‘And did you have a bet, Mr Coulihan?’ Yamon bellowed from the back of the snug. ‘They say you took the twenties!’
‘I’d have been no sort of financier not to have done so, Yamon,’ Coulihan replied. ‘I could hardly call meself any sort of banker if I’d eschewed such an investment opportunity.’
‘Padraig here is suggesting we put up some sort of a statue to your man,’ Donal told Coulihan. ‘Your man with The Horse, this is.’
‘I couldn’t but agree.’ Coulihan nodded. ‘There’s astute trainers, there’s very astute trainers, and there are the inspired ones, and your man over the water falls well and truly into the latter catechism.’
‘Hadn’t we all been sitting here watching and waiting for The Horse?’ Michael asked rhetorically. ‘Waiting to see him properly declared and entered, for then we knew he’d be off.’
‘We all knew he was off,’ Padraig said with a nod. ‘Helped be word of the daughter who kept us regularly posted about his work.’
‘She said his first piece of fast work scorched the turf,’ Michael said, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘She said she’d never seen the like. Said he buried the rest of the string and wouldn’t have blown a candle out after it.’
‘What was the worst anyone took, I wonder,’ Coulihan said, holding his now empty glass out for a refill.
‘The twenties you had, Mr Coulihan,’ Michael said. ‘Sure we all had the thirty-threes.’
‘All except himself here,’ Tim said with a nod to Padraig.
‘And what price did you get him at, Padraig?’ Michael enquired. ‘Did you do better than our thirty-threes now?’
‘Maybe I did and maybe I did not,’ Padraig said with a careful nod of his throbbing head. ‘Let’s just say I had him backed at extremely good odds to win the very first race he ran in.’
‘So they’d be longer than ours, so.’
‘They’d be considerably longer,’ Donal said, handing the bank manager his fresh drink. ‘So if the Irish economy needs boosting, you’ll know whose bed to be looking under.’
Chapter Nineteen
The Morning After the Day Before
Grenville went to collect the morning papers, which he gathered were left in a large box inside the main front door of Brook House. Since there seemed to be no one else about he thought it perfectly safe to do so in the large white towelling dressing gown that he had found hanging behind the bathroom door. Padding barefoot down the polished wooden stairs he found himself singing to himself with happiness, something he very rarely did – something in fact he couldn’t remember doing for far too long a time.
‘I’ve got the world on a string, sitting on a rainbow,’ he crooned. ‘Got the whatsit round my doodah – what a world, what a life – I’m in—’
‘Fielding?’ a voice from behind interrupted him. ‘Grenville Fielding?’
Grenville stopped dead in his tracks, his moment of unbridled joy spoilt. He knew the owner of the voice without even having to turn round to identify him.
‘Barrington,’ he intoned. ‘Montague Barrington, I do declare.’
‘I say,’ said his investment client, ‘I say, Grenville, what on earth are you doing in this neck of the woods, eh?’
Grenville slowly turned about, putting a polite smile on his face. ‘Just visiting actually,’ he replied lightly. ‘And you, old chap?’
‘Got an apartment here. Had quite enough of SW3, thanking you kindly. Thought I would take me to the country instead. I like the casual look, Grenville. Very soigné.’
‘Just getting the daily rag,’ Grenville replied, pulling his borrowed dressing gown more tightly round his midriff. ‘If you’ll excuse.’
‘I’ll come along with you, dear boy,’ the portly Montague told him, falling into step alongside Grenville as they crossed the large marble-floored hall. ‘L. F.,’ he commented, noticing the monogram on the dressing gown’s top pocket. ‘Undercover, are we? Jolly good. Or are those the initials of some hotel you nicked the robe from? Eh? Right?’
‘Belongs to a friend,’ Grenville explained.
‘Oh I say.’ Montague smirked. ‘Oh I say, I say, I say.’
‘So you just said,’ Grenville remarked. ‘Look – tell you what, if you’re around later, perhaps we might have a drink, yes? But at the moment—’
‘At the moment I should think so too,’ Montague cut in, giving Grenville an over-suggestive wink. ‘What? I should say.’
