Chapter Twelve
A few days later, Ginny reached for her mobile phone as the theme tune to Dallas pealed out, and again she mentally vowed to change the ringtone, just so that she wouldn’t attract so much attention. Her heart gave a silly flutter when she saw it was Mark.
‘Hello,’ she said as casually as she could.
‘I think we should celebrate!’ was his opening line.
‘Pardon?’ she laughed.
‘I’ve just read a very interesting article in today’s Racing Post, Miss Virginia Kennedy.’
‘Oh, that,’ Ginny said, blushing. ‘They’ve made it into a bigger deal than it actually was.’
‘I don’t care; I’m taking you out for a bottle of bubbly.’
Ginny was torn. These past few days had been as stressful as she’d seen yet, and as tempting as going out celebrating with the delectable Mark Rushin was, she was absolutely shattered.
‘Why don’t you come over for dinner at my place?’ she said. Oh dear, she panicked, did that sound too much of a come on? ‘I’m really tired, that’s all,’ she added.
‘Sounds great. Are you going to cook?’
Hell, she hadn’t thought this one through very well.
‘Um, yes.’
‘There is no end to your talents. A chef as well as a trainer?’
‘You haven’t tasted my cooking yet,’ Ginny warned.
Mark laughed.
‘Shall we say about eight?’ she suggested.
‘I look forward to it. I’ll bring the champagne as well. See you then.’
‘Yes, see you later.’
Putting down her phone, Ginny picked up today’s Racing Post and turned to Page 2. It was silly really, she told herself. It was only a paragraph long and had a tiny postage stamp photo alongside it, but to Ginny it felt like an OBE invitation from the Queen. For about the twentieth time today she re-read the article.
Ginny Kennedy, in her debut season at father, Jim Kennedy’s Ravenhill Stables, opened a few eyes at Chester by training the winners of the 1.45, 2.20 and 4.05 to land a treble. Most impressive was Sequella, who made all to win the Chester Cup by five lengths. Kennedy told press that Sequella will be prepped for the big stayers races later on in the season, showing particular interest in the Goodwood and Doncaster Cups. Also under her regime, Golden Marble took the first with a convincing performance over odds-on favourite Idyllic Setting, followed by the outside chance, Raccoon scooping the spoils in the next. Ravenhill now has the support of years’ worth of experience, and the freshness of youth to guide it through what looks to be a very interesting season.
Ginny sighed, smiling to herself as she relived yesterday’s unbelievable events. If everyone had been humouring her before, then maybe they would have stopped laughing by now. Julien Larocque was of course the first person she thought of in that respect, and she wondered why his opinion of her mattered so much. It occurred to her that maybe she felt threatened by him. If he was her rival then she wanted to show that she could fight her corner. She frowned. Why didn’t she feel so defensive against the other big trainers like Andrew Pearson and Michael Ramsay then? Shrugging her shoulders, she turned her thoughts to the much more important task of not only thinking up something to serve for dinner, but also of cooking it without giving Mark food poisoning. How could she possibly cook a full meal when she struggled with a boiled egg? Would he mind if she just ordered Chinese? No, she admonished herself, she couldn’t do that. Indian perhaps? Christ, she only had three hours to decide on the meal, cook it and also get herself ready. She’d think of something when she got to Tesco.
*
The sound Ginny had been dreading echoed through the house while she was diving into a dress as the doorbell announced Mark’s arrival.
‘Sally G! Help!’ she wailed. Jack sprang off the bed in fright and whipped beneath it.
‘Don’t worry, darling. I’ll take care of it, you carry on,’ Sally called from downstairs.
Ginny closed her eyes and gave a silent thank you to the gods for the utterly dependable Sally G. She heard her opening the front door and greeting their guest, making Ginny’s excuses and welcoming Mark inside. Counting to ten and taking a few long deep breaths, she resumed her struggle with her dress. Smoothing out the non-existent creases she left the safety of her bedroom with Jack, her self-appointed shadow, at her heels. She followed the sound of muted voices out onto the garden patio, pasting a cool smile on her face as she walked.
