by Jilly Cooper
Struggling up off the carpet, Amber tiptoed over the broken glass, collapsing on the sofa, trembling uncontrollably, burning face in her hands.
‘Horrible, horrible man.’
‘It’s all right, darling.’ Marius dropped a hand on her piled-up hair, which was also collapsing.
‘I’m so sorry,’ sobbed Amber. ‘It was all my fault. I slept with him in exchange for a ride because I was so cross with you for not putting me up on History after Stratford.’
‘Was he good in bed?’
‘No, vile, crude, brutal, totally lacking in finesse. “Pleased hisself,” as Joey would say.’ Amber gave a choked half-laugh.
Glancing up, she was amazed to find Marius smiling in delight.
‘He’s right.’ He pulled her up into his arms, caressing her breasts with a flattened palm as if he were gentling a terrified horse. ‘They are lovely and so are you. I’ve been an absolute shit to you, particularly over History.’ Looking down at her face, he ran a bitten-nailed finger along her quivering lower lip. ‘Don’t cry, let’s go to bed.’
‘It’s no good,’ sobbed Amber, jumping away from him. ‘I want clean sheets, not a fling to anaesthetize the pain. You’re still crazy about Olivia. If we go to bed, you’ll still be crazy about her in the morning. I’ve got too many other things to be sad about.’
‘Hush,’ whispered Marius, and kissed her until she stopped struggling. ‘Well?’
‘Oh fuck, let’s have a fuck, you are so goddamed sexy and an excellent kisser, but only just this once.’ Then she paused. ‘Did you say “stable jockey”?’
‘Yes,’ said Marius, pushing her into the bedroom.
*
When her early call woke her, Marius had gone. Staggering replete, bow-legged into the bathroom, she found he had broken her lipstick scrawling, ‘Definitely ride of the century,’ on the mirror.
Rafiq had been so gutted he had retired to his bedroom and refused to go out with the other jockeys. He sat on his bed staring at the white telephone with its white pad and sharpened pencil, desperate to ring Tommy and tell her how much he loved her and why he had been so cruelly pushing her away. But he was frightened to do so in case, even here, calls were being tapped.
Hearing a thud, he jumped out of his shivering skin, then found an envelope had been shoved under his door. By the time, unfamiliar with hotel bedrooms, he’d managed to unlock and open the door, the landing outside was deserted.
His name had been typed on the envelope. His hands were shaking so much he tore the letter inside, which was wrapped round a thousand-rupee note. This in turn was wrapped round a big needle threaded with black twine. Rafiq swore as he pricked his finger, scattering drops of blood, smearing the letter which in Urdu and black capitals advised him to buy himself a shroud as he would be needing one very soon.
Jibbering a prayer to Allah under his breath, Rafiq fell to the floor. Similar love notes had been sent to victims by the warlord alleged to have murdered Mrs Bhutto. This meant the side he had once supported so passionately would turn against him unless he kept on pulling horses.
Despite all the terrorist camp had taught him about life being but a trifle, it had become very precious since he had fallen in love with Tommy. She would be devastated about Bullydozer.
Oh Bullydozer! For a moment the sense of loss wiped out all feelings of terror. Then the telephone went. What dread threats awaited him? But it was only Tresa.
‘We’re having a party in Awesome’s jacuzzi. Why don’t you join us?’
Rafiq replied that he didn’t feel like partying after what had happened that afternoon.
‘Oh, don’t mention Bullydozer,’ said Tresa, ‘or you’ll set me off. I’m so upset.’
122
Valent was devastated by Bullydozer’s death. Could he have saved him if he’d been there on the day? A horse of David Nicholson’s had recovered from a broken neck and foreleg to win the Scottish Grand National. He had been so proud of rescuing Bully from H-H and had identified with the big, shy, affectionate, bumbling horse. He had already set in motion plans to run him in a Pauline Edwards Memorial Race at Worcester on Pauline’s birthday and to invite Ryan, his wife Diane and the grandchildren down for the day as a way of making amends.
With Bullydozer’s death, his plans were in smithereens. Wilkie was too highly handicapped for the race and Furious would bite everyone, so Valent instead invited the family to lunch in London, with a trip to see a marvellous play called Warhorse afterwards. When he originally planned Pauline’s race, Valent had hoped Bonny would come along and get to know Ryan and Diane, but now he was rather relieved when she told him it would be ‘inappropriate’ if she were present.
