by Jilly Cooper
He needed a drink. His euphoria at winning the Gold Cup had been tempered by Etta not even bothering to ring him. Perhaps she was too gutted about Wilkie.
‘Thanks, guys,’ he said, getting to his feet to a flickering firefly orgy of flashbulbs.
‘What’s the state of play between you and Bonny Richards?’ asked the Scorpion.
‘I can tell you,’ cried a joyful voice and in swept Bonny, looking utterly radiant in her little fawn suit. ‘Valent and I are definitely together. He’s backing me in my fashion dream.’ She did a twirl for the cameras. ‘This is the first in the Bonny Richards Collection.’
Then, floating up to Valent, she seized both his hands, swinging round to the furiously snapping cameras and scribbling journalists: ‘I want to congratulate him on a great victory. I’ve realized I’ve made a terrible mistake. The age gap’s utterly unimportant, it’s you I love, Valent, the journey of Bonny must end here.’
Next moment, she had reached up, put her arms round his neck and pressed her smiling lips against his.
Valent’s face was inscrutable. Then, putting an arm through hers, he frogmarched her towards the exit. ‘Now is not the time or the place,’ he said grimly, ‘I’ve got a win to celebrate and guests up in the box.’
‘Valent, Valent, Bonny, Bonny, Bonny,’ screamed the photographers.
Outside, Valent had to put his arms round her to protect her from the scrum.
Seeing his stony face, Bonny whispered, ‘I just miss you so much. We need to talk. Can’t we go back to London?’
‘I’ll give you a lift. We’ve got to look in at the box first.’
Battling their way through the crowd, Valent didn’t notice a hovering, stricken Etta.
Still incandescent with rage at having lost the Gold Cup, Rupert dropped into the box in search of Valent and found his letcherous old father Eddie in situ and surrounded by WAGs, including a drunken Cindy Bolton. ‘I got a Casanova for Little Miss Muff Diver, Eddie,’ she was screaming, ‘and another for Juicy Snatch.’
‘I got a Casanova for Scottish Girls Wee in Glasgow,’ countered a Celtic Rover WAG in a micro-kilt, ‘and for Splash Gordon.’
‘Oooh, there’s Rupert,’ squawked a third.
‘Rupert, Rupert,’ they all cried, tottering towards him on their six-inch heels.
Christ, thought Rupert, deciding it was better to laugh than cry. Next moment a thunderous-looking Valent entered the box.
‘I’m pushing off,’ Rupert called out to him.
‘Not just yet,’ said a laughing voice. ‘We haven’t met yet, but I’m enchanted to meet you, Rupert – I’m Bonny Richards.’
Marius told Tommy, Trixie and the rest of the lads that they’d all go out to dinner on Monday and celebrate Furious’s victory, but for the moment he was going to take Amber back to Throstledown and put her to bed. They both felt shell-shocked. Rogue had hit him very hard and the medical officer said Amber would be very sore tomorrow. They both needed some peace.
*
Marius’s syndicate meanwhile were most unhappy. They had no box to ply them with free drink. Euphoria that Wilkie was safe had given way, as they came down from champagne, to rage. They’d each lost a fortune. A share of the Gold Cup takings would have brought some of them as much as £20,000, not to mention money from winning bets. Joey with his white heather was the only one who’d backed Furious big time. Would Valent honour his offer to buy Wilkie now she had lost? After the King George, everyone had taken their picture and clamoured to interview them. Now no one seemed interested. How fleeting was fame.
‘I’d never have paid such a fortune for that rocking horse if someone had told me Wilkie hadn’t won,’ wailed Phoebe.
‘Rocking horse’d have more chance,’ snarled Shagger.
As they were leaving, Etta saw Bonny and Valent hurrying towards Valent’s red and grey helicopter and tried not to cry. It had been ridiculous to assume they wouldn’t get back together again.
On their way out, kicking tins, crunching plastic glasses underfoot, avoiding drunks, the syndicate passed the entrance to the stables, where a crowd was hanging over the rails. Reluctant to bid farewell to the festival for another year, they were watching horses being loaded up for the journey home.
A great cheer went up as Furious sauntered out in his black rug which said ‘Totesport Gold Cup Winner’ in big gold letters. His ears were pricked, his eyes confident. ‘I am the king,’ he seemed to say as he looked round at the crowd before bounding on big bandaged legs up the ramp of Marius’s lorry. Here, Trixie tied him up with his head near the driver so his long upper lip could nuzzle Rafiq’s ears.