‘Ginny,’ Mark greeted her with a cheerful grin. He rose to his feet, scraping back the slatted wood garden chair and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
Ginny tried to stem her blushes.
He swiftly poured her a glass of champagne, which he must have brought with him and raised his own in a toast. ‘To my brilliant trainer, Ginny Kennedy. Congratulations.’
Clinking glasses with him and Sally G, she took a huge gulp to steady her nerves and nearly choked.
*
To Ginny’s relief, her chosen menu of pan-fried fish on a bed of potato and spinach was a success as far as she could tell, although not without stress during its preparation. Earlier, Sally G had offered to go out for the evening and leave the two of them alone, but Ginny had convinced her to stay. She wasn’t sure she could cope with both cooking and entertaining at the same time and her landlady had eventually agreed to stay and support her. However, after the pistachio and strawberry ice-cream, she excused herself from the table.
‘Sorry, I’m going to have to leave you two darlings. I’ve a date with the Naked Chef.’
‘Wish I was having a date with a naked chef,’ Ginny heard Mark murmur and felt a crimson rush of heat burning her cheeks. She seemed to do an awful lot of blushing around Mark.
Upon Sally G’s departure, Ginny led the way into the living room, making the split second decision to sit on the sofa, giving him the option of sitting next to her or in the armchair alongside. Encouraged when he chose the sofa, Ginny hid a private smile.
Not to be outdone, Jack felt obligated to supervise all after-dinner activity, and took great pleasure in making himself comfortable on Mark’s lap the second he sat down. Mark noticeably stiffened, as if a tarantula had crawled onto him.
‘Jack, get off!’ Ginny shooed the cat away.
Disgruntled, he jumped down onto the floor, giving an upward flick of his tail, a feline V sign, but not without shedding white hair over Mark’s designer trousers.
‘Sorry, he loves people.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Mark said, trying in vain to brush Jack hair off his clothes. ‘Thank you for a lovely dinner. You didn’t disappoint.’
Ginny smiled shyly.
Rearranging himself more comfortably on the sofa so that his leg was centimetres from her own, Mark changed the subject. The one subject he must know Ginny was confident about speaking of.
‘How is Kenya? I take it she came out of her race okay?’
‘Oh, yes. She’s recovered well. She’s always a gem to train.’
Mark nodded his approval.
‘I’m glad. Maybe next time we might make it back into the winner’s circle.’ Mark draped his arm along the back of the sofa and Ginny forgot how to breathe, steeling herself from admiring the line of his torso.
‘I hope so,’ she replied, concentrating on keeping eye contact. ‘She’s certainly fit enough, she just needs a bit of luck in running next time out.’
‘I was also hoping that would be quite soon. I’ve got a couple of business associates from America coming over, and I’d like to take them racing.’
‘To see Kenya race?’ Ginny shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not.’
‘They’re here during Derby week. Could we choose something for around then?’
‘That sounds fine to me.’
‘Marvellous, I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’
Mark’s grey eyes twinkled silver and Ginny felt a shiver flutter down her spine. If he wasn’t careful he’d be fending off her advances at any moment.<
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‘Are you going to the Derby?’ she asked, picking a neutral topic.
‘No, sadly. I’ve got work commitments in the morning with these Yanks. How about you?’
Ginny shook her head.
‘I’ve got a runner at Windsor. I’ll probably watch it on the TV though. Perseus is back to lock horns with that French colt, White Eagle.’
‘Sounds a good race,’ Mark commented. ‘The French don’t have a particularly good record in the Derby though, do they?’
‘No, they don’t. Been only one winner in the last thirty odd years for them.’
‘Unlikely to change this year then,’ Mark said, taking a casual sip of his drink.
Ginny opened her mouth to argue but closed it again. White Eagle was trained by Julien Larocque’s father and she didn’t feel inclined to defend his name, no matter how good she thought the colt was. On the other hand, she respected French racing and felt that had they had more opportunities, the Derby trophy would have spent more time across the Channel that it did.
