In his pursuit of the patrician, Bolton was looking particularly absurd in a new mauve cashmere jersey which fell to his calves. His face was bronzed by fake bake, which made him look more like a red squirrel than a grey one. He kicked off, saying he was fed up with Marius’s appalling rudeness.
‘He insulted my wife Cindy by suggesting she would take part in anything other than a tasteful erotic fantasy, and now he’s denying Mrs Wilkinson a chance to star. And what is more, our producer was prepared to offer five grand for Mrs Wilkinson to take part, which would mean around four hundred to each share-holder, which I’m sure you would all appreciate.’
The syndicate agreed they would.
Then Phoebe spoke. In a billowing flowered smock, she was playing the pregnancy card for all it was worth, making everyone carry her glasses of orange squash and even her mobile, on which there was already a message: ‘This is the voicemail of Toby, Phoebe and Bump.’
‘While we were in Scotland,’ she began, ‘we met the most charming man called Henry Ponsonby, who runs the most wonderful syndicates. He knows all about horses so he’s great at handling trainers, which you aren’t really, Normie. They’re getting loads of winners and seem to have such fun. Last open day at Nicky Henderson’s they had the most delicious lunch and met loads of famous horses, jockeys and owners.’
‘Which is more than happened at Marius’s open day,’ grumbled Bolton. ‘I wasn’t introduced to anyone that mattered.’
‘I may be sticking my neck out,’ went on Phoebe, ‘but I think we should not only look for a new trainer but also sell Mrs Wilkinson.’
Etta gasped, feeling as though a huge ball had taken out all her skittles.
‘I’m sorry, Etta, but I’m giving up work and on one income a hundred and eighty-five pounds a month is too much to pay for a dud horse. If we went to Henry, he’d find us a decent replacement and make sure we had a ball. He’s so owner-friendly and there’s a confidential owners’ line you can ring for information any time.’
‘We can always ring Joyce,’ protested Etta.
‘Of course,’ Phoebe was all dimples, ‘but she’s not on call twenty-four hours a day. Also I think it would be fun for Wilkie to star in a blue movie.’
‘Who’s she going to shag? Count Romeo, Sir Cuthbert or Horace?’ Toby brayed with laughter.
‘I can’t see why she can’t,’ said Alan, thinking what a wonderful chapter it would make in her biography.
‘Nor can I,’ said Joey, who needed the money.
‘I’m all for dumping Marius,’ said Shagger.
‘Ay can’t say Ay’ve warmed to him,’ said Debbie. ‘He’s been so uncooperative with the Major, who’s trayed so hard.’
‘Marius is very shy,’ protested Etta.
‘And he’s been through a horrid marriage break-up,’ volunteered Painswick, alarmed she might soon be without a job. As it was, she was having great difficulty paying her monthly subscription.
‘We can’t sell Mrs Wilkinson,’ said Woody in outrage.
‘Even if she gets better, we don’t know if she’ll be any good,’ drawled Shagger.
‘And Marius implied there’s another thousand-pound vet’s bill coming up,’ huffed the Major.
‘Henry Ponsonby specializes in affinity marketing, which means arranging syndicates that really get on and enjoy each other’s company,’ said Phoebe.
‘We did at the beginning,’ said Debbie, glaring at Cindy. ‘We need a decent horse to unite us.’
They were interrupted by a burst of cheering from the rugger club and, clanking up the steel staircase, in walked Seth, a leading actor making an entrance.
Priceless lifted his tail. Etta leapt to her feet. Feeling her shaking as he kissed her, Seth said, ‘Darling, what’s up?’
‘Thank God you’re here,’ she whispered. ‘They want to ditch Marius and sell Mrs Wilkinson. Please help.’
Seth was about to reply when Bonny, flushed by pleasantries from the rugger club, appeared behind him.
‘Bonny, Bonny,’ everyone crowded around, ‘we thought you and Valent were abroad.’
Joey went green. He’d done none of the things Bonny had asked for at Badger’s Court.
‘I’ve been filming in London. Seth told me this was a key meeting and I’d better show up.’
Alan grinned at Etta and nodded knowingly. ‘What d’you both want to drink?’ he added, going towards the bar.
‘I’d like a large Scotch,’ called out Shagger.
‘What’s been going on?’ asked Seth.
‘Marius won’t let Wilkie star in Lady Godiva,’ giggled Phoebe. ‘Being a thesp, Bonny, you’ll know how disappointed she must feel.’
‘What you don’t realize,’ said Alan mock-seriously, ‘is that this movie is social commentary. The poor peasants were