‘It’s yours and Ryan’s special day, stay as long as you like, I’ve got lines to learn. I need to engage with The Journey of Bonny.’ This was a dramatized documentary in which she would play herself.
Lunch and the theatre were a huge success. Valent and Ryan talked their heads off, made plans for the future, and the grandchildren were very well behaved and sweet.
Ringing the office as he was tucking into profiteroles, Valent got a message that a Trixie Macbeth had rung. She was in London. Could he spare twenty minutes to see her some time? Ringing straight back, Valent told her to come round to his house in St John’s Wood in the early evening, after Ryan and the family had left for Yorkshire and before he left for China.
Trixie was shivering outside when he got home, terribly pale, her hair hidden by a black wool hat.
‘Granny’s hyacinths, that’s nice,’ she said listlessly as he showed her into the drawing room. Having sat down on one of Bonny’s pure white sofas, legs in red tights sprawling like a colt’s, before he could even offer her a drink she burst into tears.
‘Please don’t tell Mum, she won’t understand,’ she begged. ‘I can’t talk to her and Dad’s so obsessed with Tilda Flood, and Romy and Martin will be so smug and judgemental. I’m pregnant. I loved him so much. I don’t want Granny to be hurt, but it’s Seth. He was so kind and loving at the beginning, then he backed off. It was all stop-go, stop-go. Then on the night of Ant and Cleo, before I realized it, I was in a bedroom. Bonny and Rogue were in there. Seth made me go to bed with them. I’m sorry, Valent, I don’t mean to hurt you, it probably didn’t mean anything to them. But it was gross.’
She was crying so much Valent often couldn’t catch what she was saying. He just sat patting her shoulder as the story of Stratford unrolled, so angry he couldn’t speak. Then he got up and poured her a brandy.
‘Afterwards,’ Trixie took a gulp and choked, ‘I refused to see him any more, but I couldn’t stop missing him. And when I bumped into him on the weekend of the floods, stupidly I forgave him and we started up again, and now I’m pregnant.’
‘How long?’
‘Only two months. Please don’t tell Granny, she’s away this weekend. She adores Seth so much. Perhaps I got pregnant to get attention. Mum and Dad just aren’t interested in me.’
‘You poor little luv.’ Valent took her hand. ‘What d’you want to do?’
‘I don’t know. Half of me wants an abortion, I don’t want anything of Seth’s. But part of me wants the baby, though teenage mums are such a cliché, more of us than in any other country, a fuck to get a flat.’ The words were ugly, falling from her woebegone mouth. ‘I don’t want to be just another statistic. And I don’t know if I could support a baby.’
‘I’ll help you. You’re a very bright and very beautiful young woman,’ said Valent. ‘What you need is a job.’
Valent had been planning to fly straight back to China, where he was having problems in the toy factory over his latest brainchild. Instead he flew to Staverton airport, where a car brought him back to Willowwood. There were no stars or moon, snow was idling down, whitening the fields. There were new blondes on the block, however, hazels with their cascades of yellow catkins competing with the dark gold willows.
Valent hadn’t bothered to warn Bonny he was coming. Going
upstairs, he found her at her dressing table in a grey silk dressing gown, beautiful and scented. She was brushing her ash-blonde hair, like an actress in an old film, like Sir Francis Framlingham’s Gwendolyn.
The bed was rumpled.
‘I’ve been studying for so long I had to have a nap’ were her first words. ‘How did it go?’
‘Good.’ Valent sat down on a mauve chaise longue so delicate he always felt it might buckle under him, and got out his chequebook.
‘How were Ryan and Diane?’
‘Fine.’ Valent was writing a cheque with lots of 0s. Bonny wriggled her toes in excitement in the thick blond carpet. She had seen a divine cream coat at Lindka Cierach’s last week.
‘I hope you’ve invited Ryan and Diane down here, I am so looking forward to meeting them.’
As Valent handed Bonny the cheque for £300,000 she didn’t notice his hand was shaking.
‘Ooooo, lovely,’ she cried. ‘Is this a birthday present?’
‘No, it’s a leaving present,’ said Valent harshly. ‘Get out.’