Then Tommy led out Mrs Wilkinson. For once her white face wasn’t covered by lipstick. She looked bewildered, utterly deflated, her head and tail hanging down.
‘I am the one who gets the praise, the clapping, the patting, the hats and race cards thrown in the air,’ she seemed to say. ‘Am I written off completely?’
For once she loaded instantly, so as not to cause any trouble, but Etta could see her one eye, huge and sweet, anxiously gazing out of the window.
‘She should have been allowed into the winners enclosure,’ wailed Etta, longing to run to her. ‘She looks so sad.’
‘She didn’t bloody win,’ snapped Corinna.
As they walked back through the drizzle to the minibus, which had been parked in Wellington Square to avoid traffic jams, the crowd going the same way were muted, as is usual when a favourite is beaten. With rain in their dry throats, the birds were singing so sweetly that spring was on the way.
Searching in her bag for a handkerchief, Etta realized she had left her mobile switched off.
‘I knew Bonny and Valent would get back together again,’ crowed Phoebe.
‘Don’t worry,’ Painswick tucked an arm through Etta’s, ‘Wilkie’ll live to fight another day.’
As Valent clambered into the passenger seat of Rupert’s dark blue helicopter a quarter of an hour later, Rupert demanded, ‘What have you done with that pretty girl? She seemed rather keen on you.’
‘She’s going back to London in my chopper.’
‘Isn’t she expecting you to go with her?’
‘Yes, but I’m not, I’ve got things to sort out here.’
As Rupert’s helicopter took off into the lilac evening, Valent caught sight of an utterly outraged Bonny beckoning from the window of his red and grey helicopter.
‘Funny old day,’ said Valent.
Rupert was still brooding: ‘A man would have been able to fend off that kind of bullying from Killer and Johnnie. Amber’s too slight, and what the hell was she doing necking with Marius in the middle of a Gold Cup? World’s gone mad.’
Perhaps Amber needed a father figure now Billy was on the way out; Rupert was overwhelmed with sadness.
Valent felt ashamed. He’d just won one of the greatest races in the world, and had no right to be depressed because Etta hadn’t bothered to ring him and had deliberately switched off her mobile. Business, however, prevailed.
‘I’ve got to come clean, Rupert,’ he said in embarrassment. ‘What am I going to do about six hundred thousand cooddly Wilkinsons and four hundred thousand cooddly Chisolms arriving from Kowloon?’
‘You what?’ Over the engine Rupert wondered if he’d heard right.
‘If they’d been delivered as promised before the Gold Cup,’ said Valent, ‘I’d have sold the lot, but the ship got held oop by pirates. Probably expected liquor or cocaine but didn’t have much use for a cooddly pony, even one who shakes hands and sticks her tongue out. The cooddly Chisolm’s almost cuter, got a primrose in her mouth.’
‘And her bloody diary got confused with my column. Remind me to murder Dora when I see her,’ said Rupert, who was trying not to laugh. ‘Are you talking about stuffed toys?’
‘A million of them,’ said Valent gloomily. ‘That’s why I offered to buy Mrs Wilkinson, to stop any infringement of copyright.’
‘How much for?’
‘Six hundred thousand.’
‘Jesus.’ Rupert thought for a minute then he said, ‘Your only hope is to enter Mrs Wilkinson for the National. The public still adore her.’
Etta would like that, thought Valent, her favourite book was National Velvet.
‘I’ll train her for you,’ said Rupert. ‘We’ve got three weeks.’
‘I’d have to check with Marius.’
But Rupert was leaping ahead: ‘And once you’ve bought her you can dump that ghastly syndicate. Harry Herbert copes brilliantly with syndicates at Highclere, but I’m not being pestered by your job.’
129
Over at Throstledown, the crimson and royal-blue flag was flying again. Furious had won the Gold Cup and as the first Muslim to ride the winner Rafiq received massive publicity. He had also notched up a tenth win and could qualify to ride in the National, but his delight was tempered. Every newspaper led on his amazing turnaround, his jailbird past.
‘“Marius rescued us both,”’ wrote the Scorpion, beneath a lovely photograph of Rafiq hugging Furious. ‘“Furious and I found each other in prison.”’
