I know it’s hard but please don’t tell anyone. If the BBC find out they’d probably lay me off and I’ve got a few bills to pay. Your mother’ll want to make it public.’
Amber said she thought she ought to tell her brothers, Christy and Junior, who were both abroad.
‘Not yet,’ Billy pleaded. ‘How’s Mrs Wilkinson?’
‘Good. Entered for the Gold Cup. I’ll try and win it for you.’
‘That’s great, darling.’ Billy’s eyes were drooping. ‘Rupert’s having trouble with Eddie Alderton, who’s just like Rupe when he was young. Like Bambi and Bambi’s father or grandfather. Rupert’s never had a son that played up before. I’m so lucky to have you.’ Billy’s words were slurring. He was asleep.
Amber fled into the corridor, too stunned to cry. Twenty was too young to lose a father. She hadn’t spoken to her mother since the appalling interview with Rogue. She could only imagine the meal Janey would make of ‘my beloved Billy’s battle with cancer’. It was Janey who’d leaked the quite untrue story about Amber having a walk-out with Dare Catswood, who Milly Walton was mad about anyway. But Janey would love a rich daughter she could bum off.
I mustn’t work myself up, thought Amber. She’d never felt more lonely in her life. If only she could call Rogue, but he’d be shagging some slapper in Fairyhouse or Larkminster.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ said a voice, as a woman in a fur coat sidled up. ‘We thought it was, we’re such fans. How’s Wilkie?’
‘She’s fine,’ stammered Amber.
‘Could we possibly have your autograph?’
She handed Amber a little red diary, and as Amber scribbled her name, said, ‘Thank you so much, we’re such fans of your dear father too.’
‘So am I,’ mumbled Amber.
Rogue, flying back to Fairyhouse, had reached Heathrow. Amber’s number was engraved on his heart, as was everything she’d said about him. He wanted to call her or text her, ‘Sorry about your Dad, call me,’ but she’d have switched off her mobile in the hospital. He located the Marsden number, then tore it up. He’d be the last person she’d want to talk to.
Rafiq’s euphoria and feeling of coming home were also sadly fleeting. Furious came out of the Larkminster Cup so well that Marius entered him for a big race at Ascot a week later, where he was a very hot favourite.
While he was riding out on the morning of the race, noticing bluebell and primrose leaves pushing through the faded leaf mould and rejoicing that spring was on the way for him and Tommy, Rafiq was startled out of his reverie by his ringing mobile.
‘Furious is not going to win today,’ said a voice with a thick Pakistani accent, ‘or we take out your family in Peshawar.’
‘You don’t know my family,’ hissed Rafiq, pulling History Painting into a clearing.
‘Oh yes we do.’ The caller reeled off names and addresses until Rafiq’s blood froze. It must be some terrorist mafia.
‘Just fuck off,’ he stammered.
‘You’ve been spending a lot of time with Tommy Ruddock recently. D’you want her and Furious taken out as well?’ The voice grew thicker and more menacing. ‘We need funds. Allah will reward you if Furious doesn’t win.’
Rafiq, who was vastly brave, hung up. Determined to ignore the threat, he caught up with the others and told no one.
The terror he always felt before a race was intensified a hundredfold that afternoon when he saw Tommy leading Furious round the parade ring at Ascot. She looked so radiantly happy and newly pretty because Tresa, feeling guilty about Snog-a-Trog, had straightened her hair for her.
Eddie Alderton, who was riding in the same race, had also noticed. ‘Like your hair,’ he called out to Tommy. Then to wind up Rafiq: ‘How about a drink later?’
But Tommy had blushed, smiled and, turning lovingly towards Rafiq, said she was sorry, she was busy.
Suddenly Rafiq couldn’t bear anything to happen to her, so he deliberately pulled Furious. This he did by holding him up for too long so that two furlongs out there was still a pack of horses ahead of him. Furious had no desire to mingle with them so he dawdled and came in sixth.
‘Perhaps he was tired,’ Rafiq told Channel 4. ‘He only run a week ago.’
This enraged Marius. ‘Don’t you dare accuse me of overrunning my horses,’ he shouted at Rafiq. Having bollocked him for careless riding, however, he gave him the benefit of the doubt.
The Ascot stewards were less lenient. They and the crowd had been looking forward to