‘Of course I do! But unlike you, I wouldn’t go rubbing your nose in it like you’ve done.’
‘I’ve hardly done that. I didn’t set up that conversation with that halfwit at The Tetrarch. But if any of my horses are transferred to your stable, you are welcome to “rub my nose in it” as you say.’ A hint of a smile played on his lips. ‘But then again, that is not going to happen, is it? Why would anyone want to move from my stable to yours?’
‘You – you –’ Speechless at his arrogance, Ginny struggled to find a suitable name to insult him with.
Julien waited, an eyebrow arched.
‘Rrr!’ Ginny growled in frustration. Unable to stand another minute in Julien Larocque’s presence, she turned on her muddy heel and stalked out of the door.
Chapter Nine
Ginny had calmed down within a couple of days, and even managed a wry smile when a bunch of daffodils and a twenty pound voucher for Homebase was delivered to the yard. It didn’t have a card but she knew who it was from.
She was reminded of the gift the next day as she stood in the centre of the parade ring at Lingfield, and saw Julien Larocque also in attendance. She had Kenya running in a seven furlong race for fillies on the All Weather track, the same race chosen by Larocque for his horse, Shell Seeker. As the jockeys trooped out on to the grass, she looked out for Kenya’s rider. Mark hadn’t been able to get away from work, and a little disappointed, she stood alone in the ring waiting for the green and gold spotted, silk-clad rider to approach her. Damien Woods was small, gaunt-looking with dark raisin-like eyes. He nodded a greeting and gave Ginny a thin-lipped smile, although it came out more as a smirk. Ginny took an instant dislike to him and smiled tightly in return.
‘It’s probably pointless telling you how to ride Kenya, since you’re the only jockey she’s ever had. Just keep her handy and keep her straight. I’ve seen in her past races she tends to drift right.’
Damien nodded again.
‘She’ll win, not to worry,’ he said.
Ginny was hoping she would too, although the punters seemed less optimistic, but she didn’t like Damien’s overconfidence. He could get himself into a lot of unnecessary trouble with that attitude. She boosted him up into the saddle when the bell rang for the jockeys to mount and gave Kenya a couple of reassuring pats on her damp copper neck. As the horses flounced out of the parade ring towards the track, Ginny hurried over to a vantage point by the grandstands to watch.
*
The gates crashed open and the fourteen fillies catapulted forward. Kenya was slow into stride and lost a few lengths on the field before they’d completed the first two furlongs, but made it up quickly in the backstretch, skimming along the outside of the rest of the field. With surprising deftness, Damien slotted the filly into third place beside the rail just before they met the home turn and saved precious ground. The pace began to slow and Kenya took objection, fighting for her head and galloping in leaps and bounds.
Ginny grimaced as she watched. The more the horse stressed, the more energy was being wasted – energy that was vital in the last two furlongs if they were to win.
Unable to settle her any longer, Damien was forced to pull her out wide to overtake the two horses in front. As the two furlong pole flashed by, Damien began pushing the filly, asking for more. Kenya stuck her neck out and battled to the front as the two leaders began to tire.
With only a furlong left, it seemed all over, and Ginny felt a smile warm her face. It was rapidly replaced with dread as Julien Larocque’s filly, Shell Seeker, loomed at Kenya’s right flank. The two horses raced, stride for stride. Damien held his whip in his right hand, fanning it past Kenya’s eye and systematically striking her on her sweat-drenched side, keeping her straight but also interfering with Shell Seeker, beside her. At the last moment Damien swapped hands and with a forceful smack on her left flank, sent her bolting forward and under the wire, a neck in front of Shell Seeker.
Closing her eyes, Ginny sighed with relief, but didn’t feel completely at ease. There would, more than likely, be a Stewards’ Enquiry following Damien’s racing tactics, and they would have to decide whether Julien Larocque’s horse would have won had she not been interfered with.