Before, only a sprinkling of people were aware he’d been inside and was a possible terrorist threat. Now the whole world knew.
He’d switched off his mobile but he knew the Mafia would soon return with their death threats, ordering him to pull Furious and other horses. After all this publicity, the sophisticated techniques of MI5 would also soon find out he was speaking to the enemy and pack him off to a detention camp in Eastern Europe, never to return. What would they do to darling Tommy? Vakil, whom he distrusted, had caught them kissing – so Rafiq went back to ignoring Tommy, hurting her dreadfully.
Nor were Marius and Amber very happy with the press as they woke up, on the morning after the Gold Cup, in Marius’s double bed where the sheets had hardly been changed since Olivia walked out. If only they could have confirmed their commitment and reached insensibility having sex all night! Alas, Marius suspected Rogue had fractured his jaw, Amber had been kicked everywhere, and even after a lethal cocktail of champagne, whisky and Nurofen, any lovemaking had resulted in ‘Ouch, ouch, ouch.’
Neither was into masochism so they fell into a fitful sleep, to be woken by Painswick bringing them cups of tea with averted eyes and pursed lips. Once again she had found her office a tip, with papers all over the floor, empty bottles, glasses everywhere and a disgusting smell of burnt tinned tomato soup.
As Florence Nightingale, Marius was clearly a washout.
‘People have been leaving messages all night asking after Wilkie and congratulating you on winning the Gold Cup,’ said Painswick tartly. ‘Her Majesty, the Prime Minister and the Archbishop of Canterbury all sent texts. Flowers, consignments of Polos and carrots keep arriving. And the press are at the gate.’
‘I’ll shoot the buggers,’ snapped Marius, reaching for a cigarette. ‘Bring me a large whisky – please. How’s Wilkie?’
‘Terribly depressed. She walked out sound but she won’t eat up. Furious seems fine. The press want to know what time Furious and Rafiq are going to make a victory parade through Willowwood and when’s the party. And they all want to talk about you and Amber and Rogue.’
‘I’m not talking to anyone, I’ve got a black eye.’ Amber peered at herself in the dusty mirror.
‘Neither of us has anything to say to the press,’ snarled Marius. ‘Amber’s moved in. End of story. Has anyone done the declarations?’
‘Not yet, and you’re not going to like this.’ Painswick dropped the Scorpion on the honeysuckle-patterned counterpane.
‘Omigod,’ groaned Amber, a few seconds later. ‘Bloody, bloody Mum’s done it again. THE LIVING NIGHTMARE WHEN I THOUGHT MY AMBER HAD DIED. Oh my God.’
Janey Lloyd-Foxe must have written and filed her copy as fast as any of the journalists in the press room at Cheltenham. There were big pictures of Marius, Amber, Rogue and Mrs Wilkinson.
‘“Two of the most charismatic men in racing fighting over my baby,”’ read out Amber in increasing horror. ‘“When she was a teenager, my Amber had pin-up photographs of sexy champion jockey Rogue Rogers. But she also used to refer to handsome Marius as MFH, which stood for My Future Husband, and now it looks as though her dreams have come true. Our photographer caught Amber locked in Marius’s arms. Heart-throb Rogue could not contain his jealousy and swung his mount round and later hit tasty Marius across the winners enclosure. Rogue has lost the race and his job as Rupert Campbell-Black’s jockey. What a price to pay for love. But there was a happy ending for handsome Pakistani Rafiq Khan, my daughter’s former boyfriend, who put his dark prison past behind him and stole the show.”
‘The bitch, the bitch. Oh God, I’m sorry.’ Amber clutched her head and shrieked with pain.
‘It’s all right, darling.’ Marius seized the Scorpion and thrust it at Painswick. ‘Of all the bloody tactless things to produce. Get out,’ he thundered at a reporter who’d climbed up the flagpole and was peering in.
‘They’re all the way down the drive,’ sniffed Painswick.
‘You get out as well, get out,’ roared Marius, rearing out naked from under the duvet, so Painswick scuttled. Then, turning to Amber, he saw she was in tears.
‘Doesn’t matter, we’re what matters. You stay there, I’ll go down and sort things out.’
Admiring the flat broad shoulders, the taut high bottom and the long muscular legs, Amber thought what a pity that Marius ever had to get dressed at all.
