Ginny scoffed. Their father’s role as a racehorse trainer wasn’t a simple one to take a break from.
‘Easy for him to say. Sure, just store the horses away for a year, they don’t have a use-by-date or anything.’
‘I know. But the doctor knows what he’s talking about. If he says Dad’s got to take time out, then, well, Dad better take some time out.’
Ginny grudgingly agreed. But where did that leave them? Their father’s racing stable certainly couldn’t run without him there, even if it was just for one season.
‘We’ll have to sell, won’t we?’ she concluded.
‘That’s one possibility. Send the horses elsewhere and sell the yard. Mum and Dad could move into a nice low-maintenance place,’ Ray considered. He waited a few seconds before continuing. ‘But doing that’s more likely to kill Dad, giving up the yard he’s built. He’s been there for more than twenty years. The only other option is for you to come home and run it.’
*
Lying in her childhood bed, Ginny chewed her bottom lip as she recalled how a new reality had set in, like an uninvited guest suddenly re-organising her routine. She knew that running her father’s racing yard would be no easy task. Following in his footsteps was one thing, filling his shoes was another. Glancing across to the window, she saw the first signs of a new dawn seeping into the murky heavens. It was pointless trying to go back to sleep now. Instead she switched on her bedside lamp and gazed at the glossy posters still hanging up on the walls, unaltered since her departure three years ago. They were all of racing’s champions of yesteryear.
That’s where I want to be, Ginny thought with a wistful sigh. But she felt afraid to dream of it, in case her subconscious scoffed at such ridiculous ambitions. On the other hand, look at her father. No one, himself included, could have predicted the life-changing season when their filly, Just Kidding had won The Oaks and the King George all those years ago. The photos to prove these victories adorned her dressing table and chest of drawers. Of herself, barely ten years old, beaming with pride as she led in the filly on Oaks Day, and her father striding along on the other side of the horse, a youthful bounce in his step. Despite having some horses with decent ability over the years, none had shown the spark of Just Kidding, and Ginny was afraid time was running out, and there would never be another Oaks heroine like her for Ravenhill Stables.
Things were going downhill with increasing momentum, and Ginny knew she wasn’t here just to give her father a break, but to breathe some life into a yard that was rapidly suffocating. Was it possible? And more importantly, was it possible to do it in just one year? Her boss had promised she could keep her job if she was back at the end of the Northern Hemisphere flat season. It was a good job if sometimes a bit tough, being assistant to Rijk Swanepoel, one of South Africa’s top trainers and she knew she couldn’t chuck away the opportunity.
Ginny hefted the makeshift file of Ravenhill’s residents her father had given her the evening before onto her raised knees. She turned immediately to Shanghai Dancer’s page. Jim said he was daring to hope that he had a potentially Classic-winning horse on his hands, the dream of all trainers. But Ray had told her on the journey home from the airport that they had only twenty-odd horses in the yard. He had failed to add that only eighteen of them were paying customers, the remaining three belonging to Ravenhill Stables.
Memories of that car ride seeped into her thoughts as she turned to the page of one of the Ravenhill-owned horses, an unraced two-year-old called Caspian. But instead of seeing the bold print on the page, she saw the tall dark-haired Frenchman holding her in his intense gaze as she’d handed him his car’s bumper. Larocque, that was his name. A frown flickered over her face. She didn’t like the way her memory had already imprinted that name on her brain. Men were nothing but trouble, especially ones in racing and judging by Jim and Des’ earlier conversation, he must be a trainer as well.
Staring blankly at the page, Ginny wondered if their paths would cross again. If so, would he add to her troubles? She frowned again. Yes, he could only mean trouble. Even at this very moment, he was distracting her from what should be her priority: Ravenhill Stables. Intent on pushing the Frenchman as far from her thoughts as possible, she studied Caspian’s page. She stopped suddenly as, with widening eyes, she read the pedigree of the young colt. The names jumped out like neon lights. Why hadn’t her father said so?
*
Pulling her boots on and stepping out into the early spring morning, Ginny took a deep breath in an attempt to steady her nerves. She could hear the snorts and whinnies from the stables, her charges letting her know they were ready to face the new day – her first day, as Ravenhill Stables’ new trainer.
