Rafiq was equally furious. He’d really worked on Count Romeo, who was wearing a sheepskin noseband, in the hope that he might concentrate on that rather than the world around him. The Count looked sensational and would probably win the turnout and the £50 that would have enabled Rafiq to ask Amber out for a drink that night. Instead he was left with Mrs Wilkinson, who was sweating up, probably ashamed of the sloppiest plaits in the world.
Because the meeting was midweek, and cold and dank, the crowd consisted of serious racegoers rather than the kind who roll up for the champagne and to be looked at. All the same, Seth was being mobbed by autograph hunters and was now being interviewed by At the Races. In shot behind him, Trixie could be seen taking swigs from a bottle and alerting friends on her mobile.
Etta, distressed to receive a distraught telephone call from Tommy, was relieved to see Mrs Wilkinson being led up not by Michelle but by Rafiq. She was further relieved when the big noticeboard announced a jockey change to Amber Lloyd-Foxe.
A lot of women in the crowd wished they were on the handsome Rafiq as he prowled round the paddock stroking and singing under his breath to Mrs Wilkinson, who was psyching herself up for battle with Rogue.
There were some good horses in the race. Oliver’s Travels, a big bay, was the favourite. Stop Preston, whom Etta liked, had been deliberately given a ‘very easy ride’ in his last race, resulting in him finishing last. This meant longer odds and a lowered handicap. Today, his jockey, Johnnie Brutus, Irish, feline, out-wardly delicate but hugely strong, would get his whip out and annihilate the opposition. Harvey-Holden and Shade had consequently had massive bets in utter confidence of victory.
Neither Shade nor Olivia was present. Keen to avoid Marius and punch-ups, they had gone with Collie to Uttoxeter.
‘Talk about a donkey derby,’ bitched Harvey-Holden as Mrs Wilkinson jogged past followed by Count Romeo, desperate to bury his head between her quarters.
Preston, who’d always been so jaunty and boisterous when he was trained by Marius, was sweating up and didn’t seem happy.
Nor was Phoebe happy. ‘Shame it’s not that gorgeous Rogue on Wilkie any more, I’ve already put on a fiver.’
‘Amber’s ten times more gorgeous,’ snapped Alan. Amber, as green with nerves as the Willowwood silks, which clung enticingly to her long high-breasted body, came over to talk through chattering teeth to the syndicate.
‘If Mrs Wilkinson wants to make it, I’d let her,’ said Marius, who was commuting between Willowwood and a disillusioned Bertie and Ruby Barraclough, who hadn’t bothered to hire a box this time.
‘Handsome is as handsome doesn’t,’ grumbled Bertie, who wanted his £50,000 back. ‘If you pay that money, you expect your horse to at least finish.’
Today Romeo wasn’t even being ridden by the champion jockey. Awesome Wells, however, had huge brown eyes, long blond lashes and a sweet little boy’s face. He never took in the trainer’s instructions but loved chatting to owners.
‘What a good idea!’ he was saying to a slightly mollified Ruby and Bertie. ‘I must try that.’
‘Get on, Awesome,’ snapped Marius.
Michelle, to Rafiq’s rage, won the turnout, and posed for a photograph with Bertie, Ruby and Count Romeo.
A bell ordered the jockeys to mount. Suddenly Ruby descended to her knees in the churned-up parade ring, exclaiming, ‘Dear Lord God, please help Count Romeo,’ and nearly getting trampled underfoot by Oliver’s Travels on his way out.
‘Get up, Mother,’ ordered Bertie.
‘Unlike Count Romeo,’ sneered Harvey-Holden as Ruby scrambled to her feet. ‘That horse is so lazy, if he falls over on the gallops he can’t be bothered to get up.’
‘Good luck,’ chorused Willowwood, as Marius legged up Amber.
‘That’s unlucky,’ piped up Phoebe. ‘Say “Break a leg” as they do on stage, don’t they, Seth?’
‘Good luck to you both,’ a beaming Awesome Wells called out to Bertie and Ruby.
Willowwood, nerves fortunately cushioned by alcohol, retreated to the Owners and Trainers.
Looking down the flat, oblong course flanked by woodland as jagged as a growing-out mane, Etta noticed more poplars. More witches had rolled up to watch Mrs Wilkinson. Trixie took Etta’s hand. ‘She’ll be OK.’
‘I just don’t want her to be bumped about too much and lose heart.’
Across the course, they could see horses circling with intent, the jockeys’ colours shifting like shaken Smarties.
Michelle and Rafiq, having let their charges go, waited unspeaking by the Hampshire stand, on the right of the grandstand, for their return.