by Jilly Cooper
‘I did not, I wouldn’t dare touch your precious baby,’ taunted Tresa.
‘Someone must have done it, someone she knew well.’
‘Probably Rafiq,’ said Josh.
‘Don’t be fatuous.’
‘He was down checking Furious. Feels uncomfortable in the weighing room with the real men,’ said Michelle nastily.
Tresa was peering into the bin. Reaching down, she pulled out a razor with its orange lid off.
‘Rafiq uses these because they’re cheap. Look,’ she waved it triumphantly, ‘it’s got black whiskers in it. You better fingerprint it. I’ve just touched it, so my prints are on it already. I expect Master Rafiq doesn’t want Wilkie to beat Furious.’
‘Oh shut up,’ screamed Tommy.
‘Calm down, no one’s died.’
‘Not yet.’ Tommy had gone bright red in the face.
Taking down Furious as late as possible to saddle him up in the pre-parade ring, Trixie ran slap into Eddie Alderton dropping four Alka-Seltzers into a teacup and about to ride Rupert’s second horse, Merchant of Venus.
‘Oh my gard,’ he yelled, utterly spooking Furious, ‘you are so gorgeous. Will you come out with me tonight? Oh my gard.’
Then he caught sight of Rafiq. ‘Oh deah, you’ve got that Rottweiler as a minder. And there’s Tarmy, hi Tarmy.’ He gave her a kiss which made Rafiq even crosser. ‘Better take a rain check,’ and he ran off laughing.
‘Who is he?’ gasped Trixie. ‘He’s hot.’
‘Rupert Campbell-Black’s grandson,’ sighed Tommy.
‘By the way Eddie’s putting himself about, Rupert’ll be a great-grandfather soon,’ giggled Dora, ‘which wouldn’t be good for his image.’
Tommy felt a tug at the heartstrings. Rafiq was still avoiding her. Had he, like Eddie and everyone else, fallen for Trixie?
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To add to the excitement, Rupert Campbell-Black, a rarity on the National Hunt scene these days, had four runners. Rogue had already won races on two of them for him and was hoping for a treble on the mighty Lusty in the Gold Cup.
After dumping all Shade’s horses in St James’s Square because Shade had made a pass at his wife Taggie, Rupert had decided he was fed up with owners, who were even more rich, spoilt and difficult than himself, and had given up training other people’s horses.
Instead he was concentrating on breeding then running his own horses on the flat and, less frequently, over fences. Lusty was the son of Rupert’s most successful stallion, Love Rat, who’d won the 2000 Guineas, the Derby and the Arc. It would be a splendid advertisement for the yard and Love Rat’s prowess if Lusty, at the venerable age of ten, won the Gold Cup today.
Rupert had met Valent in Dubai and they’d got on so well that today they were sharing a box near the winning post. It was turning out to be the ritziest and noisiest of the festival, particularly as someone had smuggled in a CD player which was belching out loud music.
Another connection was that Rupert’s beautiful daughter Bianca was the girlfriend of Feral Jackson, Ryan Edwards’s dazzling new striker, who had been a contributory factor in Ryan’s team going to the top of the second league this season.
Valent and Rupert’s box was therefore packed with hunky footballers and WAGs tossing more long blonde hair. They were thoroughly over-excited to meet Rupert and naughty Eddie, and all were putting fortunes on Lusty and Rupert’s second horse, Merchant of Venus, in the Gold Cup.
Shade, glowering from a nearby box, was particularly insulted that Rupert, who always made him feel socially inferior, was captivated by a yob like Valent. Both had recent Dubai suntans, while Shade’s was getting a bit yellow.
Meanwhile, Rupert’s god-daughter Amber was coming apart at the seams. Last night, Marius had watched videos of former Gold Cups and of the morrow’s main runners with her and Rafiq to work out strategy, but her brain had retained nothing. All she longed for was a pair of arms round her but Rafiq was indifferent to her now, and after that glorious night at Leopardstown Marius had cooled as though it had never happened. Shade must immediately have told Olivia, who maybe had had a go at Marius.
Unable, like Rafiq, to cope with the badinage and dropped towels in the weighing room, she now had taken trembling refuge in the women’s dressing room. Her father was still in hospital. Never had she needed his comfort and guidance more. She had lost five pounds in the last fortnight, so had to carry even more lead in her saddle, which wouldn’t help Wilkie. Her wrist was agony from signing autographs. Someone had stolen her new lucky pants.
