by Jilly Cooper
Next moment, they’d bumped into Cosmo on the way to the parade ring for the next race. Cosmo who’d always had a yen for Taggie, now raised his Panama to her, saying smoothly, ‘Congratulations are in order.’
‘Not from you, you horrible man,’ gasped Taggie. ‘Don’t you ever call my husband a has-been again.’
After Quickly had been hosed down and dried off and Edward Whitaker had taken a flash photograph of him in his Nunthorpe winner’s rug with Purrpuss on his back, a still-giggling, shell-shocked Lark and Marketa started packing up, preparing to load the horses into the lorry, which Gav was driving back to Penscombe.
Gav was unbelievably touched that Rupert had told the press that he, Gav, was entirely responsible for Quickly’s victory. Gav had even managed to stumble a few words out himself. He was touched too that Rupert had invited him to join them for a celebratory dinner, but had refused because he couldn’t get pissed like everyone else. He didn’t mind because he wanted to get Quickly, Dave and Safety Car safely home, so the lorry could turn round and bring back Rupert’s other horses, particularly Fleance, who were racing tomorrow. He was so happy with the way things had turned out. Both the Gimcrack and the Nunthorpe had unearthed future champions and the Gimcrack in particular had been won by Mill Reef and Rock of Gibraltar.
The celebrations would probably be over by the time he got home, but later he could watch the races over and over again.
At Penscombe, Eddie was surprised how jealous he felt, seeing Gav hugging Lark, and how nice and understanding it would have been to fall into bed with her that evening.
‘Lark’s got further than any of us,’ sighed Gee Gee. ‘Isn’t Gav heaven when he smiles? I wonder if she’s pulled him.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ spat Celeste.
Everyone in the world seemed to be having a ball except her. She had noticed, however, how furious Cosmo and Isa had been that New Year’s Dave had beaten I Will Repay. Later, she texted Gav: ‘Good thing Isa and Cosmo don’t know Dave’s a three-year-old,’ and, as Gav swung off the motorway, taking the exit for Cheltenham, all the euphoria drained out of him.
30
The festival ended gloriously for Penscombe, with three-year-old snow-white Fleance defeating mighty older horses including Cosmo’s Herb Roberto by winning the 1 mile 6 furlong Ebor Stakes, which clocked up another £200,000 for the yard and confirmed Rupert as Leading Trainer of the meeting and Love Rat its Leading Sire.
Knowing he wouldn’t approve of her treating with the enemy, Dora waited until the dark-blue helicopter carrying a euphoric Rupert and Taggie had taken off for Penscombe before having an early-evening drink with her old friend Cosmo Rannaldini at his hotel.
Downing a bottle of Krug, they sat in a bar watching happy home-going racegoers, the men tieless, their shirts no longer tucked into waistbands, the women carrying hats and high heels, limping past in bare tattooed feet.
Cosmo and Dora had been friends from school, where Dora had been aware of Cosmo’s iniquities, but secretly flattered to be singled out by a boy, three years her senior, who bullied everyone but herself. They laughed at each other’s jokes, shared secrets and Dora had made a considerable sum selling Cosmo’s and other pupils’ more outrageous exploits to the press. Cosmo had won her eternal gratitude when he gave her illegal immigrant chocolate Labrador, Cadbury, sanctuary in his study and was even more amused when Cadbury devoured his entire stash of cannabis. Cosmo’s aim in life was to make as much money and mischief as possible.
As he topped up Dora’s glass, Cosmo appeared most interested in the goings-on at Penscombe. Not only was he incensed that Rupert had emerged as Leading Trainer and Love Rat as Leading Sire of the meeting, but even angrier that Rupert had been hitting on Mrs Walton.
‘Bloody Campbell-Black, thinks he’s got a divine right to all women. A light to lighten the genitals. He’s nearly sixty, for Christ’s sake.’
‘He’s only winding you up,’ said Dora, hoovering up peanuts. ‘He does the same to pikestaff-plain Enid Northfield just to bug Rodders. It’s your fault for being horrible to him, saying he couldn’t train ivy up a wall and Love Rat’s a yak.’
‘He’s nearly sixty,’ Cosmo repeated, and smiled evilly.