‘Which is your apartment, Monty? I’ll come and take a drink off you lunchtime, if you’re around.’
‘Good thought, Gren, but I’m off shooting all day. But should you be around this weekend, I’m in apartment six. Ciao, Casanova!’
Relieved to see him go, Grenville found himself puzzled by why he should have felt so embarrassed, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t instead of something of which he should be proud. He could only put it down to his mother’s prevailing influence on his life. Fond as he was of his mother, he resented her still constant interference in and regular criticism of his private life and affairs. But because his parents had divorced after his father had been found in flagrante with his secretary, Grenville felt sorry for his mother and so had remained loyal to her, even though she had never met his kindness and understanding with any real kindness or understanding of her own. Worst of all she was a purely dreadful snob, an affectation that had been directly responsible for the ruination of several of the young Grenville’s love affairs, most particularly the termination of his engagement to the charming, sweet and pretty Jane Denton, whose only failing was her family’s modest beginnings.
As Grenville padded back upstairs with the newspaper tucked under his arm, he wondered what his mother would make of the young woman with whom he was now – as he liked to think of it – associated, and when he thought of it he literally stopped to think about it, halfway back up the polished wooden staircase. And to his joy he realised he didn’t care what she thought.
Better than that, he told himself, I won’t even ask her what she thinks because I won’t even introduce her to Lynne. Or rather I might not, he decided, re-forming his thoughts as he continued on his way. And even if I do decide to take Lynne home to meet her, it will not matter a single jot if she tries to make any of the usual sort of trouble. Not a jot.
‘Grenville?’ a sleepy voice called from the bedroom as he let himself into the apartment. ‘That you?’
‘It’s only me,’ Grenville called back to reassure her. ‘Like some coffee? I thought I’d make some coffee.’
‘OK,’ Lynne called back. ‘I’ll be up in a jiffy.’
Grenville put the newspaper on the table, and went to tidy up his makeshift bed on the sofa, taking the quilt Lynne had given him and stacking it neatly with the pillow on top of the pile of his immaculately folded clothes on a nearby chair. After straightening the creases out of the sofa he plumped up the cushions, squared the bright-coloured Scandinavian rug in front of it, and finally pulled the curtains back at the sitting-room windows, flooding the room with pale winter sunlight. Before going to the kitchen to make the coffee, he stood for a moment admiring the apartment, once again finding himself surprised by his reaction, since never for a moment had he thought he would end up approving of such a Spartan style of interior décor. As far as furnishing and design went, he was a dyed-in-the-wool traditionalist, preferring brown furniture to white, chintz to single bright colours, and portraits of ancestors to geometric abstracts. Yet Lynne had chosen to decorate and furnish her new apartment in the sort of style he would have thought would be anathema to him, and he found himself admiring it.
The decoration and furnishing were only in the initial stages, with the walls freshly painted in what Grenville thought would probably be described as a subdued white. The sofa and armchair were large, modern and upholstered in single-coloured tweeds, the chair in an Etruscan red and the sofa in dull ochre. Two of the walls were hung with large, bright and beautifully executed landscapes, one of mustard fie
lds, the other of pale mountains shrouded in a light mist. The bathroom was furnished with a large modern tub fitted with oversize chromed taps and its window fitted with handmade American-style shutters, and the large modern kitchen dazzled with clean lines and an abundance of worktops.
‘All so very uncluttered,’ Grenville observed to himself as he made his way to the kitchen. ‘Rather like the way one hopes one’s life is now going to be.’
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ Lynne said to him as they sat drinking their coffee in the sitting room, Lynne in her pyjamas with a cashmere sweater pulled over the top and thick white ski socks on her feet, Grenville still in her dressing gown. ‘Really I am. Sorry.’
‘There is nothing to be sorry about, Lynne,’ Grenville assured her. ‘Absolutely. And do stop apologising for everything.’
‘Sorry,’ Lynne said, pulling a face.
‘Lynne?’
‘No, I am sorry about last night,’ she insisted. ‘I had far too much champagne and everything—’
‘You were celebrating. We all were.’
