‘I’m afraid he’s not our horse yet,’ laughed the Major, ‘but by Jove, he ran well.’
‘I think we should try and buy him,’ said Seth, putting his arm round a cheering, sobbing Etta. ‘Your baby’s come good, darling.’
‘Hasn’t he?’ gasped Etta. ‘But he’s Rafiq’s baby, he made him, he always had faith.’
Dame Hermione, who’d intended to lead in Fur Calf, was most put out.
Fur Calf’s owner, her son Cosmo, was even angrier, eyes blazing, face white with fury above his late father’s black astrakhan coat. He had flown back from New York especially and bet very heavily. So had Harvey-Holden, who’d put £10,000 on Umbridge at 30–1 and had expected to clean up.
As Willowwood swarmed down to congratulate Amber and Rafiq, they were overtaken by Rogue, racing towards the winners enclosure.
‘That guy’s appealing,’ observed Bonny.
‘All the time,’ said Joey.
Having placated and congratulated Marius – ‘Desperately sorry, bad crash outside Wakefield. Ill wind though, I probably wouldn’t have won on him’ – Rogue turned to Amber, who’d probably have slapped his laughing, unrepentant face if she hadn’t been clutching her saddle on her way to weigh in.
‘Well done, darling, brilliant. You’ll probably win Ride of the Week, might win it later.’ Dropping his voice, he drew her aside.
‘Not with you on my back,’ hissed Amber.
‘Hush, hush, darling, we’ll discuss it over dinner.’
‘We will not, you never confirmed it. I’ve got a better offer.’
‘But I’ve booked 20 The Calls, a lovely hotel in Leeds,’ said Rogue softly, ‘and the unbridled suite for later.’
‘You’d better take Tara Wilson then,’ spat Amber. ‘She looks as though she needs a good night’s sleep,’ and she stalked off to weigh in.
The water in the shower was cold, bringing her back to reality. All the joy of winning was extinguished because she’d stood up Rogue. As she talked briefly to the press, she could see him doing a number on Bonny.
As she drove home in the dusk, she passed a crash outside Wakefield, still holding up oncoming traffic for miles. Maybe he had been delayed. Maybe he had just been escorting a drunken Tara Wilson out of that nightclub. Tears poured down her face. People kept ringing and texting to congratulate her, but each time, because it wasn’t Rogue, she had difficulty being polite. She was asphyxiated by the smell of burning bridges.
Bloody jockeys.
Her thoughts drifted towards Rafiq. That had been a great kiss and he’d stuck up for her to Marius and risked getting the sack. Marius hadn’t praised her and he hadn’t even noticed Rafiq kissing her.
Bloody trainers.
67
All the way home, Michelle and Josh went on and on about the wonder of Bonny Richards. A silent Rafiq, ripped apart by emotions, gazed out at the stars and a sickle moon, with which he’d have liked to cut down both of them. His beloved Furious, after such an impressive victory, would be a target for every owner. His beloved Amber had kissed him and asked him to welcome her home, and she’d clearly had a blazing row with Rogue.
As the lorry left, she had told him she just might drop into the yard later to break the journey home to Penscombe. And Rafiq had found himself saying that, as Tommy was away, why didn’t Amber crash out on her bed?
Why had he said that? Now he wouldn’t sleep all night praying she turned up.
That was the worst part of being a lad. Trainers and owners swanned off and drank champagne all night while you faced an endless journey home, after which you had to unload, feed, water and settle the horses, fall into bed and be up again at six to ride out. The horses didn’t get champagne either, thought Rafiq, only a net of hay.
Without Tommy around he had to put Furious and History Painting to bed as well as a thoroughly depressed Mrs Wilkinson, to whom the races had come to mean lots of clapping and cheering in the winners enclosure. She was in no mood to hear Chisolm’s grumbling about boxed ears and indigestion after raiding Ione’s veggie patch and eating Michelle’s scarf.
Having patted Dilys and given Furious a final good-night hug, Rafiq emerged from their box, wondering if he’d ever been so tired in his life, to find Amber outside, her hair as gold as the sickle moon which, across the valley, was setting into the dark arms of the Willowwood Chestnut.
‘I looked in at the Fox, everyone’s drinking to you and Furious. I wanted to buy you a drink to