‘Are you going to take Mark?’
‘Probably. If he can make it, that is. His work seems to take him away on business a lot of the time. We’ve got Kenya running tomorrow and he can’t get away for that either. You like Mark, don’t you, Dad?’
Jim hesitated before replying.
‘He’s very smooth,’ he said with diplomacy.
Ginny pulled a face of torn loyalties.
‘Okay, I’ll give you that. But a nice smooth, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, yes, don’t get me wrong. He’s so charming he could sell ice to an Eskimo. Just don’t introduce him to your mother just yet or she’ll be asking Monica which printers she used for her wedding invites.’
Ginny laughed and sat back in comfortable silence with her father to wait for the running of the July Stakes.
*
Beth, who had come to ask Jim what he wanted for tea, stopped herself as she walked in, midway through the race. Seeing the two of them leaning forward in their chairs, their eyes glued to the screen, they were both oblivious to her presence. Ginny perched with a cushion gripped in her hands and Jim beat a soft rhythm on the armrest of his chair with every stride the horses took. She knew life could sometimes be lonely, being the wife of a trainer, but Jim was so passionate about his horses, a trait Ginny had inherited, that she could forgive them. Her father had also been a trainer, dedicated to his work, and as a child she had sometimes felt excluded, at times even resenting the animals which had so completely dominated his attention, but here, watching Jim and Ginny, she realised these horses could also bring people closer together than in any other normal relationship. Ginny had never had any time for boys as a teenager, and it was to Beth’s relief that she had taken the big step of leaving Newmarket to follow a man, even if it had taken her halfway across the world. She desperately wanted to see Ginny in love with a man rather than a horse, and maybe Jim didn’t help matters by always encouraging her passion for racing, but perhaps one day Ginny might change her priorities. She watched the race from the doorway in silence, glancing at the focussed expressions on her husband’s and daughter’s faces. A horse called Quillan seemed to be the only name on the commentator’s lips, and even she, a no-hoper when it came to judging horses’ ability, was impressed by the way the colt moved to the front of the field and ran out the easy winner. Beth looked at Jim and Ginny for their reactions. Neither had been cheering, instead they had remained unnaturally quiet throughout the race, and Ginny now looked a little pale. Jim looked grim.
Catching sight of her at the door, his expression changed, the tense line of his mouth breaking into a smile, and Beth realised why she had fallen in love with this man. He had so much love to give, it wasn’t all for the horses. Putting a smile on her face, she asked what he’d like for tea.
‘Whatever is easiest.’
‘Shepherd’s pie?’
‘Sounds great.’
She turned, heading back towards the kitchen when Ginny stopped her.
‘Mum? Can I stay for dinner?’
Beth tried to mask her initial surprise and delight as Ginny spoke up.
‘Of course, lovie.’ Sensing a rare opportunity to connect with her daughter, she stepped back into the lounge and asked, ‘Was – was that a good race?’
‘Quillan won,’ Ginny groaned, falling back against the sofa.
‘Oh, who did you want to win?’
‘Anything but Quillan really. We’re going to be up against him with Caspian in the Dewhurst.’
Beth searched for something to say with which to reassure her but Jim was too quick.
‘He wasn’t up against a very strong field, remember. Quillan was able to dictate the whole thing. He had it easy.’
Not completely sure if this was true or not, Beth was about to back him up for Ginny’s sake, but she stopped, when she noted her daughter’s attention was diverted by the television. Ginny was sitting very still. Looking from her to the screen, Beth saw a man being interviewed prior to the next race. He had a low murmuring French accent, and was devastatingly handsome, and right now Ginny seemed as engrossed in him as she had been in the race. And she had no problem in identifying him either. It was hard not to when he had lived next door for the past two and a half years.
Chapter Twenty
The punters had deserted Kenya the next day at Sandown. Ginny crossed her fingers and prayed that they were wrong as the horses cantered down to the Start, the sun bouncing off their muscular rumps. She and Mark had agreed on a Listed race, a step up in class from her previous runs. Jarred by their past misfortunes with Kenya, Ginny had needed some convincing but Mark had been adamant they should give the filly a chance. She knew that Kenya’s performance today would impact more than just her personal attachment to her. A Listed winner, although not in the same class as a Group winner, was still a good achievement to have on a yard’s CV.
