‘I must try and keep my pedestal clean,’ Amber had replied.
Phoebe was now grumbling about the security at Birmingham.
‘We had to strip everything off. Painswick was down to her Damart thermals and Pocock to his long johns.’
Suddenly she shrieked with laughter as they passed a signpost to a place called Stillorgan. ‘That can’t be Rogue’s home town. He’s never kept his organ still in his life.’ Amber wanted to throttle her. The Irish, the soft caress of their voices, reminded her so much of Rogue before he had become angry. She hoped he wasn’t in too much pain.
Arriving at the racecourse with its big grey stand, she noticed the owners’ and trainers’ entrance, next to the ambulance gate, a constant reminder that danger, accident and death were never far away from jump racing. Outside, with prams full of goodies, one woman was selling slabs of chocolate for a euro.
Up in the stands, Amber looked down at the most beautiful course, ringed by blue mountains and woods through which, like rosy-faced children, more russet houses peered. On the rails were ads for Deloitte, Betchronicle, Party Poker and Irish Stallions, which brings us back to Rogue, thought Amber wearily.
Typically Irish, with horses at the heart of things, the stables were in the centre of the course. The runners, legs on springs like greyhounds, could be seen dancing across the track and returning more slowly after their race.
A large crowd had turned out in anticipation of cheering on Rogue, their favourite son, and to catch a glimpse of Mrs Wilkinson. People were soon bombarding Amber with questions:
‘Is she thirteen or fourteen hands?’
‘Did she miss a vocation as a footballer?’
Marius’s day started well when History Painting won a handicap chase for Awesome Wells, but deteriorated when Playboy pissed all over the big race, the Hennessy Cognac, for a revoltingly triumphalist Shade. At least Marius had been spared a gloating Harvey-Holden, who’d stayed at home, obsessively chasing winners, because Irish victories didn’t add any points in the leading English trainers’ championship. Instead he had sent Michelle and Vakil, who, because a desperately uptight Rafiq was riding Bullydozer in a novice handicap, missed no opportunity to mob up their former horse. Killer, riding a new French gelding called Voltaire Scott, had been sledging Rafiq equally viciously in the weighing room.
Here, for the first time, Rafiq had put on Valent’s new colours, purple covered with dusty green stars, green sleeves and a purple and green cap, inspired by an African violet Etta had once given him.
Watching Bullydozer in the parade ring, Amber thought he didn’t move or look as well as usual, perhaps because Tresa was too busy tarting herself up to get her horses gleaming like Tommy did. The big horse trembled and cringed but didn’t leap away when he saw Vakil. He really didn’t look right. Amber was tempted to say something to Marius, but he’d only bite her head off. Marius himself was looking funereal, wearing his dinner jacket, which he’d need for the preview tonight, over jeans because he couldn’t be bothered to bring two coats. Next door a trio of pretty women, however, were drooling over him.
‘That’s Marius Oakridge, who trains Mrs Wilkinson. Isn’t he handsome? His wife Olivia ran off with Shade Murchieson, the big fellow over there; looks a brute, I’d have stayed with Marius. He looks much gentler.’
Marius was belying this by telling a shivering Rafiq to ‘Go to the front, and lynch that fucker Killer,’ as he legged him up. Valent had just called Marius from China, wishing him, Rafiq and his adored Bullydozer good luck, saying he was sorry he couldn’t be with them. He was up-country and couldn’t get to a television.
‘Safe journey,’ called Amber in Urdu as Rafiq passed but beyond glancing round in terror he ignored her and rode on.
‘That’s JP’s plane,’ said one of the trio of pretty women, as a helicopter chugged over. ‘He’s coming to the preview tonight. He’ll be flying back to Limerick to change.’
Unlike Marius, thought Amber.
Up in the Owners and Trainers to watch the race, Amber was horrified to find herself rammed by the crowd next to Shade. Oiled up by champagne and watching Bafford Playboy’s victory again in the hospitality room, he was revving up to cheer on Killer and Voltaire Scott.
As his hot-chocolate brown eyes wandered over her, Shade smiled evilly. ‘How’s the wrist?’ he murmured.
‘Fine,’ snapped Amber.
‘You could put it to interesting use later.’
Blushing but totally ignoring him, Amber concentrated on Bullydozer going