The expectations of the crowd and particularly the syndicate had got to her. If she wasn’t placed they’d forfeit their bets, any prize money, any hope in the Order of Merit and the half-million Shade and H-H had offered them to buy Wilkie. She must save her from that fate.
She’d got in such a panic, she’d nearly called Rogue at 4am. Today she hadn’t seen him. When he wasn’t winning races, he was touring the boxes giving them tips at £300 a visit.
Cabals were now gathering in the paddock. Broad backs turned to broad backs as Marius blanked Shade and Harvey-Holden, and Rupert blanked Isa Lovell, who had once worked for him.
Out came the jockeys, pulling on their gloves, ashen faces in contrast to their brilliant silks. Amber, as the only girl, was comforted by the great cheer from the crowd as she joined Marius and the Willowwood syndicate.
‘Wilkie’s spot-on today,’ Marius told her, ‘but Harvey-Holden’s in an ugly mood. Tuck yourself in at the back, keep clear of the pack, stick to the inner all the way round. The bend’s under water so take it easy. Good luck,’ for a second he dropped his guard and his face softened, ‘be careful.’
‘Daddy, Daddy,’ little India Oakridge, in a blue coat with a velvet collar, seized Marius’s hand, ‘come and talk to Mummy and Shade.’
‘Not now, darling,’ said Marius, striding over to Rafiq, who, surrounded by Valent and his pack of footballers, was about to mount Furious.
‘Furious is stepping up in trip, meaning a longer race,’ Marius explained, ‘so I’m asking Rafiq to hold him up as long as possible or he’ll wear himself out.’
Harvey-Holden and Shade were now in a huddle with their three jockeys. Dora, who’d been practising lip-reading as a valuable journalistic tool, noticed Harvey-Holden’s thin lips kept widening over his teeth in a G then pursing them out in a W.
‘I know he’s telling them to Get Wilkie,’ she hissed to Etta, then leapt behind Debbie to avoid Rupert, who was not pleased to have had Chisolm’s diary switched with his.
At least Mrs Wilkinson was adoring every moment, aware of the vast crowd admiring her as she came knuckering up to the syndicate.
‘Safe journey,’ they chorused as Marius legged Amber up.
‘Just come back safely,’ cried Etta. Turning away to hide her tears, she caught sight of Valent, the turned-up collar of his navy blue overcoat caressing his suntanned cheek. Lucky coat, thought Etta, he was so gorgeous. As though drawn by the intensity of her longing, Valent swung round and caught sight of her looking so adorable in her purple beret.
‘Good luck,’ they mouthed at each other, then Valent made a drinking gesture. ‘See you in the winners hospitality room, I hope. If not please come oop and drown your sorrows in our box.’
Etta was brought back to earth by Dora tugging her sleeve.
‘Guess what, someone’s just put three hundred and fifty thousand on Wilkie.’
‘Bookies must be praying and laying,’ said Joey.
‘You better get praying to counteract them, Vicar,’ said Debbie briskly.
Niall put his hands on either side of Wilkie’s face and, as she nudged him lovingly in the belly, he kissed her white forehead and told her in a choked voice:
‘May God bless you, little Village Horse, and bring you and Amber home safely.’
‘And first,’ said Joey.
To their horror, they were then joined by Bonny. She erupted into the parade ring ravishingly understated in a litt
le fawn check suit with a nipped-in waist, a skirt five inches above the knee and a little green trilby the same green as her owner’s badge. She’d show the Sloanes how it was done.
‘This is the first of the Bonny Richards Collection,’ she told the hovering press, who immediately trained their lenses on her rather than Mrs Wilkinson.
As the syndicate fought their way out, they met Corinna in a dark crimson picture hat, radiant from hair and make-up and signing lots of autographs, coming the other way. Then she caught sight of Bonny and promptly dragged an only-too-willing Phoebe off to the racecourse shops to buy an even more opulent hat than Bonny’s ‘stupid trilby’ to lead in Mrs Wilkinson: ‘We’ve got masses of time, they’ve still got the parade to get through. Let us through, let us through.’
Past legends watched over the paddock. Arkle from under his pale weeping willow, Golden Miller from the roof of the tote bar, Best Mate in his sea of polyanthus, the great mare Dawn Run on the chute down to the course, wished the runners God speed as they came out.
