least he was warm and the food was delicious. Just before the party, Valent had tipped him off about an impending inquiry into the Iraq war.
‘With your encyclopaedic knowledge of the Middle East, Alban, you’d be a real asset. And the money’d be great and it’s likely to last a year or two. I’m just leaving,’ Valent had added, ‘but I’d be very grateful if you’d keep an eye on things. Not sure I troost Seth not to let things get out of hand. Don’t want Trixie or Etta to get hurt.’
‘Certainly not,’ said a delighted Alban.
He was now enjoying a lovely bop with Etta. He wondered which room she was in. In the absence of Ione he was far less inhibited, as was Niall, who was dancing with Woody, as was Pocock, who later danced with both Etta and Painswick. Alan danced with Tilda.
The director of Antony and Cleopatra rolled up and was soon nose to perfect nose with Bonny.
‘You’d make a wonderful Rosalind,’ he was saying.
Plastered and forgiving her for being so offhand and cool, the syndicate surged round Amber when she arrived. She had washed her long gold hair and was wearing her clinging catkin-yellow mini, showing off her lovely legs in high-heeled black boots.
‘I’d forgotten how gorgeous she was,’ murmured Seth to Alan. ‘Those awful helmets don’t do women jockeys any favours.’
‘Wilkie is so gutsy,’ Amber was saying. ‘Bloody Rogue snatched my whip, we rowed all the way round. Stupid idiot made his run too early, now he’s livid he got beat.’
‘Beaten,’ sighed Alan. ‘Did Bagley Hall teach you even less than my daughter?’
‘Is Marius coming?’ asked Etta.
‘Bastard!’ snarled Amber. ‘After the race he saw my silks were soaked in blood and went berserk because he thought Wilkie had bled. When I explained she’d tossed her head up, practically broken my nose and given me a nosebleed, he just said, “Thank God for that!” ‘
‘Was little House Price OK?’ asked Etta.
‘Put down on the course,’ said Amber dolefully. ‘Even Michelle was in floods, probably more because Harvey-Holden just screamed at her, “Forget the horse, just get the fucking bridle back.” He’s worse than Marius.’ Seeing the shocked faces around her, Amber shrugged. ‘House Price was lame going down to post. H-H prefers horses to break down on the course rather than at home, so he’ll get insurance, not blame.’
Amber took a slug of champagne then looked round the room: ‘Which of you lot am I going to shag tonight? Rafiq’s gone home with the horses and there’s too much competition for Seth.’
‘I’m always in love,’ Seth was telling a pretty reporter from the Stage. ‘If not with myself, then with someone else. Was I really good?’
‘Awesome, so, so sexy, you ought to be in Hollywood.’
Rogue, who’d won on History Painting, and Marius arrived to more loud cheers. Both were extremely drunk. Marius, talking between clenched jaws, was soon telling Joey and Alan that he’d won enough today for a down payment on an all-weather.
‘Then we’ll bury that fucker Harvey-Holden.’
The Major, refreshed from his long sleep during the play, was hot to trot. Disappointed Corinna had pushed off, he asked Etta to dance.
‘Just like Strictly,’ called out Phoebe as they quickstepped round. ‘I can feel Bump kicking,’ she told Debbie, who was guzzling a third helping of sucking pig. ‘Do hope it’s a boy, it would mean so much to Toby. Wonderful if Valent can produce this gel to stop teething troubles.’
The music switched to the Black Eyed Peas. Rogue, to wind Amber up, had removed Trixie’s stilettos, making her two inches smaller than him, and led her off to dance. After some vigorous gyrating, he pressed his cheek against hers and drew her against him. Feeling herself shot into orbit by the biggest tackle in the weighing-in room, Trixie leapt away.
Not as sophisticated as she makes out, thought Rogue in amusement.
‘The poetry’s wonderful, but I still prefer Julius Caesar,’ Tilda, reeling from the bliss of not minding being neglected by Shagger, was saying to Alan.
Having escaped Rogue, Trixie took refuge at a table with Woody and Niall, and was reading next Sunday’s gospel in Niall’s prayer book.
‘Jesus cast out devils from two men,’ she said furiously, ‘and drove them into a herd of swine, which sent the poor demented pigs jumping off a cliff and drowning. Jesus ought to be shot. Compassion in World Farming and Joanna Lumley would have something to say about that.’
‘You have to put it in context, Trixie,’ said Niall, ‘Jesus and