‘I know, but I did – I had far too much.’
‘You mean nobody else did? I didn’t?’
‘Yeah – but then you sleeping on the sofa and everything. Did you get any sleep?’
‘I slept like a top, thank you, Lynne. Like a top.’
‘You got a hangover?’
‘I could have a coffee or ten, certainly.’
‘Me too.’ Lynne sighed. ‘That was some party. I didn’t make a fool of myself, did I?’
‘Depends how you define that,’ Grenville replied, pouring some more coffee. ‘If you think being totally delightful—’
‘Me?’
‘Totally delightful,’ Grenville assured her. ‘Funny, interesting, wonderful dancer—’
‘Course, we danced, didn’t we?’ Lynne groaned in recollection, head in hand. ‘Back at Rory’s.’
‘And sang.’ Grenville laughed. ‘Though not me, you’ll be happy to hear. A foghorn in distress is infinitely more musical than yours truly. You sang, Rory sang—’
‘He was at the piano, wasn’t he?’
‘Pretty fair too, on the old ivories. Constance was the star of the show, however.’
‘I remember that all right. She was marvellous.’
‘Yes,’ Grenville said thoughtfully. ‘Yes, she was, wasn’t she? Mysterious old thing, isn’t she?’
‘I’m really fond of Connie,’ Lynne said. ‘I think she’s had a really tough life.’
‘I don’t really know anything about her life. She seems to have married quite a lot.’
‘So she says. I think she’s probably rather lonely. Which is why this is good.’
‘And she was obviously once a bit of a looker,’ Grenville remarked. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’d say she still is, Grenville. Just because she’s older doesn’t stop her being beautiful.’
‘No,’ Grenville agreed, such a thought never having occurred to him before. ‘No, I don’t suppose it does.’
Lynne put down her coffee cup and leaned across to touch Grenville’s hand.
‘Sorry you only had a sofa to sleep on,’ she said. ‘As you can see, I’ve hardly really started furnishing this place.’
‘It’s very nice, you know,’ Grenville replied, pretending to look round him at the apartment to take his mind off the warm hand that was resting on his. ‘I really like this plain, uncluttered look.’
‘Why did you sleep on the sofa, as a matter of interest?’ Lynne asked him, frowning. ‘No, I didn’t mean to ask that. Sorry.’
‘You really must stop apologising for yourself all the time,’ Grenville told her, patting her hand with his. ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’
‘I don’t apologise for myself all the time, do I? Really?’
‘I’m afraid you do a bit, yes.’
‘Do I really? Oh. Sorry.’
‘You really have nothing to apologise for. You’re a wonderful girl. You’re bright, you’re funny, and you’re – you’re really very pretty.’
Overcome, Lynne stared at Grenville for a moment, then dropped her eyes.
‘And you dance quite beautifully,’ Grenville added.
‘And you’re a …’ Lynne began, ‘you’re a real gentleman.’
‘Why, Lynne,’ Grenville said, his whole face brightening. ‘Why, Lynne, what a very nice thing to say.’
‘Well you are, Grenville,’ Lynne assured him. ‘I can’t tell you how nice it is to be with someone who treats you – well, who treats you with respect. I can’t tell you what it’s like. It’s so – I don’t know. It’s so different. It makes you feel so different.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I mean, a lot of men might have taken or tried to take a bit of advantage last night or something,’ Lynne went on. ‘You know, your horse wins, you have a lot of champagne, you party and dance and everything. A lot of people would have tried to take advantage.’
‘Lynne—’
‘No. No, you really don’t have to explain, Grenville. All I want to say to you is thanks. Really. You’re such a nice man.’
She smiled so sweetly at him that Grenville could no longer help himself. The next moment they were kissing and only a short time after that Grenville found to his delight he would no longer be sleeping on the sofa.
Alice was also nursing a sore head, the first one she could remember having since Alex and she had drunk too much champagne on the night of their silver wedding anniversary. In the belief that a hangover shared was a hangover slightly spared she had telephoned Millie, who she thought might also be suffering since they had all insisted she come to the party as well, reasoning that if it hadn’t been for Millie Alice would never have met Rory and they would never have formed the partnership.