Her fears were realised as she congratulated Damien cautiously on his return, when the tanoy, announcing an enquiry, resounded about the course. Racegoers were told to hold all tickets while the final result was decided. Ginny waited with Kerry and Kenya for the stewards’ verdict. She held her breath when the loud speaker crackled. A solemn voice announced,
‘Places remain unchanged. First: Number Nine. Second: Number Three. Third: Number Eight.’
Kerry whooped with joy, startling the filly, who threw her head up in alarm. Ginny could barely contain her own glee. Beaming, she caught sight of Julien Larocque, who had also been waiting for the stewards’ decision. He returned her smile with a grim acknowledgement, before turning and leading Shell Seeker away.
Oh, what fun, Ginny thought happily. Not only had she won her first race, but she had done so beating the self-righteous Frenchman. Revenge was a dish best served cold.
*
‘Here’s to a belated victory toast,’ Mark said, raising his glass across the intimately small restaurant table.
Ginny chinked her glass against his.
‘Long may they continue,’ she added with a grin. Even a week since the event, euphoria over Kenya’s win hadn’t yet abated for her and the yard.
‘This was your first win for Ravenhill, if I’m not mistaken?’
‘Yes.’ Ginny looked down at her hands, suddenly bashful. ‘It’s a bit of a milestone.’
‘Well, I’m especially pleased my horse was the one who did it for you.’
‘It was a close-run thing. I wish you could have been there.’
‘I’d have liked nothing better,’ he said with a regretful smile. ‘It’s a bit of catch twenty-two really, isn’t it? I work hard so I can afford racehorses then can’t get away to watch them because I’m working.’
Ginny laughed.
‘Maybe next time then. Kenya’s got real class. I think we should look at a Listed race for her next outing.’
Mark frowned.
‘You really think she’s up to it?’
Ginny gave an enthusiastic nod.
‘Oh, yes. The horse she beat, Shell Seeker, has run in Listed company before so she’s a good yardstick.’
Mark looked reluctant.
‘She’s still a young filly. I wouldn’t want to overface her.’
Ginny tried not to look too disappointed.
‘I mean, she only just won, didn’t she?’ Mark went on, his eyes clouded with concern.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ she replied. She chuckled. ‘Maybe I’m getting a bit overexcited since she was my first winner. Sky’s the limit and all that.’
Mark grinned.
‘Charlie was right about one thing, you’re definitely ambitious.’
Ginny shrugged and fiddled with her napkin. Even though present company eased the hurt, she still didn’t want to think about Charlie.
‘Let’s keep Kenya in the same class next time,’ Mark suggested. ‘And if her form holds up, we can look at stepping her up after that.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ she said, content to compromise. Her attraction to Mark deepened as she considered how so many owners bullied their trainers into running their horses above their capabilities, just so that they could say they’d had a runner in a Group race, disregarding the impact the loss would have on the horse’s confidence and the trainer’s strike rate. Mark’s theory of doing a modest job well rather than an overambitious one badly was just another testament to his good character, she thought.
‘And next time I’ll be there to see it.’
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she grinned.
‘I hope it’s not the only thing you’ll hold me to,’ Mark drawled. ‘How did racing go today? Did you have any runners?’
She shook her he
ad.
‘It was the 2,000 Guineas meeting so quite a classy card. We didn’t have anything running although –’ She paused as she thought back over the feature race of the day.
‘Although?’ Mark prompted.
‘We might have had a runner had the owner not decided to move his horses when I arrived at Ravenhill.’
‘Foolish person.’
Ginny swayed her head, undecided.
‘Maybe not so foolish.’
She could still hear the roaring crowd and the commentator’s hysterical voice as the horses had pounded towards the finish. ‘Perseus – White Eagle – Shanghai Dancer! They’re three abreast! Oh, it’s a close call!’
‘He won,’ she said, a trace of bitterness escaping.
Mark gave a low whistle.
‘Ouch.’
‘You win some, you lose some,’ Ginny said, quoting her father’s favourite phrase. ‘Shanghai Dancer won by a nose to White Eagle.’
‘Did you back either of them?’
Ginny chuckled.
