going to come and watch Martin’s DVD?’ asked Romy.
‘When he’s out,’ murmured Seth, running an idle finger down her cleavage.
Next moment Trixie had stumbled past them, tears pouring down her face, and locked herself in Etta’s bedroom.
Hearing cries, lots of laughter and whooping outside, Seth went to the window and groaned.
‘Oh God, the fair Weatheralls have arrived.’
‘Oh, it’s little Phoebe,’ cried Romy, leaving her champagne and running outside.
‘Promise not to say anything to Etta,’ Seth called after her, then turning back, hearing sobbing, he banged on the bedroom door.
‘You all right, lovely?’
‘Bugger off.’
‘What you need is a large glass of champagne.’
Catching sight of his reflection in Etta’s mirror, Seth was faced with a dilemma. He wanted to look younger, and if he cut his hair short and spiked it upwards with product, he’d look trendy. This, on the other hand, would reveal the lines on his forehead and round his eyes, which would be covered if he combed his hair forward like Mark Antony.
‘Come on, babe.’ He banged on the door again.
‘How are you, how are you, long time no see.’ An ecstatic Sethfuelled Romy pushed Debbie aside and was hugging Phoebe.
‘Shagger and Toby are dropping off our stuff, but I wanted to come straight over,’ cried Phoebe, who was wearing a grey and white striped smock.
‘Have a glass of bubbly,’ said Romy.
‘No, no, just a glass of orange squash.’
‘Have you had a good summer?’
‘Heavenly. We had such a great time staying with the Lennoxes. Such a beautiful house. Do gather round, everyone, I’ve got such lovely news for you all. I’m expecting a baby in February. If it’s a boy that’ll mean another willow in the churchyard. I want all the syndicate to be honorary godparents.’ Then, as Romy, Debbie and even a newly arrived Cindy hugged her: ‘I know you’ll all be there for me.’
‘Roughly translated as free babysitting and presents Christmas and Easter,’ murmured Alan to Etta.
‘Must go to the lav,’ said Phoebe, adding, as Mrs Wilkinson wandered up to her, ‘Hello, Wilkie. So glad you’re out and about again.’ She patted her pink nose. ‘How soon can we come and see you racing?’
Toby, hugely congratulated by everyone, was whinnying with nervous laughter.
‘Shagger’s going to be chief godfather,’ he said.
Despite discovering Tilda crying her eyes out at School Cottage, Shagger hadn’t stayed to comfort her. Etta’s free drink was too important to miss.
Tilda wept on, not answering door or telephone. ‘In loveless bowers, we sigh alone.’
Much later, there was another knock. Creeping downstairs, Tilda found a vast bunch of white flowers on the doorstep. Someone must have stripped Etta’s garden.
‘Darling Tilda,’ said the scrawled note, ‘so very sorry. We all love you. All love, Mrs Wilkinson.’
83
The syndicate grew increasingly restless. So many had seen Mrs Wilkinson cavorting around at Etta’s party, why couldn’t she run sooner? Bolton was the chief stirrer: if the mare wasn’t race-fit, she could at least play Lady Godiva’s horse. This would merely entail a week or so’s filming, carrying a naked Cindy through some deserted town with only Peeping Tom as a witness.
But to Bolton’s rage, Marius flatly refused. Mrs Wilkinson must concentrate on getting fit, not star in some grubby porn film.
An apoplectic Bolton proposed a motion of no confidence in Marius and demanded a meeting in the skittle alley of the Fox the following Saturday evening, the first in October, coinciding with the beginning of the winter game. Bolton’s mood was not improved when Joey greeted him with the news that Furious had ‘pissed all over the three fifteen at Fontwell’ that afternoon.
All the syndicate were present except for Alban, who’d gone to a charity dinner in Oxford, Trixie and Dora, who were at school, and Tilda, who had a PTA meeting and anyway only owned half a share with Shagger. He was already banging out ‘Horsey, Horsey, Don’t You Stop’ on the skittle alley’s ancient upright.
The Major and Cindy, quickstepping round the floor to much laughter, did nothing to dispel the underlying tension. Feeling hillocks of silicone pressed against his Rotary Club-blazered breast, the Major shuddered. What if he were to lose Cindy and his Portuguese villa? Somehow he must ensure victory.
The syndicate sat round a table, armed with drinks and mocked by hunting prints on the walls of fit horses hurtling across country. Willowwood rugger team, who’d thrashed Limesbridge that afternoon, were getting drunk downstairs. Chrissie, who couldn’t bear to miss a chance of smouldering at Joey and learning the outcome of the meeting, was serving drinks in