by Jilly Cooper
‘How dare you ride with a broken wrist, making me look a prat.’
‘Special’ Donaldson had cancelled lunch, and who was now going to ride Mrs Wilkinson?
No matter how much Tommy and Rafiq and her sweet father, Billy, tried to reassure her this was just a blip in her career, Amber sank into despair.
Matters weren’t helped by Rogue all over the papers and television winning Ride of the Week for his gallant rescue, or when Amber’s unprincipled, scoop-crazy mother, Janey, interviewed Rogue for the Daily Mail. THE BRAVE SIR GALAHAD WHO SAVED MY AMBER’S LIFE was accompanied by sexy photographs of Rogue, stripped to the waist, flaunting his six-pack, highlighted brown hair tousled, kingfisher-blue eyes flashing.
Having just clocked his one hundred and thirtieth winner, Rogue was quoted as saying: ‘One should always be ready to help young and inexperienced riders.’
‘Sir Gala-had everyone in sight,’ howled Amber when she read the piece, ‘how dare he call me young and inexperienced …’
She wasn’t even mollified when Rogue sent her two dozen red roses.
On the Saturday after the accident, she was visited at midday by an old schoolfriend. Milly Walton was looking so urban chic and ravishingly little girlish, in a pale pink smock and brown leggings. Perching on Amber’s bed, reading her cards and eating her grapes, Milly tried to divert her with London gossip about all their mutual friends and the parties Amber had been missing, which she might now have time to go to.
As Amber was still looking wintry and bored, Milly tried to interest her with the information that she had a new boyfriend – a jockey.
‘You’re mad,’ snapped Amber. ‘For a start, jockeys are useless in bed. They’re only interested in coming as fast as they can.’
‘This one is fantastic,’ protested Milly.
‘Can’t be a jockey then.’
‘He is. He’s called Dare Catswood.’
‘Dare’s an amateur,’ said Amber scornfully. ‘Amateurs are different, they have to work harder for a ride.’
Milly giggled. ‘Well, I think he’s hot.’
‘Jockeys get thoroughly spoilt.’ Amber was on a roll now. ‘Once they’ve got a licence everyone wants to hop on them, like a bus in the rush hour.’
‘You have changed,’ sighed Milly. ‘At school you were crazy about Rogue Rogers, had pictures of him all over your study …’
‘Rogue lives up to his name, he’s really like a bus in the rush hour, just comes more often and in more lanes. Even the roses he gave me got brewer’s droop in twenty-four hours. He’s the worst of the lot.’
In mid-rant, Amber suddenly clocked that Milly wasn’t laughing any more, just looking horrified and deeply embarrassed.
As she swung round, Amber’s heart failed, for standing in the doorway was Rogue. Beneath the peak of his blue baseball cap, on which was printed the words ‘Italian Stallion’, his eyes were shadowed and tired, his laughing face unutterably bleak.
‘R-rogue,’ stammered Amber, ‘what are you doing here?’
‘On my way to Chepstow, thought you might like these.’
He threw a huge bunch of freesias on the bed, followed by Richard Dunwoody’s autobiography.
‘On second thoughts, not,’ he took back the book, ‘you don’t seem to like jockeys.’
‘She was only joking,’ stammered Milly. ‘I know she’s a huge fan really, so am I. She always took the piss out of everyone when we were at school.’
‘Perhaps she should go back there and learn some manners.’
‘Rogue, I’m sorry,’ wailed Amber, but Rogue had turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him.
Amber cried for the first time since she broke her wrist, howling even louder when Milly discovered a little card inside the freesias, ‘Darling Amber, I’m so sorry, please come back soon. All my love Rogue,’ in Rogue’s handwriting.
She was utterly inconsolable.
98
Dora, having passed eleven GCSEs, decided to leave Bagley Hall because she was fed up with her mother moaning about the fees. Choosing to take a gap year, she was in New York in late February, staying with her half-sister Sienna and her husband Zac, when she received a long email from Alan:
Darling Dora, we all miss you. Hope you’re fine. I thought I’d give you an update on the syndicate. I’m really pissed off because my Life of Wilkie has hit the buffers again because Amber’s been sidelined for four months with a broken wrist and there’s no one to ride Wilkie – who’s due to run at Rutminster early next month.