Seeing Jack approaching with a purposeful stride and his blue eyes fixed on his lap, Mark drained the last mouthful of his champagne.
‘I should really make a move,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’m sure you’re shattered after cooking us that delicious meal, and I’ve got an eight-thirty meeting in London tomorrow morning.’
Ginny threw a swift look at the driftwood clock on the opposite wall.
‘Oh, it’s almost eleven,’ she said in surprise and hurried to stand up. ‘It’s been lovely having you round. Thank you for coming.’
She accompanied Mark to the front door, a sense of anticipation fluttering in her stomach. Standing beneath the light of the dusty outside lamp, she was ready when he bent his head and kissed her on the lips for the first time, softly at first then with increased pressure as she responded. Ginny closed her eyes, breathing in the trace of cologne still lingering on his jaw, tasting his champagne-flavoured mouth. Too soon, he pulled away and smiling down at her, drew a lingering finger down her temple and over her cheek.
‘I was also hoping you would accompany me to the Charity Ball on Derby night.’
‘A ball?’ Ginny had never been asked to a ball before. That sort of thing was firmly reserved for the likes of Cinderella.
‘Some racing charity or other has a summer ball.’
‘I’d love to,’ Ginny breathed, already going through her mind what she would wear.
‘Marvellous. I’ll call you.’ Leaning forward he placed a fleeting kiss on the tip of her nose before turning to leave.
‘Bye,’ Ginny concluded, giving a weak half wave at his departing figure. Going back inside, she leant against the closed door, her legs like jelly. She touched her lips where she could still feel the warmth and moisture of his kiss. Everything had gone right tonight, she thought. The meal, the conversation and, finally, the goodbye. A contented sigh escaped her and she smiled, cliff-edges far from her mind.
Chapter Thirteen
Ginny wasn’t one for self-flattery, but come the evening of the Charity Ball, she felt like royalty as, holding Mark’s proffered arm, she walked up the steps to the venue. She had chosen a midnight blue gown with a high neck and low back and beside her, Mark looked more handsome than ever, if that was possible, in black tie, complete with scarlet cummerbund. She didn’t know if she was more nervous or excited about the evening, but having the calming presence of Mark at her side quelled her fears. They walked through the double doors into an entrance hall lit by a central chandelier.
‘Shall we, m’ lady?’ Mark grinned.
Wide-eyed and grasping her welcome glass of champagne, she let him guide her into what one could only describe as a vast banquet hall. Oval tables cloaked in starched white tablecloths and soft lamps at their centre were set strategically around the room. Half of the guests were already seated, but others, attired in elegant ball gowns and black tie, stood around chatting in clusters, sipping from champagne flutes and whiskey tumblers. At the front, a raised stage supported a small orchestral band, which played gentle dinner music, blending in with the steady hum of a hundred conversations taking place.
Ginny gawped. Opulence wasn’t a word she would often use, but it seemed the only suitable description for her surroundings. Vast portraits of nineteenth century hunting and racing scenes interspersed the long velvet-draped windows along the walls. Turning her attention to the guests as they wove their way between tables to find their own, she recognised many famous faces, not just from racing, but television and sports stars and Middle Eastern royalty.
Their table was centrally positioned and with a sharp intake of breath, Ginny recognised a bored-looking Jack Carmichael, champion National Hunt trainer, in conversation with a young blonde woman at their table. After a moment of quick scrutiny and mind-wracking, she recognised her as a television soap actress. Mark offered a chair for her, and she found herself sitting next to a small rotund man in his sixties, with a red bulbous nose, a twitching moustache and a dreadful comb-over.
‘Colonel Morston-Groves. How do you do?’ he said.
His accent was so upper-class, Ginny wondered if his top lip had moved at all when he spoke.
‘Ginny Kennedy,’ she smiled, taking his clammy hand.
‘A pleasure, I’m sure. Any relation to the Kennedys of Derbyshire?’
‘Um, I don’t think so,’ she replied. ‘Cambridgeshire, I would think.’