Painswick found Dora talking to Mistletoe in the kitchen.
‘Lemme go upstairs and see them.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘All my contacts want a statement. Someone’s got to deny that crap written by Janey Lloyd-Foxe. Poor Amber, what a cross to bear, even worse than my mother. Have they both got black eyes? People who look alike are supposed to be attracted to one another.’ Dora sighed. ‘Wilkie’s not speaking to anyone, I better go and interview Chisolm.’
Furious got his parade through Willowwood, wearing his black Cheltenham Gold Cup Winner rug, and managed not to kick or bite anyone. Perhaps Trixie’s euphoria, resulting from a pocketful of greenbacks from Valent and the prospect of Eddie taking her out on the toot that evening, had rubbed off. Wilkie stayed at home, still depressed.
‘Mrs Wilkinson doesn’t want to steal Furious’s thunder,’ Dora told the press.
Afterwards, having ascertained from Charlie Radcliffe that Wilkie had suffered no ill effects from her fall, Valent called an emergency meeting of the syndicate at the Wilkinson Arms, which Shagger quipped should now be called the Furiosa.
Here, to everyone’s delight, Valent honoured his pledge. He offered to buy Mrs Wilkinson for £600,000 and, even better, allowed the syndicate to retain a 1 or a 0.5 per cent share each, ‘so we can keep her in the family, so to speak’.
To this, a majority vote agreed joyfully.
‘And we can still enjoy being part of Wilkie without the uncertainty and expense of the bills,’ said Tilda. ‘Thank you so much, Valent.’
Expecting a party, the syndicate were somewhat deated when Valent immediately pushed off to discuss the new arrangements with Marius.
‘That’s about sixty thousand each,’ worked out Alan, who still hadn’t got to the end of his book.
‘Isn’t he kind?’ sighed Etta, whose eyes Valent hadn’t met once.
‘Pocket money to him,’ mocked Shagger.
130
Journalists were still hanging around outside Throstledown as Valent arrived. Telling them to bugger off, he checked on Wilkie, who was indeed so low she refused a bit of barley sugar.
In the office, Valent found Amber wearing a blue and white striped shirt of Marius’s. Having enquired after her bruises and given her some grapes, Valent also told her to ‘shove off, luv’. His meeting was only with Marius.
Amber retreated upstairs and went on the rampage.
Like Miss Havisham’s house, nothing seemed to have changed since Olivia le
ft. In the wardrobe, Amber found lots of pastels and blacks. Skirts had got shorter since Olivia had left Marius, she’d need to have everything turned up if she wanted to wear them again. Hatboxes were piled under the dressing table, boots under the chaise longue. On the walls were photographs of Olivia with terriers, with India, with horses, jumping them, leading them up, posing with winners. Even her jewels were still in their case.
Had Shade, the control freak, wanted to excise the Marius years and ensure everything Olivia owned had been given her by him?
On the dressing table were bottles of scent, many of which had lost their individual smell through age. One sweet and peppery scent called Silver Rain she remembered smelling on Olivia before the first point-to-point and had occasionally caught wafts of in the paddock. Perhaps Silver Rain had been an affair present from Shade. Olivia had left a bottle of cleansing cream upside down in a loo roll, draining out the last drop. She and Marius must have been terribly short of money. There was arnica for bruises – Amber rubbed some underneath her eye – and even a bra still in the dirty clothes basket, although that could have been Michelle’s.
Loathing herself, Amber found a couple of whisky bottles inside Marius’s bedside cupboard. Inside Olivia’s she found a Dick Francis and Jenny Pitman’s autobiography face down. In a Bible, she found a handsome photograph of Shade and a letter: ‘My darling, Everything awaits you.’ Another picture fell out. Goodness, it was Alan Macbeth, so like Niles in Frasier. Her hand shaking, Amber felt under the cupboard’s lining paper. The pain was ridiculous as she pulled out a photograph and a letter from Rogue, who never wrote letters. ‘Darling Olivia, Sorry I came too soon. Better fuck next time. Yours always, Rogue.’ Amber had heard rumours. God, would she never get over him? She slumped on the bed, face in her hands.
How strange that Marius was so incurious, he’d never bothered to open Pandora’s box. All over the house were pictures and sculptures of horses galloping, yet time seemed to have stopped at the starting gates, waiting for Olivia to come back.