The tragedy is that the last time she ran and won, the syndicate had such a fantastic time afterwards at the après stage Antony and Cleopatra party, they’re frantic for another opportunity to behave badly.
From what I can gather, Alban and the Major both pulled Corinna. Amber disappeared upstairs with Marius. I draw a veil over Painswick and Pocock. Seth was off pleasuring Bonny and God knows who else and the Vicar and Woody are looking very smug.
Valent pushed off before the orgy, said he had a crisis at work, but I guess, being an alpha male, he was pissed off with all the women drooling over Seth, who incidentally was magnificent as Antony.
On the luvvie front, Corinna, on the grounds that Dame Judi shines in comedy, agreed to play Lady Bracknell in a BBC production of The Importance of Being Earnest, due to start any minute, only to discover that Seth’s playing Jack Watling and, far, far worse, Bonny’s been cast as Gwendolyn.
Corinna proceeded to throw her toyboys out of the pram, screaming that Bonny was far too lower middle to play her daughter. Seth, being a bitch, told Bonny, who threw a hissy fit, particularly when Seth suggested she use the same voice coach she employed to iron out Valent’s Yorkshire accent.
Corinna, meanwhile, to bone up on her patrician vowel sounds, keeps inviting a thoroughly over-excited Alban round for drinks.
Tomorrow to fresh Woodies and parsons new.
God knows what a den of depravity we’ve unleashed.
One big piece of gossip is that Collie’s left Harvey-Holden – they fell out because Collie didn’t like the way H-H treated his horses and the fact he hired Michelle the moment Marius fired her. Anyway, Collie’s up-sticked and gone to work in Ireland. Harvey-Holden’s made sinister Vakil his head lad. I think the RSPCA should be told.
But to go back to our syndicate, the upshot is they’re all frantic for another jolly so they can misbehave again. Wilkie is booked to run at Rutminster in ten days’ time. Marius is tearing his hair out over who to put up. There’s talk of Awesome Wells. Any ideas? Please come home soon. Love to Paris
Dora emailed back instantly:
All that stuff must go in Wilkie’s biography – particularly the Major and Corinna – wow! The only person to ride Wilkie should be Rafiq, they’d adore each other and he’s a fantastically gentle rider. All love Dora.
Alas, more gossip had reached Rafiq that Amber had got off with Marius at Stratford. Raging with jealousy, Rafiq had been particularly truculent and bolshy towards Marius, which didn’t predispose Marius to reward him with any rides, especially as Furious had done a leg and been confined to even more bad-tempered box rest than Amber.
Unwilling to risk a tongue-lashing if he approached Marius direct, Alan asked Etta, who was so fond of Rafiq, to plead his cause.
99
Valent Edwards suspected he spent so much time abroad because he missed Pauline, most agonizingly when she wasn’t there when he returned home to England.
As he flew back to Willowwood at the beginning of March, to sadness was added exhaustion. Over the past five years, among his myriad activities had been sorting out a wayward New York bank called Goldstein Phillipson, who’d originally invited him on to their board to add gravitas.
Now they were making a fortune, he was revolted by the obscenely large bonuses the board were intending to pay themselves, including him. So Valent had resigned, refusing to accept the bonus. His fellow directors were outraged, terrified that once word of his defection got out
, shares would plummet, so he’d agreed the news should be kept from the press for a few weeks.
Valent felt very bad about abandoning the junior staff of Goldstein Phillipson, who had become friends on his many visits. As a condition of his temporarily keeping quiet, he had asked if his bonus could be divided between these junior staff, but he wasn’t very hopeful. The fights had been bloody.
He was also depressed about Bonny. If she was going to spend the next few months filming or touring with Seth, the inevitable must happen, if it hadn’t already. Yet she swore she loved him, was angling for marriage, and made scenes if he suggested things weren’t right.
‘It’s a generational thing, Valent. You cannot expect me to engage with football.’
She had great plans for him to help her develop her own make-up, fragrance and clothes labels. ‘Bonny Richards should be as universally known as Kate Moss.’
Arriving at Badger’s Court late in the afternoon, he was cheered to see that the great sweep of snowdrops had been replaced by gold and purple carpets of crocuses, pale blue scillas and an emerging host of white daffodils. Etta had been at work.
