by Jilly Cooper
Cosmo found Sauvignon useful for manipulating people. Mrs Walton, his mistress, detested her. Used to drawing the glance of every passing man, how mortifying when they instead all looked at Sauvignon.
Sauvignon Smithson’s mission in life was to marry a vast amount of money.
34
Rupert’s hangover after his Gimcrack speech was further punished by furious telephone calls.
From his first wife, Helen: ‘How dare you say those outrageous things about the mother of your children?’
From Tory Lovell’s sister, Fen, about to fly over from America: ‘How dare you slag off Jake like that and resurrect his affair with Helen, the one thing that crucifies Tory? She’s in pieces. How come you’re such a bitch, Rupert?’
From his gentle son, Marcus, in Moscow and his volatile daughter, Tabitha, in Germany: ‘How can you be so vile about Mum?’
Rupert was wondering if he could keep down a cup of black coffee when he was cheered by an email confirming that Quickly and Dave were entered for next year’s Derby, and Dave was favourite.
Wandering into the kitchen in search of Alka Seltzer, he winced at the smell of a bowl of Whiskas that Taggie had put on the kitchen table, so Purrpuss could eat in peace away from the dogs.
‘You OK?’ she asked.
‘Ish. Everyone’s incandescent that I slagged off Helen. I must have been pissed.’
‘Can I tell you something utterly shaming?’ Taggie put her arms around him, hanging her head so he couldn’t see her face beneath her dark cloud of hair. ‘I absolutely adored you slagging off Helen. Everyone always goes on about how beautiful and clever she is, and she’s always been so patronizing and made me feel so thick. It was such heaven, hearing you say how up herself she is, and then such blissful things about me.’ Her gruff voice trembled. ‘Is that awful of me?’
‘No, because it’s absolutely true.’ As he forced her chin upwards, her eyes were still smudged by last night’s make-up. ‘I think my hangover might improve dramatically if we went back to bed.’
Cosmo and Isa moved fast. As Rupert had said in his speech, the BRA often took some time to carry out an enquiry, keeping unfortunate trainers and jockeys, unable to earn, their reputations dwindling, in a vacuum for months. But the following morning, Rupert returned home on Safety Car, from watching a river of matchless two-year-olds flow up the all-weather gallops, to be greeted by a troupe of BRA investigators armed with tape recorders.
Back in Rupert’s office, refusing a cup of coffee, their leader, a Mr Wilde, who had a round pink face, spiked hair combed forward to hide any bald patches, and a flat North Country accent, announced: ‘We have evidence that your colt, New Year’s Dave, is being passed off as a two-year-old, born on January the first, when he is, in fact, a three-year-old, born on the thirty-first of December, who has won nearly a million pounds under false pretences.’
‘Do you honestly think,’ Rupert didn’t miss a beat, ‘I’d call a horse New Year’s Dave, drawing attention to the fact that he’d been born on New Year’s Eve?’
‘Can we look at your records, sir?’
Soon they were going through passports, telephone bills, medical records, scrumpled love letters, records of foaling. Finding Dave’s, they then compared it with a photocopy of the original record, passed on by Celeste, and showed it to Rupert.
‘One doesn’t need to be a graphologist to recognize the writing is identical. At the top, it says “attended by Gavin Latton”. The only difference is the dates.’
‘Someone must have copied Gav’s handwriting to frame him. How did you get hold of this?’
‘I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to say. What were your movements that night, sir?’
‘I was seeing the New Year in with my in-laws across the valley. I can’t remember the exact time, about two in the morning, Gav rang in great excitement, saying Cordelia had dropped a foal in record time. She’s one of our best mares, but quite old. The sire was our leading stallion, Love Rat, the foal was a colt: all cause for celebration, so I belted back here – probably shouldn’t have been driving – saw a beautiful foal, mother fine, so we went up to the house and had a bottle of champagne, at least Celeste and I did. Gav doesn’t drink.’
Mr Wilde looked at his notes. ‘We’d like to interview Pat Inglis, Marketa Bolokova and Celeste.’
But Celeste had flown. Her room was empty, cupboards bare of her clothes and shoes.
‘She’s left. Said she was going away for the weekend,’ said Louise.