The horses were loaded into the starting stalls in quick succession. They were almost too quick for Ginny, as she prepared herself for the adrenalin rush that would flood through her body when the nine horses jumped out. The joint favourite, Desert Rain, sprinted to the lead, spearheading the rest of the field down the centre of the course. He was tracked by three mid-market rivals, followed by Kenya and a similar outside chance. The pace was quick, and Desert Rain opened a gap of three lengths on the chasing pack.
Ginny scrutinized the field, deciding on who would be their biggest threat. At the halfway stage, Desert Rain seemed the obvious target, having extended his lead to four lengths. Half the field was already being pushed along, and the only horses still going strong were the joint favourites and Kenya.
Damien made his move with two and a half furlongs to go. The filly, unleashed at last, stretched out her neck in a genuine fashion and picked up the tempo.
As the others began to fade, Ginny felt her pulse escalate when she realised the only one able to stop Ravenhill Stables adding the Listed race to their CV was Desert Rain. Ginny was enveloped by the roaring crowd cheering the horses home as they entered the final furlong, and, jumping up and down, she yelled along with them. The race wasn’t over yet as Kenya began to peg back the leader. Picking up his whip, Damien drove his mount to greater measures, and the three lengths separating the two horses dwindled to two, then with one hundred yards to go, down to one. Desert Rain was flat to the boards, his jockey having gone through all the gears. With the inside rail to help keep her straight, Kenya took giant strides past Desert Rain, and flew by the winning post half a length clear. Ginny gave a loud whoop of triumph and wished she had Mark beside her to hug and share their victory. Fumbling for her phone as she made her way down the stands to greet her horse, she dialled his number.
‘Good news!’ she squeaked when he answered. ‘We won!’
‘We won? That’s fabulous, Ginny! Well done.’
She grinned like an idiot. She could hear the smile on Mark’s face, making her stomach flip over at the thought of it.
‘She was so brave, Mark. I wish you could’ve made it.’
Mark laughed.
‘Seems every time I can make it, she loses. Maybe I should stay away more often.’
Ginny grinned.
‘Here she comes now. She hardly looks out of breath at all.’
‘I’m so pleased, Ginny. For you as well as for me. Tell you what: I’ll cut business short and come up tonight. Do you fancy celebrating our win and checking out my place in Cambridge?’
Like a ray of sunshine, Ginny felt her blood warm in anticipation.
‘Just name the place and I’ll be there,’ she purred.
‘I’ll text you the address. I probably won’t get back before seven though. And Ginny?’
‘Yes?’
Mark lowered his voice and she had to strain to hear him.
‘Thank you for this,’ he said. ‘I’m going to make you feel like the only woman on earth.’
Ginny smiled to herself.
‘Can’t wait. I’d better go, Mark. See you
later.’
She rung off just as Damien Woods pulled Kenya to a halt in front of her.
‘Well done.’
‘Child’s play,’ he smirked.
Turning to lead Kenya to the winner’s circle, she looked straight into the eyes of Julien Larocque. He nodded, unsmiling.
Bad loser, she thought with satisfaction. That’ll teach you to warn me off the course.
*
Ginny and Sally G cracked open a bottle of wine to celebrate when she got home. Outside, the late afternoon sunshine had ushered the clouds away. Basking in its warmth, Ginny sat on the wooden decking, propped up against a creeper-covered pillar with an unrestrained smile on her face. She held her wine glass up to see the sunshine’s distorted reflection through it, swirling its contents around, turning it into liquid gold. She made a silent toast to Mark.
‘Good to see you looking happy again,’ Sally G said from her chair, watching her take a huge slug.
‘Have I been that miserable?’
Sally G made a non-committal noise.
‘Let’s just say that Kenya winning today is a definite step in the right direction.’
‘And one in the eye for Larocque too.’