Bonny was remonstrating noisily when Valent opened the wardrobe and Seth fell out, wearing nothing but a pale pink negligee as a loincloth. He was flabbergasted when Valent shook him by the hand.
‘Thanks, mate, you’ve done me a very good turn. Now hop it, both of you.’
‘You can’t end it like this,’ screamed Bonny.
‘Oh yes I can.’ Valent’s voice was as rattling thunder. ‘If either of you act up, I’ve just been talking to Trixie. She hadn’t reached sixteen when you took her to bed at Stratford, you could both go to prison.’
‘She’s a lying little tramp,’ shrieked Bonny. ‘Nothing happened at Stratford.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Valent. ‘She knew you had a diamond in your labia, and for someone who’s always making such a fuss about being abused, you don’t practise what you preach. The Journey of Bonny’s going to look pretty damn hypocritical. Now beat it. Give me a forwarding address and I’ll send all your stooff on.’
‘I’ll be living with Seth.’
‘Good, I’ll send everything round to the Old Rectory,’ said Valent, noticing Seth had gone green.
*
‘“And out of Eden took their solitary way,”’ sighed Seth, as most ignominiously they set off through the snow.
‘At least we can be together,’ said Bonny, who had at least managed to grab a full-length mink.
‘It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ said Seth. ‘Corinna and I go back a long way and I couldn’t possibly support you in the way you’ve been accustomed. Valent’ll cool down. Come back tonight, but tomorrow Corinna’s coming back from America.’
Looking out of the window, Valent could see Bonny slapping Seth’s face and was suddenly overwhelmed with relief.
Going into his octagonal office, he breathed in white hyacinths and poured himself a large Scotch. His hands were shaking so much it took him four goes before he managed to text Woody to tell him to dig up the conifer hedge that had guarded both Bonny’s privacy and her peccadilloes. Peccadillo, that’s a nice name for a horse, he thought.
What a pity Etta was away. He longed to know why she was still refusing to see him. Conversely, he might not have been able to resist telling her about Trixie.
When Etta reached home, which still stank of flood water, the following evening, she discovered moonlight pouring in through her kitchen, drawing-room and bedroom windows. Running outside, she realized the conifers had gone – poor things, she hoped they hadn’t been chucked on a rubbish heap – and had been replaced by a dark blue trellis supporting her roses, honeysuckles and clematis.
Next moment, Joyce Painswick, seeing a light on in the bungalow, rang in excitement.
‘Bonny’s gone, she’s moved out.’
‘Poor Valent, he must be devastated.’
‘Evidently not. According to Woody, he gave her the push. There’ll be dancing in the streets. Joey’s planning a party. Even though it’s winter, he wants to hire a bouncy castle.’
When Valent returned home a week later, he could see straight into Etta’s bungalow and hoped she wouldn’t be upset. Later he watched her coming home from putting Poppy and Drummond to bed, down the path with Priceless, clinging joyfully on to each rustic pole, trying to teach Priceless to bend in and out of them, like her Pony Club days, then Gwenny rushed forward to meet them, black furry tail aloft.
123
Excitement really kicked in the week before the festival. Television companies were flat out filming the most fancied Gold Cup horses. Channel 4 were due at Throstledown to meet Mrs Wilkinson, Chisolm, Furious and the syndicate, who were all dickering about what to wear. In church, Niall prayed for the rain to stay away, so the going would be quick enough for Mrs Wilkinson.
After twelve hours at the typewriter, keeping track of events, Alan needed some fresh air and set out round the village with a torch. Earlier he’d heard a blackbird singing, and every garden shone with daffodils. Seeing a light on in the bungalow now the mature hedge had gone, he toyed with the idea of taking a bottle down to his mother-in-law, who he hoped would go on seeing him after he’d split up from her daughter.
Reaching the top of the high street and turning right on to the village green, he flattened himself against a wall as a Mercedes with an SM1 number plate roared by and flashed its lights outside Cobblers’ wrought-iron gates. A minute or two later, the Major scuttled out and opened them. Strange bedfellows. Even more interestingly, a second later, Alan flattened himself against Ione’s yew hedge as Harvey-Holden, mufflered, trilby over his nose, stormed up and also turned his Land-Rover through Cobblers’ gates. What could the little snake be up to?