‘And then my heart with pleasure fills,/And dances with the daffodils,’ Valent quoted happily.
He was still reading a poem from the Everyman anthology every day, no longer just to upstage Seth but because he really enjoyed them. Today, most appropriately where Goldstein Phillipson was concerned, he’d read a poem by George Herbert which started:
‘I struck the board, and cried, No more.’
There still seemed to be a lot of rubble and bulldozers around but at least his octagonal office in the cockpit was finished. He gave a sigh of satisfaction. Joey had framed and hung the signed photographs of Gordon Banks outwitting Pelé in the World Cup, and of the Colombian goalie who had prevented an England victory with a legendary scorpion save, kicking up his legs behind him to stop the goal.
Most importantly, on his desk was the photograph of his son Ryan, his wife Diane and the grandchildren. Valent had been working on a new lighter-but-tougher football boot to prevent so many injuries to the vulnerable top of the foot.
He longed to involve Ryan in the marketing. He had dreams of buying Searston Rovers, the fast-rising local football team, and putting Ryan in as manager. Ryan, however, was still violently opposed to Bonny and a more chilling voice inside him said if the all-too-handsome Ryan came back into the fold, Bonny would surely ensnare him.
‘Christ,’ Valent opened a can of beer. ‘I strook the board and cried no more.’
He looked out towards Etta’s bungalow. As he’d planted those stupid trees to protect Bonny’s privacy (goings-on, more like) he couldn’t see if her lights were on. Dribbling a football, signed and given him by Bobby Moore, across the room, he opened a window and heard robins and blackbirds singing in dark trees silhouetted against an orange sunset.
There was a thump as a plump, fluffy black cat landed on his desk, mewing importantly. Her rusty purr was more like a crow’s caw as she weaved around him, butting his arm, blinking at him with fearless lemon-yellow eyes.
Valent helped himself to another beer from the fridge and poured the cat a saucer of milk, which she sniffed and rejected.
‘Faddy cow,’ said Valent, and dialled Etta’s number.
Digging her garden in the twilight, Etta was soothed by the stream that hurtled over yellow and brown pebbles and brushed against the first primroses and coltsfoot. There was a soft violet blur on the trees, the first little green kiss curls on the willows. Birds, who had fallen on her bird table a week ago and emptied it in half an hour, were now abandoning it to sing to their loves. She was gratified that Pavarobin, who now took crumbs from her hand, had not deserted her. He was keeping a shiny black eye out for worms as she turned over the liver-chestnut Cotswold earth.
It was a few moments before she realized the telephone was ringing and rushed inside.
‘Valent here.’
‘How lovely. How are you?’
‘Fine,’ lied Valent. ‘Have you lost a furry black cat?’
‘It’s Gwenny, Harold Pocock’s cat actually, but she’s sort of moved in.’
‘If I had sticking-out ribs or one eye, or no collar, would you rescue me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Would you like an Indian?’
‘I’d rather have a Pakistani.’
‘You what?’
‘Sorry, that was silly. I didn’t mean to be ungracious,’ Etta took a deep breath and plunged straight on, ‘but, oh Valent, I truly believe Rafiq would be the best person to ride Wilkie at Rutminster next week. He’s such a beautiful, sensitive rider and he’s having such a rough time. He loves Amber and she’s being a bit of a “b” to him. Amber told me she didn’t sleep with Marius at Stratford. What a lovely hotel that was, thank you, but Rafiq’s convinced she did, so he’s being stroppy with Marius, who’s punishing him by not giving him any rides and about to sack him. But I know Marius would listen to you, he really respects you.’
As he’d lent Marius the money to pay for his new Gold Cup jumps and his all-weather track, and guaranteed his overdraft and bought Furious, Marius should, thought Valent.
‘OK, I’ll have a word. Now, would you like an Indian?’
‘Yes please. How lovely.’
‘Any preferences?’
‘I adore meat and spinach and prawns, nothing too hot,’ and then she burst out laughing. ‘Although you wouldn’t think so after that dreadful chilli I gave you last summer.’
‘I’ll be round in half an hour.’