‘No. I backed Perseus. You might think I was being patriotic but it was my pride really that got in the way.’
‘Patriotic because?’ Mark probed, looking puzzled.
‘Shanghai Dancer is trained by Julien Larocque. White Eagle is trained by his father, Vincent Larocque. Perseus is trained by Michael Ramsay.’
‘Christ. Gives the French one more thing to boast about. Thank God they can’t play cricket,’ Mark said.
Ginny laughed half-heartedly. She recalled how, when the result had been announced, Vincent had embraced his son, kissing him on both cheeks. Julien’s expression had changed from disparaging arrogance to youthful jubilance, like a small boy who’d just won his first preschool race, humbled and ever so slightly overshadowed by Vincent’s powerful presence.
‘Anyway, let’s not think about what we’ve lost,’ Mark said, breaking into her thoughts. His eyes danced. ‘Let’s think about what we’ve won instead. I have won myself a beautiful, talented… and very modest –’ he added when Ginny inclined her head to hide the heat burning her cheeks, ‘– trainer.’ He raised an eyebrow at her to see how she’d respond.
Summoning her courage, Ginny raised her chin and gave him a bold smile.
‘And I have won myself a charming and dream-worthy owner.’
Mark flashed her a broad smile and clinked his glass against hers.
Chapter Ten
In the wake of the Guineas, like a show jumper instinctively looking for his next obstacle whilst clearing his first, most of the racing world turned their attention to the Derby to be held in a month’s time. In the minority was Ravenhill Stables, without a Classic representative, where Ginny was plotting Caspian’s future. At last, she decided on a modest maiden race at Goodwood for the colt’s debut.
After declaring Caspian, Ginny hastened to the saddling stalls where Kerry was supervising proceedings. To her relief the colt was being sensible, taking a healthy but calm interest in the surrounding activity.
‘He’s taking it well, isn’t he?’ Kerry said.
‘Yeah, a lot better than I am.’ Entering his stall with a saddle, Ginny admired the bay colt. She noticed only a few light spots of sweat staining his flanks. He pricked his ears towards her, his thick-muscled neck lifted high. His dark, charcoal-smudged eyes swam with excitement.
Ginny saddled him with trembling hands, taking extra care to distribute the allocated weight of the leaded saddle cloth evenly over his back. Just the thought of the young colt making his debut appearance made Ginny’s stomach turn over. It felt like he was a sculpture she had moulded and which was now being put in an exhibition, open to criticism and failure, but also within touching distance of success.
As she double-checked the gear, Ginny’s father joined the party, looking even more anxious than she. He stood back when Kerry led the colt out into the sunshine and father and daughter smiled at one another.
‘He looks fantastic, Ginny,’ Jim said sincerely.
She grinned, some of her nerves dispersing.
‘Doesn’t he just? The others are going to have their work cut out for them.’
‘You’ve done a terrific job.’
‘But if you hadn’t spotted him at Deauville, I wouldn’t have anything to do a terrific job on.’
Jim wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
‘Come on, let’s go see how Ravenhill’s future pans out.’
*
There was a nail-biting delay to the start of the race as a few of the overexcited debutants refused to be loaded into the starting stalls. Eventually, an expectant hush fell over the racecourse, only to be interrupted by the clanging gates and commentator, Nick Stone’s ‘They’re off!’. The thirteen horses bounded forward, ricocheting off one another’s shoulders as they clumsily fought for a balanced footing.
With her eyes glued to the screen in front of the grandstand, Ginny winced as she saw Caspian, drawn three off the rail, get sandwiched between two rivals.
Startled, the colt threw up his head, tried to bound forward, then finding his path blocked, balked and swerved left. Bouncing off the inside rail, Alex struggled to straighten the alarmed colt.
‘Don’t panic, Alex,’ Ginny murmured, scrunching her racecard in her fist.
‘You neither,’ Jim said, taking her hand. She gave him a quick smile and turned back to the race.
