‘Hi, can I help you?’
The oldest of the three looked uncomfortable and wouldn’t quite meet her eye. Ginny recognised him as the head lad from Julien Larocque’s yard. She looked at him with fresh suspicion.
‘Hi, Miss Kennedy. We’ve, er – come to collect the horses…’
Ginny’s heart rate trebled as an icy feeling slithered down her spine.
‘Horses? What horses?’
‘Basil Forrester’s three.’
Panic blew the lid on Ginny’s patience and she stared at him in bewilderment.
‘What?’
‘That’s all we been told,’ he shrugged.
‘Wait here,’ she instructed and hurried back into the office. She snatched up the scrap of paper with Basil Forrester’s number on it and stabbed the numbers on the telephone keypad.
‘Forrester Corporate Holdings, how may I help you?’ a receptionist chimed.
‘Please put me through to Mr Forrester.’ Impatiently, she tapped her foot as she was transferred. Through the window she could see the Larocque lads ignoring her instructions and sloping across the yard, looking for the three horses. Head collars dangled ominously from their hands.
‘Mr Forrester’s office,’ carolled the same prissy secretary who had left the message on the office voicemail.
‘Please put me through to Mr Forrester. It’s Virginia Kennedy, his racehorse trainer.’
‘He’s not in the office at present, Miss Kennedy. Would you like to leave a message?’
Ginny tutted in annoyance.
‘Just tell him I rang. Thank you.’ Ginny slammed down the phone and wrenched open one of the desk drawers, bouncing pens onto the floor. She snatched up her father’s Filofax. Glancing up, she could see one of the lads already opening Shaman’s stable. Skimming through the pages, she found the mobile number for Basil Forrester, to be used only in emergencies. This was definitely one.
‘Basil Forrester,’ an abrupt gruff voice answered the call.
‘Mr Forrester, it’s Virginia Kennedy at Ravenhill Stables –’
‘Ah, Miss Kennedy,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’ His tone was almost accusatory.
‘What’s this about, Mr Forrester?’ Ginny said, refusing to apologise. ‘I’ve got three of Julien Larocque’s staff here wanting to remove your horses.’
‘That’ll be correct. Hold on. Jones, use your five iron, chap.’
Ginny’s nostrils flared as she inhaled a lungful of annoyance.
‘Look, Miss Kennedy, I’m sure you’ve realised my three have very bright futures ahead of them, the colt especially. And, this being his most important season as a three-year-old, I’m sure you can appreciate I don’t want to take any risks.’
‘Yes, of course but –’
‘You, I’m afraid, are a risk and I’m not going to jeopardise my chances by your inexperience.’
‘I’m hardly inexperienced,’ Ginny spluttered. ‘I was born into racing. My father is Jim Kennedy –’ A loud ‘FORE!’ interrupted her and she took another deep breath. ‘Mr Forrester, I’m sure my father wouldn’t have left Ravenhill Stables for me to run unless he was absolutely sure I was capable. And should I, at any point, make a mistake, he is always here to correct me –’
‘If you make a mistake, Miss Kennedy, the damage will already have been done. I’ve made my decision. Shanghai Dancer, Storm Chaser and Shaman are going to Larocque. I’ll be expecting my last bill at the end of the month.’
‘Mr Forrester –’ Ginny tried to intervene, but he had already rung off. ‘I’m not done with you,’ she growled and hit Redial.
‘The number you have called is unavailable…’ Ginny swore and slammed down the phone. She ran to the door, in time to see her three best horses being led out of the yard. They all walked happily away at this unusual jaunt in the middle of the afternoon, oblivious to their fate. Shanghai Dancer pointed his toes and jogged sideways, the sun bouncing off his golden rump. Ginny watched her Classic hopes disappear beneath the brick archway and out of Ravenhill Stables.
And into bloody Larocque’s clutches, she thought, her fists clenching and her mouth forming a grim line.
*
Ginny left it as late as she could before returning to the house, but as darkness settled like a miserable damp blanket over the yard, she couldn’t put it off any longer. Gloomily, she left the office and went to break the news to her father. She found him in his usual armchair, studying Saturday’s form in the Racing Post.
