him on a great victory. I’ve realized I’ve made a terrible mistake. The age gap’s utterly unimportant, it’s you I love, Valent, the journey of Bonny must end here.’
Next moment, she had reached up, put her arms round his neck and pressed her smiling lips against his.
Valent’s face was inscrutable. Then, putting an arm through hers, he frogmarched her towards the exit. ‘Now is not the time or the place,’ he said grimly, ‘I’ve got a win to celebrate and guests up in the box.’
‘Valent, Valent, Bonny, Bonny, Bonny,’ screamed the photographers.
Outside, Valent had to put his arms round her to protect her from the scrum.
Seeing his stony face, Bonny whispered, ‘I just miss you so much. We need to talk. Can’t we go back to London?’
‘I’ll give you a lift. We’ve got to look in at the box first.’
Battling their way through the crowd, Valent didn’t notice a hovering, stricken Etta.
Still incandescent with rage at having lost the Gold Cup, Rupert dropped into the box in search of Valent and found his letcherous old father Eddie in situ and surrounded by WAGs, including a drunken Cindy Bolton. ‘I got a Casanova for Little Miss Muff Diver, Eddie,’ she was screaming, ‘and another for Juicy Snatch.’
‘I got a Casanova for Scottish Girls Wee in Glasgow,’ countered a Celtic Rover WAG in a micro-kilt, ‘and for Splash Gordon.’
‘Oooh, there’s Rupert,’ squawked a third.
‘Rupert, Rupert,’ they all cried, tottering towards him on their six-inch heels.
Christ, thought Rupert, deciding it was better to laugh than cry. Next moment a thunderous-looking Valent entered the box.
‘I’m pushing off,’ Rupert called out to him.
‘Not just yet,’ said a laughing voice. ‘We haven’t met yet, but I’m enchanted to meet you, Rupert – I’m Bonny Richards.’
Marius told Tommy, Trixie and the rest of the lads that they’d all go out to dinner on Monday and celebrate Furious’s victory, but for the moment he was going to take Amber back to Throstledown and put her to bed. They both felt shell-shocked. Rogue had hit him very hard and the medical officer said Amber would be very sore tomorrow. They both needed some peace.
*
Marius’s syndicate meanwhile were most unhappy. They had no box to ply them with free drink. Euphoria that Wilkie was safe had given way, as they came down from champagne, to rage. They’d each lost a fortune. A share of the Gold Cup takings would have brought some of them as much as £20,000, not to mention money from winning bets. Joey with his white heather was the only one who’d backed Furious big time. Would Valent honour his offer to buy Wilkie now she had lost? After the King George, everyone had taken their picture and clamoured to interview them. Now no one seemed interested. How fleeting was fame.
‘I’d never have paid such a fortune for that rocking horse if someone had told me Wilkie hadn’t won,’ wailed Phoebe.
‘Rocking horse’d have more chance,’ snarled Shagger.
As they were leaving, Etta saw Bonny and Valent hurrying towards Valent’s red and grey helicopter and tried not to cry. It had been ridiculous to assume they wouldn’t get back together again.
On their way out, kicking tins, crunching plastic glasses underfoot, avoiding drunks, the syndicate passed the entrance to the stables, where a crowd was hanging over the rails. Reluctant to bid farewell to the festival for another year, they were watching horses being loaded up for the journey home.
A great cheer went up as Furious sauntered out in his black rug which said ‘Totesport Gold Cup Winner’ in big gold letters. His ears were pricked, his eyes confident. ‘I am the king,’ he seemed to say as he looked round at the crowd before bounding on big bandaged legs up the ramp of Marius’s lorry. Here, Trixie tied him up with his head near the driver so his long upper lip could nuzzle Rafiq’s ears.
Then Tommy led out Mrs Wilkinson. For once her white face wasn’t covered by lipstick. She looked bewildered, utterly deflated, her head and tail hanging down.
‘I am the one who gets the praise, the clapping, the patting, the hats and race cards thrown in the air,’ she seemed to say. ‘Am I written off completely?’
For once she loaded instantly, so as not to cause any trouble, but Etta could see her one eye, huge and sweet, anxiously gazing out of the window.
‘She should have been allowed into the winners enclosure,’ wailed Etta, longing to run to her. ‘She looks so sad.’