‘Too late, it’s all been handicapped. And she’s much too small.’
‘You entered her and Furious ages ago.’
‘Painswick did. I never had any intention of running her, unless she’d missed the Gold Cup or hadn’t won the King George. They announce the National weights in the middle of Feb, after the King George in fact, which means she’d be top weight. You can’t expect her to carry 11 st 10 lb, 10 lb more than Playboy. I’ve lost too many horses in that race.’
‘Why are you running Sir Cuthbert then?’ asked Valent sulkily.
‘Because we’ve finally got him right, he’s twice as big as Wilkie and he stays for ever. Wilkie’s too gutsy, her heart’s too big. I’m not running her. If you’re determined to take her to Aintree, enter her in the Mares Only on Friday.’
Marius topped up his whisky without water, turned up the television and picked up the Racing Post.
Valent flipped. ‘Turn that foocking TV down.’
Despite his great generosity, Valent was first and foremost a major player who always aimed for the top. Ryan was back in his life, excited at the prospect, and there were 500,000 cuddly Wilkinsons to shift out of the starting stalls.
The Gold Cup was the mecca of the National Hunt world, but the National was something else. Every housewife in England had a pound on it, 600 million people watched it on television. It was an Everest with vast romantic and historical associations. Valent also remembered Etta saying she still read National Velvet once a year.
‘Wilkie’ll make a fortune as a brood mare if she even runs well in the National.’
‘Rubbish.’ Marius looked up from the Racing Post. ‘Great race mares don’t necessarily make good brood mares.’
‘Aintree would love to have her,’ said Valent proudly. ‘It’d be great box office to take her there. Aintree’s flat, it would suit her better. You know, Marius, the Gold Cup’s for horses with a great cruising speed and a turn of foot which Wilkie doesn’t have. National’s for out-and-out stayers. Anyway, small horses tend to jump more carefully and concentrate.’
Marius looked at him beadily.
‘You’ve been talking to Rupert.’ Valent drained his beer and got up.
‘I’m sorry, Marius, Wilkie’s going in for the National.’
‘She is bloody not. It’s less than three weeks away. Don’t tell me how to train horses, Valent, go back to inventing robots and importing toys.’
Valent glanced at a photograph of Olivia taking part in the Ashcombe point-to-point – she and Bafford Playboy stretched over an open ditch.
‘National’s only an oopmarket point-to-point,’ he said.
Hearing shouting and Valent’s car storming off down the drive, Amber shoved back drawers and ran downstairs.
‘Everything OK?’
Marius, pouring himself another large whisky, couldn’t speak for rage. Mistletoe cowered under the desk.
Amber crouched down to stroke her. ‘Whatever’s happened?’
‘Valent’s taking Furious and Mrs Wilkinson to Rupert.’
‘He what!’ Amber was aghast. ‘They’ll loathe it, he’s far too rough on horses. Like going to Borstal.’
‘He’s entering them both in the Grand National,’ said Marius bleakly.
‘He can’t,’ whispered Amber. ‘Rupert doesn’t approve of women jockeys. He can’t put up that spoilt brat Eddie Alderton, he wouldn’t get her over the first fence. Nor will Furious ever run for Eddie or Rogue.’
‘Rogue’s banned until after the National.’
‘Wilkie’s uptight enough as it is. If he takes her away from Tommy and all her friends, it’ll destroy her. And what the hell will it do to Rafiq? How dare Valent do that, after all you’ve done for Furious and Wilkie.’ She put her arms round him. ‘Come to bed. I’ll make it better.’
But later, when she put her lips round his cock, nothing happened.
‘Flag’s the only thing going up round here,’ said Marius bitterly.
Rogue came out of the cottage in Penscombe, from which Rupert had evicted him, to find the paparazzi out in force. Why had he turned his horse round, why had he hit Marius? Was he gutted because Amber had shacked up with Marius?
Rogue shrugged, ‘I guess on the day I was beaten by a better horse,’ and jumping into his Ferrari, he drove straight at the paps, sending them leaping for their lives.
He had screwed up the best job in racing and probably his best chance of winning the National. His shoulder was giving him hell, but nothing like the pain of being banned for a month. To avoid the press, he decided to go on holiday and flew out to Portugal. Having sat on the beach for ten minutes, surrounded by vast women with massive tattooed thighs, he decided to fly home