‘Will you fucking well stop ringing my lads and my jockeys, giving them totally conflicting instructions and pestering them for information on my horses?’
‘They’re my horses, remember that,’ shouted back Shade, ‘and as I pay you an inordinate amount to train them, I expect you to deliver occasionally.’
‘How can I, with you hanging round the yard, butting in, wrecking morale, ordering them not to try? Don’t push me, Shade, or I’ll call the police. And stay away from my wife.’
For a second Amber thought the man in the bottle-green check coat was going to hit Shade, then he swung round and half strode, half stumbled past her. And Amber caught her breath because, despite being white with anguish and fury, he was lovely looking, like a Croatian male model, with slanting dark eyes, high cheekbones and a beautiful passionate mouth.
Then she realized it was Marius Oakridge, who was having another horrendous run of form. What were he and Shade doing here? Glancing down at her race card, she discovered Olivia Oakridge was riding Bafford Playboy, which she had a feeling Shade had bought at a vast price from Ralph Harvey-Holden and which was now being trained by Marius. Flipping through the rest of the field, she reckoned Playboy would win. Olivia, despite her kittenish exterior, took no prisoners.
Looking up, Amber saw that Shade had got back into his Mercedes, number SM1, and was smiling into his mobile.
Where the hell was Dora?
‘My horse, my horse, a kingdom for a horse,’ grumbled Amber.
At last a much graffitied white lorry rumbled into the car park, and Joey and Woody jumped out and rushed off to declare. They were followed by an ancient Polo containing Chisolm, who’d travelled all the way with her head on a tear-stained Etta’s shoulder.
‘I’m here,’ Amber leapt out.
‘I’m so, so sorry,’ said Etta, handing her the silks. ‘Mrs Wilkinson refused to load. Dora should be here any moment.’ Then, trying not to cry: ‘You won’t use your whip on her, will you?’
Amber felt so sorry for her she said she’d guard Mrs Wilkinson with her life.
Fighting through the crowd, Amber changed in a freezing tent with a cracked mirror. Nor did the clashing reddy brown and purple do anything for her flushed hungover face. At least Mrs Wilkinson as an unraced mare with a woman rider only had to carry 11 stone 2 lb, as opposed to the 11 stone 12 of Bafford Playboy, who’d won two point-to-points in Ireland.
As Amber carried her saddle in the direction of the roped-off circle serving as a paddock, she was flabbergasted to see from the bookies’ boards that Mrs Wilkinson was joint favourite with Playboy at 5–1.
‘Hello, Amber, just put a lot of money on you,’ whinnied Toby Weatherall, raising his brown curly-brimmed hat. ‘Terrific write-up in the Racing Post.’
‘In Rupert Campbell-Black’s column, no less,’ chirped Phoebe. ‘You are lucky to have friends in high places. Do introduce us, Rupert’s so gorgeous and his son Xavier’s riding in the same race as you.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Here.’ Toby thrust the Post at Amber. Rupert’s cold, beautiful, unsmiling face headed the column, which ended with a paragraph urging everyone to hotfoot it down to the West Larks point-to-point, where Amber, an extremely promising amateur jockey, daughter of his old friend and iconic showjumper Billy Lloyd-Foxe, would be riding Mrs Wilkinson, a brilliant novice, in the members’ race.
‘Oh my God.’ Amber flushed even more with pleasure and dropped the Racing Post, which promptly blew away. ‘Rupert’s never, ever encouraged me before. No wonder the odds have shortened. I can’t believe it.’
Nor could Rupert, who was incandescent with rage but could hardly admit to the racing world that his column had been ghosted by a schoolgirl.
Next moment Richard Pitman had jumped out of a car. ‘Hi, Amber, tell me about this wonder horse.’
‘She should be here any minute,’ said Amber.
Dora had great difficulty holding up an utterly traumatized Mrs Wilkinson, who’d cantered or galloped most of the way. She was only now slowed down by the racing traffic still flooding into the ground, so Dora rode her along the verges. She certainly wouldn’t win the turnout prize, her coat ruffled with sweat, her legs and white face mud-splattered.
Willowwood had turned out in force, enjoying communal hospitality from the Travis-Lock boot, where Chris was serving Bull Shots, red wine and chicken soup. Phoebe was sitting on the Land-Rover bonnet, telling everyone that she’d just learnt that naughty Amber had been at an