Crisis

by Felix Francis

  No wonder Ryan’s lads were so gloomy. It wasn’t just their pride that had taken a hit.

  ‘Manna from heaven, that fire was.’ She laughed again, louder this time.

  I didn’t join in. I just stared at her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, suddenly, hugely embarrassed. ‘It’s not right of me to laugh like that. I’m really sorry racing lost such a great horse in that manner.’

  Don’t lie to me, I thought.

  I looked down again at the list. ‘Is thirty-three-to-one your best price for Orion’s Glory?’

  ‘If that’s what it says.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I’ll take my twenty pounds elsewhere. I don’t like your attitude to the death of Prince of Troy. In fact, I might call Ladbrokes and complain.’

  She was taken aback.

  ‘I’ll give you better odds,’ she said quickly. ‘How about forty-to-one? Just don’t say anything to head office. Please. I’ll lose my job.’

  ‘Can you change the odds just like that?’

  ‘I have some discretion,’ she said, implying she was more important than she actually was.

  ‘Make it fifty-to-one, then,’ I said, ‘and my lips will be sealed.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘I’m sure that Mr Chadwick’s lads would also love to know that their nearest betting shop thinks it’s manna from heaven that Prince of Troy died in a fire, that it saved Ladbrokes a “bloody fortune”.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘Try me,’ I said, staring at her again.

  She was descending into panic.

  ‘All right,’ she said finally. ‘Twenty quid on Orion’s Glory at fifty-to-one.’

  ‘Make that forty quid,’ I said, peeling another twenty-note from my bundle. I was unlikely ever to get these odds again, either here or at any of the town’s other betting shops.

  She hesitated again but I pushed the two banknotes under the glass towards her and she eventually took them.

  ‘Two thousand pounds to forty,’ she said slowly while typing it into her computer. She passed over the printed betting slip. ‘You’ll get me sacked anyway.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘You’ve taken a shedload from the Chadwick lads. You said so yourself. And that’s all now risk-free.’

  I came out of the Ladbrokes betting shop with a real bounce in my step. I was already mentally spending my two thousand pounds. All that had to happen now was for Orion’s Glory to win the Derby. All?

  I continued down the High Street and, just out of curiosity, I popped into the Paddy Power betting shop and asked for their odds for the Derby. Orion’s Glory was again quoted at 33–1.

  ‘Are these your very best odds?’ I asked the man behind the counter. ‘I got fifty-to-one for Orion’s Glory at Ladbrokes.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ he replied matter-of-factly. ‘Even thirty-threes is too generous in my view, but it’s head office, not me, that sets the prices.’ It sounded like he didn’t think much of head office. ‘I reckon he’ll be down in the twenties by tomorrow night, after the Dante. Orion’s Glory is a better horse than many people think.’

  ‘But he’s not running in the Dante,’ I said.

  ‘No, but others are and that will whittle some of them out of the market. I’d take the thirty-threes now if I were you before you miss the boat.’

  ‘Have you backed him yourself?’ I asked.

  ‘I take bets, mate, not make them.’

  How pragmatic, I thought. And less expensive.

  My next stop was Marks & Spencer – no, they haven’t opened a betting shop – I was also in need of some fresh socks and pants.

  It was all well and good having a cabin-sized suitcase always on standby for an immediate departure, but it didn’t really contain enough for a whole week’s stay away. And I was fed up of having to wash out my socks each night and hang them to dry on the heated towel rail in the bathroom.

  True, I could have sent them to the hotel laundry service. Indeed, ASW would have expected me to. But even I baulked at paying more to get a pair of socks washed than it cost to buy new ones, whoever was picking up the tab.

  I bought two shirts and a pair of khaki chinos, as well as the new socks and pants. I also acquired a small cheap suitcase from Argos, as I’d need something to put my new clothes into, along with the wellington boots and coat that I’d purchased the day before.

  My phone rang as I was paying for the suitcase.

  ‘Hi,’ said a voice. ‘Kate here.’

  My heart went flip-flop.

