the production company Sunset and Vine. Having breakfasted royally at long tables covered with blue gingham cloths, they were flipping through pink running sheets and easing bacon out of their teeth, as the day ahead was scrupulously mapped out.
‘There were a few hairs out of place yesterday,’ said Dermot, the young, good-looking programme producer, whose own hair was gelled upwards like a hedgehog rolled in olive oil, ‘but it will be fine today.’
Everyone had been very welcoming, but Rogue was aware how cast down they all were by the absence of Billy Lloyd-Foxe. Despite the cock-ups and the outspokenness – ‘That jockey couldn’t get a jump in a brothel’ – Billy had been so engaging, good-hearted and adored by the public.
Rogue had been asked a lot about Wilkie and whether Rupert would transform her. He had also been subjected to a lot of ribbing about turning Lusty round and thumping Marius. Discussing the run-up to the race, Dermot the producer, over the noise of the racecourse generator, was briefing the presenters: ‘You’ll each have a camera in the parade ring, so grab any jockey coming towards you.’
‘Bags I grab Amber Lloyd-Foxe,’ said Robert Cooper.
‘Not if you don’t want to get laid out by Rogue,’ quipped Richard Pitman.
‘Don’t rise,’ murmured Jim McGrath, the genial commentator, who was busy trying to memorize all the colours.
Rogue didn’t rise. One day he would be forced to give up racing. He didn’t want to screw up a potentially lucrative career in television before it had even started.
The production team had secretly decided that, bearing in mind Rogue’s volatile disposition, he’d better not be let loose in the parade ring with a roving mike in case he got into a fight with Rupert or Marius. So apart from the odd assignment round the racecourse, he would be positioned in the ‘studio’, a raised desk near the parade ring, where his input on the day’s events would be invaluable ‘and we can kill his mike if he suddenly goes over the top’.
‘We must come to him a lot,’ said Deirdre, a production assistant, ‘he’s so gorgeous-looking. Really interesting if he could interview Rupert or Amber.’
Down the table, a group of Sloanes in looped pashminas, hair in little knots on the crowns of their heads, were also gazing at Rogue in wonder. Known as ‘spotters’, recruited from their local hunts, they would later be stationed by each National fence, armed with radios to feed through to the BBC and the Aintree PR service the news of any fallers.
‘Haven’t you ridden a race on Mrs Wilkinson, Rogue?’ they asked eagerly.
‘We never started,’ grinned Rogue. ‘I was silly enough to give her a smack at the start and she dragged me off under the rails. She’s tough.’
‘Would you like to come to our party tonight?’
In the dark blue control room next door, a wall of monitors showed the director everything, policemen turning to watch the Liverpool ladies arriving in their finery, wonderful sepia film of charismatic past winners coming out of peeling stables, the paddock, the bookies, the stewards, jockeys in the weighing room reading about themselves in the Racing Post, snatching sleep on benches, Johnnie Brutus admiring himself in the mirror, Awesome Wells struggling with the crossword.
‘Pretty tame this year,’ giggled Deirdre, ‘without Rogue dropping his trousers and flashing his tackle all the time.’
‘Basically,’ Dermot, glancing down at the running sheet, told the marquee, ‘this is where we move into position for the big race, so grab any winning trainers and ask them for their take on the National and on Rupert’s three-thousandth win.’
It was not worth even Clare Balding approaching Rupert, Dermot added regretfully. He’d only tell her to eff off.
‘He wouldn’t even let us film Mrs Wilkinson at Penscombe,’ grumbled Deirdre.
‘We’ll be showing film of Tipperary Tim winning eighty years ago,’ went on Dermot. ‘Any anecdotes about Tipperary Tim, Rogue?’
But Rogue wasn’t listening because on the monitor he could see Amber being interviewed, lovely pink lips parted over lovely white teeth, soon to be covered by a gum shield. Dear God, don’t let a hair of her head be hurt. I’ve broken every bone in my body, he thought despairingly, why can’t I recover from a broken heart?
‘Now we move on to Richard Dunwoody and Rogue discussing iconic moments in the Grand National,’ Dermot was saying, giving Rogue a stab of regret. He’d have liked to create one of those moments himself. He must get his career back on track.