‘That’s our whistleblower,’ said Rupert grimly. Glancing out of the window, he saw Gav riding into the yard on Quickly. ‘There’s Gav now – I’ll go and get him.’
Sprinting across the yard, Rupert reached Gav before any of the investigators. ‘BRA’s here, claiming Dave’s a three-year-old,’ he hissed. Then, as the colour drained from Gav’s face: ‘Don’t admit anything.’
Dramatically accelerating its customary procedure, the BRA convened a disciplinary hearing three weeks later in the middle of January, and summoned Rupert and Gav to their headquarters in Holborn Lane.
They had acted like lightning because Rupert was such a big fish in racing. Although he had many high-powered enemies, the public adored him, and whenever his horses ran, they put thousands on the gate.
Dora, as Penscombe’s self-appointed press officer, back from a blissful Christmas with Paris, was on full throttle.
‘You’ve got to look as young as possible,’ she told Gav, ‘a raw young stud hand, who had no idea of the implications. You must cut your hair and wax it upwards, or wear a beanie and perhaps an earring. Or perhaps you could pretend you had a New Year’s Eve lapse, went back on the booze and got the date wrong.’
‘Shut up, Dora,’ ordered Rupert, who was reading an online report in the Scorpion, headed: NEW YEAR’S EVIL.
‘The crucial thing for you and Gav,’ Dora turned to Rupert, ‘is to well up. It takes a real man to cry – the panel will think you’re sincere and contrite. It’s no good being arrogant and flip, you’ll only antagonize them. You must think of something really sad to make you cry. Didn’t you have a stepmother who died last month?’
‘I had four stepmothers and I loathed them all.’
‘Well, someone that really chokes you. What about Billy Lloyd-Foxe?’
‘Get out!’ howled Rupert, hurling Weatherbys Stallion Book across the room at her, sending Geraldine’s vase of daffodils flying. ‘Just get out.’
But as Dora scuttled out of the office, Rupert reflected that never had he needed Billy’s jokes, wise counsel and reassuring presence more. But he must keep resolutely upbeat for the troops and not even countenance the fact that he could lose his licence.
There were even more Good Luck cards on the shelves than Christmas cards with, ironically, this year’s Christmas card flaunting a lovely photograph of Dave winning the Gimcrack, which the Scorpion had reproduced with a headline: THE YOUNG PRETENDER.
Gav insisted on taking the blame.
‘What’s the point in your admitting anything, Rupert? You didn’t know. I lied to you. You’ll lose your licence and bring this whole place down. Everyone loves working here.’
‘Except Celeste,’ said Rupert.
‘She’s been blackmailing me for months, that’s why I kept sticking up for her, begging you not to sack her, taking her out to dinner – she was always threatening to tell the world that Dave was a December foal. She must have retrieved my first scrumpled-up certificate from the bin. I should have made sure it was destroyed, but Cordelia foaled in such a hurry, I was too preoccupied with that.’
‘Easily done,’ said Rupert. ‘We were all in a state of euphoria.’
Gavin couldn’t believe Rupert was being so nice. All the same, he was feeling utterly suicidal. Never more desperately had he wanted a drink to drown his sorrows. He knew Rupert had a loaded gun in his office. How easy for everyone if he ended it all, leaving a full confession. Bethany wouldn’t care, no one would really mind. Alive, h
e would lose his job and the horse he loved most and, far worse, his actions could bring down Rupert and the yard.
Cosmo had leaked the story of Rupert’s suspected cheating to the press, who had written about nothing else for days. Both yard and stud were in a complete panic; if Rupert lost his licence for ten years, they would all lose their jobs. In anticipation of massive pool money from all Dave’s winnings, they had also spent fortunes on Christmas presents, new cars and down payments on houses. Meerkat, too well known as Dave’s jockey to get sofa commercials any more, had splashed out on a Cartier watch for Gee Gee. There was endless speculation that Rupert and Gav must have been in cahoots or Rupert would have hung Gav out to dry.
Rupert and Gavin had a meeting before the enquiry with Marti Gluckstein, Rupert’s lawyer, who had got him out of endless scrapes over the years, and who looked like an old eagle, poised to swoop down on any weakness in the opposition’s argument.
Marti was in complete agreement with Dora. ‘Don’t get arsy or they’ll bury you. Act contrite, no jokes, take the whole thing seriously.’
