by Jilly Cooper
On the left of the entrance, a sign said Bidders Only. Here, on Book One and Two Days, gathered the big guns: famous bloodstock agents and buyers from all over the world, often the bitterest of enemies, getting a sexual charge from outbidding each other, holding catalogues groaning with yellow stickers.
‘Do you think I can do it?’ Gala was suddenly terrified and rang Gav. ‘I don’t want to screw up. Rupert’s cross enough with me. Hadn’t you better do the bidding?’
‘You’ll be great. People’ll associate me with Rupert.’
Sliding in separately four lots before theirs, Gala watched a pretty blonde with a clipboard come up to a man who’d just bought a bay colt, then when he signed the receipt, she urged him: ‘Enjoy your purchase.’ Gala giggled.
Gav, on the other hand, was outraged to see Isa in the Bidders Only gallery. Who the fuck had tipped him off? Rupert and he had only spoken about the red chestnut filly once on the telephone. Someone must have hacked into their call.
In the end, Gav had not even viewed her, to avoid suspicion. She was absolutely beautiful, with ears pricked and a huge stride for her little frame, looking around, neighing imperiously, taking everything in. Learning that a big player like Isa had rolled up to bid, the auction house quickly filled up. The bidding started at a negligible 3,000 guineas, then rocketed upwards. Every time Gavin put an idle finger on the acorn, and Gala raised her hand to bid, a ripple of interest went round. Who was this beautiful, vaguely familiar buyer, going so high? And who was she bidding for? Isa, whose nod was imperceptible, was bidding against her, pushing her up to a mighty 250,000 guineas. Gradually, the handsome bloodstock agents, the Irish, the Arabs, Russians and French fell away. The girl from the National Stud leading up the filly couldn’t believe it. It would give her such kudos.
Isa had gone to 400,000 guineas.
Gala paused.
‘She’s a lovely filly, don’t stop now, madam,’ cajoled the auctioneer. ‘Can you afford to let her go? Think of the joy of seeing this filly every day. Think of the rewards she’ll bring you.’
Shaking with nerves, Gala glanced across the sale room. Gavin’s finger was on the acorn. Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand.
‘Four hundred and fifty thousand guineas. It’s with you now, sir.’ The auctioneer turned to Isa. The room was crackling with excitement.
‘Look at the way she walks.’
Isa nodded again. He had gone to 550,000. The press were hovering to interview Gala. The auctioneer, who deserved an Oscar for histrionics, turned towards her. Knowing how much Rupert wanted the filly, Gav fingered the acorn and glanced across the sale room. Silence. Total silence. No bid came. The filly let out a whinny.
‘She wants to come and live with you, madam.’
Everyone laughed. A second later, Gala had crashed to the ground.
Knowing he should have taken over the bidding, but unable to stop himself, Gav fought his way through the crowd to the tier near the exit where he found Gala in a dead faint. Gathering her up, stumbling down the steps, he carried her outside, laying her on the grass, grabbing the bottled water from her bag and dashing it in her face.
‘What’s the matter, Gala? What happened?’
By the time she came round they had lost the sale. The hammer fell at 550,000. ‘Enjoy your purchase, Mr Lovell.’
Gavin had never seen anyone so grey or more terrified than Gala. She was shuddering worse than Forester in a thunderstorm. Then as reality reasserted itself, she was mortified she’d lost the lovely filly, led off out of the sale ring by her euphoric ex-stable lass.
‘Rupert will never forgive us. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,’ she whispered through white lips and frantically chattering teeth.
Putting his arms round her, Gav tried to steady and comfort her. ‘It’s all right. She probably isn’t any good.’
Then Gala started in terror, as a Tattersalls nurse rolled up, all kindness and sympathy.
‘So sorry about losing the sale. Would you like to come to the office for a cup of tea and a lie down?’
‘No, no, I’m fine.’ Gala’s eyes swivelled everywhere in panic; her only desire was to escape.
‘Could you get us out of here, without alerting the press?’ asked Gav.
66
Only when Gav was driving out of Newmarket past the vast rearing stallion sculpture did Gala break down, and between frantic sobs reveal that just as she was about to bid again: ‘I glanced round, and emerging from behind a pillar was that monster Wang.’
‘Who?’ asked Gav.
