Horsecars, silver models of jockeys crouched over galloping horses, awaited their recipients. Amber, tipped as leading lady jockey, was too sad still about her father to show up and collect her award, which Rupert would probably accept on her behalf.
Penscombe, to Harvey-Holden’s fury, was expected to do very well. Valent, to everyone’s surprise and disappointment, had made his excuses and flown to Milan to watch Ryan’s team on the first match of a mini-tour. Cuddly Wilkinsons had sold out and the Kowloon factory was working on a virtual reality game in which you imagined yourself on Mrs Wilkinson winning the National. Valent was also fed up with the syndicate, none of whom, except Alban, Alan and Painswick, had bothered to write and thank him for ferrying them up to the National, all assuming it was the privilege of the rich to pick up the bill.
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Richard Phillips, the handsome trainer and the funniest man in racing, was warming up the audience with a joke about one trainer ringing up another trainer, only to be told the tragic news that the second trainer’s wife had just died.
‘Are you going to Towcester?’ asked the first trainer.
‘No, we’re going to bury her,’ said the second trainer.
Howls of laughter greeted this, distracting the audience from the serious business: who was going to win awards?
With so many Irish mates to hail, it took Michael ages to battle his way to the Throstledown and Penscombe table and find Tresa being chatted up by Rupert’s lads. Fortunately Tommy, who would have reproved him for deserting Mrs Wilkinson, had gone off to thank Valent and show him her lovely new dress. Disappointed to find he was in Milan, she got sidetracked talking to Marius and Olivia.
As she had left her second course of roast lamb and dauphinoise potatoes untouched, Michael took her place, scooping them up and helping himself to a large glass of red.
‘You’ll never guess who I saw,’ he whispered to Josh. ‘Rafiq.’
‘Christ, where?’
‘Rolled up at the stables. Offered to keep an eye on Wilkie.’
‘Is that wise? Million-pound horse now.’
‘She’ll be OK, I’ll go back in a minute.’ Michael helped himself to another drink and forked up another mouthful of dauphinoise.
Like napalm, the news flickered round the table, until it reached Tresa, stunning in her black cross-laced dress, as always on her mobile but smoky eyes undressing Michael as she did every man.
‘Oh look, there’s Zara Phillips,’ said Josh. ‘She’s well fit, I wouldn’t mind …’
‘Nor would I,’ said Michael. ‘Oh, here comes Tommy, she looks lush too, I should have made a move at the National. I better go. I’ll call you later.’ He buried his lips in Tresa’s soft white shoulder.
Smirking Tresa switched off her mobile. The moment Michael had disappeared into the melee, over the raucous applause for Katie Price mounting the platform to hand out the Jump Ride of the Year award, she shouted across to Tommy, ‘Guess who’s looking after Wilkie?’
‘Michael is.’
‘He is not, he’s just left this table. It’s your friend Rafiq.’ Tommy knocked over her glass of red, dousing two candles with a hiss, as she leapt to her feet:
‘You’re winding me up.’
‘Go and look.’
Charging through the diners and then the crowd round the roulette tables, past equine stars looking down with unseeing eyes in the Hall of Fame, out through the double doors, breathing in the cool night air after the heat, Tommy ran towards the stables and was just crying, ‘Rafiq, Rafiq,’ when a colossal explosion rocked the entire racecourse. Tommy felt a searing pain in her left shoulder as shock waves blew her off her feet.
Complete pandemonium followed. As dinner-jacketed and bare-shouldered diners stormed the doors and fought their way out of the hall, a smothering tornado of black smoke could be seen rising from the stables.
‘Wilkie! Rafiq!’ screamed Tommy, her lovely lace dress shredded, her shoulder spurting blood. She staggered to her feet and, wiping more blood out of her eyes, stumbled in the direction of the stables.
‘Please move away from the hall into the centre of the car park,’ said a voice over the tannoy. As the building emptied of guests, waiters and waitresses, one was still clutching the plates she’d been clearing from the table.
Searching desperately through the gloom, Tommy could see little flickers of flame rising from the blackness as straw and wood caught fire. There was a dreadful stench of burning. As if some giant chimney sweep had been at work, everything was coated in soot.