by Jilly Cooper
‘He so wanted to see you again,’ Pat’s voice trembled, ‘but he couldn’t wait any longer.’
Everyone in the yard was in tears, except Geraldine. ‘What about his book of mares?’ she grumbled.
Ignoring EU regulations that don’t allow horses to be buried at home, Rupert said to Pat, ‘Can you dig a grave for him in the graveyard?’
Outside, Old Eddie was sitting on a bale of hay, still crying his eyes out.
‘He’s dead, he’s dead.’
Wincing to hear the desperate bleating of sheep calling for Safety Car, Rupert put his arms round his father. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, making a superhuman effort not to break down too. ‘He was such a sweet horse, he’ll gallop up to heaven and jump straight over the Pearly Gates. We’ll bury him beside Rock Star and Furious and Gertrude and Badger. He’ll have loads of friends.’
But as he led his father back to his office and poured him a large glass of brandy, it sunk in that Love Rat would never be Leading Sire now, and even if Quickly won the World Cup later today, what would it matter if Taggie’s cancer had spread to the lymph glands?
Purrpuss, who was missing his friend Quickly, wandered in and rubbed against Rupert’s legs as if begging for news, then took a flying leap, claws out, on to Rupert’s shoulder as the Penscombe dogs, just realizing Master was home, came barking joyfully into the office. Except for Forester who, finding no Taggie, crept dolefully back to the kitchen.
Me too, thought Rupert.
Back in Dubai on Saturday morning, desert-coloured mist swirled around buildings glittering in the rising sun, as excited crowds, revving up for the World Cup, gathered long before the first race at twelve noon.
Surprised that Gala hadn’t turned up at the barn to join Marketa, Louise and Lark in taking Rupert’s four runners for a gentle jog, Gav stood in for her and rode Quickly.
‘Gala’s obviously had too good a night with the Guv,’ giggled Louise.
‘Don’t be bloody silly,’ snapped Gav, gutted to be of the same opinion, but having to concentrate on staying on Quickly who, reaching a peak of fitness, was bounding all over the place and still yelling plaintively for Safety Car.
On Gav’s return to the barn, however, he was stunned to receive a text from Rupert.
‘Please take over, had to go back to England.’
Getting no answer from Rupert’s mobile, he sprinted over to the Meydan. Here he discovered Gala alone and in pieces in Rupert’s vast bed, and took her in his arms.
‘I told the fucker not to hurt you. Oh baby, I’m so sorry. I know you loved him and he couldn’t keep his filthy hands off you, the bastard.’
‘No, he isn’t – he loves Taggie.’
‘Where the hell is he?’
‘Flown home.’
‘The fucker – Quickly’s uptight enough as it is. In the middle of the fucking World Cup.’
‘Taggie’s ill.’
Gavin, with his passion for Quickly, was about to say, ‘Fuck Taggie.’
‘Very ill,’ sobbed Gala.
‘Right.’ Gavin took over with total authority. ‘Get up,’ he ordered Gala, and pointing to Rupert’s desk diary, ‘Cancel all his meetings, tell people to get in touch next week. Then get yourself dressed and down to the barn. Quickly needs you.’
87
The World Cup’s vast stadium, the biggest on the planet, had been built out in the desert by Dubai’s ruler, Sheikh Mohammed, and consisted of endless stands and luxury boxes, now brimming over with people. In the middle was one small box behind curtains, into which all the Sheikh’s wives and daughters were allegedly confined.
Before each race, the runners were stabled behind the stadium in the hope they would not be upset by massed bands and endless firework displays, with fairies or magicians on huge horses, exploding out of the sky. Every so often on the wide screen appeared one of Sheikh Mo’s publicly admired poems, more Sheikhspeare than Shakespeare.
Glamorous non-Arab spectators from all nations abounded, mostly in lounge suits or cocktail dresses. The best-dressed man and woman would each be awarded a Jaguar car. The atmosphere was formal but intensely theatrical, the prize money astronomical. The winning World Cup jockey would get eight per cent of the ten million dollars, plus a gold whip.
Cosmo Rannaldini was in high spirits, offering to sell his mother Dame Hermione, who was very excited by the gold whip, for 1,000 camels. Cosmo himself, who had arrived with Mrs Walton, Sauvignon and Repay’s new owner, Zixin Wang, was very excited by rumours of Rupert’s defection. And Zixin Wang was very excited by his first colours – gold stars on a scarlet background – echoing the Chinese National Flag.
