Alban, had only to cross the room to a kind of mahogany witness box, manned by a moustached stalwart, who was taking bets for the tote.
Euphoria nearly took the roof off when History Painting beat Ilkley Hall in the next race.
Valent switched off his BlackBerry, and Etta remembered how glued to theirs the alpha males had been at Sampson’s funeral. She watched him working the syndicate, asking questions like a football manager determined to discover the special excellence of each of his players.
Learning Miss Painswick was an out-of-work dragon who’d organized a great public school almost single-handed, he suggested the one thing Marius needed was a decent local secretary.
Pocock supplied the information that Etta was sorting out Marius’s garden.
‘Perhaps she’ll do mine when it emerges from the Blitz.’
‘And then Joey could build a few more boxes and repair those already there, which are in a shocking state,’ said Painswick.
‘Sir Cuthbert can feed hay to Mrs Wilkinson through the hole in their common wall,’ giggled Trixie, ‘and she and Chisolm eat blackberries growing through the roof.’
‘Chisolm ought to come to the races with Mrs Wilkinson,’ suggested Dora. ‘It’d be good for Wilkie’s image, make the public remember her.’
‘The stable lads need better quarters,’ said Trixie. ‘Josh and particularly Rafiq and Tommy live in a tip.’
‘Need planning permission,’ said Valent, filling up everyone’s glasses. ‘Throstledown’s in an area of outstanding natural beauty.’
‘That’s where the Major comes in, he’s good with planners,’ said Painswick.
‘So’s Joey, brilliant,’ said Alan.
‘Must be,’ giggled Phoebe, holding out her glass. ‘Or how else did he get permission for that hideous house in Willowwood?’
Valent frowned and glanced round. He was relieved to see that Joey and the Major were over by the tote collecting their winnings and, in a rare moment of concord, agreeing not to tell Mop Idol or Debbie how much they’d won.
Valent then sought out Alban, questioning him about an on-going problem he was having with a Saudi oil company. He arranged to have lunch with Alban in London.
‘Yes, she was Valent Edwards’s house guest, lived in his office for weeks,’ Dora was telling the Daily Mail. ‘He came back specially to see her race.’
Switching off her mobile, she beamed at Valent and was soon telling him about Paris.
‘He’s such a brilliant actor.’ She flashed a picture of Paris and Cadbury. ‘He’s dogsitting as we speak. He’s just back from Cambridge, he’s terribly clever.’
‘He must meet Bonny, there might be something in her next film,’ said Valent. ‘Beautiful-looking boy.’
‘Isn’t he, but he isn’t spoilt. He needs masses of love because he was brought up in a children’s home, but please don’t tell anyone.’
‘I won’t,’ said Valent gravely.
Alan was talking to Tilda, thinking again how pretty she’d be if only her teeth were fixed.
‘My father’s a wonderful writer,’ Trixie’s tongue, loosened by champagne, was telling Valent, ‘but he doesn’t have much incentive because Mummy makes so much money. But she’s so busy she doesn’t have a lot of time for us. She’s in Russia chatting up some Russian oligarch.’
‘What do you want to be in life?’
‘I would love infinitely and be loved,’ sighed Trixie.
‘Lucky you’ve got your nan.’
‘Oh, Mum and Uncle Martin are foul to Granny.’ Trixie lowered her voice. ‘She’s so sweet, look at her talking for hours to the vicar in case he feels left out. His church is so empty, Granny says we’ve all got to go at Christmas.’
Phoebe was chatting up Seth, who had positioned himself so he could gaze at Trixie. Christ, he wanted her, that untamed mane of hair, that wonderful coltish body.
That’s dangerous, thought Valent, clocking the expression on Seth’s face. That man was so handsome he could get anyone. He had noticed how Etta’s face softened when she looked at Seth.
Moving on, he filled up Phoebe and Seth’s glasses.
Bonny hated the idea of the country, he reflected, but if Corinna and Seth were down here she might find it more exciting.
Phoebe was in heaven, two alpha males fighting over her.
‘When are you and Bonny going to move in, Valent? We’re all agog. I was just saying to Seth it must be difficult being Mr Corinna Waters, and I suppose if you marry Bonny, Valent, you’ll be Mr Bonny Richards.’
‘Hardly,’ said Seth, raising his glass. ‘Here’s to Mrs Wilkinson, God bless her.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Valent.
‘I was so nervous, I couldn’t eat a thing earlier,’ simpered Phoebe. ‘I’d absolutely adore a smoked salmon sandwich. Would that be OK, Valent? All this fizz is getting me quite tiddly.’