Up in the Owners and Trainers, so happy to have talked to Valent, Etta rejoiced in the wonderful panorama in its bowl of hills. Everywhere she could hear Irish accents, soft as the amethyst blur of spring on the Cleeve Hill woods. Just visible through the mist and drizzle were the three radio masts with their pointed hats.
Every woman’s hat seemed lavishly trimmed with feathers.
‘Bald ostrich day,’ murmured Alan into his tape recorder. Below he could see the enormity of the crowd, seething and bubbling like Ione Travis-Lock’s wormery.
‘Wilkie’s put about fifty thousand on the gate,’ said the Major proudly. ‘I should think they’ll close on a hundred thousand.’
‘Word must have got round that Bonny Richards was putting in an appearance,’ Bonny told Seth and Alan. ‘Extraordinary to think that about a hundred times that number watched The Blossoming on Sky last week.’
Helicopters, including Shade’s, Rupert’s and Valent’s, could be seen gathered on the far side of the course like a flock of pterodactyls. Bonny needed another rich man.
To the left, the syndicate could see into the box which Shade had paid over the odds for and which he’d covered in photographs of himself and the famous to wow his customers. These were coming out on to the balcony, creatures of the night, thugs in black coats and hats with waxy faces, their women in black too, pashminas thrown over bare bulky shoulders.
‘Black to match the body bags,’ said Alan. ‘Horrible-looking bunch.’
‘“Now thrive the armourers,”’ murmured Seth.
Glamour was provided in Shade’s box by Olivia in a soft grey cashmere suit. ‘How can she put up with that hood?’ shuddered Alan.
Now joining them were Romy and Martin and Jude the Obese, who took up most of the balcony.
‘They could fly her instead of the William Hill balloon,’ said Seth.
‘Whale-iam Hill,’ quipped Alan.
‘I thought Martin was jogging with her every night so she could be a role model for WOO.’
‘That’s rather fallen by the weighing scales,’ said Alan, as Bonny smirked and gave Martin a discreet wave.
Glancing further to the right, Bonny’s lips tightened as she noticed Valent, Rupert, Ryan Edwards and his family plus footballing friends having a ball. And omigod, they’d been joined by Cindy Bolton, shrieking, jangling and half naked.
Now Cindy was smiling up at Valent.
‘It distresses me to see Valent today,’ Bonny told Seth and Alan earnestly. ‘If only he’d received some counselling over Pauline, I’m sure he could have achieved closure.’
‘I’d rather achieve winners enclosure,’ said Seth, handing his hipflask to Alan, who was making notes as the colours of the Gold Cup runners were superimposed on the course.
To kick off, great Gold Cup winners of the past, including Rupert Campbell-Black’s Penscombe Pride and the late Roberto Rannaldini’s Prince of Darkness, sauntered down the course, relaxed as ex-prime ministers, no doubt agreeing that in their day the fences had been much higher and darker.
Huntsmen in red coats then led out the great horses of the present, gloriously gleaming Gold Cup runners, with two lads to each horse. A cheer went up from Shade’s box as Ilkley Hall passed. He was led by Vakil, sinister as an undertaker in his dark suit and tie, and by Michelle, who with her pale face and rippling red forest-fire hair was H-H’s only stable lass whom Shade’s magenta and orange colours suited. Her sexy sidelong smiles distracted the punters from a lacklustre Ilkley Hall, who’d been relentlessly overrun in pursuit of the Order of Merit.
Bonny’s lips tightened again as the occupants of Rupert and Valent’s box fell over the balcony, joining in the massive cheer for their pin-up boy Rogue as he passed by on the vast liver chestnut Lusty. Lusty’s plaits seemed tiny on his huge arched neck as Rogue unravelled the two nearest to hold on to.
The women in the crowd cheered louder as they admired Rogue’s jutting lower lip, his blond streaked curls and his hefty shoulders broadened by the horizontal blue and green stripes of Rupert’s colours. Cool outwardly as the minus-140-degree chamber he’d been plunged into to cure his dislocated shoulder, which was now hurting like hell after two wins, Rogue had convinced the doctors he was fit to ride and smiled up at his admirers to prove it.
‘Going to take a lot of beating,’ brayed Alban. ‘Oh, here comes Wilkie, hurrah, hurrah.’
But his words were drowned by a vast collective bellow, as led by a beaming Dora and Tommy, ears pricked, head up, striding out with pointed toe, totally unfazed by the masses, lapping up the adulation, came Mrs Wilkinson.