She met Kerry securing her bicycle against the brick archway. Both girls smiled in greeting.
‘Hi, how are the butterflies?’ Kerry grinned.
‘Active,’ she admitted. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to help me out with your routine in the morning. I know what it was three years ago, but things might have changed.’
‘Doubt it. Des mucks out while Alex, me and Darragh ride out.’
Ginny nodded.
‘I know my dad didn’t ride any of the strings out in the morning but that’s something I like to do, so things might go a bit quicker. When do the others get in?’
‘Des will already be here, having his cup of tea in the tack room. Alex and Darragh’ll probably be here in a minute.’
‘Great, let’s get going.’
‘Er, one question,’ Kerry said as Ginny made to head for the horses. ‘How would you like us to – um, address you?’
Ginny looked thoughtful.
‘Ginny sounds okay, doesn’t it? Of course, you could call me Miss Kennedy and make me feel like a middle-aged spinster. Or Virginia, except I only get called that when my mum is cross with me.’
Kerry grinned in relief at having this initial hurdle cleared.
*
In the first lot they took out onto Newmarket’s rolling Heath, Ginny rode a gangly horse called Pacifist, who was anything but peaceful. Waiting to cross the road he had refused to stand still, but when the cars stopped to give way, he rolled his eyes and did his best not to set foot on the tar. Alex took the initiative and led the way across to the Gallops.
Alex, corkscrew blond curls escaping beneath his helmet, was originally from Philadelphia, Ginny learnt. With the rapt attention of Kerry, who Ginny decided already knew the story but was more than happy to hear it again, he explained how he’d arrived in England two years ago after leaving school, to visit some relations and, after discovering Newmarket, had never left. He chatted the entire way to the Heath, keeping Kerry and young Irishman, Darragh in stitches. Ginny couldn’t help but laugh at some of his antics and his failed attempts to mimic the English accent, but was only listening with one ear as she concentrated on Pacifist’s unpredictable behaviour.
They jogged their mounts along the edge of the Heath, separated from the morning traffic by only a wooden post and rail fence. Ginny smiled to herself, revelling in the magic of the landscape, the muffled drum of shod hooves beating the dew-damp grass and the sound of cold foggy snorts and the cheery banter of riders. The smell of early spring stemming from the trees and the youthful daffodils which bordered the path lingered in the crisp air.
How could she have left this heavenly town? It seemed an outrageous notion now but at the time the reason had been completely logical. To have stayed wouldn’t have made sense. Ginny set her jaw, her smile vanishing. Three years had passed and that very important reason was no longer a factor.
*
As they neared the gateway which led onto the Gallops proper, Ginny pulled up Pacifist, and hitched her left leg forward. Telling the others to do the same, she struggled to check the nervy horse’s girth. But as the team stopped, another string of riders trotted up behind.
‘You are holding up traffic,’ an impatient voice called out.
Ginny swivelled round in her sa
ddle to see who the owner of the voice was. It took her less than a second to recognise him as the man Ray had collided with at the Clock Tower Roundabout. It would be hard to forget a face like his. His look of impatience was replaced with subtle surprise as he likewise, recognised her. ‘Again,’ he added.
For a moment, Ginny basked in the wondrous knowledge that someone as attractive as this could remember her from their brief first encounter. Pacifist took advantage of his rider’s preoccupation and did a smart pirouette, leaving Ginny sitting on air, which very abruptly became the ground.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. How could she have fallen off? And on her first day too, in front of everyone! Ginny inwardly cringed. God, how embarrassing! Clinging to Pacifist’s reins like a life raft, she scrambled to her feet, not without noticing the Frenchman raising his brown eyes to heaven.
‘I don’t have time for this,’ he muttered.
‘Sorry!’ Ginny said, a little indignant, now feeling slightly hard done by. She wouldn’t have fallen off if he hadn’t barged up to them. Not even attempting to stop, he gave Ginny a withering look and nodded to the initials on their horses’ dark green saddlecloths – JRK – James Reginald Kennedy.
