Here, to everyone’s delight, Valent honoured his pledge. He offered to buy Mrs Wilkinson for £600,000 and, even better, allowed the syndicate to retain a 1 or a 0.5 per cent share each, ‘so we can keep her in the family, so to speak’.
To this, a majority vote agreed joyfully.
‘And we can still enjoy being part of Wilkie without the uncertainty and expense of the bills,’ said Tilda. ‘Thank you so much, Valent.’
Expecting a party, the syndicate were somewhat deated when Valent immediately pushed off to discuss the new arrangements with Marius.
‘That’s about sixty thousand each,’ worked out Alan, who still hadn’t got to the end of his book.
‘Isn’t he kind?’ sighed Etta, whose eyes Valent hadn’t met once.
‘Pocket money to him,’ mocked Shagger.
130
Journalists were still hanging around outside Throstledown as Valent arrived. Telling them to bugger off, he checked on Wilkie, who was indeed so low she refused a bit of barley sugar.
In the office, Valent found Amber wearing a blue and white striped shirt of Marius’s. Having enquired after her bruises and given her some grapes, Valent also told her to ‘shove off, luv’. His meeting was only with Marius.
Amber retreated upstairs and went on the rampage.
Like Miss Havisham’s house, nothing seemed to have changed since Olivia left. In the wardrobe, Amber found lots of pastels and blacks. Skirts had got shorter since Olivia had left Marius, she’d need to have everything turned up if she wanted to wear them again. Hatboxes were piled under the dressing table, boots under the chaise longue. On the walls were photographs of Olivia with terriers, with India, with horses, jumping them, leading them up, posing with winners. Even her jewels were still in their case.
Had Shade, the control freak, wanted to excise the Marius years and ensure everything Olivia owned had been given her by him?
On the dressing table were bottles of scent, many of which had lost their individual smell through age. One sweet and peppery scent called Silver Rain she remembered smelling on Olivia before the first point-to-point and had occasionally caught wafts of in the paddock. Perhaps Silver Rain had been an affair present from Shade. Olivia had left a bottle of cleansing cream upside down in a loo roll, draining out the last drop. She and Marius must have been terribly short of money. There was arnica for bruises – Amber rubbed some underneath her eye – and even a bra still in the dirty clothes basket, although that could have been Michelle’s.
Loathing herself, Amber found a couple of whisky bottles inside Marius’s bedside cupboard. Inside Olivia’s she found a Dick Francis and Jenny Pitman’s autobiography face down. In a Bible, she found a handsome photograph of Shade and a letter: ‘My darling, Everything awaits you.’ Another picture fell out. Goodness, it was Alan Macbeth, so like Niles in Frasier. Her hand shaking, Amber felt under the cupboard’s lining paper. The pain was ridiculous as she pulled out a photograph and a letter from Rogue, who never wrote letters. ‘Darling Olivia, Sorry I came too soon. Better fuck next time. Yours always, Rogue.’ Amber had heard rumours. God, would she never get over him? She slumped on the bed, face in her hands.
How strange that Marius was so incurious, he’d never bothered to open Pandora’s box. All over the house were pictures and sculptures of horses galloping, yet time seemed to have stopped at the starting gates, waiting for Olivia to come back.
Down in the office, Valent thought how pale and exhausted Marius looked. At the Races, turned up sforzando, was showing a race in Kentucky with lots of little Eddie Aldertons in long white trousers and ankle boots riding large horses which were being ponied down to the start by large men on little ponies.
He knew Marius was anxious to get out to evening stables, so, having accepted a can of beer, he immediately broke the news that he’d bought Mrs Wilkinson.
‘Shouldn’t chuck your money away like that.’
‘Got enough for the rest of my life.’
‘Not if you start buying racehorses,’ said Marius, examining the schooling list for tomorrow.
‘Will you turn the foocking television down and concentrate, Marius? I’ll have to put you in a flooffy noseband.’
‘Stupid time to buy her anyway,’ went on Marius, ‘I’m going to turn her away for the summer. She’s had a long hard season.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Valent, ‘she’s been very lightly raced, only did one round of the Gold Cup. I want her to go in