‘Hey, Dad,’ Ginny chirped and sat down next to her father. She wouldn’t say she was a naturally negative person but upholding this air of optimism she decided ranked right up there with her fourth grade nativity play performance when she’d forgotten her four lines, tripped over the polystyrene-carved sheep and referred to Mary by her real name rather than her character’s name.
‘Lovie,’ Jim acknowledged, lowering his newspaper. He looked at her suspiciously, a seasoned expert on Ginny’s poor acting abilities.
‘So, do you want the good news or the bad news?’
‘Let’s go with the bad first.’
‘Well, there’s no easy way to say this,’ Ginny began, fiddling with a stray thread on the arm of the sofa. She took a deep breath. ‘But, um…Basil Forrester has removed his horses.’
When Jim folded the newspaper deliberately on his lap, she hazarded a look at his face. He didn’t say anything, and Ginny struggled to read any emotion in his expression.
‘Did he give a reason?’ he said at last.
‘He said he didn’t think I was qualified enough to train the likes of Shanghai Dancer.’
‘And when did all this take place?’ His calmness was unnerving.
‘He left a message to call him yesterday afternoon, but he wasn’t there when I tried to ring him back. And then Larocque’s lads came round earlier and took them.’
‘Larocque?’
‘Yes. I managed to get hold of Basil Forrester on his mobile, and he said they were moving to Julien Larocque’s yard.’
‘Hmmm.’ Jim looked thoughtful, and Ginny was half hoping he would come out with something that would make it all better, like a clause in a contract or something. But reality reasserted itself and instead, she could only imagine the dreams of another Classic winner crumbling to worthless dust in her father’s mind. She squirmed, waiting for him to break the strained silence which followed.
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised,’ he went on. ‘From Forrester’s point of view, I can see how he might feel he has only one crack at the Classics, and wagering it all on a trainer in her debut season, is a gamble. He’s protecting his own interests.’
Ginny bit hard on her bottom lip. She could deal with it coming from someone else, but to hear her father echoing Basil Forrester’s words earlier, cut deep. Sensing her anguish, Jim continued.
‘But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s made the right choice. I think you’re just as good as any of that lot out there,’ he motioned outside to the rest of Newmarket’s racing community, ‘including Larocque. And God help the man who underestimates you.’
Ginny managed a small smile with his encouragement.
‘Now, tell me the good news.’
‘The good news? Oh, I was just going to say we’ve now got free rein to get insurance and practically everything else from whomever we want rather than having to go to one of the pies Forrester’s got his fingers in.’ Ginny knew it was lame, but she had to search for one little ray of optimism.
‘That’s my girl,’ Jim said with a smile. ‘I never much cared for his lectures on the stock market anyway. Now, let me finish reading about the Dubai World Cup. I see South Africa has quite a strong hand this year.’
‘They get better every year,’ Ginny replied, high on relief that she’d broken the news without causing her father an angina attack.
‘I also see Charlie du Raand’s name popping up more frequently than before.’
Her breath caught in her t
hroat. Perhaps she was the one likely to have an angina attack. Why did her parents keep going on about Charlie? He was history, anciently so, and had been that way for over a year now. Ever since the J&B Met race. Ever since the party.
‘Really? Good for him.’ She got to her feet and went over to her father, planting a kiss on the top of his head. ‘I’m sorry about Shanghai Dancer, Dad.’
‘Don’t worry, lovie. These things happen.’
*
Saturday night found Ginny entering The Tetrarch, a pub frequented by trainers, jockeys and stable hands in equal measure. Leaving the early spring chill out in the car park, she stepped through the low doorway into the warm friendly atmosphere inside. She caught sight of Ray and joined him at the oak-panelled bar.
‘Hey, you made it,’ grinned Ray. ‘Wasn’t sure whether you would or not.’
‘Figure I should catch up with some old friends,’ she replied. She patted a recently-vacated barstool and crooned ‘Did you miss me?’ to it.
Ray ordered her a vodka and coke and Ginny made herself comfortable on the barstool.
‘Kerry and Alex not here? Kerry said they’re usually here on a weekend.’
Ray nodded and pointed to the other side of the room.