‘Zixin Wang, the Chinese warlord whose mafia thugs gunned down Ben in Zim, then burnt our house to the ground and butchered all our animals. He hung the dogs on the gate-posts … Oh my god.’ Her sobs doubled. ‘Bastard, bastard, what the hell’s he doing here? He murdered my Ben. But no one questioned it, he’s so in with the government. I ought to kill him, before he kills me.’
‘It’s OK, this is England.’ Gavin pulled up on the verge of the hamlet called Six Mile Bottom, and took her in his arms. ‘It’s OK, sweetheart, it’s OK. Did he see you?’
‘I d-don’t know. I don’t know if he saw me or if he recognized me. He kills lots of people. He murdered his first wife and replaced her with some beauty. “Fucking Great Willy of China”, Ben used to call him.’
Gav had never seen anyone so terrified. He longed to kiss her better, but tried to keep the conversation matter-of-fact.
What would induce Wang to come down to a minor sale to buy a totally unknown filly? Someone must have tipped him and Isa off. Gavin wondered if it was Bao. Chinese buyers were hardly ever seen at British auction houses, particularly as they didn’t like to do their own bidding. They felt they had lost face if they didn’t win. Suddenly Gav wondered whether Mr Wang was Cosmo and Isa’s big backer.
‘I can’t bear the thought of him getting anywhere near that darling filly,’ sobbed Gala.
They both started violently as the telephone rang. It was Rupert. Had they got the filly?
‘Nope.’
‘Christ, who did?’
‘Cosmo.’
‘What the fuck? How much for?’
‘Five hundred and fifty thousand. I thought we’d gone high enough.’
‘That’s peanuts.’
Gala, able to hear Rupert’s stream of abuse, grabbed Gavin’s mobile and said: ‘It wasn’t Gav’s fault. It was entirely mine.’
Waving his palm from side to side, Gav grabbed back the mobile.
‘I’ll explain when I get back,’ he said, then he switched it off.
All the way home, stumblingly between apologies for screwing up the deal, Gala told Gav about Wang and how he’d destroyed her, sketchy details of which he’d already learnt from Rupert.
Every time a car overtook them, which was rare because Gav was a very swift and good driver, she cast a terrified glance to see who was inside it.
Back at Penscombe, evening stables were over, the horses being settled down for the night. Gala fled upstairs and attempted to repair her ravaged, tear-blotched face. She cleaned her teeth to get rid of the sour taste in her mouth, and splashed on the last of her Elie Saab. Then, saying sorry, she wouldn’t be long, to an appalled Gropius, she went in search of Rupert, desperate to explain why Gav wasn’t to blame.
Rupert wasn’t in his office or the yard, so she ran down to the stud. Here, to her horror she found the place deserted, the door of the diabolical Titus Andronicus’ stallion box open, and the bird flown. What the hell was going on? Titus, however, was her friend, who whickered when she passed, and always accepted her Polos and her petting. So she tore off in pursuit then froze, appalled. Someone had left the gate open to the field where Safety Car was living with new sheep friends acquired since Quickly moved in with Bitsy. Titus, who loathed Safety Car, was prowling round in search of booty. If he got one of Safety’s sheep, it would be a fight to the death.
Calling out to Titus, Gala raced into the field. Recognizing her, he trotted back whickering an
d she was able to grab his collar.
‘Come on, boy, back to bed.’
For a second he put his black nose against her neck, breathing in her scent, then with squeal upon lusty squeal, he attacked her, ripping apart her brown cashmere jersey with his teeth, catching her flesh beneath. As Gala screamed, Titus proceeded to pin her against the fence, then knocking her to the ground, reared up, poised to kneel on her and rip her to pieces or crush her underfoot.
‘No, Titus, it’s me!’ she yelled.
Then Titus gave a bellow of frustrated rage as someone turned a fire hose on him, grabbing Gala by her arm and yanking her under the lowest bar of the fence, before leaving her in the dust and racing to shut the gate.
‘You stupid, stupid bitch,’ howled Rupert. ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’
‘Someone had left Titus’ door open and he got into Safety Car’s field,’ wept Gala. ‘I was terrified he’d kill Safety.’
‘Safety’s in Frogsmore Meadow – there’s nothing in that field.’ Rupert pulled her to her feet.