He was also relieved that Gav was prepared to take the blame. ‘You didn’t know, Rupert. Being abroad so much, you trust your staff implicitly, it’s the essential part of the deal.’
Worried he wasn’t eating, on the night before, Taggie had brought Gavin out a cheese omelette. Not wanting to hurt her by putting it in the bin, he gave it to a delighted Forester.
‘Comfort ye, comfort ye,’ sang the tenor in The Messiah, which Gala had given him for Christmas. Not to hurt her either, Gav had hidden his two existing sets.
‘Comfort ye, comfort ye.’ Unable to find any, he stole downstairs and crept into Dave’s box, where he discovered a sobbing Lark: ‘I can’t bear him to be taken away.’
Dave, getting quite portly from so many commiserating Polos and apples, rubbed his pink nose against Gav, then held out his off fore hoof to be shaken.
‘I’m sure things will turn out OK tomorrow,’ wept Lark, kindly but unconvincingly.
Rupert, who couldn’t sleep either, wandered out on to the lawn. Amazing how a tiny gold sickle moon could light up the valley. The winter stars gleamed in the lake. His equine stars slept in their stables, their futures blighted if he lost his licence.
Banquo and Forester snuffled ahead as he went to talk to Safety Car, who whickered with delight. The east wind was rattling the bare trees. Safety Car quivered.
‘All right, old boy, they’re not going to fall on you.’ As he hugged Safety, Rupert wondered who was comforting whom. Oh Christ, he didn’t want to lose his licence.
Both he and Safety jumped as his mobile rang; it was his daughter, Bianca, Dora’s great friend, now living in Perth with her boyfriend Feral Jackson, who was playing football for a top Australian side.
‘Please don’t worry about money, Daddy,’ she said. ‘You work so hard, it’s time you put your feet up. Feral’s earning so much a week now, he can always help out. He wants to wish you good luck too.’
And Dora wanted something to make him well up, Rupert thought.
As he returned, propped against the back door was a parcel. Inside was a shocking pink tie covered in black cats, and a card saying: Good luck, Guv, from Lark.
35
The enquiry, held on a bitterly cold day, coincided with the January sales. Holborn Lane had never seen anything like it as shoppers, revved up by the media, abandoned any thought of bargain hunting for little tops in Oxford and Regent Street or Tottenham Court Road, and poured in to catch a glimpse of their idol, Rupert, joining a ravening pack of journalists from all over the world, desperate for a story. Broadcast trucks, parked at all angles, had brought traffic on pavement and road to a standstill. Punch-ups were already breaking out as cameramen battled for better positions.
Both William Hill and the Red Lion, near the BRA entrance, were doing a roaring trade at ten in the morning. ‘Here he is,’ went up a shout. Camera flashes, flickering like a forest fire, set off a stampede.
‘Rupert, Rupert, Rupert, Gav, Gav, Rupert, Gav, Rupert – to me!’ yelled the media and fans.
But such was Rupert’s height and man-eating tiger menace that the rugger scrum parted, and no one ripped off his dark suit as he dragged Gav, as reluctant as Quickly to enter any starting stalls, through the howling mob.
‘Rupert, Rupert!’ screamed the shoppers, holding up little cameras. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous? He’s wearing his lucky shirt, but not his pale-blue tie. This one’s pink wiv black cats on. Good luck, Rupert, good luck. Isn’t Gav good-looking too?’
‘Lupert, Lupert,’ cried a group of adoring Japanese schoolgirls.
‘Cheat!’ shouted a man with a ginger beard, in a woolly hat, as they passed and was immediately John Lewis and Heals carrier-bagged by enraged shoppers, hissing, ‘Don’t you dare!’
‘Hello, darling.’ Rupert unfroze a fraction of a second to kiss Kay Burley of Sky and to wave up at Ed Whitaker who’d climbed a lamp-post to get a better shot for the Racing Post.
‘Good luck.’ An adoring and adorable Indian girl thrust three red roses into Rupert’s hand, and a bunch of carrots for Dave.
‘Thanks, darling. Come on, Gav.’ Glancing round, he saw that Gav had been hijacked by Alice Plunkett of Channel 4, and, reaching back, he dragged him into the BRA, down three flights of stairs to the basement – meant for base people, Orpheus into the Underworld, thought Gav numbly.