Meerkat was even more excited to be riding Geoffrey later in the World Cup. Rosaria had surprised everyone by turning up with Colin Chalford, Mr Fat and Happy, the banker she’d met at Cosmo’s orgy.
‘What’s he doing here?’ snarled Brute, who was in the process of selling Geoffrey for a vast sum to Mr Tong. ‘Fat and Happy is Janey Lloyd-Foxe’s boyfriend.’
Team Penscombe, meanwhile, was in tatters.
Everyone had noticed Gala’s anguished face and Marketa kept bursting into tears every time anyone asked after Safety Car, so Gav gave them all a pep talk.
‘Rupert’s had to go back to London. Taggie’s not well evidently, but I for one am not going to waste all the time we’ve spent working on our horses. Let’s bloody well prove to Rupert we can win without him.’
Valent, not knowing the reason for Rupert’s defection, was absolutely furious. After the World Cup, he and Rupert had intended to fly to China where Dubai were staging a similar meeting. He was only just realizing how in bed with China, Dubai was, and suspected that Wang, who couldn’t resist an opportunity to make billions, was involved. Etta was sad for Valent. She knew he felt socially safer on occasions like this, when Rupert was around.
Cosmo was enchanted when it was confirmed Rupert had pushed off. ‘Couldn’t bear to witness any more defeats,’ he told the press. Then, bumping into Gala and Gav outside the weighing room: ‘So sorry your boyfriend’s dumped you, Gala,’ he said, before bursting into song. ‘How could he treat a poor maiden in Meydan so.’
‘Shut up,’ snarled Gav.
‘Don’t get ideas above your station, Floppy Dick.’
‘And you can shut up too,’ yelled Gala.
Team Penscombe were further devastated by news of Love Rat’s death. Gav, however, who had loved him from his days working in the stud, remained strong.
‘He should have died hereafter; unfortunately, we’ve got work to do.’
All was not doom, however. Just before the first race, Louise raced into the barn.
‘Glorious news,’ she whispered to Lark. ‘Sauvignon’s not pregnant.’
Lark’s hand stopped polishing Quickly. Her mouth fell open, but she couldn’t speak.
‘You know how Ruth Walton detests Sauvignon,’ crowed Louise. ‘They both came into the Ladies. Sauvignon was upstaging Mrs Walton with this phenomenally expensive bag Wang had just given her with her initials printed on it, and couldn’t resist opening it to show off the beautiful rose silk lining. And quick as a flash, Mrs W squawks: “You’ve got Tampax in there. I thought you were pregnant”.’
‘Omigoodness,’ gasped Lark.
‘And,’ giggled Louise, ‘that phenomenally expensive old bag, Sauvignon, blustered a bit, saying, “Actually, I miscarried in January, but I was so traumatized I didn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t cope with the fuss if the press found out.”
‘“Having created all the publicity in the first place,” says Mrs Walton, all disdainful. “And have you put poor Eddie out of his misery?” I left them shouting at each other and I’ve just texted Eddie the good news. Lark, Lark!’
But Lark had fallen to her knees in the straw, her hands together, her eyes closed.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Louise.
‘I’m thanking God,’ sobbed Lark.
As if determined to cheer them up, Chekov ran a
blinder in the first race, the Dubai Gold Cup. This was on turf which stretched out in pale-green and dark-green stripes like a Harvie and Hudson shirt. Chekov was so laidback he even had a pick of grass at the start before trouncing the horses of Ash, Manu de la Tour and Hammond Johnson, and earning a massive £384,615.
Tarqui was in heaven and even more so when little Delectable, not distracted by anything, bounded up in the Al Quoz Sprint and was only just beaten by a Japanese horse. Almost as pleasing, Red Trousers came last. All the time the crowds were building up, then in the fading light, Dick the Second joined the runners in the Golden Shaheen.
‘He’s very much on his toes,’ said Tarqui.
‘Makes a change from standing on mine,’ said Lou-easy.
Dick leapt out of the emerald-green starting stalls from a very wide draw. Hurtling across to grab a place on the inner, he collided – or was pushed – by Roman Lovell, and crashed into the rails, hurling Tarqui over his head. Staggering to his feet, Tarqui insisted he was perfectly all right. The doctors thought differently and bore a disconsolate Tarqui off in an ambulance to hospital, where it was confirmed he’d broken his shoulder.
‘At least you won’t be able to change nappies for a bit,’ consoled Meerkat.
