of your versatility, as at home in Hamlet as in Holby City. With each part, you take us on a journey, truly connecting us with your character.’
Seth was actually blushing.
‘Christ, she’s awful,’ Alan muttered to Joey, then blushed himself when Bonny told him how much she admired his oeuvre and how much she was looking forward to his seminal work on depression.
‘A subject on which I should like to exchange views. I feel I could have input.’
‘I’m sure you could. What a darling,’ Alan murmured to Seth.
‘And you must be Etta.’ Bonny seized Debbie’s hands and was shaking them up and down. ‘Valent has described you so often, I feel we are old friends.’
‘That’s not Etta, Etta’s beautiful,’ muttered Seth, whose diction was a bit too good and who received a scowl from Debbie.
‘This is Debbie Cunliffe, who’s lovely in a different way,’ said Alan hastily. ‘Etta’s gone to the stables to check on her precious Wilkie.’ Then, seeing Bonny’s eyes narrow: ‘She’ll be along in a tick.’
‘And you must be Debbie’s spouse, who makes everything run like clockwork.’ Bonny gave a bemused and ecstatic Major a little kiss.
‘And you must be Shagger, I can see why you’ve earned your naughty nickname. And I know Alban. How are you, Alban? Valent has so enjoyed engaging with you.’
‘Fritefly kind, very good of him.’
Corinna, after a late night and four hours on a bus, was edging towards a table in the dark of the restaurant. Bonny, trailing admirers, headed for one near the big floor-to-ceiling window overlooking flower beds and the entrance to the course, and where the harsh north light fell lovingly on her wild-rose complexion.
Everyone in the restaurant was nudging and craning. Older men, mostly members of the Check Republic, straightened their silk ties, whipping on their spectacles to look then whipping them off to seem more attractive, seeking identification from their wives. ‘Who’s she, who is she?’
Many recognized Corinna and some of them Seth. He slid in next to Bonny, who pointed to the seat opposite which was equally exposed to the harsh light, crying, ‘I want my icon to sit there.’
Fractionally mollified, Corinna sat down.
‘What are you reading?’ asked Bonny.
Corinna waved Macbeth, which after the earlier tour in America was being given a short West End run. ‘I immerse myself in every part, even relearning lines is tough in so short a time.’
‘I don’t have a problem with lines,’ Bonny opened her big eyes even wider, ‘but I guess I’m that much younger.’
‘Your generation don’t bother to absorb the meaning,’ said Corinna rudely. ‘Valent sent us a tape of The Blossoming, couldn’t make head nor tail what it was about. None of you enunciate these days.’
‘You’re probably used to an older theatre audience,’ said Bonny sweetly, ‘some of them not wearing hearing aids, so you’ve got to shout.’
‘My generation combined clarity with subtlety,’ snapped Corinna.
‘I found The Blossoming very moving,’ said Debbie, who had maddeningly plonked herself next to Corinna to be near Bonny, on whose left a grinning Alan had seated himself.
‘Do you see Valent as the older man in The Blossoming?’ he asked.
‘There are elements in the movie which are reflective of the politics of our relationship,’ Bonny nodded sagely. ‘Valent is a guy, intelligent, kind, compassionate’ – where the hell was he? – ‘and strong enough to stand up to me.’
‘Could have fooled me,’ muttered Joey, who was still marking the Racing Post. ‘We better order some grub or we’ll miss the first race.’
Joey was not really enjoying himself. He knew from Bonny’s frosty looks she didn’t approve of him skiving and being part of the syndicate. He missed Chrissie and his mate Woody. This lot were a bit posh. He was also very worried about Woody, who was getting himself snarled up trying to save the Willowwood Chestnut, the beautiful tree in Lester Bolton’s garden that had provided conkers for generations of Willowwood children.
Bolton, hell-bent on felling it, had been heavily but surreptitiously backed by the Major, whose view of Cindy Bolton undressing was blocked by the tree.
Woody had taken yet more time off that he could ill afford to attend the last day of the enquiry. But the Major, randy old goat, reflected Joey, must be so sure of victory, he’d come to Wetherby instead.
‘Are you married, Alan?’ Bonny was asking.
‘Not in this postcode,’ quipped Alan. She really was pretty.
‘My first boss,’ Shagger boomed up the table, ‘told me: if you’re not at the races three days a week, my boy, you’re fired.