‘Ravenhill Stables?’ he assumed. ‘I thought things couldn’t get any worse there. Guess I was wrong,’ he added, before riding past.
Ginny stared after him, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’, still too surprised to say anything. However, she soon found her voice as the string of horses cantered off and Pacifist tried to bolt after them.
‘Of all the stupid things to do!’ she ranted. ‘How dare he? Who the hell does he think he is?’
Kerry sighed, gazing wistfully after the seven disappearing figures.
‘Julien Larocque,’ she said. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’
Annoyingly so, Ginny conceded to herself.
‘Bloody rude more like it,’ she said out loud. ‘Arrogant pig. Now we’re going to have to wait and this damn animal won’t stand still.’ Pacifist was now showing off his best tap dance. Kerry leant forward and held the horse’s head while Ginny vaulted back into the saddle.
‘He is a bit of an arrogant guy,’ Alex agreed. ‘But you get used to him, being neighbours and all.’
‘Neighbours?’ Ginny echoed in horror. ‘Since when?’
‘A couple of years now. Moved over from France to set up by himself at Cobalt Lodge. Tired of living in his papa’s shadow.’
She blinked in surprise as her brain connected the dots. That smooth condescending man now galloping across the English countryside was the son of one of France’s finest racing trainers. Vincent Larocque seemed to have been around forever, yet she’d never known he had a son. Must be a pretty big shadow.
‘I bet Papa was relieved to be rid of him,’ she muttered.
‘Don’t worry. He grows on you,’ Alex reassured her.
‘Yeah? So does foot fungus.’ Shaking her head, she adjusted her seat and sent Pacifist forward. Hopefully, this workout would flush away the restless heat that now whirled through her body.
*
Before heading into the house that evening, Ginny paused outside the two-year-old, Caspian’s stable. The colt stood against the back wall with his muzzle shoved into his feed trough, the deep grinding of his teeth on grain a steady, contented sound. Again, Ginny thought back to the notes on him she had read earlier that morning. She looked hard to see something familiar about him, something that with hindsight she could say ‘Of course!’. But there was nothing. He was just an ordinary dark bay colt. With a defeated shrug of her shoulders she turned away and headed for the house, intent on quizzing her father whom she hadn’t seen since her discovery in the early hours of that morning.
She found him with her mother in the lounge, sitting in his favourite worn and faded armchair, stuck into a John Francome thriller. He looked up as Ginny stepped into the room, and smiled at her above his specs. Ginny made for the equally-aged sofa where her mother was seated and sat down, tucking her legs beneath her.
‘Lovie,’ Beth said brightly and putting down her Sudoku puzzle. ‘How did it go today?’
Ginny hesitated, uncertain whether she should tell her parents she had fallen off the first horse she’d ridden. Perhaps not.
‘Okay, thanks. Nothing too drastic. Everyone seems very nice, except…’ Suddenly, Caspian’s importance waned as she recalled her morning. ‘What do you know about Julien Larocque?’ she asked, turning to her father.
‘Ah, Julien,’ Jim smiled. ‘Been getting under your skin already, has he?’
Ginny shifted uneasily.
‘You could say that. He barged in front of us on the Gallops. Pacifist nearly went into orbit.’
Jim chuckled, making Ginny feel even more indignant.
‘He’s a good trainer. Like Vincent, except a little more glamorous.’
‘That doesn’t excuse reckless behaviour like that. Someone could’ve got hurt.’ Like me, she silently added, knowing it was her pride more than anything else.
‘The French can get away with anything,’ Beth said, getting up and pouring Ginny a cup of tea from a tray on a side table.
‘The inmates of Fleury-Mérogis Prison might argue that point, Mum. How is he glamorous?’
‘Wealthy owners send their horses to be trained by him because their bored wives fancy him,’ Jim explained. ‘You always see him with some pretty bird hanging onto his arm. He’s not afraid of opposition either. It’s not difficult to feel intimidated by big guns like Michael Ramsay and Andrew Pearson, especially when you’re on foreign soil. But hats off to the boy, he seems to take it in his stride. Cobalt Lodge had plenty of winners last year.’