The rest of the field had already gone two furlongs with the favourite, Goinggreatguns, leading them around the turn, before Caspian began to make any headway. Alex sat very still, high in his stirrups, cajoling the colt along. Ginny had said beforehand if he didn’t win today, there was always next time.
Despite herself, as she watched, moving from foot to foot, she urged Alex to push harder. Yes, there would be a next time – and by the looks of things, winning would almost certainly have to wait until then – but now her fierce competitive spirit and belief in the colt made her feel an urgency to succeed today. Hardly daring to wish, Ginny watched Caspian begin to pick off his rivals, one by one, until with the finish looming fast, he was on the heels of Goinggreatguns.
Riding decisively, Alex slapped Caspian twice on his flank, making the colt move into overdrive, more from surprise than from pain.
Ginny’s breath came in short, strained gasps as she watched the pair wear down the favourite. Jumping up and down beside Jim and Kerry, she cheered Caspian on as he overtook a weakening Goinggreatguns. It seemed all the nail-biting urgency prior to now had been unnecessary. Caspian winged past the post three lengths clear, being hand-ridden by Alex to a definitive victory. With her emotions posing a serious threat of overwhelming her, Ginny turned to her father. His eyes welled with tears and she hugged him tight.
‘I think we’ve got a racehorse, Dad.’
Jim extracted himself from her embrace and gripped her shoulders.
‘I think we’ve got more than just a racehorse,’ he grinned. ‘I think we’ve got a Dewhurst racehorse.’
*
As Ginny sat happily in the trainers’ bar waiting for Jim to pay for their celebratory drinks at the counter, she noticed an almost reverent hush fall over the room as the next race started. Curiosity got the better of her and she turned to watch it on the nearest television screen. At first it appeared nothing out of the ordinary, just an average maiden race for two-year-olds then she heard Nick Stone mention the name Silver Sabre. Now she recognised the interest in the race. Silver Sabre, a flashy grey colt, trained by Julien Larocque, was turning heads with every workout he completed on the Gallops and today on his back was champion jockey, Richard ‘Razor’ Sharpe.
Watching the race unfold, Ginny’s jaw dropped in awe. Nick Stone was yelling as the horses entered the last quarter of the race.
‘Silver Sabre takes the lead. Razor Sharpe hasn’t asked for anything yet! Juniper Gold and Davison now in second and third are being pushed along – they’re not making any difference! Now Razor gives the go ahead a furlong from home. Look at him go! S
ilver Sabre is annihilating this field of horses. He goes six, seven, eight lengths clear and Razor Sharpe has hardly asked him anything! Goodwood, we are seeing something very special indeed! Silver Sabre wins by an almighty ten lengths under a hands and heels ride! US Marine gets up for second…’
Ginny glanced across the room to where her father was standing at the bar. She guessed the look of amazement on his face probably mirrored her own. Who was this horse who could win his debut by an effortless ten lengths? All Ginny knew was that if Julien Larocque entered the grey colt in the Dewhurst Stakes, it would make their bid that much harder.
*
One vodka and coke later and feeling more composed, Ginny was back at the bar for one last round. She felt rather than heard the commotion behind her where Jim was sitting. It was almost an interference in frequency, a ripple in her karma and she wasn’t surprised when she turned around to see her father in conversation with the newly-arrived Julien Larocque. A flash of resentment swept through her but she quashed it with a slug of alcohol. Pinning a half smile on her face, she returned to their table and placed their drinks on the placemats. She settled herself on her stool before acknowledging the Frenchman.
‘Congratulations on your win, mademoiselle,’ he replied. ‘This is your first winner as a trainer, non?’
Ginny opened her mouth to respond but Jim was too quick.
‘You’ve been slacking on your form study, Julien, my boy. This is Ginny’s second winner.’ His chest swelled with pride and far from basking in his praise, Ginny felt a stab of impatience in her gut immediately followed by guilt. Yes, she wanted her father to be proud of her but not to show it in front of Julien. She imagined he already saw her as being a Daddy’s Girl.
At Long Odds (A Racing Romance) Page 7