  ‘Hi,’ I replied. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At work.’

  ‘Where’s work?’ I asked.

  ‘Tatts.’

  The way she said it made me think I should know what Tatts was, and where. And I was loath to show my ignorance by asking. I looked at my watch. It was five past four.

  ‘What time do you finish?’ I asked.

  ‘Any time from now on,’ Kate said. ‘It’s been a quiet day.’

  ‘Would you like to meet for a drink?’ I asked, fearing she’d have a million other things to do.

  ‘It’s a bit early for a drink,’ she said. ‘Even for me. How about tea at Nancy’s?’

  ‘Great. Who’s Nancy?’

  ‘Nancy’s Teashop. On Old Station Road. Say, in about twenty minutes?’

  ‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘Meet you there.’

  ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘I’ll find it,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sure you will. Bye.’ I could hear her laughing as she hung up the call.

  ‘Where’s Old Station Road?’ I asked the shop assistant in Argos.

  ‘Top of the high street and turn right at the roundabout,’ she replied. ‘You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and scuttled away with my suitcase, stuffing the dark green M&S bag inside it.

  If I’d had a bounce in my step earlier, I was now floating on air as I hurried back to the high street and then up to the clock tower roundabout. I turned right into Old Station Road and easily found Nancy’s Vintage Teashop about a hundred yards down on the right-hand side.

  I was there ahead of Kate and I sat down at a table close to the door so as not to be missed.

  There were several groups there, including one of mothers with toddlers camped out on a big pink sofa in the window. Indeed, pinkness was the overriding perception, with pink napkins on the tables and pink aprons on the staff. But pink wasn’t the only colour; there were also pastel blues and yellows among the eclectic furnishings.

  Four large cake stands, each covered with a voluminous glass bell-top, stood on the service counter with delicious-looking delights within, and there was a line of old-fashioned teapots on a shelf behind, each decorated with roses and other flowers such that they reminded me of chintz.

  I studied the menu in its pink-and-white-striped folder and ordered Nancy’s Classic Afternoon Tea for two.

  Kate arrived running and slightly out of breath.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘I got held up by a call.’

  ‘You’re not late,’ I said, standing up. ‘Perfect timing.’

  In fact, perfect in every way, I thought, but decided it was far too cheesy to say so.

  We sat down opposite one another with the table between us and I enviously eyed the mothers on the sofa sitting side by side.

  ‘I’ve ordered the classic afternoon tea for two,’ I said.

  ‘I hope you’re hungry. Janie and I usually order just one between us, with a second cup, and we can rarely finish everything even then.’

  The waitress arrived with what could only be described as a feast fit for Henry VIII himself. A triple-decker plate piled high with finger sandwiches, fresh-baked scones and fancy cakes, plus a huge pot of strawberry jam, and enough clotted cream to feed the biblical five thousand.

  ‘I’ve given you a few extra scones,’ said the young waitress. ‘We close at five and we’ve got plenty left.�
��

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and watched as she went back out to the kitchen.

  I looked at the mountain of food in front of me, and then at Kate, and we both burst out laughing.

  ‘Know of any starving children in the locality?’ I said.

  We had both just about managed to stop giggling by the time the waitress returned with a silver tray on which sat two teacups, two saucers, a large teapot, milk jug, sugar basin and a strainer with stand, all of them in white china with pink roses on the sides. Just like the ones my grandmother used to own.

  ‘What an amazing place,’ I said to Kate. ‘Like stepping back fifty years.’

  She looked down to the suitcase standing on the floor next to me.

  ‘Not leaving are you?’ she said with concern in her voice.

  ‘No.’ I laughed. ‘Quite the reverse. I’ve had to buy more clothes as I only arrived with an overnight bag. So I had to get something to put them in.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, and smiled broadly. ‘Don’t go away, ever.’

  Wow! Thunderbolt City squared.

  13

  When the teashop closed, we walked up the Bury Road to the Bedford Lodge for a drink and, halfway there, I took her hand in mine. She said nothing, just looked up at my face and smiled.

  At Nancy’s, we had talked mostly about the food, the weather or the traffic, and certainly nothing about ourselves, but that all changed as we drank champagne in the hotel bar, sitting, this time, side by side on a couch.

  ‘Is that a uniform?’ I asked.

  She was wearing a dark-blue two-piece suit over an open-necked white shirt, with a burgundy-red scarf tied like a cravat inside the collar. The scarf was decorated with multiple blue bridle bits and numerous strange white logos that looked to me a bit like round-top tables with three legs. The same logo was embroidered in blue on the vees of her shirt collar.

  ‘Certainly is,’ she said. ‘I came straight from work, remember.’

  At Tatts, I thought – whatever that was.

  ‘What’s the logo?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s meant to represent the rotunda up at Park Paddocks.’

  I was none the wiser and it clearly showed in my face.

  ‘The sales,’ she said. ‘I work for Tattersalls, the horse auctioneers.’

  Tatts – Tattersalls. Of course.

  ‘Doing what?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m on the bloodstock sales team. I help prepare the sales catalogues. And I act as a runner at the sales.’

  ‘A runner? In a race?’

  She laughed. ‘No, silly. When the hammer comes down on a sale, it’s my job to run to get the successful bidder to sign the purchase confirmation form. It’s quite exciting when the amounts are big – several million guineas.’

  ‘Why are horses still sold in guineas?’ I asked, taking another sip of my champagne.

  ‘Tradition, I suppose. Tattersalls have been selling horses in guineas for two hundred and fifty years.’

  ‘Why are they called guineas?’

  ‘Originally a guinea was a coin made from gold found in Guinea, West Africa. I know because we recently had one on display up at Park Paddocks. At first, the value of a guinea used to go up and down but then it was fixed at twenty-one shillings, or a pound and five pence in modern money. The vendor was always paid the pound and we kept the odd shilling for our services. It’s pretty much the same these days, but now there’s VAT to add, of course.’

  ‘It must really confuse your foreign buyers,’ I said.

  ‘There’s a big electronic board in the sales ring to help them. It also shows the bid price in dollars, euros and yen.’

  ‘Do the sales go on every day?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said with another laugh. ‘We only sell for thirty-three days in a whole year here. Our next one’s not until mid-July. But our Irish division has twenty days or so at Fairyhouse, near Dublin, and they also run a few sale days at Cheltenham and Ascot as well. And that’s just Tatts. There are several other sales companies. Racehorses are being sold somewhere in the world on most days. It’s a huge global business. We alone sold over thirteen thousand horses last year.’

  ‘Thirteen thousand!’ I was astounded. ‘That’s an awful lot of guineas.’

  ‘How about you?’ she said. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a lawyer.’

  ‘I know,’ she mocked. ‘Janie told me that much. But what do you do?’

  ‘I sort out other people’s crises, at least I try to, especially their public relations disasters that inevitably follow on from their physical ones. Although, this week, I feel more like a detective than a PR man.’

  ‘A detective?’

  ‘I’m here representing the owner of Prince of Troy. He wants me to find out why his red-hot favourite for the Derby died in a fire.’

  ‘Literally a red-hot favourite,’ she said, but then winced at her poor attempt at humour. ‘Sorry. That was inappropriate.’

  ‘Very,’ I agreed. But I laughed anyway. The way I felt at the moment, I would laugh at anything.

  We discussed our backgrounds and our families.

  Kate was thirty-five, three years older than Janie, and they had lived all their lives in the Newmarket area.

  ‘Where do you live now?’ I asked.

  ‘In Six Mile Bottom.’

  I laughed. ‘Is there really such a place? It sounds rather rude.’

  ‘Back in the seventeenth century, the original racecourse was eight miles long. There was a dip in the land six miles from the finish and that’s how the village got its name.’ She smiled and it lit up my life. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Nowhere near as exciting,’ I said. ‘I rent a flat in Neasden, northwest London. I’ve lived there for seven years, since I first came up from Devon. It’s high time I moved somewhere nicer. It really is the most depressing place, noisy and close to the North Circular Road, but there’s a good gym just round the corner and it’s convenient for the tube, easy for getting to work on the Jubilee Line.’

  ‘Where’s work?’ she asked.

  ‘Knightsbridge.’

  ‘Harrods,’ she said. ‘They’re in Knightsbridge.’

  ‘I work just round the corner from Harrods but I hardly ever go in.’

  ‘I went once, but all I remember is getting lost looking for the ladies.’

  We laughed in unison.

  Boy, this felt good.

  I ordered another round of fizz from the bar and we sat together on the couch comparing our likes and dislikes, favourite films and music, indeed, anything and everything.

  ‘Best holiday destination?’ I asked.

  ‘The Maldives,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Fabulous villa on stilts set in the turquoise Indian Ocean. Absolute paradise.’

  ‘When did you go there?’

  ‘Twelve years ago,’ she said. ‘On my honeymoon.’

  ‘Your honeymoon!’ I was stunned. ‘You didn’t say you were married.’

  ‘I’m not. Not any more, anyway. The marriage lasted only a fraction longer than the honeymoon.’

  ‘So why are the Maldives still your best destination?’

  ‘Because I suddenly realised when I was there that I loved the place far more than I loved the man. Woke me up, in fact. I’d have been happier if he’d gone home and left me there on my own. We should have gone on the honeymoon before the marriage ceremony. That would have saved us both a heap of grief. Stupid, really. I married far too young and to the wrong man.’

  She looked at me and I wondered what was going through her mind.

  ‘Fortunately the divorce was fairly straightforward,’ she said. ‘No kids. Realised in time with that one, thank God. Not that I wouldn’t like to have some one day, although I’m getting a bit old now. Can you believe it that if a woman has a baby over thirty-five, she’s called a geriatric mother?’ She shook her head. ‘How about you? Any little Fosters running around?’

  ‘None that I’m aware of,’ I said, and decided it was
time to change the subject – this one was getting far too heavy much too quickly and I wasn’t sure I was ready for a discussion about marriage, let alone children.

  ‘Are you a cat or dog person?’ I asked.

  ‘Dog,’ she said. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Why not cat?’

  ‘Dogs are more affectionate. Cats don’t wag their tails at you when you come home from work.’

  ‘I like that, good answer,’ I said. ‘Mac or PC?’

  ‘PC at work, Mac at home.’

  ‘But which do you prefer?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t mind. I’m used to them both.’

  ‘So you’re bilingual?’

  ‘More like ambidextrous,’ she said.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, mocking her this time. ‘I’d give my right hand to be ambidextrous.’

  ‘Oh, do shut up.’ She laughed, leaned over and nestled her head on my chest.

  I could smell her hair. I stroked it and she remained there in silence, pressing into me. I nearly asked her right then to come with me to my room but I was afraid of being too forward, too impatient.

  I glanced at my watch.

  ‘Good God. It’s nearly nine o’clock. Do you fancy some dinner?’

  ‘I fancy you more,’ she replied seductively.

  Now who was being too forward, too impatient?

  Did I care?

  ‘So what do you want to do?’ I asked.

  ‘Dinner or sex?’ she said. ‘Decisions, decisions. How about a little dinner first and then lots of sex after?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ I said. ‘Or we could have lots of sex first and then room service after?’

  ‘That’s a much better idea,’ she said with a giggle, and I wondered if it was just the champagne talking.

  Once a lawyer, always a lawyer.

  The last thing I wanted was for her to wake up in the morning with a sore head, accusing me of having taken advantage of her, even of raping her, on the grounds that she had been incapable through drink of giving proper consent.

  I decided that I’d take my chances with that, but in the end it didn’t matter, for we never got to do it anyway.

  My phone rang as Kate and I were leaving the bar, hand in hand, en route to my bedroom. I very nearly ignored it, but habits are strong, so I slid my finger across the screen to answer.