Etta panicked. She hadn’t walked Priceless yet but as it had started raining, he was refusing to leave the comfort of the sofa. Washing-up from Poppy and Drummond’s supper was still in the sink; washing to be ironed hung from the radiator, and Gwenny’s and Priceless’s half-eaten bowls were still on the floor. As she used to shut the kitchen door to hide the chaos during dinner parties at Bluebell Hill, now she shoved bowls, washing up and washing into the kitchen cupboard. Even so, she only had time to scrub the earth out of her nails, clean her teeth and slap some base on her flushed face. She had to tip her bottle of 24 Faubourg on its side to press out the last drop.
Oh help, was it too forward to put on scent? Better than smelling of cat food. Anyway she was far too old for anyone to fancy her. She ought to light the fire, and as it was the end of the month there was only half a bottle of cheap white in the fridge.
Wearing just one Ugg boot, Etta hopped outside to pick some pink polyanthus for the table and ran slap into Valent. He had put on a red jersey and looked tired and lined, and, to Etta’s relief, much less powerfully glamorous. Could she detect a faint trace of aftershave over the curry fumes? But then he probably wore an expensive brand that had lasted since this morning.
He dumped a carrier bag full of foil dishes, two bottles of red and Gwenny on the kitchen table, and accepted a glass of Etta’s white. Priceless jumped down, flashed his teeth at Valent, but, deciding he didn’t like curry, retreated to the sofa.
Gwenny, unable to find her bowl, mewed indignantly round the kitchen cupboard, which also contained the vases, so Etta had to put the polyanthus in her tooth mug.
‘God, this is a treat,’ she sighed, as she unpacked prawns, tikka masala, lamb rogan josh, spinach, mixed vegetables, and a paddy field of rice. ‘I’m so used to packed dinners for one,’ she went on. ‘I wonder what they put in them,’ she squeezed her waist, ‘I’ve never had such a spare tyre before.’
Dinners for one, thought Valent, ashamed at the tears pricking his eyes.
‘Here’s something to fatten you up. Put it in the fridge,’ he said, handing her a chocolate tart and a half-pint of cream.
‘How deliciously decadent,’ cried Etta. ‘I won’t tell Bonny. Gosh, sorry, I didn’t mean … Bonny’s lovely, and I so love my Ugg boots. I’m going to wear them all through the summer.’
‘Good, and you’ve made this place right cosy,’ said Valent, looking round.
And
big as you are, you don’t dwarf it, thought Etta, as Valent tugged the red armchair for her and the sofa, plus Priceless, for himself up to the kitchen table. Taking a corkscrew, he opened one of the bottles of red.
‘Thank you so much for putting us up in such a fabulous hotel in Stratford,’ gabbled Etta, as she spiked up a large prawn.
To her amazement, as he filled up her glass, Valent asked if she’d enjoyed ‘Miranda’, her room, and her four-poster. Did he keep tabs on everything?
‘It was heavenly, but a bit wasted on me. I mean, I’m sure there were couples more deserving who could have enjoyed it.’
‘Evidently,’ said Valent dryly. ‘I gather everyone ended up having a party in your room.’
‘Er, well, yes. Do have some of this chicken tikka, it’s such heaven and the wine’s gorgeous.’ Etta took a gulp, praying he wasn’t going to quiz her. Perhaps the only reason he was there was to cross-question her about Bonny.
‘You moost have all drunk tap water,’ persisted Valent. ‘You didn’t order any room service for your party, or put anything on your bill.’
‘Some people,’ stammered Etta, ‘did get a bit carried away. You provided so much lovely drink at the party that they asked if they could say they had a nightcap in my room.’
‘Who?’ insisted Valent.
‘Oh well, the Major and Alban and people, but I’m so old, their wives wouldn’t be remotely jealous anyway.’
Valent looked at Etta, her big dark blue eyes imploring him not to push her, little white teeth biting her lower lip instead of the prawn and spinach on her fork.
‘Roobbish,’ he said, and reaching across and running a finger down her blushing, anguished face, proudly quoted:
‘No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face.’
‘Oh how kind.’ Etta turned even pinker than the polyanthus.
‘I’ve been stoodying your poetry book, except that Bonny would say I should have rhymed “one” with “sun”, not said “wan”. There’s nothing “wan” about your face. Eat oop.’