flanked by Seth and Alan. ‘Sorry, luv, I’m afraid that’s racing for you.’
‘Oh Valent.’ Bonny’s eyes filled with tears and, running down the table, she disappeared into his arms.
‘We’ll all get our money back and put it on Furious instead,’ said a relieved Valent. ‘He belongs to Marius, who said anyone who wants to can go into the paddock to see him off.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ stammered Etta, opening her purse, ‘I’d like to buy a round.’
‘Don’t be silly, luv.’ Valent looked round at the hungry, apprehensive faces, the hovering waiters, the empty glasses. ‘Better have some more bubbly. I’d like a pint,’ he told the hovering waiters. ‘Now what are you all going to eat?’
‘I’d like smoked salmon for a starter,’ said Phoebe.
‘I’d like smoked salmon and roast loin of pork,’ said Shagger.
‘This is Etta, Bonny,’ said Valent.
Relief was the primary emotion on Bonny’s face as she looked Etta up and down. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ she said truthfully.
‘Come and sit opposite me, Valent,’ called out Corinna, who’d been busy powdering and lipsticking.
‘Go and get dry, Etta,’ ordered Valent.
Such a sweet man, he made everything all right, thought Etta, dizzy with gratitude as she dried her hair on the roller towel in the Ladies. God, she looked tired, the shadows under her eyes were darker purple than Debbie’s hat.
Taking the seat next to Alan on her return, she whispered, ‘Bonny is so beautiful.’
‘Only if you shut your ears and think of England,’ he whispered back. ‘The pillow talk would be excruciating, although it’d be a good sleeping pill. There was a terribly funny moment when she went up to Direct Debbie and said, “Oh, you must be Etta, Valent’s told me so much about you” and evil Seth said not nearly sotto voce enough, “That’s not Etta, Etta’s beautiful.”’
‘Seth didn’t,’ gasped Etta. ‘He didn’t?’
Alan laughed. ‘He did, angel. Seth’s got a very soft spot for you, got a very hard spot for Bonny.’
‘Seth said I was beautiful?’
Ringing to check if Painswick was OK, Etta found her very indignant.
‘Marius didn’t bother to tell me he’d scratched Wilkie. Telephone’s never stopped ringing, people wanting to know if she’s OK, complete strangers. She’s got a lot of fans.
‘Chisolm’s driving us all crackers, she never stops bleating. She escaped to the village and got into Ione’s vegetable garden. She’s eaten Michelle’s scarf, don’t tell her. Wish Furious good luck. Rather horrid for Rafiq having Rogue on his precious baby.’
66
Furious didn’t have an owner except Marius. That afternoon he nearly didn’t have a jockey.
Rogue and Dare Catswood got caught up in traffic after a smash on the A1. Dare Catswood left his car in the road and ran all the way to Wetherby, making it just in time. Rogue, held up by all the policemen gathered round Dare’s car, didn’t.
‘I expect he’s got caught up with another girl,’ mocked Michelle.
‘I expect he’s scared of Furious, the great wuss,’ snarled Amber.
At that moment Rogue rang Marius.
‘I can’t get through, terribly sorry. I might make the ride on History Painting.’
Driven crackers by the Major and Painswick’s grumbling, Marius, who’d reached screaming pitch, was forced to give the ride to Amber, who was very reluctant to take it.
‘Furious is a bugger,’ she snapped. ‘He’s carted me and decked me enough times and once he’s got me on the ground he’ll go for me.’
Rain was lashing down, hats being blown away, umbrellas turning inside out like wounded crows, as the runners in the 3.15 splashed round the parade ring. Besides Furious, they included a grey with a lot of ability called Umbridge, which Harvey-Holden had recently run on the wrong trip to keep his handicap down, and Fur Calf, whose name had somehow got through the Weatherbys watchdogs, a lovely dark brown gelding trained by Isa Lovell and owned by Amber’s old schoolfriend, the extremely wicked and dangerous Cosmo Rannaldini.
The Willowwood syndicate opted to watch the race from the warmth of the Owners and Trainers bar. The television cameras, whose lenses were pearled with raindrops, picked up the arrival of Cosmo’s mother, the great diva Dame Hermione Harefield, smothered in fur, who was making a great fuss about the rain and icy wind endangering her voice as she swept into the bar.
‘Why in hell did they make that stupid cow a dame?’ grumbled Corinna.
Bonny, however, sidled up to her.
‘Dame Hermione, you are an icon, I so admire your oeuvre.’
‘What a pleasant young woman,’ cried Dame Hermione. ‘My son Cosmo’s horse Fur Calf is running in this race and there,