‘Hmm. I have a country pad in Derbyshire, although I spend much of my time down in Cornwall.’ He chuckled to himself, which triggered a small coughing fit. ‘Well, twelve bedrooms and one hundred and twenty acres might be called more than a pad but still, one must have somewhere to escape to when the locals get too much. Don’t you agree?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said, struggling to keep a straight face.
‘Do you work?’
‘Of course,’ she smiled. ‘As much as I’d like to be a lady of leisure, I have responsibilities.’
‘And what does a beautiful young lady like yourself do?’
Coming from anyone else, this compliment might have made her blush, but from him, it almost repulsed her.
‘I’m a racehorse trainer.’
Across the table, she caught Jack Carmichael giving her a puzzled look. She gave him a brave smile, feeling mildly out of her depth knowing she wasn’t even famous enough to be recognised by those in the same industry as her.
‘Oh, indeed?’ said the colonel. ‘I have a few in training, although more into polo myself. Just had a shipment of Argies arrive a few days ago, you know.’
‘How lovely,’ she replied, trying to appear interested.
‘Did you have anything in the Derby today?’
‘Sadly, no. Maybe next year,’ she said, dreaming of Caspian.
‘Me neither. Had a share in last year’s winner. Sold it to some Arab prince or other for a small fortune. Felt this year, one should let the others have a chance.’
‘How generous of you.’
Colonel Morston-Groves took this sarcastically-made comment as a compliment and beamed at her.
‘Must have a turn around the floor later, my dear. They do seem to have put up a jolly good effort here.’
‘Um, yes, they have.’ Discreetly pulling at Mark’s sleeve to save her, she attempted a genuine smile, but it felt more like a grimace. Mark was talking to a glamorous girl on his left, and he turned away with reluctance to help Ginny.
‘Having a good time?’
‘Help, I’ve got Colonel Mustard sitting next to me,’ she hissed.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack Carmichael’s mouth twitch in amusement as he lip-read her plea.
*
The food was delectable, with everything from Alaskan seafood to sushi, traditional roasts to exotic Moroccan dishes. Ginny tried to be as adventurous as she dared, washing down the spicy recipes with chilled champagne. After dinner, the lights were lowered and the orchestra was replaced with a tasteful DJ. In
the dark and dusky light, she admired Mark’s profile as he chatted with Jack Carmichael. In comparison, Colonel Whatsit-Groves’ nose seemed to glow more and more with each flute of champagne he put away.
‘Now, young lady – hic – I do insist we have this dance,’ he said, his chest swelling.
‘I – er – not just yet. I have to – I have to go the toi– to the Ladies,’ Ginny panicked. Excusing herself, she left the table and hurried in what she hoped was the right direction to the loos. People were milling about, looking more relaxed than before dinner. Men had shed their jackets and loosened their ties and some women’s hair-dos were beginning to wilt. When Ginny looked in the restroom mirror, her hair was miraculously still in place.
‘Sally G, you’ve missed your calling,’ she murmured, patting her locks of auburn hair which her landlady had fashioned high up onto her head during their preparation. She hadn’t realised how it complimented her bone structure, with just a few long curling tendrils at her temple and neck to soften the style. Refreshing her lipstick and taking the shine off her nose, Ginny left the security of the Ladies, wondering how she was going to talk her way out of this dance. Venturing out, she was relieved to see the colonel had also deserted the table. Attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible, she slinked back to her table. But just as she was about to give a sigh of relief, a shrill voice, a decibel higher than necessary just as the music ended, stopped her in her high-heeled tracks.
‘Ginny! Ginny darling!’
Taken aback, Ginny turned to see a girl, much the same age as herself, with dark curls bouncing about her smooth round face, waving like a windmill in a hurricane and dragging some long-suffering man behind her as she weaved through the tables.
‘Monica?’Ginny said, a little hesitant.
‘Yes, of course! I thought it was you!’ Monica cried, as she reached Ginny. ‘How’ve you been? Where have you been?’
For a moment, Ginny’s attention wavered as she recognised the man at her side. With effort, she turned her full attention to Monica, who was an old school friend.
At Long Odds (A Racing Romance) Page 9