‘What has Julien Larocque got to do with this?’ Sally G asked.
‘What? Oh, just something he said to me last time Kenya raced. He threatened me.’
‘Really?’
‘Told me to watch my step.’
Sally G looked at her in disbelief.
‘He said that? I know you two aren’t the best of friends but that’s a bit severe.’
‘Well, not those words precisely,’ Ginny relented. ‘He was talking in riddles, but his message was clear enough. Seems all he does is talk to me in riddles and I’ve never been great at cryptic crosswords.’
‘Darling, you are talking to a dual Times Cryptic Crossword Competition winner here. What did he say exactly?’
‘Well, when Julien’s Samurai Prince beat Kenya last time – thanks to him, I might add – he pointed at Kenya then at the track and said “zatis where angels fear to tread”.’ Ginny attempted a poor French accent and scratched the air with her fingers to display the quote, nearly spilling her wine as she did so. ‘Told me to go watch the replay of the race.’
Sally G contemplated this.
‘Hmm, let me ponder that one.’
‘Don’t bother, Sally. It’s a waste of time. Julien was just being Julien. He’s just sore because I slept with Mark.’
‘Are you sure?’
Ginny cringed, thinking how arrogant she must sound and she shrugged. ‘I don’t know really. Not that I understand Julien that well, but you should have seen his face when he overheard me talking to Alex and Kerry about my stay in London with Mark. He looked like he wanted to kill someone.’
Sally G relented and smiled.
‘Okay, but I wish you wouldn’t tell my niece that sort of thing. You’re a very bad influence.’
Ginny grinned.
‘I’m seeing Mark tonight. And cross my heart, I promise not to kiss and tell.’
*
Later that evening, Ginny drew up outside an attractive detached cottage on the outskirts of Cambridge and double-checked her text messages that she had got the right place: 139 Dawson Road.
She rang the front door bell, waiting with a silver statue of a racehorse, which she had been presented with earlier, in her hands, ready to deliver it to its winner. Mark opened the door, his undone tie draped around his neck and his white cotton shirt creased from a long hot day.
‘Angel, come on in,’ he greeted her.
‘Your prize,’ Ginny said, stepping over the threshold and holding out the statue. Mark grinned and held his arms out wide.
‘Your prize. Well done. I’m sorry I missed it, I only got back from London about half an hour ago.’ He took the statue and slipped his arms around her waist. ‘But rest assured, I am yours completely and utterly for the rest of the evening.’
‘Hmm, sounds promising,’ Ginny laughed. ‘So, this is your country pad then?’ She gazed around at the comfortable-sized living room with its earthen open-brick fireplace and beamed ceiling.
‘Huh, some might say. It’s not massive but it’s good for what I need it for.’
‘And what is that? Inviting wanton women round and promising to be their slave?’
‘Only the very special ones,’ Mark winked. ‘I’m running a bit late. Come through and we’ll get you a drink. I must have a quick shower before we go.’
‘Where are we going?’ Ginny asked, following him through the cottage to the kitchen at the rear.
‘I managed to get last minute reservations at a nice little restaurant in town. Have you had Thai food before?’
‘No, but I’m open to anything.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind. Here you go.’ Mark handed her a glass of champagne and tapped his own against it. ‘Congratulations. A win well worth waiting for.’
‘Absolutely,’ Ginny agreed.
‘Right. I’m just going to jump in the shower. You’ll be okay for a while, won’t you? There’s a TV in the lounge if you get bored.’
‘Don’t worry about me. You go ahead.’
Mark gave her a quick kiss and disappeared out of the room.
*
A few moments later, Ginny heard the hiss of a shower being switched on. Humming to herself, she looked around the kitchen, feeling much more at home here than in Mark’s London flat. She ran her fingers lightly over the pine-coloured worktops then paused, smiling when she noticed a paperweight in the corner resting on a tidy pile of papers. It was in the shape of Table Mountain, with a rigid South African flag adorning the top. She picked it up, brushing her thumb along its flat summit, realising Mark must have bought this on one of his trips to Cape Town and allowed herself a moment of nostalgia. With a sigh, she replaced the curio but a faint frown passed across her forehead as she inadvertently caught the first sentence of the letter on the top of the pile.