One blow after another. Safety Car stolen, Love Rat’s death, Rupert walking out, Tarqui’s shoulder.
‘We’re star-crossed,’ wailed Gala.
‘No, we’re not,’ snapped Gavin, not letting anyone disintegrate into self-pity.
Lark was desperate to see Young Eddie again. By now he must’ve got Louise’s text about Sauvignon not being pregnant. But still not finding his name on the list of competing jockeys, she sidled up to Harmony and asked what was going on.
‘Cosmo,’ whispered Harmony, ‘is playing games. When he thought Rupert would be out here, he wanted to irritate him by putting up Young Eddie to beat him on Valhalla horses. But the moment he learnt Rupert had gone home, he jocked Eddie off and gave his rides back to Ash and Roman Lovell. Even worse, Dave’s been scratched from the World Cup, because if Dave won it, it would push Love Rat’s earnings, even posthumously, above those of Roberto’s Revenge. Cosmo’s so obsessed with Roberto’s Revenge winning Global Leading Sire outright. So Ash is riding Repay, who belongs to loathsome Wang.’
‘Oh poor Eddie, and poor Dave,’ cried Lark, seeing Isa and scuttling back to Quickly.
Overhead, a wistful jockey moon with a halo of gold looked down on the fireworks.
88
So, without Tarqui, who was going to ride Quickly in the World Cup – which was only two races and about an hour and a half away? Meerkat couldn’t abandon Geoffrey at this late hour. The light had faded beneath a sooty black sky. The vast footprint-shaped course was lit up now like a Cecil B. de Mille film of the New Testament, as great waves of Arabs in flowing robes and keffiyehs swept after Sheikh Mohammed or his sons or other Eastern potentates. Many of them were on their mobiles discreetly ringing bookmakers in Hong Kong, because betting was forbidden in Dubai – which slightly took the edge off the occasion. In the parade ring, set aside on a table, vast gold cups and plates awaited the World Cup winner.
Meanwhile, a depressed Eddie had flown all the way to Dubai only to find himself jocked off. The one single blaze of sunshine was Louise’s text that Sauvignon wasn’t pregnant. A wildly relieved, no longer father-to-be Eddie had joined Etta and Valent in the ex-pat bar.
‘Where’s Grandpa, for God’s sake? Is it true he’s flown home because Taggie’s unwell? She must be very ill.’
With no rides he might as well get plastered. He’d seen Lark leading up Delectable earlier and thought how adorable they both looked. Across the bar, he could now see Wang, his brutal granite face marginally softened as he smiled lustfully down at Sauvignon, who smiled lustfully back. Clad in a clinging cyclamen-pink dress and a fascinator as though pink rose petals had fallen on her glossy dark-brown hair, Sauvignon had just been awarded the Best Dressed Lady’s Jaguar.
One carnivore deserves another carnivore, thought Eddie. Then, as though a great harpoon had been tugged out of his side, he realized he didn’t give a damn about her any more. It was an ecstatic moment. He was about to down a quadruple gin and tonic when he became aware of the joyous notes of a hunting horn – the sound of his mobile ringing. It was Gav.
‘Get your kit on,’ he said. ‘You’re going to ride Quickly.’
‘You sure?’
‘Quite. I’ve been to the stewards and registered a jockey change.’
‘What’ll Grandpa say?’
‘I’m calling the shots now. Go and get changed.’
Eddie had no time to be nervous or even daunted by the weighing room, which boasted four televisions, a vast restroom, a whirlpool, a huge Jacuzzi, two steam rooms, each big enough for a dozen jockeys, a twenty-foot sauna, fifteen washing machines, a dining room, lounge and gym. A Brobdingnag for Lilliputians. Here the greatest jockeys, fit from riding round the world all winter, wandered around naked except for their tattoos.
Rupert’s blue and emerald silks, cut off Tarqui and hastily stitched together by a valet, were still drenched in sweat.
‘That’ll put on five pounds,’ grumbled Eddie.
As he left the weighing room he was grabbed by Cosmo, who said it was beyond the pale for him to boost one of Rupert’s horses in a stallion market, in which Valhalla was a direct rival.
‘If you ride Quickly, you’re fired,’ said Cosmo.
‘Good, I’ve resigned,’ said Eddie.
About an hour before each race, the racing tack, which was kept in the barn, went over with the relevant groom and horse to the saddling boxes in the pre-parade ring.
