Corinna proceeded to throw her toyboys out of the pram, screaming that Bonny was far too lower middle to play her daughter. Seth, being a bitch, told Bonny, who threw a hissy fit, particularly when Seth suggested she use the same voice coach she employed to iron out Valent’s Yorkshire accent.
Corinna, meanwhile, to bone up on her patrician vowel sounds, keeps inviting a thoroughly over-excited Alban round for drinks.
Tomorrow to fresh Woodies and parsons new.
God knows what a den of depravity we’ve unleashed.
One big piece of gossip is that Collie’s left Harvey-Holden – they fell out because Collie didn’t like the way H-H treated his horses and the fact he hired Michelle the moment Marius fired her. Anyway, Collie’s up-sticked and gone to work in Ireland. Harvey-Holden’s made sinister Vakil his head lad. I think the RSPCA should be told.
But to go back to our syndicate, the upshot is they’re all frantic for another jolly so they can misbehave again. Wilkie is booked to run at Rutminster in ten days’ time. Marius is tearing his hair out over who to put up. There’s talk of Awesome Wells. Any ideas? Please come home soon. Love to Paris
Dora emailed back instantly:
All that stuff must go in Wilkie’s biography – particularly the Major and Corinna – wow! The only person to ride Wilkie should be Rafiq, they’d adore each other and he’s a fantastically gentle rider. All love Dora.
Alas, more gossip had reached Rafiq that Amber had got off with Marius at Stratford. Raging with jealousy, Rafiq had been particularly truculent and bolshy towards Marius, which didn’t predispose Marius to reward him with any rides, especially as Furious had done a leg and been confined to even more bad-tempered box rest than Amber.
Unwilling to risk a tongue-lashing if he approached Marius direct, Alan asked Etta, who was so fond of Rafiq, to plead his cause.
99
Valent Edwards suspected he spent so much time abroad because he missed Pauline, most agonizingly when she wasn’t there when he returned home to England.
As he flew back to Willowwood at the beginning of March, to sadness was added exhaustion. Over the past five years, among his myriad activities had been sorting out a wayward New York bank called Goldstein Phillipson, who’d originally invited him on to their board to add gravitas.
Now they were making a fortune, he was revolted by the obscenely large bonuses the board were intending to pay themselves, including him. So Valent had resigned, refusing to accept the bonus. His fellow directors were outraged, terrified that once word of his defection got out, shares would plummet, so he’d agreed the news should be kept from the press for a few weeks.
Valent felt very bad about abandoning the junior staff of Goldstein Phillipson, who had become friends on his many visits. As a condition of his temporarily keeping quiet, he had asked if his bonus could be divided between these junior staff, but he wasn’t very hopeful. The fights had been bloody.
He was also depressed about Bonny. If she was going to spend the next few months filming or touring with Seth, the inevitable must happen, if it hadn’t already. Yet she swore she loved him, was angling for marriage, and made scenes if he suggested things weren’t right.
‘It’s a generational thing, Valent. You cannot expect me to engage with football.’
She had great plans for him to help her develop her own make-up, fragrance and clothes labels. ‘Bonny Richards should be as universally known as Kate Moss.’
Arriving at Badger’s Court late in the afternoon, he was cheered to see that the great sweep of snowdrops had been replaced by gold and purple carpets of crocuses, pale blue scillas and an emerging host of white daffodils. Etta had been at work.
‘And then my heart with pleasure fills,/And dances with the daffodils,’ Valent quoted happily.
He was still reading a poem from the Everyman anthology every day, no longer just to upstage Seth but because he really enjoyed them. Today, most appropriately where Goldstein Phillipson was concerned, he’d read a poem by George Herbert which started:
‘I struck the board, and cried, No more.’
There still seemed to be a lot of rubble and bulldozers around but at least his octagonal office in the cockpit was finished. He gave a sigh of satisfaction. Joey had framed and hung the signed photographs of Gordon Banks outwitting Pelé in the World Cup, and of the Colombian goalie who had prevented an England victory with a legendary scorpion save, kicking up