You stupid, stupid bitch, what have you done?’ yelled Rogue, then glancing down he saw the wrist brace and vet wrap. ‘Jesus.’
‘Let me go, go on,’ gasped Amber, whiter than the daytime moon, as they hurtled round the bend into the home straight.
Fortunately Bullydozer had realized the race was longer than the Derby and decided to pull himself up. So Rogue, mindful of his two hundred wins, beetled off, made one of his spectacular last-minute runs and mugged an enraged Killer and Playboy on the line.
Killer and an even angrier Harvey-Hold
en called for a stewards’ inquiry. Amber had cut across Playboy and bumped him several times. Without this he’d have been several more lengths ahead and Rogue would never have caught him.
‘Neither Marius nor Shade will ever put you up again,’ gloated Harvey-Holden. He didn’t want to make too much fuss in case Rogue reported Killer for intimidating Amber.
Amber sorted things by fainting in the middle of the inquiry and the strapped-up wrist was discovered.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she stammered when she came round, ‘I had a fall on the gallops this morning. I thought it was OK to ride. I was wrong, I couldn’t hold him up, he barged into Playboy.’
An X-ray revealed a broken wrist and broken thumb.
The stewards agreed there wasn’t much point suspending her. According to the course doctor, the wrist would have to be pinned and she wouldn’t be riding for at least three months anyway, so they put it down to unintentional interference.
‘You’ve been very stupid,’ the Stipendiary Steward, who was a friend of her father’s, told her sternly. ‘If it doesn’t heal right, you have only yourself to blame. And I hope you’ll be suitably grateful to Rogue, who saved your life or at least your riding career. He not only pulled you straight but managed to pull up your horse – one of the most spectacularly brave pieces of—’
‘The horse was tired. He pulled himself up,’ said Amber sulkily.
‘Don’t be so ungrateful,’ snapped the Stipe.
97
Amber spent a week in Larkminster hospital and in a lot of pain after an operation to set and pin her wrist and thumb. But the pain in her heart was worse. No matter how many flowers and cards poured in from friends and from the public – ‘Please get well soon, Mrs Wilkinson needs you’ – she kept thinking of how she had put her life on hold, determined to make it as a jockey, and if she were off for at least four months, as the doctors now forecast, everyone would forget her. She was suicidal.
Marius, though delighted History Painting had won the Edward Thring Cup, was not going to forgive her for riding for Harvey-Holden. Nor was Shade: