by Jilly Cooper
‘Shut up, Dora,’ howled Marius, curling his hand round the bronze horse Mrs Wilkinson had won at Ludlow. ‘Just shut up and get out, I don’t need idiot schoolgirls to tell me how to run my yard.’
Head hanging, shoulders heaving, giving pitiful little sobs, Dora had reached the door when an infuriated Marius called out, ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, let the bloody goat go along then.’
Dora’s tears dried as instantly as a summer shower, and she beamed at Marius.
‘Oh, thank you so much, Chisolm will be absolutely delighted. She’ll be such a talking point at the races, I’m going to get her a new green collar and lead. Wilkie will have even more fans. Did you know that since Bonny, Seth and Corinna joined the syndicate, she’s been getting five hundred hits a day on her website?’
‘Website?’ thundered Marius.
‘Of course,’ said Dora sweetly, ‘and you’ll never guess, I’ve taught Wilkie to lie down – I know Count Romeo does it automatically – but think what a joke it would be if we could get Jude the Obese on her back at the fête and make Wilkie pretend to collapse. She might anyway. And if Bolton parks his Chelsea tractor on the pavement, poor Jude will never get up the high street. She’ll be traffic-jammed. What a problem for the Major!’
Seeing Marius was trying not to laugh, Dora said sternly, ‘You ought to thank Miss Painswick. She organized the whole thing and got Lester to pay up.’
70
Bolton joined the syndicate and was quite awful. At his first meeting at the Fox, which to his disappointment neither Corinna, Seth nor Bonny was able to attend, he suggested chucking out the Ford Transit and going to the races in something smarter.
‘I appreciate we need a minibus to retain the corporate feel,’ he told the group, ‘but if we each put in a grand or two we could afford a Mercedes Sprinter with infinitely superior facilities.’
Seeing Woody, Joey, Tilda, Pocock and Painswick turning green, Etta interrupted that the point of the syndicate was to make Mrs Wilkinson affordable to all of them.
‘We keep back any extra money for vet’s bills and things.’
‘The wages of syndicate is debt,’ murmured Alan, ordering red and white.
Bolton then suggested finding a sponsor for the bus and kitting out all Marius’s stable lads in smarter gear.
‘Tommy looks a mess and Rafiq needs an ‘aircut and a smile occasionally. Marius needs six monfs in a charm school. Pretty Michelle is the only one who gets it right.’
Painswick, who was embroidering a church vestment, raised an eyebrow.
It became plain that Bolton was not going to pick up bar and food bills like Valent. At this first encounter, he didn’t buy a round and suggested in a loud voice that if they were worried about costs, why didn’t they take turns to have meetings in people’s homes rather than at the Fox, buy any refreshments from the supermarket so they wouldn’t have to fork out pub prices and each bring food on the day. The Major, who’d been shocked by the prices of Chris’s hampers, agreed heartily.
‘Fun to go to different houses,’ cried Phoebe. ‘You’re welcome at Wild Rose Cottage any time, although you’d have to sit on the stairs. As it’s your lovely idea, Lester, why don’t we start with Primrose Mansions? We heard from the Major how exciting it is.’
Lester bowed. ‘Cindy and I would be happy to receive you.’
‘We’ll give a pah-ee in the summer,’ promised Cindy.
From then on Bolton continually bullied for improvements and was constantly on the telephone to Marius, whose calls were fielded by Miss Painswick. He was unable to understand why horses couldn’t run every day. Nor could he appreciate that a lack of rain made the ground too quick for Furious, or that Mrs Wilkinson was still pulled down by her trip to Wetherby.
Bolton’s ambition was to showcase his princess, who would prefer a stretch limo to a minibus and was anxious to put a pink bridle on Mrs Wilkinson: ‘She is a girlie after all.’
Mrs Wilkinson’s first race since Ludlow was a novice hurdle at Cheltenham in the middle of April. Cheltenham had been chosen because it was only twenty miles from Willowwood and wouldn’t upset her, particularly as she was being accompanied by Count Romeo, History Painting and, best of all, Chisolm, who stopped bleating instantly she discovered she was coming too.
The day was full of incident. Bolton’s electric gates fused shut and Pocock and the Major leapt from the minibus and much enjoyed helping Cindy over them with much shrieking.
Toby’s lack of chin dropped.
‘Good God,’ exclaimed Alban from the driving seat, as Cindy tottered towards the bus, tossing her long blonde hair, flashing boobs, bare shoulders and a massive expanse of mantanned, tattooed bare leg. Hanging from her arm was a pale yellow bag in the shape of a unicorn. Flung round her shoulders, despite the mild spring day, was a floor-length mink.
‘How many animals died to give you that coat?’ hissed Dora.
‘Only my mother-in-law,’ giggled Cindy, which cracked up the bus.
Lester followed in a shiny, light brown suit, jewellery flashing in the sunshine. Despite Bolton’s call for austerity, Alan was circulating the champagne and everyone was lapping it up.
Corinna was on tour, Valent in China. Bonny, in a neat little grey tweed suit and a white silk shirt, was sitting with Seth, who introduced her to the Boltons.
‘A little birdie told me you was thirty-five, Bonny,’ shrieked Cindy. ‘I cannot believe it, I hope I’m as lovely as you when I get to your age.’
‘Where’s Valent?’ asked Lester.
‘Shopping,’ said Bonny. ‘He bought a mining company in South Africa last week.’
Not to be outdone, Bolton took his BlackBerry to the back of the minibus.
Trying not to mind Seth sitting next to Bonny, Etta feasted her eyes on primroses and celandines starring the verges, above which blackthorn blossom foamed in a tidal wave. White toadflax festooned the lichened walls and weeping willow branches hung like feather boas, with little lime-green leaves and yellow catkins curling outwards.
Cindy plonked herself across the row from Seth and Bonny and in front of Phoebe and Debbie.
‘That’s so sweet, Lester’s “Dearest Dad” pendant and ring,’ cooed Phoebe.
‘He bought them hisself,’ whispered Cindy. ‘Hasn’t seen his kids in years. I’m his precious little girl. His kids regard me as a fret.’
‘That’s rather sad,’ said Bonny.
‘How d’you get on with Valent’s kids then?’ demanded Cindy.
‘I haven’t met the boys yet,’ replied Bonny coolly. ‘We’re taking things very slowly. After all, their mother passed away in a train crash. They need to achieve closure. I don’t want to threaten them.’
‘They couldn’t not find you attractive, Bonny,’ said Phoebe, ‘which might make things hard for Valent.’
‘I’ve seen piccies of Ryan. He’s drop-dead gorgeous,’ said Cindy.
‘Phèdre again,’ sighed Seth. ‘A woman fatally drawn to her stepson.’
They’d reached the outskirts of Cheltenham, in whose greenhouse atmosphere everything was much further on. The crocuses were over but the white cherry blossom breathtaking against pink-petalled magnolia. Daffodils danced across the parks.
‘Books are my life. So many authors have passed through Cheltenham,’ Bonny was now saying to Seth.
‘I don’t read, me,’ piped up Cindy.
‘I can read you,’ said Alan, bending over to admire the tattoo on her shoulder. ‘“I love Lester”, that’s nice. What happens if you split up?’
‘I get a kitten called Lester,’ giggled Cindy. ‘I don’t read books, but I’m writing one.’
‘You what?’ asked Bonny incredulously. ‘What on earth about?’
‘About me, a hautobiography, a voyage of erotic discovery and how I found fulfilment wiv my gentle little Lester. I’ve made over forty movies.’
‘You must have some terrific stories, do tell us more,’ begged Alan, topping up her glass.
C
learly disapproving, Debbie got up and retreated down the bus. The Major moved closer.
‘What’s next?’ he asked, rheumy eyes gleaming.
‘Well, Lester is planning to shoot me as Lady Godiva in the Harboretum, riding Furious.’
‘Furious might need a stand-in,’ suggested Alan.
‘And then he wants me to play Gwendolyn.’
‘Oscar Wilde’s Gwendolyn?’ cried a horrified Bonny.
‘Dunno how wild she was,’ giggled Cindy, ‘but she was pashnit about Sir Francis Framlingham, such a romantic story, and we want Mrs Wilkinson, who’s grey, to play Beau Regard. If you shot carefully, you wouldn’t know she hadn’t gotta winkle. Perhaps you could play Sir Francis, Seth – I can just see you in a Cavalier ’at with a fevver or perhaps Marius, he’s well fit, phwoar!’ Cindy at last lowered her voice. ‘Lester’s a bit jelly of Marius.’
The stunned silence, no one daring to meet anyone’s eyes, was broken by an outraged Phoebe.
‘My husband Toby would have inherited the title if Aunt Ione’s sister had been a boy. If anyone should play Sir Francis, it should be him. But I know Aunt Ione would fight tooth and nail to stop the Willowwood Legend being made into a porn film.’
‘Erotic fantasy, perlease,’ cried Cindy. ‘Lester’s always tasteful.’
Lester, glued to his BlackBerry, didn’t rise.
‘I’m sure it’s out of copyright,’ grinned Alan. ‘The Willywood Legover. Let me play Sir Francis, Cindy.’
‘The porn is green,’ said Seth. ‘The best person to play Sir Francis,’ he grinned, ‘is Alban, our driver. You wouldn’t mind getting your kit off, would you, Alban?’
Alban brayed with laughter and nearly ran into a lamp post.
Cindy shrieked as well.
‘You’d ’ave to be an ’orseback rider, Allbare. I like that title, Alan, The Willywood Legover.’
‘It’s a travesty,’ hissed Phoebe.
‘I agree,’ said Bonny.
‘Not if it were done tasteful,’ insisted Cindy. ‘Have you ever taken your kit off in a film, Bonny? You’d enjoy it, it’s very liberating. You’d need a boob enhancement first, but Valent would pick up the tab, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind in such a good cause.’
For once Bonny was silenced.
Etta gazed at the racing page of the Mail, willing herself not to laugh.
‘I suppose it turns you on to – er – make this kind of film,’ said Phoebe scornfully.
‘Naah, you do it over and over and over, tike after tike. Lester’s always present, he spanks my botty afterwards if I’ve underperformed. Makes me go all warm underneaf.’
More stunned silence was interrupted by a cough from Debbie. She was progressing down the bus with a large hatbox, wearing the serene smile of a head waiter bringing in a surprise birthday cake. She nearly knocked off Pocock’s flat cap on the way.
‘This is a gift from Normie and me, Etta. Enjoy.’
Inside, rising like a vast raspberry summer pudding, was a huge bright magenta stovepipe, the most awful hat Etta had ever seen.
‘Gosh,’ she squeaked.
‘For you.’
‘How terribly kind, but I couldn’t possibly accept it. It’s far too grand for me.’
‘Try it on now.’ Phoebe leapt to her feet.
‘And far too expensive.’
‘Furious paid for it,’ chortled Debbie. ‘I placed a bet on him at Wetherby.’
‘It’s lovely,’ stammered Etta, ‘but it would really show up my old coat. It’d look so much better on you, Debbie.’
‘This hat will lift any outfit,’ insisted Debbie.
‘Chapeau, chapeau, and off to work we go,’ sang a giggling Alan as he filled up his and Seth’s glasses.
‘Go on, Etta.’ Phoebe lifted out the hat and, as if she were snuffing out a candle, dropped it over Etta’s head, covering her eyes and most of her little snub nose.
‘Where’s Etta?’ cried Seth. ‘Where’s she gone? I can’t see her anywhere.’
‘Not like that,’ chided Debbie, tipping the huge contraption backwards. ‘Give me your comb, dear.’
‘I’ll find it.’ Seizing Etta’s bag, Cindy scrabbled among a lot of tickets, pencils, Polos and a dog biscuit and unearthed an embarrassingly dirty comb, some grey fluff down its prongs, and handed it to Debbie, who coaxed feathery tendrils on to Etta’s forehead.
‘There, doesn’t she look a poppet?’
‘A pleasure dome of high degree,’ murmured Seth.
‘At least you’re not swollen-headed, Etta,’ quipped the Major, as Etta hung her head and the hat fell over her nose once more.
‘It’s lovely,’ mumbled Etta from the magenta depths, desperate not to hurt Debbie’s feelings. ‘It’s just a bit smart for me.’
‘Not the new you,’ said Debbie, tipping the hat again. ‘Next week we’ll find you a nice skirt suit in town.’
Gazing imploringly down the bus, Etta could see Alan, Woody, Joey and even Pocock creased up with laughter.
Alas, there were no gales blowing at the Cheltenham drop-off point to sweep the hat away into the ravishing green valley, no river to swallow it up.
The hat was so vast, Etta kept bumping into racegoers and knocking them and the hat sideways. Nor with it over her face could she feast her eyes on the most beautiful course in England with its ring of hills, lovely houses and little square church peeping out of angelically green trees, the blue Malvern hills to the left and the three radio masts looking down from Cleeve Hill opposite. Fences, hurdles, rails, cars, copses and helicopters spilled across the course like some divine toy a child couldn’t bear to put away at night. Etta could at least breathe in a heady smell of hot horses, frying onions, burgers and scampi.
All around, too, were sculptures of great horses of the past. Cindy promptly handed her cigarette holder and glass of champagne to Alban and clambered on to Best Mate’s statue, flashing a leopardskin thong while Lester took photographs.
‘Try side-saddle, princess.’
‘Isn’t she dreadful,’ whispered Phoebe to Debbie.
‘Dreadful,’ replied Debbie. ‘Don’t take your hat off, Etta, it looks so elegant.’
Bonny was delighted to see Etta so discomforted.
At least Mrs Wilkinson marched into the paddock looking cheerful. She adored crowds and they came running down to the rail to admire her and Chisolm, who trotted round in her new collar and lead, snatching at fading daffodils or any chip, burger bun or ice cream in unwary hands.
‘There are thirty-three cameras in the stable block,’ an amazed Dora, who was leading Chisolm, informed Tommy. ‘Corinna and Bonny should hire a box for themselves.’
‘Security is very tight,’ observed Tommy.
‘So is Cindy Bolton,’ giggled Dora.
The crowd were also gazing at Cindy, who, having abandoned her mink to Lester and reached the centre of the parade ring in her six-inch heels, was squawking, ‘Oh my God’ and ‘Phwoar’ at the trainers and owners around her. Bonny, aware of not being gazed at as much as usual, had taken off her trilby so the world could appreciate her flawless but bleak face.
‘Aren’t you frozen, Cindy?’ she said disapprovingly.
‘No gain without pain,’ giggled Cindy. ‘Phwoar, here comes Marius, I really fancy ’im. I love mean, difficult fellows, can’t fink why his wife left ’im.’
Mrs Wilkinson was looking for Etta. Only when Etta surreptitiously raised her hat as though she were peering through a letter box did Mrs Wilkinson recognize her, break away and tow a giggling Dora and Tommy to her side, bowling over a group of owners like skittles.
Above the parade ring, by a statue of the great Arkle, a lovely willow swung in a breeze which was also tossing around Lester’s ginger comb-over, so it fell on his forehead like a giant kiss curl.
Why was Mrs Wilkinson wearing a rug with Marius’s initials on and not his? wondered Lester angrily. He’d ordered a rug, with LB on, for Furious.
‘She’s not going to win the
turnout,’ said Joey. ‘She hasn’t come in her coat.’
‘Funny fing to come in,’ Cindy shrieked with laughter, ‘I always take mine off.’
‘Hush,’ said Debbie in horror.
Marius had just had a word with Bertie and Ruby Barraclough and Awesome Wells, before legging him up on to Count Romeo, who at least had won the turnout. Coming back to the Willowwood syndicate, wincing at the sight of Cindy, Marius saw Amber had joined them, her long blonde plait falling down her green silk back.
Next moment Lester had strutted up and, putting a caressing hand on her arm, was telling her how to ride Mrs Wilkinson.
‘Don’t let her make it and exhaust herself. This is a longer trip. You’ve got the Cheltenham ’ill, so don’t start your run too early.’
For a second, Marius was speechless, then, fired up by memories of bullying Shade Murchieson, he strode up.
‘Am I training this horse or are you?’ he said icily. ‘Please stop muddling my jockey and take your hands off her.’
‘Marius,’ hissed Alan in horror, but before Bolton could explode, a voice said, ‘Hear, hear,’ and Rogue sauntered up, giving Amber’s plait a tug. ‘How are you, beauty?’ then nodding at the rest of the syndicate, ‘Seth. Bonny, you’re looking good. Etta, where’s Etta, under canvas?’ He tipped back her hat and peered under it and everyone laughed in relief, as the bell went for the jockeys to mount.
‘Good luck, darling.’ He tugged Amber’s plait again and sauntered off to ride Birthday Boy, the favourite.
‘Phwoar, isn’t he drop-dead,’ sighed Cindy, which pleased Lester even less.
Amber didn’t take in a word of Marius’s instructions and even forgot to be charming to the syndicate.
I am not over him, she thought in horror.
Despite having to be secretive in order not to hurt Tommy, and Rafiq being in a terrible state about Bolton buying Furious, Amber and Rafiq had had wonderful sex since that rapturous first night after Wetherby. But all that was as nothing compared with her sudden explosion of longing for Rogue.