Dear Mr Wolfe,
As a valued customer of Bet Express, we are delighted to offer you a list of this month’s promotions…
That name… Ginny’s mind shuffled furiously through its messy archives to place it. She looked at the address. Mr M. Wolfe, 139 Dawson Road. She gulped and hastily set down her drink, spilling some of it over her trembling hand. With triumph, her mind presented her with the memory she was after – of her picking up Mark’s post from his London flat and the name, Mr M. Wolfe on one of the letters. But they were two different addresses! she told herself. Had M. Wolfe owned this place as well? Another, more sinister thought occurred to Ginny.
So what if he’s using two names, she reasoned, trying to calm herself. Was it that unusual? I bet plenty of people use pseudonyms. I bet. Those two words ground her calming psyche to a halt. For their betting accounts? She jumped as the theme tune to Dallas peeled out of her bag and she scrabbled inside it to find her phone. She tried to compose herself before answering.
‘Sally G?’
‘Ginny? Where are you?’ Sally sounded desperate.
‘I’m at Mark’s, remember. What’s wrong?’
‘Are you alone right now? I need to speak to you in private.’
‘Yes, I’m alone. What’s wrong, Sally?’
‘Ginny, I think I’ve figured out what Julien meant when he spoke to you at the races the other day.’
‘Oh,’ Ginny sighed with relief. Was that all? ‘That’s great, Sally. Listen, I appreciate you ringing to tell me,’ she paused, glancing at the letter addressed to M. Wolfe. ‘But I’ve got to go. Something’s come up.’
‘Ginny, you’re not listening! What odds did Kenya win at today?’
‘Starting price was sixteen-to-one, if I recall. Why?’
‘And what odds did she lose at last time?’
Ginny’s brow furrowed at Sally G’s line of questioning.
‘Two-to-one, I think.’
‘Darling, I don’t know all that much about racing b
ut I don’t think Julien was threatening you. I think he was warning you. Angels fear to tread is part of a poem. Fools rush in, Where angels fear to tread.’
Ginny didn’t cotton on at first.
‘It still doesn’t make sense to me.’
‘What did you say Mark’s surname is?’ Sally G hinted.
‘Rushin – oh, God,’ her eyes widened as it sank in. ‘Fools rush in.’
‘Did you watch the replay of that race?’
‘Well, no. I figured I’d seen all I needed to see right there.’
‘I suggest you come home and watch it,’ Sally G advised.
Ginny snapped to attention as she heard the shower being switched off.
‘Sally, I’ve got to go. Mark’s going to come through in a minute. I’ll speak to you later. And thanks.’
‘Take care, darling.’ Ginny cut the call and took a deep breath to calm herself.
Ginny started as Mark suddenly appeared in the doorway, fresh-faced and his golden blond hair still wet.
‘You okay?’ he asked with a bemused smile. ‘You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’
‘Um,’ Ginny began, trying to pull herself together. ‘I – I just got a call.’ She held up her phone in evidence. ‘From my father. One of the horses has got a problem. I think maybe – I mean, I’m sorry, Mark, I have to go.’
‘Hey, slow down,’ Mark said, cupping her shoulders and looking down at her with concern. Ginny struggled to meet his gaze. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I don’t know. He just said one of the horses,’ Ginny lied. ‘I’m sorry to do this to you.’
‘Don’t be. It’ll be okay. Do you want me to drive you?’
‘No! I mean, I can drive, thank you.’ She shook her head and pretended to laugh at herself. ‘Look at me. You don’t want to be around me in a crisis.’
‘Okay. Well, drive safely. Whatever the problem is, I’m sure your father is capable of handling it until you get there.’
With a hand on her back, he led her to the front door where he stopped and looked at Ginny again with worried grey eyes.
‘You sure you’re going to be okay?’
At Long Odds (A Racing Romance) Page 15