‘Playing pool.’
Taking a sip of her drink, Ginny scanned the sea of heads for a familiar face. There were three or four trainers scattered around whom she recognised, through name rather than acquaintance, a flock of jockeys and work riders and a few stable staff who were making most of the noise. In the far corner she could see Kerry brandishing a cue stick in her hand and concentrating hard on her game.
‘Where’s Sarah?’ she asked, naming Ray’s girlfriend.
‘Up to her elbows in acrylics and papier-mâché at home. She’s got an exhibition coming up in Cambridge so she’s hard at work.’
‘That sounds hopeful. Is business picking up for her then?’
Ray shrugged.
‘Only locally, but it’s a start. The opening night is a private view thing. I’ll see if I can wangle you an invitation.’
‘Thanks,’ Ginny replied. ‘About time I broadened my horizons and took in some arts and culture.’
Ray grinned.
‘So how’s your first week gone? Or shouldn’t I ask?’ he added, seeing her pained expression.
‘Probably best not to ask,’ she replied.
‘Well, I did, so tell your loving brother your troubles.’
Ginny smiled at Ray’s attempt to be supportive.
‘I fell off the first horse I rode – hey, you’re meant to be understanding, not laugh!’ Despite herself, she joined in Ray’s chuckles. ‘And then Julien Larocque, that French guy we crashed into, came along and nabbed our three best horses.’
Ray sobered and gave a low whistle.
‘That’ll teach me to look both ways. And how’s life back in the fold treating you?’
‘What, you mean Mum?’
Ray nodded, his eyes glinting with humour. Ginny hesitated but her frustrations got the better of her.
‘Ray, how the hell did we manage twenty-odd years in the same house as her?’ she blurted out.
‘Come on, she’s not that bad,’ Ray laughed.
‘No, I know she means well. And it’s wonderful being back and being with them, but bloody hell! She wants me to check in with her every time my routine changes. If I walk out the house, she wants to know where I’m going. It’s like I’m sixteen again.’
Ray shook his head.
‘Not easy after living in South Africa for so long, I imagine,’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ Ginny agreed. ‘You know, living by yourself, sometimes you’re happy to have just a peanut butter sandwich or something for dinner. Mum would have a hernia if veg wasn’t eaten every day of the week.’
‘So what are you going to do? You’ve only been home a week and it already sounds like she’s driving you up the wall. You gonna have a chat with her?’
Ginny looked away, undecided. She saw Kerry and Alex shaking hands, having finished their game of pool.
‘I don’t want to make things awkward with her. And to be honest, Mum’s always been like this, one little chat is hardly going to change her.’
Ray nodded in agreement.
‘Also, why should she change? Here I come and bombard their lives and expect them to change for my benefit? It seems a bit rude, don’t you think?’
‘Well, you have come back for their benefit when you think about it. If Dad hadn’t had his heart attack you would still be sunning yourself in Cape Town.’
‘True,’ Ginny reluctantly agreed. She watched Kerry and Alex thread their way through the crowds towards them. ‘Anyway, I might have a plan,’ she carried on. ‘Actually, it was Kerry’s idea.’
Ray raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘Her aunt, Sally, apparently doesn’t live too far from the stables. She’s looking for a lodger so I’m going round next week to see her.’
‘Sounds like a good idea. Have you met her before?’
Ginny shook her head.
‘No, but Kerry thinks she’s wonderful. Kerry?’
‘Hey, Ginny!’ the stable lass greeted her with a wide smile.
‘I was just telling Ray about your aunt, Sally. How did you describe her to me?’
‘Oh, Sally’s wonderful,’ Kerry enthused.
‘So I gather,’ murmured Ray.
‘She’s quite…’ She paused, searching for the appropriate word, ‘…flamboyant, I suppose you could say. You know, all beads and flowing clothes and headscarves.’
‘Sounds quite a character,’ Ray nodded. He winked at Ginny. ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine. If she’s into headscarves, maybe you can compare collections – hers and your Guns N Roses collection.’
‘I never did!’ Ginny protested.
Alex’s eyes widened in newly-found respect for his boss.
‘Yes, you did!’ Ray argued.
