restaurant in the stands for large drinks and an early lunch. Etta, however, had sloped off to the stables to find a distraught Mrs Wilkinson, reminiscent of her terror in the early days. To compound the image, here was Valent, splashing through the puddles, looming more menacingly than the huge black clouds overhead. He’d go berserk, having brought Bonny up here, if Wilkie didn’t run.
Knowing Marius needed a bottle of whisky before telling an owner his horse had broken down, Etta waded in.
‘I’m desperately sorry, Mrs Wilkinson’s not going to run. She’s a little horse and this kind of going puts six inches on the fences,’ she stammered, wiping rain which Valent thought was tears off her face. ‘And the light’s awful and Wilkie’s only got one eye, and the mud can kick up into her face, and she didn’t travel well. I’m so sorry you’ve come all this way.’
Valent had just left Bonny in the warmth of the White Rose. Already that morning, he had made a detour in the North Riding with the intention of introducing Bonny over breakfast to his son Ryan, the football manager. Bonny, who was very much aware of and resented Valent’s children’s disapproval, had needed a lot of coaxing. She had spent a great deal more than Amber on a demure little dove-grey dress, so as not to appear a wicked step-mother. She had also seen photographs of the handsome Ryan and, assuming instant conquest, was furious on arrival at the club to find he had flown off to Spain to look at a new striker.
Ryan loved his father and would have liked to discuss the possible new signing with him but, watching the BAFTAs, he had been dazzled less by Bonny than by the £50,000 worth of diamonds round her slender neck, which she later told the press was a present from Valent. Disliking Valent squandering his in-heritance, Ryan had pushed off to the airport.
Bonny had never been so insulted. Valent, shy and ill at ease among luvvies, had drunk heavily at the BAFTAs. Bonny had not. In the argument that followed about the appalling way he and Pauline had reared their children, Bonny’s screams had pierced his hangover like needles dipped in acid …
He had felt humiliated and was livid with Bonny for slagging off Pauline. The last straw was Bonny yelling: ‘And it’s a hangover, not an ’angover, Valent.’
He was about to take it out on Etta, when Mrs Wilkinson’s head appeared over the half-door and with infinite tact, she whickered despairingly.
Gratified, Valent moved forward, his angry red face suddenly softening. He pulled her ears, scratched her neck, raked her mane with his huge hands.
‘Poor little luv, had a bad journey, did you? Makes two of us.’
Then he turned to an equally apprehensive Amber, Marius and Etta.
‘These things happen, right decision. It’s so dark today, wouldn’t be easy for her to see with two eyes, would it, little girl?’
Mrs Wilkinson nudged him in the ribs in agreement.
‘I feel so awful it’s Bonny’s first race,’ stammered Etta. ‘Such a long way.’
‘Doesn’t matter, we want her to run again.’ He smiled at Amber. ‘Sorry, luv, disappointing for you, but something will come up soon. Let’s go and have a drink, we’ll leave Bonny to settle.’
Oh, you dear, dear man, thought Etta, as he led them into the nearest bar.
65
It was like a game of consequences. Bonny Richards met Corinna Waters, who’d already downed a pint of champagne at the White Rose restaurant overlooking the entrance to the racecourse.
Bonny, having positioned herself so the light fell on her flawless, unlined face, said to Corinna, ‘You are an icon, Miss Waters. You have been my favourite actress ever since my father took me to see you playing Hester in The Deep Blue Sea when I was a very little girl and I was hooked. I vowed that one day I would portray the suffering of older women. Whenever I seek inspiration I revisit your oeuvre.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ Corinna took a slug of champagne. ‘But I was actually the youngest Hester ever seen in the West End.’
Bonny, however, was not to be deflected.
‘My other icon is Sarah Bernhardt.’ Then, to show she’d done her homework: ‘Like you, Miss Waters, Sarah triumphed as Phèdre.’
‘Both legless,’ drawled Seth.
‘Bastard,’ hissed Corinna.
‘Hi, Bonny, I’m Seth Bainton.’
Good-looking, unprincipled, terrifyingly charming, Seth smiled down at Bonny, and she made a smooth transition from heroine to hero-worship.
‘Indeed I know,’ Bonny gazed up admiringly. ‘Corinna’ (she pronounced it Coroner) ‘must be so proud