‘It was tactless of me, when you must be so tired.’
‘I have no time for myself. I am an artist, but my public devours me,’ stormed Corinna. ‘I am sucked dry like a lemon.’
Debbie smirked at Phoebe. Serve Etta right for sucking up.
Gazing down at her trembling hands, Etta suddenly saw the photographs she was clutching being taken from her and replaced by a large glass of champagne.
‘Shut up, Corinna, just shut up,’ ordered Seth. ‘You’re not Phèdre now, just look at these pix.’
‘Take them away,’ screeched Corinna, the back of her hand pressed to her forehead.
‘Bloody look,’ hissed Seth.
There was a long pause.
‘Christ, he is beautiful,’ admitted Corinna. ‘Heart-stopping.’ She examined the pictures more closely. ‘How old is he?’
‘Eighteen,’ stammered Etta, ‘he’s just gone up to Cambridge.’
Corinna glanced up at Seth.
‘Hippolyte?’ she said. ‘If we do an English run.’
‘Or Konstantin,’ said Seth.
‘Tell him to ring me up,’ said Corinna. Then, bursting into deep, rather too consciously infectious laughter, she patted Etta’s cheek: ‘I’m sorry, you were quite right.’
As the bus rumbled into Ludlow racecourse, Etta couldn’t stop shaking. Seth helped her down.
‘Darling Etta, you’re a saint. Corinna’s rehearsing the bit of Phèdre when Hippolyte rejects her. I’m so sorry. You’re the best thing about this syndicate. Thank you so much.’ He kissed her cheek and the grey day was flooded with light.
Alan shook his head and thought of Housman again:
His folly has not fellow
Beneath the blue of day
That gives to man or woman
His heart and soul away.
Like Yelena and Serebryakov in Uncle Vanya, he reflected, Seth and Corinna descended on the country and affected everyone with their selfishness, passing fancies and disregard for other people’s lives.
Despite a dank, wet, cold Monday afternoon, a very creditable crowd had turned out to watch Rogue. Mist drifted round the bare trees like an anxious hostess. The lovely flat course was ringed with small mountains.
‘Those must be Housman’s blue remembered hills,’ said Seth. ‘I wonder if he liked horses.’
‘He wrote a good poem about carthorses,’ said Alan.
‘Is my team ploughing,
That I was used to drive
And hear the harness jingle
When I was man alive?
‘Then he died and his ghost didn’t like someone else driving his horses.’
‘ ’Spect those poor jockeys that Rogue’s ousted feel the same,’ said Chris disapprovingly. ‘That’s probably Rogue in that ’elicopter.’
‘That’ll be a bookie,’ said Alan.
‘Everyone got their badges?’ said the Major bossily.
‘Seth doesn’t need a badge,’ cooed Phoebe, ‘everyone knows him.’
Corinna, giving Phoebe a filthy look, grew increasingly disagreeable.
‘Christ, it’s arctic, no wonder bloody Valent backed out. I’m getting a taxi home.’
Happily, at that moment, a pack of press and photographers, gathered in anticipation of Rogue’s ninety-ninth and hundredth, turned their attentions to Corinna, who became all smiles and waves.
‘Darlings, isn’t it thrilling? Yes, it’s my first time jump racing,’ she was soon telling Richard Pitman. ‘I’ve come to cheer on my horse, Mrs Williams.’
‘My horse?’ Debbie and Phoebe exchanged expressions of outrage.
‘Leave her,’ muttered Seth. ‘Anything’s better than her stupid tanties.’
‘I don’t know how you put up with her, Seth,’ said Phoebe.
Awesome Wells was livid. He’d been riding Oh My Goodness, which had been favourite in the first race, a mares only, and been so certain of victory he’d asked little Angel from Throstledown out to dinner.
Then Rogue had rolled up and taken Dare Catswood’s ride on Gifted Child off him. The commentary had the crowd in stitches.
‘Rogue Rogers and Gifted Child are taking them along, and Oh My Goodness in the dark blue and purple colours is moving up. And, Oh My Goodness …’
Alas, poor Awesome kicked too early. When she hit the front, Oh My Goodness, not liking being on her own, started looking around for friends. She allowed Rogue to hurtle past on Gifted and take the race, his ninety-eighth, to ecstatic cheers.
‘Can I borrow fifty quid off you, Tommy?’ asked Awesome.
Only two races to go. Rogue won his ninety-ninth and rode grinning into the winners enclosure to cheers and the thud of gloved hands clapping.
‘I’d like him for supper,’ said Corinna, now thoroughly over-excited by the strange cries of the bookies and the horses clopping clockwise round the parade ring.
Seth was delighted to be even more mobbed than Corinna.
‘When’s the next Holby City?’ asked eager ladies.
‘Perhaps Corinna should do a stint in Corrie to raise her profile,’ sniffed Debbie.
Down in the parade ring, Bafford Playboy was flexing his muscles, excited as a dog about to go for a walk. Mrs Wilkinson by contrast was cold and edgy, with no Sir Cuthbert, no Chisolm, no