‘But still beautiful,’ mused Dora. ‘The best-dressed woman on Ladies’ Day asked if she could have him instead of a car.’ Then, seeing Cosmo’s face darken, she added hastily: ‘I expect Rupert’s a bit jealous. You make such a glamorous couple, and Mrs Walton is soooo beautiful. What’s it like, living with Helen of Toyboy?’ Then seeing Cosmo looking even blacker: ‘Is it difficult having someone so much older?’
‘I’ve always been old for my age.’ Cosmo was checking his messages.
‘You’re doing so well at the moment,’ continued Dora, knowing Rupert would be delighted if she could find out who was bankrolling Cosmo. ‘You’re got such amazing horses. Hiring Tarqui and Ash must cost a fortune – and did you really spend nearly two million for that yearling at Deauville?’
Cosmo raised an eyebrow. ‘Sure Rupert didn’t ask you to pump me?’
‘No, no, they’ve gone home.’
Cosmo admired the blonde curls, the tiny nose, the large but speculative blue eyes, the sweet pink mouth. Dora was really pretty.
‘How are you and Paris?’ he asked.
‘Sounds an awful touch-wood thing to say, but we trust each other, so Paris can get on with acting and getting a First at Cambridge, and I with my PR and journalism, without worrying about each other.’
Did she catch a flicker of envy in Cosmo’s face?
‘Why don’t you make it up with Rupert – send him a card congratulating him on being Leading Trainer.’
‘Don’t be fatuous, he’d light his cigars with it. Tell me about the adorable Taggie.’
‘She is, isn’t she? She’s less stressed these days because Old Eddie’s carer, Gala Milburn, takes a lot of work off her.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘She’s very voluptuous, with lovely sleepy brown eyes. Everyone wants to cheer her up – Young Eddie, little Jemmy, Mike, Pat and Gav.’
‘Gav won’t be much good to her.’
‘I love Gav,’ protested Dora. ‘He’s worked marvels with the horses, all the stable lasses are crazy about him.’
‘Fat lot of good it’ll do them. He can’t get it up – erectile dysfunction.’
‘Don’t be horrible,’ said Dora, then she giggled. ‘Rupert’s got tile dysfunction. Taggie feeds such lush food to the birds, they hang about on the roof with their beaks watering all day, dislodging tiles.’
She shot a sideways glance at Cosmo, who told her not to be so silly then asked: ‘Does Rupert fancy this Gala?’
‘Not obviously. She and Rupert spar a lot because she sticks up for people he bawls out. But he doesn’t mind her bringing Old Eddie down most days to see Love Rat and he’d never let Eddie’s other carers near the place. Plus he lets her ride out sometimes.’
‘Hmm …’ said Cosmo. ‘What about the Wolverhampton Wanderer? The one he banished for shagging the stable lass after that win.’
‘Oh, Young Eddie. Gone back to Palm Beach. He’s a brilliant jockey but he lacks the work ethic. Taggie’ll plead for him, so I expect he’ll be allowed back soon.’ Dora looked at her watch. ‘They should be home now.’
‘All things bright and beautiful, all horses great and small,’ sang Lark all the way home. She was so proud of Quickly, Dave and Fleance: Love Rat’s Three Musketeers. People kept texting her and leaving messages. Back home, having settled the horses, she went into the tack room to find the Racing Post open at reports on the races, her name Lark Tolland listed as the groom, and a joyful picture of her flinging her arms around Quickly after the Nunthorpe.
‘Reading all about yourself?’ observed Celeste nastily. ‘You missed a wild party last night. Everyone got tiddly and off with everyone. Eddie Alderton …’
Lark jumped like a startled hare. Eddie was in Palm Beach, surely?
&nbs
p; ‘How w-w-was he?’
‘Much the same. Got hammered and ended up finally shagging Gala.’
‘Gala? Are you sure?’
‘He’s always had the hots for her – not that he’s choosy; any porthole in a storm.’
Sadness overwhelmed Lark, but what right had she to mind? Stumbling out of the tack room she went slap into Dora who’d just flown down with Etta and Valent, and who asked why she was crying.
‘I don’t know, I’m just tired, I guess.’ Then when pressed, confessed that she’d just learnt that Eddie had gone to bed with Gala.
‘I’m sure he didn’t. He sees her as a mum – they’re friends.’