‘I was just taking Titus back to his box. He’s always been so friendly, then he went for me.’
‘You stupid bitch,’ repeated Rupert softly, ‘coming down here reeking of scent. Don’t you know that turns stallions on? He could have raped you or killed you, and I’d have had to shoot a twenty-million-pound stallion.’
Gala burst into tears.
‘Why not shoot me instead? I’ve just lost you a lovely 550,000 guineas filly and it wasn’t Gav’s fault.’ And she stumbled off into the stud office, crumpling up, about to faint again when Rupert caught her.
‘You OK?’
‘Of course I am, he only ripped my sweater.’
For a second he looked down at her. ‘I’ll buy you another. I was worried. I’m sorry.’
Gala had straw in her hair, and her face was smudged. For a moment they gazed at each other; his eyes were as blue as the distant hills. Then to lighten a highly charged situation, he said idly, ‘Someone must have wised up your dancing-partner boyfriend Cosmo that Gav and I were after that filly. Wasn’t you, was it?’
‘Bastard,’ exploded Gala. As her hand shot out to slap his face, Rupert caught it. Next moment, feelings they’d both been trying to suppress for months exploded and he was kissing the life out of her, and she was kissing him back. They were just about to collapse on a big bed of straw in the empty stallion box, when they heard a footstep and leapt apart.
Smoothing his hair, Rupert looked out of the tack-room door. Whoever it was, the night-watch, or Jan or Bao, had retreated into the shadows.
67
Everyone was talking about Rupert’s sixtieth birthday at the end of October, with the press frantic for interviews. Janey Lloyd-Foxe was planning to celebrate the event with a big piece. Helen, having seen Aidan O’Brien, the great Irish trainer, in a woolly hat, suggested Rupert should wear one instead of a trilby to keep him in the loop. Rupert’s reply was unprintable. He also kept insisting he didn’t want any kind of party, particularly a surprise one.
Taggie, however, aware that Rupert was so furious about lost fillies and Legers and still not nailing Leading Sire, decided to defy him and cheer him up with a tiny surprise party – and promptly regretted it.
The main problem was that Rupert’s birthday fell around the date of the Breeders’ Cup in Santa Anita and the Melbourne Cup, which would have meant Taggie flying the family: Perdita and Luke, Tab and Wolfie in Germany, Bianca in Perth, Xav in South America, Marcus and Alexei in Moscow, Rupert’s brother Adrian in New York, either to Australia or Los Angeles. Kind Bao asked Taggie if she’d like to borrow one of his father’s jets. The only answer, decided Taggie, was to give the party at Penscombe on the day after the Melbourne Cup. Australia was nine hours ahead and although this would barely give Rupert the time to get home, at least he’d have the chance of a good sleep on the twenty-four-hour flight.
But once the word got round, how could she possibly hold back the gatecrashers? The weather was so unpredictable at the end of October. Rupert would go ballistic if guests poured into the house clocking his pictures, which meant a marquee – which everyone who hadn’t been invited would see from the top road. If only one could acquire a marquee to put over a marquee, sighed Taggie.
Another problem was that Taggie’s father Declan still hadn’t finished his book on Irish literature, and with his prodigal wife Maud running up fearful debts, he wanted to borrow £60,000 from Taggie who, determined to pay for the party herself, was reduced to selling a lot of jewellery and doing all the cooking at home.
Rupert, who was still reading Othello, was therefore not amused by Taggie disappearing into other rooms to answer secret telephone calls, or whispering in corners with Jan, as they shoved canapés and puddings into freezers. Scorpios, Rupert’s star sign, according to Dora, ‘are brooding, intensively competitive, wildly jealous, very highly sexed and ruled by the privates’.
Valent comforted Rupert that sixty was nothing; even seventy was not so bad, particularly if one was lucky enough to win the love of such a lovely woman. Rupert, still not a fan of Etta’s, made no comment.
‘You will ask Mummy, won’t you?’ begged Tab.
Oh God, Rupert detested his first wife. ‘It’s not fair to ask people Rupert doesn’t like,’ wailed Taggie.
‘There seem to be an awful lot of them,’ observed Jan, who was being simply wonderful. He was so brilliant at finding television programmes that totally absorbed Old Eddie, that it left him lots of free time to help Taggie, and he had marvellous ideas of exciting South African dishes to liven up the menu.