As Gala and Lark left with Quickly, Harmony was setting out with I Will Repay.
‘I know we’re not allowed to talk, but you’ve lost so much weight,’ whispered Gala.
‘Cosmo’s allowing me to ride out,’ confided Harmony, ‘and I’ve got a gorgeous boyfriend.’
‘Not surprised – you look great.’
Meanwhile the nerves of horses, trainers, owners and jockeys were frazzled as more and more fireworks went off and more tales from The Arabian Nights were re-enacted by huge gold eyeless jockeys, galloping white ghost horses, whirling dervishes and dancing searchlights, whilst orange, red, green and yellow rockets exploded into the dark, symbolizing the speed with which buildings were shooting up in Dubai.
Even in the underground pre-parade ring, where the bangs were muted, for Gala, with Mr Wang around, they were too reminiscent of a Zimbabwe shoot-out. As she helped him saddle up Quickly, Gav put a hand on her quivering shoulders, saying, ‘It’s OK, they’ll stop soon.’
Noticing he was wearing a pale-grey suit, white shirt and dark-grey tie, Gala said, ‘I’ve never seen you in a tie before. You look lovely, just like a trainer.’
‘Don’t take the piss.’ Gav punched her gently on the nose. ‘To get beat, or not get beat, that is the question.’
Eddie was unbelievably touched when Quickly dragged Lark out of the pink and yellow saddling box, and with a thunder of whickering, rushed up and held his face against Eddie’s.
‘That’s what Love Rat used to do,’ said Lark in a choked voice.
‘Hi, babe,’ said Eddie, ruffling her hair. ‘So good to see you again.’
‘Great to see you,’ gasped Lark. ‘We’re all knocked out that you’re riding Quickly.’
‘Don’t know if I’m up to it. I was about to get hammered when Gav called me.’
‘You’ll be great.’
‘Well, don’t plait him up so I’ve got something to cling on to.’
The night was dark indigo now, the course surrounded by huge square floodlights as though the stars themselves had come down to admire the beautiful gleaming horses.
Quickly, as a famous runner, led up by two such pretty stable girls, Gala and Lark, caused huge interest.
‘Come on, Quickers,’ cajoled Gala. ‘You’ve lost your cat, your comfort blanket, your dad and one of
your owners – now’s your chance to show the world you can do it on your own.’
Quickly flapped his ears and listened, pretending to spook at all the white robes. With a change of jockey, he’d drifted to 25–1. Valent rang Ladbrokes in England, to put on another £10,000.
The owners and trainers stood in little groups as the horses circled. Gala had great difficulty hiding her loathing and terror as they passed Sauvignon and Wang.
‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ sighed Lark. How could Eddie get over someone as gorgeous as that? ‘But isn’t he scary?’
‘Terrifying,’ shuddered Gala. But as she moved in to shield Quickly, for a second Wang turned and stared at her – giving her almost an eye-meet. He doesn’t recognize me, she thought.
Standing beside his father Mr Tong, who’d made an offer for Geoffrey, Bao, in an off-white suit, was very aware of being blanked by the entire Campbell-Black team; they clearly suspected him of kidnapping Safety Car. Even kind Etta turned her back on him, as she and Valent waited with Gav for Eddie to come out with the other jockeys. It was 20 degrees in Dubai but Eddie was shaking violently and had gone as white as the Arabs’ robes, all his cockiness gone.
‘Sheikh Mo just asked me if I’d had any news of Taggie,’ were his first words as he joined them. ‘She will be OK, won’t she?’
He looked so young and vulnerable that Etta hugged him, saying, ‘Of course she will.’
‘I can’t do it. Grandpa will never forgive me. Why hasn’t he rung already, jocking me off?’
‘Because I’ve switched off my mobile,’ said Gavin with the ghost of a smile. ‘You’ll be fine. Think Breeders’ Cup, King George, Guineas.’
There were fifteen horses in the race, from all over the world. Noonday Silence, the Japanese hope, had travelled over badly and lost a lot of weight. Geoffrey shuffled along, ignoring the ridicule, I Will Repay looked magnificent, ridden by Ash, as did Ivan the Terrorist, ridden by Roman Lovell, and Simone de Beauvoir, ridden by Manu. To Die For, whose career earnings were over $5.6 million, carried Hammond Johnson and American hopes, as local hopes were pinned on Sheikh Mohammed’s great horse Dubawi Divine, and Irish hopes on a big chestnut called George Bernard Offshore.