Millie had thought it an excellent idea to share the hangover and had the iced and spiced Bloody Marys all ready and waiting in a large glass jug when Alice turned up with Sammy and a box of home-made spaghetti carbonara from her deep freeze. After a couple of drinks and a restorative lunch the two of them sat in front of a roaring log fire while the November winds lamented round the grey and cold landscape outside, with Sammy and all of Millie’s dogs, two pugs, a bearded collie, a rescued mongrel and an oddly self-assured whippet, sleeping peacefully at their feet.
A ringing telephone woke them from the sleep into which they had both fallen.
‘It’s Rory,’ Millie told Alice, handing her the receiver. ‘He rang earlier because he couldn’t find you – you’d obviously left already – so I said you were coming over here and he said he’d ring back. I forgot to tell you. He wants a word with you.’
‘Not bad news, I hope?’ Alice asked when she got on the phone. ‘The little horse is all right?’
‘He’s fine, Alice,’ Rory replied. ‘Didn’t Millie tell you? He’s come out of his race really well.’
‘No, Millie didn’t tell me,’ Alice replied, giving her friend the mock evil eye.
‘I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d like to hear it for yourself,’ Millie excused herself quickly.
‘I’ll talk about plans for the future in a minute,’ Rory said. ‘But first I have to tell you what’s happened.’
‘Something has happened.’ Alice all but groaned. ‘I thought you said the horse was all right?’
‘The horse is fine, Alice.’ Rory laughed. ‘He’s eaten up, had a run out in the field, and at the moment is having a total body massage from the lovely Kathleen. No, what I have to tell you, although it concerns the horse, is nothing about his health or fitness. And I’m obliged to tell you about it although I hope I know what your answer will be.’
‘Yes? So?’
‘I had a call. Someone wants to buy the horse.’
‘What?’ Alice said, astounded. ‘But he’s not up for sale.’
‘Who’s not up for sale?’ Millie mouthed. Alice turned her back to her, flapping one hand at her friend to try to stem further interruptions.
‘Why should anyone think they can buy the horse?’ Alice wanted to know.
‘This is the sort of thing that happens in horse racing,’ Rory replied. ‘People see a winning horse, particularly a young winning horse, and out come the chequebooks.’
‘Well, he’s not for sale,’ Alice said. ‘At least my leg most certainly isn’t.’
‘I’m relieved to hear that.’ Rory laughed. ‘After the agony you went through during the race I thought you might be glad to get rid of him.’
‘Nonsense,’ Alice reproved him. ‘I’ve never enjoyed not enjoying myself more. How much did they offer?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Just for the record.’
‘Fifty thousand.’
‘Fifty thousand guineas?’
‘Fifty thousand guineas.’
‘That’s more than four times what we paid for him.’
‘That’s what people will pay for a winning horse. A special horse.’
‘What has everyone else said?’
‘Grenville said no, Lynne of course said no, and Constance said something I can’t repeat.’
‘Suppose one of us wanted to sell?’
‘By the terms of your contract, if you couldn’t come to an agreement then the horse would have to be sent to the sales,’ Rory told her. ‘But since none of you want to sell …’
There was silence from Alice.
‘Alice?’ Rory pressed her. ‘Are you having second thoughts?’
‘Of course not. I was just wondering who on earth had the cheek.’
‘No sale, my love,’ Gerry reported to Maddy later in the day. ‘Went as high as I dared, but no takers.’
‘So what are you going to do, Gerry?’ Maddy demanded, pouring herself another glass of champagne. ‘You’re not just going to sit down on this, are you? Because if you are—’
‘Yes, my love? If I am, what?’
‘Never you mind. Just don’t expect me to be around while you do.’
‘While I do what, lover?’
‘Sit down on it, that’s what, Gerry!’ Maddy yelled at him. ‘’Cos if you are, I am not!’
‘All this just because Lynne got herself a bit of a horse?’
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