‘If she could wave her hoof like the Queen, she would,’ giggled Dora, as ecstatic admirers brandished ‘I love Wilkie’ posters, opened their jackets to show Wilkie T-shirts and yelled, ‘Hello, Tommy. Hello, Dora.’ Chisolm, having hastily hoovered up the polyanthus round Best Mate’s statue, gobbled up any posies offered by fans.
The crowd, as Mrs Wilkinson passed, also clocked her green browband. Noting the black patch over her blind eye, they were moved by how small she was and how slight her ashen young jockey, and cheered even louder.
‘Isn’t it lovely the crowd love her so much?’ laughed Tommy, wiping her eyes. ‘You’ll soon have a statue and a bar here named after you, Wilkie.’
But though she smiled, Tommy still fretted about the shaven whiskers. Like a cat, Wilkie used them to check a gap was wide enough for her to push through. CCTV in the stables would have captured the theft. Pray God it wasn’t Rafiq.
Furious, after a whisk round the parade ring, had been allowed to miss the parade and go straight down to the start, which proved counterproductive as he ran slap into a large crowd gathered to catch a glimpse of Mrs Wilkinson. Despite his halfclipped coat, he was shivering, sweating up and looked a shaggy and unplaited mess.
He had tugged off Trixie’s bandanna that morning and eaten it, her arms beneath her purple and green jacket were covered in bruises, but he had started knuckering whenever she arrived in the morning, and she could see why an equally shivering, sweating Rafiq loved him so much.
‘What’s that?’ demanded Rafiq as they splashed round to keep warm while they waited for the other runners.
‘The Pakistani flag for you to wear round your shoulders when you win.’
‘Don’t count your hens,’ growled Rafiq.
He had been thankful to miss the parade as the Mafia had threatened him with another hideous call last night. But his resolve had hardened. He had bottled out as a suicide bomber, thank God, and he was not going to pull Furious today. Last night Valent had texted him, countering Marius’s instructions: ‘Don’t hold him up. Give him his head. Let him enjoy himself.’ Rafiq was touched that both Hengist Brett-Taylor and sarcastic Sergeant Gibson, who’d run the prison stables, were in the crowd but he couldn’t stop shaking.
‘Get off and let me give you a hug to calm you down,’ begged Trixie.
‘Any hug from you would make me anything but calm
. You are so pretty, you rocket my blood pressure,’ said Rafiq, but at least he smiled.
126
Cheltenham was also on edge. A hundred million pounds had been bet on the race. Too many horses had died in jump racing recently. Animal Rights were threatening reprisals. On the big screen the horses were circling, dwarfing Mrs Wilkinson.
‘I can’t see her,’ wailed Etta.
‘Napoleon liked small horses,’ said Alban.
Killer O’Kagan was keeping up his barracking.
‘That horse has shrunk even more,’ he sneered at Amber.
‘Shut up,’ snapped Rogue, putting a hand on Amber’s trembling shoulders. ‘Good luck, angel …’
‘Our Father, which art in heaven,’ said Awesome through chattering teeth. The Irish jockeys crossed themselves. The starter had mounted his rostrum, shouting, ‘Settle down, settle down,’ in a high Dalek voice at the jockeys, all desperate to get in front through the gate and not waste any more time.
Etta wished she could have watched with Valent. She needed his big, warm, reassuring hand holding hers so badly.
‘Where the hell’s my wife?’ grumbled Toby.
‘Shopping,’ said Shagger. ‘They’ll never get back through the crowd now.’
‘At least we won’t have to give Phoebe a running commentary,’ muttered Seth.
The tapes flew and like a tidal wave dragging down the shingle of the world there followed the Cheltenham roar, enough to unsettle any horse, particularly Furious, who shot to the front.
‘Bloody, bloody fool,’ groaned Marius.
Harvey-Holden had put in Voltaire Scott, another really fast pacemaker from the flat, to exhaust Mrs Wilkinson but he was no match for Furious, who’d taken off like a superjet.
‘I hate it when they’re so far ahead at the start,’ moaned Dora, who’d joined Tommy in the stable lads’ stand where the chute joins the course.
Amber had never known anything so terrifying, the great stiff fences of unrelentingly massed birch twigs racing up to meet her, crashing against Wilkie’s belly, the thunder of hooves, the huge horses blotting out the light on all sides, the crash of landing, the jockeys howling at each other, turning the dull grey sky blue with their language.