Count Romeo to comfort her. Only Bafford Playboy, a bully who she remembered bashing into her at the point-to-point.
As Corinna reached the parade ring, two women, wearing fur hats like Saturn’s rings which showed off their exquisite cheek-bones, suddenly noticed her and squealed in excitement. ‘How fritefly exciting to see you, such fans, what brings you to Ludlow?’
‘My horse, Mrs Wilson, is in this race … Which one is she?’ she hissed to Etta.
‘Number ten, over there.’
‘But she’s tiny, no bigger than a donkey,’ exploded Corinna.
‘Nice horse, very well related,’ said a proud hovering Alban, raising his hat to the Saturn ring ladies. ‘Her sire was Rupert Campbell-Black’s Peppy Koala.’
61
Marius was raw with nerves. He refused to admit how fond he’d become of Mrs Wilkinson. Was he crazy forcing her on to a right-handed track, was the trip too short, would she ever get her little feet out of the mud? There wasn’t a blade of grass left in the winners enclosure. Now his wife, who he hadn’t seen since she left him, had turned up with Shade and he’d forgotten how beautiful she was, particularly smothered in Shade’s furs, which she’d been so violently opposed to wearing in the old days. Collie and Harvey-Holden were with them. Marius looked straight through the lot.
Etta was distressed. Having put a tenner she could ill afford on Mrs Wilkinson, she had mislaid her betting slip. Searching frantically, not wanting to bother anyone, she didn’t notice Shagger surreptitiously picking it up and putting it in his notecase.
One more race needed. The crowd cheered, the press gathered, as Rogue, always last to leave the weighing room because he liked to make an entrance, sauntered out in Shade’s orange and magenta colours, smiling round, whacking his boots, kissing Olivia on both cheeks and shaking the hands of Shade and Harvey-Holden.
Mrs Wilkinson had beaten Playboy once, so Harvey-Holden instructed both Rogue and Dare Catswood, who was riding Stop Preston, to block Wilkie’s good eye and hem her in.
‘Amber Lloyd-Foxe will panic and lose it.’
Rogue raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Amber was already in a state of shock, having barged into the weighing room and discovered Rogue naked on the scales and flashing the biggest tackle therein.
‘Don’t win by too much,’ Marius warned her.
Mrs Wilkinson was allowed three races over hurdles as a novice before she was allotted a handicap, which Marius wanted as low as possible because it meant less weight to carry.
The twelve riders were down at the start, surrounded by even more photographers. Nervous as a cat, poised for his hundredth, Rogue on a vast Bafford Playboy was eight inches taller than Amber, and winding her up.
‘Winning isn’t everything,’ he said reassuringly, and then after a pause, ‘it’s the only thing.’
He’s much less beautiful in a gum shield, thought Amber. Wish he’d keep it in all the time.
‘Make sure you’re in the frame, darling,’ he added as they rode their horses up to look at the first fence, ‘then you’ll get into the winners and be able to cash in on all my publicity.’
As she glared up at him, he ostentatiously checked his reflection in her goggles.
Mrs Wilkinson was trembling violently, psyching herself up.
‘Who’s going to make it?’ asked the starter.
‘I am,’ said Dare Catswood.
‘I’m keeping mine handy,’ said Awesome.
‘I’m going to win,’ said Rogue.
They were out, bumping and jostling for position on a course which curled off towards the trees round to the right.
The flag fell, the tape flew, they were off. Dare Catswood set a furious pace on Preston to exhaust Mrs Wilkinson, who hated not leading the pack.
Rogue and Amber rowed all the way round.
‘Don’t crowd me,’ she screamed as he sat on her tail.
‘You know I’m only looking at your arse.’
Amber was having a nightmare ride. The pace was faster than anything she’d ever imagined as they took off and landed on ground slipperier than turkey fat.
With no right eye, Mrs Wilkinson couldn’t see the rail. Frantic to find something on which to focus, she kept hanging left.
‘Get off my line, you stupid cunt,’ yelled the jockeys as she drifted across them. The track had been ripped to pieces by earlier races. As horses overtook a faltering Mrs Wilkinson, they kicked clods of earth in her good eye.
At the next flight she slipped again, jumped wildly left and would have unshipped Amber, if Rogue hadn’t grabbed her silks and tugged her back into place.
‘Use your fucking stick down the left side to correct her,’ he yelled. ‘You’re not with the