on Valent. But if Lester Bolton could afford to buy twenty acres of his wood, he might be up for some horses. Harvey-Holden crossed the room.
As Shade Murchieson, who hadn’t bothered to wear a tie, waited in the doorway for admiring recognition, Cindy Bolton looked wildly excited, further messed up her blonde hair and jacked up her breasts.
‘Phwoar, he’s well fit.’
‘Aren’t you cold? I’ve brought you a cardigan,’ said Ione, waving a dishcloth-grey relic.
‘I’m fine.’ Cindy had no wish to hide any lights under bushels. ‘This is the kit I wore to the Grand National, which was even colder than your home, Ione. Lester and I love horseracing.’
Shade Murchieson had an even vaster carbon footprint than Valent Edwards. Having made a fortune selling weapons that had bombed the hell out of Iraq, he’d just secured a massive contract to take part in the rebuilding of that country. Here was an opportunity for conversion and donation.
‘Welcome to Willowwood, Mr Murchieson,’ said Ione warmly. ‘We must talk later. Get him a drink please, Dora.’
‘What’s this?’ asked Shade, as he took a slug a minute later. ‘Yak’s piss?’
Mop Idol, next in the queue, rushed up and offered Shade some parsnip chips.
‘He keeps those on his shoulder,’ said Alan waspishly. ‘The big creep.’
Martin rushed up next.
‘Shade, Shade.’ He pumped Shade’s huge ringed hand with both of his. ‘So grateful you came to Dad’s funeral. Sampson Bancroft,’ he added when Shade looked blank.
‘Oh, Sampson.’ Shade nodded. ‘Clever guy, tried to persuade him to have a horse in training.’
‘Bit chancy for Dad.’ Martin laughed heartily. ‘If you’ve got a mo, I’d love to discuss his fund, such a heartbreaking illness,’ but Shade had murmured excuses and set off in pursuit of Olivia, who was talking to Etta.
‘You must come over and see the horses again. India loved Poppy.’
‘When’s Preston running again?’ asked Etta.
‘In about ten days’ time, come and watch him. Dora,’ hissed Olivia, ‘can you find Shade something slightly less repulsive to drink?’
‘Leave it to me.’ Dora glided off.
Olivia introduced Etta to Shade, who said he’d heard she’d moved to Willowwood and in a rich, deep, very put-on voice asked her how she was getting on.
‘OK? Good.’ Then turning back to Olivia, who was refusing a slice of lentil bake: ‘You ought to eat, darling, you haven’t had anything since breakfast.’
‘Except you,’ murmured Olivia.
Goodness, thought Etta, that’s why Shade’s horses had all gone to Marius. She said how sorry she was about Snowball’s Chance.
‘Horrible.’ Olivia bit her lip. ‘I try not to love them, but you can’t not with horses. I’d only known her a few days, but enough to adore her. One moment the world was at her feet, the next she’s a lump of dead meat.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, sweetheart.’ Shade put an arm round her shoulders.
‘Can’t you smell the testosterone? Must come from handling two billion.’
Hearing Shagger’s voice, Etta thought he must be talking about Shade, until Shagger added, ‘Make a cracking bloke.’
‘Cracking the whip more likely,’ said Toby Weatherall gloomily.
Turning round, Etta saw Carrie in the doorway. She wore a black velvet trouser suit and a white silk shirt, her short rain-soaked black hair brushed back from her forehead. How pale, tense and tired she looked, thought Etta helplessly. If only I understood big business and could discuss her latest deal with her.
Nodding to Alan, seeing her mother was talking to the great Shade Murchieson, Carrie crossed the room and pecked her cheek.
‘Where’s Trixie?’
‘Babysitting for Martin and Romy.’
‘She OK?’
‘In great form, come home to revise.’
‘Pigs would fly.’ Carrie raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘You OK?’
‘Fine,’ said Etta.
‘Odd to see you without Dad.’ Then, totally ignoring Olivia, Carrie congratulated Shade on his Iraq contract and started to quiz him about a possible Japanese recession.
‘Here’s a whisky for Shade,’ whispered Dora, who’d been making notes in the kitchen. ‘I’ve put in a couple of cloves to make it look authentic. For God’s sake don’t let on to Ione.’
Harvey-Holden was outraged when his sales pitch to Lester Bolton was interrupted by the Major and Old Mrs Malmesbury, whom he wanted to offload.
‘Are you a jockey, like Ralph?’ Mrs Malmesbury asked Lester Bolton. ‘You’re the right height. Lose a few pounds though.’ Seeing Lester turn purple, Harvey-Holden said quickly, ‘And I’m no longer a jockey, Mrs M. I’m a trainer, so I get far more nervous.’
‘What’s this about you buying North Wood, Lester?’ asked Major Cunliffe, in his role of chairman of the Parish Council. ‘Hope you’re not planning to develop. Price of timber’s rocketing, even