the shoulder where Furious had bitten her. She was missing Chisolm and Tommy, and Rafiq, the other lad she particularly loved, was preoccupied with Furious.
Deluge followed by brilliant sunshine had dried out the course, a fast-galloping clay track which could get waterlogged in places. Mrs Wilkinson hated soft ground. Marius was tearing his dark brown hair out. It was Bonny Richards’s first visit to the races and, as Painswick assured him, most of the syndicate had bought new outfits.
Amber, who took her all-too-few rides seriously, had arrived early and spent a long time walking the course, measuring strides, looking for boggy ground and angles that might cause trouble.
She had also dragged along her father Billy, ex-Olympic showjumper, television superstar. Although he was adored by the public, Billy’s job was under threat. Having drunk too much over the years, he was given to fluffing lines and speaking his mind on air. He had expressed horror at possible relocation to Manchester and was also considered ‘too posh’, which didn’t go down well in the penny-pinching, puritan, egalitarian mood at Television Centre. All equine sports were being pruned and plenty of young turks were after Billy’s job. His tousled light brown curls were touched with grey, but the enchanting smile and the air of life being a little too much (which it was now) hadn’t changed.
Having escaped from the BBC for the day, he was extremely helpful at pointing out hazards.
‘Go steady or you won’t get round. Ground’s bottomless and very wet, tell Mrs Wilkinson to bring her bikini. Don’t go for gaps in hurdles, she’s got a short stride, might catch her little feet. Very proud, darling, if you win today it’s three out of three.’
‘Thanks, Dad. Marius is such a shit, he never encourages me or gives me advice. It’s just “Why’d you do that?”, “Why didn’t you do this?”’
‘Rupert was like that when we were showjumping,’ said Billy. ‘Christ, I need a drink.’
A bitter east wind tugged at the last lank curls of old man’s beard hanging from the bare trees. It was only eleven in the morning and Billy had smoked all the way round. Amber was horrified how grey he looked in the open air.
‘You OK, Dad? Mum playing you up?’
‘No, no,’ lied Billy.
‘Rogue’s asked me out this evening,’ she couldn’t resist telling him.
‘Don’t get hurt, darling. He’s charming, but an even worse womanizer than Rupert used to be.’
‘I can look after myself. Don’t tell Mum, she’s bound to tell the press if Dora doesn’t get there first.’
Amber had been so busy, rising early, driving up and walking the course, she hadn’t looked at the papers. On her return to the stables, Michelle with a smug smile handed her the Evening Standard, which had been brought up by a southern owner.
‘Rogue’s been a naughty boy again.’
On an inside page was a picture of a plastered Rogue with his arm round an equally plastered, very pretty actress called Tara Wilson, as they emerged from a nightclub at one o’clock in the morning.
‘He’s always had the hots for Tara,’ smirked Michelle.
Determined not to show how outraged and desperately hurt she was, Amber stumbled off to see Wilkie and ran slap into Marius, who, sheltering his mobile from the downpour, was shouting out his code number and declaring Mrs Wilkinson a non-runner in the 3.15.
Then, as Amber gave a wail of horror, he turned on her.
‘She’s boiled over, sweated up and used all her energy. I’m not risking her on this ground, she’s not right.’
And Amber lost it. She wouldn’t get paid now and she’d spent a fortune on petrol, getting herself waxed and on a clinging catkin-yellow jersey dress to ensnare Rogue … Fucking Rogue, fucking Marius.
‘It’s pathetic not to run her when she’s come all this way. I’ve just spent hours walking the course, I know where the danger spots are.’
‘This going’ll put six inches on the fences. Unlike Harvey-Holden, I don’t run unfit horses to appease owners,’ growled Marius.
‘At least he gets results,’ screamed Amber. ‘It’s only a drop of rain.’
At that moment, God turned the tap on, drenching them both. Hearing shouting, Etta ran out of Wilkie’s box in alarm.
‘Marius isn’t going to run Wilkie,’ stormed Amber.
Etta’s first emotion was profound relief, followed by alarm for Amber, who, as grinning staff from other yards braved the down-pour to eavesdrop, would certainly never get another ride from Marius if she didn’t shut up.
The syndicate had arrived half an hour ago and immediately repaired to the famous White Rose