‘Furious paid for it,’ chortled Debbie. ‘I placed a bet on him at Wetherby.’
‘It’s lovely,’ stammered Etta, ‘but it would really show up my old coat. It’d look so much better on you, Debbie.’
‘This hat will lift any outfit,’ insisted Debbie.
‘Chapeau, chapeau, and off to work we go,’ sang a giggling Alan as he filled up his and Seth’s glasses.
‘Go on, Etta.’ Phoebe lifted out the hat and, as if she were snuffing out a candle, dropped it over Etta’s head, covering her eyes and most of her little snub nose.
‘Where’s Etta?’ cried Seth. ‘Where’s she gone? I can’t see her anywhere.’
‘Not like that,’ chided Debbie, tipping the huge contraption backwards. ‘Give me your comb, dear.’
‘I’ll find it.’ Seizing Etta’s bag, Cindy scrabbled among a lot of tickets, pencils, Polos and a dog biscuit and unearthed an embarrassingly dirty comb, some grey fluff down its prongs, and handed it to Debbie, who coaxed feathery tendrils on to Etta’s forehead.
‘There, doesn’t she look a poppet?’
‘A pleasure dome of high degree,’ murmured Seth.
‘At least you’re not swollen-headed, Etta,’ quipped the Major, as Etta hung her head and the hat fell over her nose once more.
‘It’s lovely,’ mumbled Etta from the magenta depths, desperate not to hurt Debbie’s feelings. ‘It’s just a bit smart for me.’
‘Not the new you,’ said Debbie, tipping the hat again. ‘Next week we’ll find you a nice skirt suit in town.’
Gazing imploringly down the bus, Etta could see Alan, Woody, Joey and even Pocock creased up with laughter.
Alas, there were no gales blowing at the Cheltenham drop-off point to sweep the hat away into the ravishing green valley, no river to swallow it up.
The hat was so vast, Etta kept bumping into racegoers and knocking them and the hat sideways. Nor with it over her face could she feast her eyes on the most beautiful course in England with its ring of hills, lovely houses and little square church peeping out of angelically green trees, the blue Malvern hills to the left and the three radio masts looking down from Cleeve Hill opposite. Fences, hurdles, rails, cars, copses and helicopters spilled across the course like some divine toy a child couldn’t bear to put away at night. Etta could at least breathe in a heady smell of hot horses, frying onions, burgers and scampi.
All around, too, were sculptures of great horses of the past. Cindy promptly handed her cigarette holder and glass of champagne to Alban and clambered on to Best Mate’s statue, flashing a leopardskin thong while Lester took photographs.
‘Try side-saddle, princess.’
‘Isn’t she dreadful,’ whispered Phoebe to Debbie.
‘Dreadful,’ replied Debbie. ‘Don’t take your hat off, Etta, it looks so elegant.’
Bonny was delighted to see Etta so discomforted.
At least Mrs Wilkinson marched into the paddock looking cheerful. She adored crowds and they came running down to the rail to admire her and Chisolm, who trotted round in her new collar and lead, snatching at fading daffodils or any chip, burger bun or ice cream in unwary hands.
‘There are thirty-three cameras in the stable block,’ an amazed Dora, who was leading Chisolm, informed Tommy. ‘Corinna and Bonny should hire a box for themselves.’
‘Security is very tight,’ observed Tommy.
‘So is Cindy Bolton,’ giggled Dora.
The crowd were also gazing at Cindy, who, having abandoned her mink to Lester and reached the centre of the parade ring in her six-inch heels, was squawking, ‘Oh my God’ and ‘Phwoar’ at the trainers and owners around her. Bonny, aware of not being gazed at as much as usual, had taken off her trilby so the world could appreciate her flawless but bleak face.
‘Aren’t you frozen, Cindy?’ she said disapprovingly.
‘No gain without pain,’ giggled Cindy. ‘Phwoar, here comes Marius, I really fancy ’im. I love mean, difficult fellows, can’t fink why his wife left ’im.’
Mrs Wilkinson was looking for Etta. Only when Etta surreptitiously raised her hat as though she were peering through a letter box did Mrs Wilkinson recognize her, break away and tow a giggling Dora and Tommy to her side, bowling over a group of owners like skittles.
Above the parade ring, by a statue of the great Arkle, a lovely willow swung in a breeze which was also tossing around Lester’s ginger comb-over, so it fell on his forehead like a giant kiss curl.
Why was Mrs Wilkinson wearing a rug with Marius’s initials on and not his? wondered Lester angrily. He’d ordered a rug, with LB on, for Furious.