a handkerchief drenched in lavender cologne. She and Dora have taken him to Casualty. Could this be the start of something big?’
‘We must go to him,’ gasped Etta. ‘Poor man.’
‘No, we must not,’ said Seth, hugging her. ‘Enjoy your moment, Mrs B.’
Everyone had had bets on Mrs Wilkinson and Count Romeo and 80 per cent of Mrs Wilkinson’s £4,000 winnings would be divided out among them. Ten per cent would then go to Marius and ten to Amber, who was happily telling the press what a wonderful horse Mrs Wilkinson was before going off to weigh in.
On the way she bumped into a just-arrived Rogue. Surrounded by groupies and signing autographs, he looked up.
‘Well done,’ he said evenly.
‘Thank you. What price Amateur Lloyd-Foxe now?’ demanded Amber.
They were knocked sideways by an ashen Johnnie Brutus, who’d been threatened with the sack as Harvey-Holden’s stable jockey for not winning on such a heavily backed Preston.
Meanwhile, in the winners enclosure, Awesome was talking to Ruby and Bertie, who were ecstatic that their glossy black boy had come such a close second.
‘He ran green,’ admitted Awesome, ‘but halfway round he got the hang of it, desperate to keep up with his lady friend, over-taking horse after horse to get to her. Only got beat by a whisker. Nice horse, a true Romeo, like to ride him again.’
‘You shall, you shall,’ cried a tearful Ruby. Then, falling to her knees again: ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, Lord.’
The Willowwood syndicate were being mobbed.
‘We’re getting ten times as much attention as last time,’ said Phoebe, happily rearranging her fur hat. ‘That’s because Seth’s here.’
‘It’s because we won,’ snapped Alan, ‘and because Dora worked so hard.’
Niall was in a daze. Could it really have happened? Even now Woody was smiling shyly across at him.
Mrs Wilkinson was as tickled pink as her nose. She had drunk water from a yellow bucket, she wasn’t remotely tired, could easily have gone round again, was greeting all her friends, ecstatically nudging microphones and tape recorders, and listening with pricked ears to all the questions.
Then suddenly she glanced up, gave a deep-throated whicker of welcome and dragged Rafiq across the winners enclosure to leave white slobber all over the navy-blue cashmere coat of Valent Edwards.
‘Well done, Mrs Wilkinson,’ he said, taking her face in his huge goalkeeper’s hands and kissing her on the forehead. ‘Well done, you little beauty.’
And the photographers, realizing who he was and that they had a picture, went berserk. All the trainers too were licking their lips and, knowing they’d have to get on with the next race, wondering how they could wangle an introduction.
‘What’s your connection with Mrs Wilkinson?’ asked the Sun.
‘She stayed at my place for eighteen months. I’ve got a very soft spot for my equine lodger,’ said Valentine and kissed her again.
‘Lucky thing,’ murmured Tilda to Etta. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous? Oh Etta, Greycoats are so thrilled, do you think Mrs Wilkinson could make a guest appearance?’
‘Horses away, horses away,’ shouted the Clerk of the Scales, who needed room for the next race.
‘You better get her out of here, Rafiq,’ ordered Marius, ‘or she’ll be going up to collect her own cup.’
Mrs Wilkinson didn’t want to go at all. She was enjoying her friends and her moment of glory far too much, and Count Romeo, whose face was covered in Ruby’s red lipstick kisses, refused to go without her.
Next moment, Valent had turned to Rafiq and shoved a great fistful of greenbacks into his pocket.
‘Well done, lad, she looks tremendous.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said an ecstatic Rafiq, as, able to take Amber out for an entire crate of champagne now, he set out with Mrs Wilkinson for the stables.
Michelle, leading back Count Romeo, was livid. Bertie wasn’t into tipping. She must get Marius to wise him up.
‘I must go with them,’ cried Etta, who had been quite unable to meet Valent’s eyes.
‘You can’t.’ Seth took her arm firmly. ‘We’re all going up to the Royal Box for a glass of champagne and to watch the race.’
‘Doesn’t happen very often,’ grinned a returning Joey, clutching even more fistfuls of winnings. Then he went pale as he caught sight of Valent, who asked, ‘Are those this month’s wages?’ and decided to forgive him.
‘Can Rafiq come up to the Royal Box?’ begged Etta.
‘No he can’t, he’s the groom,’ said Phoebe scornfully. ‘You wouldn’t expect Mop Idol to sit on Uncle Alban’s right at a dinner party. Oh, whoops,’ she added, realizing Joey was just behind her, fortunately too preoccupied with