The coup de grâce, as Alan turned for home, was his brother-in-law Martin – jogging by in a black tracksuit and a balaclava, far too busy telling a mobile telephone that he adored it to realize he was being observed. Alan longed to say, ‘Boo.’ Next moment, Martin had turned right through the Major’s gates. What was this about?
Next day the Major emailed the syndicate, summoning them to an emergency meeting that very evening. A full house except for Seth and Corinna attended. The locals were amazed to see Martin roll up with Bonny, who looked stony-faced and blanked Etta.
‘Why does that infernal dog have to occupy the entire window seat?’ she said, glaring at Priceless.
Dora, who’d rushed down from London, was briefing everyone about the Channel 4 interview. ‘We must get Wilkie to do as many tricks as possible, particularly yawning when Harvey-Holden’s name is mentioned. Isn’t it exciting,’ she went on, ‘Chisolm’s diary in the Daily Mirror is pulling in ten times more readers than Rupert’s column in the Racing Post.’
The Wilkinson bar, where the meeting was held, had been entirely papered with Mrs Wilkinson’s cuttings. All one could see were backs as syndicate members read about themselves.
‘We really must smarten up Etta before the Gold Cup,’ Debbie was murmuring to Phoebe. ‘Should one wear one’s Gold Cup hat for the Channel 4 interview?’
Chris was just taking orders when the Major strode in. Rheumy eyes gleaming, bristling moustache in a state of arousal, he ordered champagne on the house. The syndicate looked alarmed, hoping they wouldn’t have to pay.
Mrs Wilkinson hadn’t brought in any winnings since the beginning of February. Many of the syndicate had been wiped out by Ireland. The houses of others were still wrecked by the floods. Woody, after a bad fall, was off work and having to pay for his mother in an old people’s home. Phoebe, to people’s amazement, was pregnant again. Shagger wanted cash; Alan wanted to run off with Tilda; Joey was worried he might have made Chrissie pregnant. The Major and Debbie had their ruby wedding coming up and, now they’d moved up a rung socially, their grandchildren’s school fees to pay. Corinna and Seth were always short. Painswick and Pocock wanted capital for their teashop. Trixie, slumped in a corner, sipping Perrier and reading Horse and Hound, had her own money troubles. The vicar needed a new spir
e; Bonny wanted a new squire; Etta’s Polo had failed its MOT.
As Alan got out his notebook, the Major cleared his throat:
‘I bring you glad tidings of great joy. We’ve had a most extraordinary offer from a secret buyer for Mrs Wilkinson. I was approached yesterday. This would mean over fifty thousand for every member of the syndicate and twenty-five thousand for those with half-shares.’
Etta stopped shoving photographs of Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm into envelopes. ‘We can’t,’ she gasped, ‘we can’t sell Wilkie.’
‘I think we can,’ said Bonny rudely. ‘What we can’t do is turn down an offer like this.’
‘Certainly not,’ agreed a salivating Shagger. What a shame he and Tilda only had a half-share each. ‘We must accept immediately. Dermie O’Driscoll was telling me he turned down two hundred grand for a horse last year, which sold for only seven grand six months later.’
‘How dreadful,’ shivered Phoebe. With the rate of inflation, £100,000 would probably just cover Bump’s first term’s prep school fees. ‘We must accept at once.’
‘We can’t sell Wilkie,’ repeated an ashen Etta. ‘Valent wouldn’t allow it.’
‘It’s my horse, thank you,’ snapped Bonny. ‘Valent gifted me a share.’
‘At least let’s sleep on it.’
‘Won’t get much sleep worrying the vendor might change his mind,’ said Debbie.
‘Why the hurry?’ asked Alan, who was frantically trying to work out the implications.
‘They need to know straight away because they want to run her in the Gold Cup,’ said the Major.
‘What about Alan’s book? It’s centred round the village and Wilkie being part of it,’ protested Tilda angrily. ‘What about Hengist’s film?’
‘Add to the drama of the plot,’ said Shagger, draining his glass and refilling it. ‘It’s only a horse. With that kind of money, we can buy a couple more and keep the syndicate going.’
Etta lost her temper. ‘How dare you!’ she shouted at Shagger. ‘After all Wilkie’s done for you and Willowwood.’