Remembering he was supposed to act serious, Rupert forbore to grin up at all the BRA female staff who were falling over the banisters to catch a glimpse. Passing a lovely blow-up of Fleance winning at Ascot, the two men were ushered into a breakout room, entitled Red Rum, by two pretty girls called Fiona and Danielle. Marti Gluckstein, the eagle, had already landed and was drinking black coffee with lots of sugar. Fiona then plied Rupert and Gav with coffee, found a vase for Rupert’s red roses and, seeing his hands were bleeding from clutching the thorns, rushed off to get a sticking plaster.
The room could not have been more anonymous and functional, with black office chairs, a shiny, modern brown table, pictureless white walls, and a grey and beige striped carpet. Any colour or fireworks would be provided by the participants.
‘I can tell you who the panel are,’ said Marti. ‘Sam Bridlington QC, mad about racing, handles lots of racing cases. Member of the Pegasus Club.’
‘I know.’ The Pegasus Club was so exclusive and stuffy, Rupert had recently referred to them as a lot of ‘fossilized wankers’.
‘And Sally Stonehouse, a steward from a Lancashire racecourse – nice lady, firm but courteous – and finally, Roddy Northfield.’
‘Oh bugger,’ sighed Rupert. ‘He hates my guts.’
‘Any reason?’
‘Pompous prat, lots of ancient history, I slept with his wife during a hunt ball, years ago.’
‘Did you sleep with Sam Bridlington’s wife?’
‘Not that I remember, so if I did, he probably wouldn’t remember either.’
Marti shook his head. ‘Cuckolds have longer memories than elephants.’
You can say that again, thought Gav wearily.
Rupert was flipping through the Racing Post, who’d led with a headline: DAVE OF RECKONING. He had two runners at Lingfield this afternoon. If he lost his licence, would they still run? He must have a bet.
‘Cheer up.’ He smiled at a trembling Gav. ‘You’re going to have to bat your eyelashes at Sam Bridlington and Sally Stonehouse. We’ve got to have a majority vote.’
Marti handed Rupert and Gav some typed sheets. ‘Here are transcripts of your interviews with the BRA officers down at Penscombe. See if you agree with them.’
Down the passage, the Enquiry Room, equally neutral and functional, contained the same black office chairs, arranged around a square made up of tables. Sitting at the top, facing a clock and two television screens, the Panel conferred. The Chairman, Sam Bridlington QC, looking young for his years with twinkling grey-blue eyes, was an excellent after-dinner speaker and a ver
y popular member of the Bar. He had frequently battled with Marti, respecting him, but disliking Marti’s ability to gloat when he won.
Sally Stonehouse, well known for lowering the tempo at post-race enquiries, was popular with jockeys and trainers alike. Attractive, in her early fifties, she had a high-complexioned face from riding in all weathers, kept in check by beige foundation, grey hairs concealed by expert highlighting, hazel eyes, and a good figure enhanced by a yellow cashmere dress, bought for a wedding but chosen for today when she had heard she’d be judging Rupert Campbell-Black.
Many years ago, Rupert had turned his back on her at dinner to chat up Diney Clarkson, who was reputed to water the course at Rutminster if one of Rupert’s star horses needed less quick ground. Sally Stonehouse thought Rupert was spoilt and arrogant, and despite constantly racing his horses at York and Doncaster, he’d never bothered to run them at her course in Lancashire, of which she was extremely proud. Flipping through the interviews, the case seemed pretty straightforward and could be over by lunchtime, allowing her time to buy a new winter coat in the sales, to match her yellow dress. She was irritated that the press seemed to be swinging in Rupert’s favour.
‘If he loses his licence, they won’t have anything to write about,’ grunted Sam Bridlington.
Roddy Northfield, who’d abandoned his red trousers for a dark suit, was fired up at the prospect of nailing the bastard. ‘This is the darkest day in racing,’ he boomed, taking a third chocolate biscuit. ‘Campbell-Black has cheated; we have a responsibility to the integrity of the sport to end this corruption.’
Sally Stonehouse nodded in agreement.
‘I think we should hear the evidence first,’ said Sam Bridlington.