Thank goodness Rupert was away so much when people started ringing up for birthday present ideas.
‘Give him some product to coax his hair into little tendrils,’ suggested Dora.
‘What do you give a man who has everything?’ asked Etta.
‘Except the Leading Sire title,’ said Valent drily.
In fact, Rupert was now so utterly obsessed with cracking the new Global title, he seemed to be the only person unaware that a party was being arranged.
There were also endless sales all over the world that needed to be policed, in case superstars of the future slipped through his fingers. All the stallions were being photographed with their hair carefully ruffled to make them look more virile for Weatherbys Stallion Book, and nominations sought so each of these stallions had a full book of mares for next year.
Having risen at five to watch New Year’s Dave win another big race in Australia, a delighted Rupert took his dogs out for a walk in the woods. It had rained all night, but the sun was now idling through the clouds and a warm breeze bringing down showers of gold and orange leaves. As he approached Gala’s cottage, he noticed that the lime tree in front of her bathroom window had shed its lemon-yellow curtain, and he could see her soaping her boobs. God, he wanted her. He was so tempted to drop in, particularly when his dogs she’d walked so often surged snuffling towards her door, but ‘chaos would come again’. Regretfully he called off the pack.
In a couple of hours, he’d have to leave for Ascot, and the culmination of the season; Champions Day with a massive £4,000,000 prize money. Despite the virus the horses had caught earlier in the year, he’d just notched up over 200 winners. Sadly, Eddie, who’d been allowed back into the fold, was so desperate to ride winners, he’d been banned for barging and over-use of the whip, and Meerkat had flu, so only Tarqui was free to ride.
Dressed for Ascot, Taggie looked so adorable in her violet suit and hat, Rupert chided himself for lusting after Gala. He was rewarded for his abstinence by a miraculous afternoon. Despite ground like a quicksand of toffee, Tarqui, who’d finally got his act together, won four races on Touchy Filly, Delectable and Blank Chekov, finally romping home on Quickly in the 1 mile 2 furlongs Champion Stakes by so many lengths the other horses seemed to have fallen out of the television.
Tarqui, undemonstrative towards animals, actually patted Quickly and used his blond mane to
wipe away a tear. Taggie and Rupert watching on the rail felt the thunder of hooves in counterpoint to the roar of ‘Quickly, Quickly, Quickly!’ Taggie, with tears of joy streaking her mascara and all her make-up kissed off, still looked enchanting.
Gala tried not to let jealousy spoil her euphoria as she and Quickly lined up for the photographers. Still terrified in crowds of spotting Wang again, she noticed that Harmony, who was looking much thinner, not Sauvignon, was leading up Ivan the Terrorist, who’d come second. I Will Repay was obviously being saved for the Breeders’ Cup. What was surprising, Cosmo didn’t look remotely upset by Rupert’s clean sweep.
‘We must have a drink later, Mrs Milburn,’ he smiled at Gala, which was immediately clocked by Rupert.
‘She’s got better things to do,’ he said icily, sharply ordering Gala to walk Quickly round to cool him down and then get the horses on the lorry as soon as possible so they’d miss the worst of the traffic.
‘And don’t go fraternizing with that toxic midget,’ he added, not even bothering to lower his voice.
Rupert then, for a fourth time, bore Valent, Etta, Taggie and Gav back to celebrate in the Winning Connections Room, which had a photograph of the great Frankel over the fireplace and a picture of the Queen being presented with the Ascot Gold Cup by her son the Duke of York. Here they drank more champagne, and watched several re-runs of the Champion Stakes.
68
‘That Quickly’s a marvellous horse,’ said Chris Stickels, Ascot’s Clerk of the Course. ‘But before you move in here for good, Rupert, you’d better drink up. The entire world’s press is outside wanting to talk to you.’
To cap a glorious day, Geoffrey won the last race for Rosaria, so to avoid Brute stealing all her thunder as he invaded the Winning Connections Room, Rupert was finally persuaded to shoot off to meet the media, who gave him a round of applause. After a great deal of champagne, his deadpan face was lifted by a broad grin; the man-eating tiger was actually purring. This was the best day’s racing of his life. Tarqui had ridden like an angel. Gala and Gav had worked their socks off getting the horses spot on, the yard was flying.