Most importantly, on his desk was the photograph of his son Ryan, his wife Diane and the grandchildren. Valent had been working on a new lighter-but-tougher football boot to prevent so many injuries to the vulnerable top of the foot.
He longed to involve Ryan in the marketing. He had dreams of buying Searston Rovers, the fast-rising local football team, and putting Ryan in as manager. Ryan, however, was still violently opposed to Bonny and a more chilling voice inside him said if the all-too-handsome Ryan came back into the fold, Bonny would surely ensnare him.
‘Christ,’ Valent opened a can of beer. ‘I strook the board and cried no more.’
He looked out towards Etta’s bungalow. As he’d planted those stupid trees to protect Bonny’s privacy (goings-on, more like) he couldn’t see if her lights were on. Dribbling a football, signed and given him by Bobby Moore, across the room, he opened a window and heard robins and blackbirds singing in dark trees silhouetted against an orange sunset.
There was a thump as a plump, fluffy black cat landed on his desk, mewing importantly. Her rusty purr was more like a crow’s caw as she weaved around him, butting his arm, blinking at him with fearless lemon-yellow eyes.
Valent helped himself to another beer from the fridge and poured the cat a saucer of milk, which she sniffed and rejected.
‘Faddy cow,’ said Valent, and dialled Etta’s number.
Digging her garden in the twilight, Etta was soothed by the stream that hurtled over yellow and brown pebbles and brushed against the first primroses and coltsfoot. There was a soft violet blur on the trees, the first little green kiss curls on the willows. Birds, who had fallen on her bird table a week ago and emptied it in half an hour, were now abandoning it to sing to their loves. She was gratified that Pavarobin, who now took crumbs from her hand, had not deserted her. He was keeping a shiny black eye out for worms as she turned over the liver-chestnut Cotswold earth.
It was a few moments before she realized the telephone was ringing and rushed inside.
‘Valent here.’
‘How lovely. How are you?’
‘Fine,’ lied Valent. ‘Have you lost a furry black cat?’
‘It’s Gwenny, Harold Pocock’s cat actually, but she’s sort of moved in.’
‘If I had sticking-out ribs or one eye, or no collar, would you rescue me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Would you like an Indian?’
‘I’d rather have a Pakistani.’
‘You what?’
‘Sorry, that was silly. I didn’t mean to be ungracious,’ Etta took a deep breath and plunged straight on, ‘but, oh Valent, I truly believe Rafiq would be the best person to ride Wilkie at Rutminster next week. He’s such a beautiful, sensitive rider and he’s having such a rough time. He loves Amber and she’s being a bit of a “b” to him. Amber told me she didn’t sleep with Marius at Stratford. What a lovely hotel that was, thank you, but Rafiq’s convinced she did, so he’s being stroppy with Marius, who’s punishing him by not giving him any rides and about to sack him. But I know Marius would listen to you, he really respects you.’
As he’d lent Marius the money to pay for his new Gold Cup jumps and his all-weather track, and guaranteed his overdraft and bought Furious, Marius should, thought Valent.
‘OK, I’ll have a word. Now, would you like an Indian?’
‘Yes please. How lovely.’
‘Any preferences?’
‘I adore meat and spinach and prawns, nothing too hot,’ and then she burst out laughing. ‘Although you wouldn’t think so after that dreadful chilli I gave you last summer.’
‘I’ll be round in half an hour.’
Etta panicked. She hadn’t walked Priceless yet but as it had started raining, he was refusing to leave the comfort of the sofa. Washing-up from Poppy and Drummond’s supper was still in the sink; washing to be ironed hung from the radiator, and Gwenny’s and Priceless’s half-eaten bowls were still on the floor. As she used to shut the kitchen door to hide the chaos during dinner parties at Bluebell Hill, now she shoved bowls, washing up and washing into the kitchen cupboard. Even so, she only had time to scrub the earth out of her nails, clean her teeth and slap some base on her flushed face. She had to tip her bottle of 24 Faubourg on its side to press out the last drop.
Oh help, was it too forward to put on scent? Better than smelling of cat food. Anyway she was far too old for