outraged not to be allowed into the winners enclosure.
Bonny was equally incensed. She too was denied access and couldn’t pose beside Valent to show off the debut outfit in the Bonny Richards Collection.
‘Where’s bloody Seth? I need a vast drink,’ snarled Corinna.
Bloody Seth, however, lust reignited, had accosted Trixie and Furious on their way to the sampling unit.
‘Darling, well done, how terrific you look, are you going to put my picture in that smart silver frame?’
Trixie gasped and recoiled in horror. Furious, who’d behaved well for too long, was just flattening his ears when a mud-caked Eddie Alderton swooped and seized Trixie’s arm.
‘You’re too late, Grandpa,’ he told Seth. ‘She’s putting my picture in that photo frame. And once she’s settled Furious she’s coming back to my grandpa’s box to celebrate, then she’s coming to the Lesters’ with me tomorrow.’
‘Am I?’ asked Trixie excitedly. Seth was looking absolutely livid.
*
Cheltenham racecourse was ringing with the sound of high words. Even Killer turned pale as Shade and Harvey-Holden bawled out him and Johnnie Brutus, who were awaiting news of the length of their bans. ‘How could you be so fucking stupid to get caught out? You’ve probably lost us the Order of Merit.’
‘If you’re not back for the National you’re fired.’
‘The hoss was exhossted,’ protested Killer.
‘Don’t make bloody excuses.’
Rupert was even more drastic. ‘You lost me the bloody Gold Cup, you cunt-struck bastard,’ he was yelling at Rogue. ‘You’d have won it if you’d kept up the momentum. You’re fired. You’ll never ride for me again and I’m going to sue you into the next county for the loss of prize money.’
Olivia Oakridge pretended to be incensed by Killer and Johnnie Brutus’s poor showing but her fury was directed more towards her husband.
‘God, Marius has got hard. Not giving a damn about poor Mrs Wilkinson, only interested in snogging Miss Lloyd-Foxe in the middle of a Gold Cup. Lost the plot completely. No wonder Rogue hit him.’
Chisolm, who’d been intending to snack on the oxblood and mushroom-pink orchids round the Queen Mother’s bronze in the winners enclosure, was even crosser.
A tear-stained Tommy, who’d been ricocheting between hell and heaven, having bandaged and settled Wilkie, was belting back to listen to the press conference when she ran slap into Rafiq, returning to check on Furious. Next moment they had fallen into each other’s arms.
‘Well done, well done, I’m so proud of you and Furious, he ran brilliant,’ cried Tommy, quite giddy with relief.
‘Oh Tommy.’ Rafiq gave a sob as he buried his muddy face in her neck. ‘Wasn’t he wonderful, I miss you so much, please be patient. One day I explain why I’m so cold, for now, please keep away from me,’ but as he reluctantly pushed her from him, from the shadows he saw Vakil leering at them both.
128
Valent’s box was a riot with the CD player blaring out, ‘We Are The Champions’, and the binoculars of half the men in the crowd trained on the balcony where Cindy Bolton and assorted WAGs screamed and tossed their manes in the breeze.
Etta wished she had a stable pass so she could go and console Wilkie and Tommy and congratulate Trixie, Rafiq and Furious. But even more, she longed to go up to Valent’s box and congratulate him, but he was probably still drinking champagne with Lord Vestey and Edward Gillespie in the Royal Box. If he’d really wanted to see her he could have called her on her mobile.
In an overcrowded marquee beyond the weighing room, Valent in fact was controlling the press conference. Having dispatched Rafiq before any awkward questions were asked about his past and Marius before anyone asked him about snogging Amber, Valent, who didn’t want to talk about Bonny, was winding things up.
He needed a drink. His euphoria at winning the Gold Cup had been tempered by Etta not even bothering to ring him. Perhaps she was too gutted about Wilkie.
‘Thanks, guys,’ he said, getting to his feet to a flickering firefly orgy of flashbulbs.
‘What’s the state of play between you and Bonny Richards?’ asked the Scorpion.
‘I can tell you,’ cried a joyful voice and in swept Bonny, looking utterly radiant in her little fawn suit. ‘Valent and I are definitely together. He’s backing me in my fashion dream.’ She did a twirl for the cameras. ‘This is the first in the Bonny Richards Collection.’
Then, floating up to Valent, she seized both his hands, swinging round to the furiously snapping cameras and scribbling journalists: ‘I want to congratulate