‘Celeste said.’
‘She is such a bitch. Her only aim is to prick people’s bubbles.’
A furious Dora later sought out Celeste, who was holding court in the Dog and Trumpet.
‘Pretty name, Celeste,’ Shaheed, a new Pakistani stable lad, was telling her.
‘My mother loved an actress in High Society called Celeste Holm, and named me after her,’ simpered Celeste.
‘Celeste was the Elephant Queen in the Babar books,’ announced Dora. ‘She was a lovely character so you can’t be named after her,’ at which everyone laughed.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ snapped Celeste.
‘There’s nothing lovely about your character,’ snapped back Dora. ‘“Mean” is the operative word, telling poor Lark, who’s crazy about Eddie, that he shagged Gala last night. Can’t wait to check that out with Gala.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ hissed Celeste.
31
Quickly emerged from his trip to York in fighting form, bucking and squealing and definitely grander. He knew that he’d won and, turned out in the fields, he bossed the other horses more than ever. He even took to leaning over the fence and pulling off Dave’s fly-sheet, leaving his gentle half-brother exposed to all the summer bugs.
By winning the Nunthorpe, Quickly had qualified at the end of October for the Breeders’ Cup, America’s most illustrious race meeting, and would receive free entry, a guaranteed start gate and $40,000 in travel expenses.
Geoffrey, who came third in the Gimcrack, only beaten by Dave and I Will Repay, had also qualified but not for travel expenses, and as vile Brute had already blued all Geoffrey’s prize money, a heartbroken Rosaria could no longer afford to send him; the gallops had to be maintained, the horses fed and wages paid.
Quickly would be racing in the Breeders’ Cup Juvenile Sprint for two-year-old colts and geldings, with a tempting £348,387 for the winner. Gavin spent hours walking Quickly in and out of planes, getting him used to flying.
‘He’d like a window seat,’ said Dora.
But when the day came and he, Lark and Safety Car, the comfort blanket, left in huge excitement for the airport, Quickly set about the wholesale demolition of the plane, even before it took off. Just like his mother, Mrs Wilkinson, who had also refused to fly, nothing would calm him. Back home in total disgrace, Purrpuss the cat was the only thing prepared to miaow to him.
To add insult to injury, I Will Repay came second in the Juvenile Sprint.
As the flat season was drawing to a close, to keep his hoof in, Quickly was entered for an all-weather race at Kempton. Sulking because Rupert had put him in a tougher bit so Meerkat could stop him bolting, despite the patience of the loaders patting and petting him, Quickly proceeded to lie down again in the starting stalls.
As a result of such appalling behaviour, he was asked to take a stalls test. This involved arriving a week later, half an hour before racing began at Rutminster. A steward would be present, seeking evidence that Quickly was capable of loading quietly, standing in the stalls for three minutes and, when the gate opened, galloping down the track. Alas, the steward turned out to be Roddy Northfield. Naughty Quickly, who didn’t like Roddy’s bellowed instructions, promptly lay down again, idly picking at the grass before rolling over on his side and pretending to go to sleep, once again reducing the loaders to fits of laughter.
Consequently, Rupert was fined heavily and Quickly banned from racing for six months, the only redeeming feature being that the ban lasted over the winter, which would give Gav a chance to sort Quickly out before the 2000 Guineas at the beginning of May.
On the good side, Love Rat’s progeny, particularly New Year’s Dave, had had such a brilliant year that the stallion had leapt six places in the Leading Sire charts, to just behind Roberto’s Revenge – so things were looking promising for when the results would be announced at the end of December.
32
The time in December had now arrived for Rupert to return to York and, as the winning owner of the Gimcrack Stakes, to deliver a key speech on the state of racing at the incredibly prestigious white-tie Gimcrack dinner.
For many owners this had been a terrifying ordeal in which they’d only stumbled out a few sentences. Other speeches had been highly contentious, sparking off rows ending up in the High Court or with powerful sheikhs threatening to take their horses away from Britain altogether.
‘Not sure if we ought to let Campbell-Black loose,’ blustered Roddy Northfield, a long-term Gimcrack stalwart. ‘Always driven down bus lanes, bound to cause havoc and say a host of inflammatory things. Etta Edwards, the co-owner, is the most delightful woman – why don’t we ask her? I could brief her, or her husband Valent Edwards – bit of a rough diamond but sound ideas.’