‘I had one! And I never wore it in public,’ Ginny said, feeling her cheeks burning.
Overcome with laughter, Ray had to put his beer down before he spilled it.
A collective cheer from a group of stable lads by the pool table made Ginny look up. She smiled. She hadn’t played pool since… Her smile faded. She and Charlie had taken a month-long road trip up the east coast of South Africa soon after she’d arrived in the country. Just about every hostel they had stayed at sported a pool table and a game before dinner had become their routine. She sighed as the next memory presented itself: of the fist fight Charlie had got into in Durban with another player over who’s turn it was next to play.
She looked away. Suddenly, the person standing in her line of vision of one of the tall tables at the far end of the room moved and Ginny gave an involuntary gasp. Memories of Charlie were smartly vacuumed out of her mind, to be replaced by the man standing at the far table. He saw her at the same time, and the smile on his face faded, like a sail losing the wind. The same walnut eyes that she had first seen nearly a week ago, bore into hers, partly obscured by wisps of dark hair, daring her to look away first. Refusing to be intimidated, Ginny took another ultra-casual sip of her drink, not breaking his gaze.
Dressed in faded blue jeans and a white collared shirt, which intensified the contrast from his café-au-lait skin, he lounged against the table, a lazy hand curved around the waist of a pretty girl. Julien Larocque stood like a panther sated after capturing his prey. The girl, noticing he was no longer laughing with the rest of their party, stroked his chest with gaudy false nails and stood on tiptoe to murmur something in his ear. A brief flash of impatience swept over his face and he broke the deadlock with Ginny to reply to her. Draining his whisky tumbler, he disengaged himself from the blonde, seemed to unfurl to supermodel heights and stalked over towards Ginny.
‘Oh, no,’ Ray groaned, noticing his approach. ‘I swear to God, Ginny, I contacted the insurance company. If they haven’t done anything yet, it’s not my fault.’
Alex and
Kerry, warily observing proceedings, snorted.
‘Miss Kennedy,’ the Frenchman murmured, coming to a stop in front of them. ‘Nice to see you on your feet.’
‘Mr Larocque,’ Ginny acknowledged.
‘Julien, please.’ As opposed to her recent English pronunciation of his name, he said it in a French lilt, softening the ‘J’ and exhaling the ‘e’, making it sound, altogether, more attractive. She supposed she could always concede and tell him to call her by her first name, but something about his mocking expression kept her quiet. He moved past her and stood at the bar, waiting to be served.
‘Jameson’s and a wine spritzer,’ she heard him say. The jostling of people around them brushed him against Ginny, and she almost leapt off her stool. She blinked hard, twice, and tried to concentrate on her own party, where conversation had resumed. Still, she felt excruciatingly aware of the man standing next to her.
‘Jules!’ an overfriendly voice just beyond them called out. For a moment, Ginny thought she heard Julien growl beneath his breath. It seemed he was going to ignore the man but his persistence made it impossible.
‘Yes?’ Julien Larocque snapped.
‘Heard you’ve got a couple of good ’uns this season.’
‘I have more than just a couple of good ’uns, as you say.’
‘Of course!’ the man laughed. ‘But I heard on the grapevine you’ve got a late entry in the 2,000 Guineas. That right?’
Ginny, who had been pretending to listen to Kerry’s account of their pool game, stiffened, almost certain she knew who the man was talking about. She felt Julien Larocque’s eyes settle on her. She stared resolutely ahead of her.
‘Perhaps,’ he said.
‘Shanghai Dancer, yeah? Lucky find, that one! Well done!’
‘Luck doesn’t come into it. I have good horses because I am a good trainer, not because I’m lucky.’
‘Sure, sure. Got any tips for me this season?’
‘No,’ Julien said and finished paying for his order. For a brief moment, he met Ginny’s gaze. His face was unreadable. Ginny glared at him. He raised his glass and tilted it towards her in a silent salute before returning to his table. Ginny scowled at his retreating back, wanting to throw her drink at the spotless, only slightly-creased shirt. The selfish prat; he had poached her best owner and he didn’t even have the decency to look abashed.
At Long Odds (A Racing Romance) Page 3