‘Humph.’ Ginny frowned into her freshly-poured teacup and took a tentative sip. It seemed everyone loved Julien Larocque except her.
‘Do you see much of Charlie anymore?’
Ginny looked at her mother in amazement. Beth’s trail of thought could be followed by a bloodhound with anosmia.
‘Our paths cross now and then,’ she mumbled into her cup. ‘Hard not to when you’re in the same business.’
‘He was also glamorous, wasn’t he, lovie?’
Ginny had forgotten how tactless Beth could be sometimes, especially when she seemed intent on marrying Ginny off.
‘I guess so.’
‘It was so sad when you broke up.’
Try heartbreaking, thought Ginny.
‘That’s how it goes, I suppose, mixing business with pleasure,’ she shrugged. ‘I watched Alex ride that two-year-old, Caspian,’ she said to Jim, blatantly changing the subject. ‘Nice-looking colt, that one.’
‘Alex or Caspian?’
‘Don’t you start. You bought him as a yearling at Deauville, didn’t you?’
At her father’s nod of ascent, Ginny probed further. ‘What made you pick him?’
‘Stop it, Ginny. You know full well why I picked him. You would have seen his pedigree. Call me a sentimental old fool, but he had everything going for him at the Sales: great-looking, sound, bargain price. And of course, his granddam…’
‘…Is Just Kidding,’ she finished for him.
‘Yes,’ Jim said, sounding sheepish. ‘I only noticed Caspian’s breeding when I got there and I know it’s reckless of me, especially when we’re strapped for cash, but he’s not a bad investment, even allowing for my sentimental flaws.’ He sounded almost like he was looking for reassurance from her.
‘Well, he seems a nice enough colt,’ Ginny tried to be unbiased.
‘He’s going to be a winner, Ginny. I can feel it,’ he enthused, as if he was trying to convince himself as well as his daughter. Beth tutted as if this was something she had heard a hundred times already but Jim didn’t appear to hear her. ‘Shanghai Dancer might turn things round for us this season but Caspian’s the one for the future.’
‘Why are you so sure?’ Ginny asked.
‘I don’t know. It’s his attitude, you know? Just Kidding was the same. They’ve both got that – I d
on’t know, that look in their eye.’
‘So you think he could win the Derby like she won the Oaks?’ Ginny said, unable to keep the skepticism out of her voice.
Jim heard it too and sighed, shaking his head.
‘His Derby is still over a year away. A lot can happen in between. In the meantime though, maybe the Dewhurst Stakes later this year.’
Ginny nodded, more in sympathy than anything else. The Dewhurst Stakes for two-year-olds was one prize Jim had always yearned for but never won. It was also the richest and most sought-after juvenile races in Britain.
‘When we start faster work, we’ll see what we’ve got,’ Ginny reassured him. She found herself hoping her father was right not only for his sake, but to bring a certain Frenchman down a peg or two as well.
Chapter Three
After a thankfully uneventful week that had allowed Ginny to find her stride, Friday started like all the previous days. Ginny sat in the racing office toying with the idea of returning the call she had received yesterday evening. A message had been left from some self-important secretary, on behalf of one of their owners, Basil Forrester, requesting that she ring back as soon as was convenient.
Having only got his answering machine yesterday evening, Ginny was dreading their eventual meeting. Kerry had already described him to her: Jabba the Hutt in human form, saying she wouldn’t have been surprised if he had a Princess Lea chained up in his Kensington detached home. Jim hadn’t inspired much confidence in her either, telling her about the man’s bullying strategy that had shoved him up the social and financial ladder. He was, however, one of their best owners, calling the shots on the futures of three of the yard’s most talented horses: Shanghai Dancer, Storm Chaser and Shaman. She turned to the paperwork on her desk, deciding she needed a bit more courage before returning the call.
As she idly flicked through entries for the first meetings of the season, a flash of colour and movement through the office window caught her attention. Three lads were slinking into the yard. Wondering if they were here looking for work, Ginny stepped outside to meet them.
At Long Odds (A Racing Romance) Page 2