Etta, however, who had no desire to fall at the first fence, insisted the task was left to Rupert. This year, as well as one hundred and twenty men, august members of the racing world, six women had been invited, including Taggie.
As she and Rupert walked out to the helipad at Penscombe, Rupert noticed Celeste, yakking on her mobile, riding past on Dorothy the grey practice mare, and crossed himself. A red-head on a white horse always foretold disaster.
‘What the hell are you doing on Dorothy?’ he yelled.
‘Just popping into the village for a birthday card.’
‘Well, get off her and bloody well walk.’
Worried that some terrible accident might befall them, Gav felt passionate relief when Rupert, with a host of instructions, rang to say they’d landed at York.
‘Good luck,’ said Gav.
The Gimcrack dinner was held in York’s Old County stand, a lovely Victorian domed dining room with red and green curtains, a green carpet and big gold chandeliers.
At the bottom of the room hung a huge portrait of James Melrose, Chairman of York Racecourse Committee for over fifty years; he had a sweet face and a white rose in his button-hole. At the top end hung Stubbs’ lovely portrait of Gimcrack, the gallant little grey colt after whom the club had been named, who had won twenty-seven out of thirty-six races back in the eighteenth century. Held by a groom in a black hat and a stylish long beige coat, the equally stylish Gimcrack had very slim legs, blue eyes and a flowing white tail held at a jaunty angle.
‘He reminds me of Quickly,’ cried a delighted Taggie.
‘Let’s hope Quickly leaves the same footprints on racing’s landscape,’ said Rupert.
The great and the good, many of them in hunting tail-coats, sat around and up the insides of a table shaped like a horseshoe. Rupert at the top with Gimcrack’s portrait behind him was between his friend Lord Grimthorpe, the Chairman of the racecourse, and a local stud-owner, Lord Halifax.
Five seats away, his tail-coat straining to contain his hulking shoulders, Roddy Northfield, representing the British Racing Association and Rutminster Racecourse, looked on in outrage, anticipating trouble. Enid hadn’t made the cut and Roddy forbore to hand on her message, ‘to give special luck and love to Rupert’.
In the old days, winning owners were expected to provide six dozen bottles of champagne, but today only the fireworks. Taggie, down the table between the charming Nick Luck of Channel 4 and her favourite trainer, Tommy Westerham, was having a lovely time. She was really pleased with her new dress, silver-grey silk to match her eyes, and it
was heaven to eat something she hadn’t cooked herself. She couldn’t read the menu so every delicious mouthful had been a surprise: warm duck and orange ravioli; halibut, crab and scallops in a wonderful pink shellfish bisque; chocolate brioche with ice cream; and Welsh rarebit, all accompanied by unbelievable wine. She had therefore really stuffed her face and drank every drop of offered Pouilly Fumé, Fleurie, champagne and brandy, and was now as giggly as a teenager at her first party. The men round the table were having a lovely time looking at Taggie.
‘What are you going to talk about, Rupert?’ asked Lord Grimthorpe. ‘Rachel Hood was awfully good last year.’
‘Hood was good, Hood was good,’ murmured Rupert as he got up to speak.
Taggie in turn thought he had never looked handsomer or happier because of the brilliant year he had had. The white tie and tails set off a magnificent Far Eastern tan.
‘Remember there are ladies present,’ warned Roddy Northfield.
‘Gimcrack, winner of twenty-seven races, was admired by the public for his fighting spirit. Only fourteen hands, he once ran twenty-two and a half miles in an hour, with twelve and a half stone on his back. He was also a great star at stud,’ began Rupert idly, ‘and was probably a rival of my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather’s stallion Third Leopard, who won the St Leger and was Leading Sire for five years towards the end of the eighteenth century.
‘The Gimcrack has a proud history of great winners, like Mill Reef, Caspar Netscher, Showcasing – and none potentially greater than my own New Year’s Dave. As a result of his and Master Quickly’s sensational victories, Love Rat’s foals and yearlings have been setting the sale rings alight this autumn. Love Rat is the sire whose name you want on your passport.’
‘Oh, cut out the commercial, Rupert,’ shouted Tommy Westerham, pelting him with petits fours.
