looking much less attractive in a belted camel-hair coat and a fedora, and Olivia looking bleak, both talking to evil Killer, who was also wearing Shade’s colours to ride the mighty Bafford Playboy.
Big bright bay Playboy, despite his frivolous name, had grown into a bully like Shade, his owner. In the yard at home and out in the field, other horses nervously deferred to him. On the race-course he was equally determined to assert his mastery, as was his jockey, Killer.
Killer wanted his revenge on Amber for getting him suspended for ten days at Cheltenham. Both he and Rogue were on one hundred and twenty-five winners apiece.
As Rogue sauntered into the paddock, the crowd nudged each other and smiled. History Painting’s owners, Brigadier Parsons, his wife and two pretty daughters, surged forward adoringly to hear the master’s words.
Beside them, Marius, as grim as the day, was deliberately ignoring his ex-wife and Amber.
‘What are you planning, Rogue?’ asked the Brigadier.
‘To make all. A few will do the same, a few could pop out later. History Painting has won from the front and will do so again.’ He whacked his boots with his whip.
‘Enjoy your ride, hope it goes well, Rogue, come back safely,’ exhorted the Brigadier’s pretty ladies.
Oh shut up, thought Amber, as she nervously approached Harvey-Holden, who was, however, charm itself when he spoke to her in front of Shade and Olivia:
‘Remember to hold Bully up for the first circuit at least. He’s fast but he may not stay, so make a late run.’
Shade put a big leather-gloved hand on Amber’s shoulder. He’d enjoyed their last ride and planned another.
‘Good luck, Amber.’
Bullydozer won the turnout and, kept back to be photographed with Michelle, was the last to leave the parade ring. Feeling Amber on his back, he went up and nearly tipped over, squealing with pain as Vakil swore and jerked on his mouth to bring him down.
‘Have fun,’ Michelle whispered evilly to Amber. ‘Nice change to have someone Olivia hates more than me.’
As she and Vakil unclipped their lead ropes, Bullydozer took off, thundering diagonally across the golf course in the middle of the track, down to the start.
‘I got a birdie here once,’ Awesome was saying, calling out, ‘Are you OK, Amber?’ as she hurtled past him, her good hand hauling helplessly on the reins.
Bullydozer was a hand bigger than History Painting. As Rogue reached out, catching the horse’s reins to steady him as he passed, Bullydozer nearly pulled him out of the saddle.
‘Morning, Miss Lloyd-Foxe,’ said Rogue, righting himself. Then, noticing how pale she was: ‘What did you and Marius get up to at Stratford?’
‘Much less than you,’ spat Amber. ‘Let go of my horse. Poor little Trix, how could you?’
Rogue was fazed only for a second.
‘We were all hammered. You should have joined us.’
‘Don’t be so fucking stupid. Trixie’s only fifteen, you’ve crucified her.’
‘She didn’t stay long. Bonny was sensational, she’d get an Oscar in one of Bolton’s erotic fantasies.’
Amber had no strength to slap his mocking face.
‘You’re just a tart.’
They reached the start, the banter flying as the jockeys circled.
‘I’m going to get two hundred winners by the end of March,’ boasted Rogue, patting History Painting and undoing the bottom plaits of his mane.
‘How d’you know?’ asked Awesome admiringly.
‘I’ve put ten grand on myself, does concentrate the mind.’
The starter looked at his watch:
‘Who’s going to make it?’
‘I am,’ said Killer, glaring round.
‘I might not,’ muttered Amber as Bullydozer leapt about. Amber daren’t ride him down to look at the first fence in case he took off.
She caught Killer staring in her direction, pale squinting wolf eyes hidden by his goggles, thin lips curling in an evil smile. Amber tugged her silk sleeve down over her glove. The Nurofen was wearing off.
Up went the tapes, Bullydozer set off quick enough to win the Derby.
‘Too fucking fast, I’m making it,’ yelled a furious Killer, particularly when a totally out-of-control Bullydozer cut straight across him, barging into Playboy like a drunken dodgem car.
Killer didn’t take prisoners of either sex.
‘Get off my line, you fucking cunt.’
Changing tactics, Rogue decided to cruise at the back on History Painting so he could once more feast his eyes on Amber’s delectable bottom – they must suspend hostilities. Seeing her tugging on Bullydozer’s mouth, he felt a stab of fear. She was pulling one-sided, having no effect. Slowly, slowly Killer was edging her into the rail dividing the steeplechasing track from the hurdle track, which ran along beside it. They were out in