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‘That’s so sweet, Lester’s “Dearest Dad” pendant and ring,’ cooed Phoebe.

‘He bought them hisself,’ whispered Cindy. ‘Hasn’t seen his kids in years. I’m his precious little girl. His kids regard me as a fret.’

‘That’s rather sad,’ said Bonny.

‘How d’you get on with Valent’s kids then?’ demanded Cindy.

‘I haven’t met the boys yet,’ replied Bonny coolly. ‘We’re taking things very slowly. After all, their mother passed away in a train crash. They need to achieve closure. I don’t want to threaten them.’

‘They couldn’t not find you attractive, Bonny,’ said Phoebe, ‘which might make things hard for Valent.’

‘I’ve seen piccies of Ryan. He’s drop-dead gorgeous,’ said Cindy.

‘Phèdre again,’ sighed Seth. ‘A woman fatally drawn to her stepson.’

They’d reached the outskirts of Cheltenham, in whose greenhouse atmosphere everything was much further on. The crocuses were over but the white cherry blossom breathtaking against pink-petalled magnolia. Daffodils danced across the parks.

‘Books are my life. So many authors have passed through Cheltenham,’ Bonny was now saying to Seth.

‘I don’t read, me,’ piped up Cindy.

‘I can read you,’ said Alan, bending over to admire the tattoo on her shoulder. ‘“I love Lester”, that’s nice. What happens if you split up?’

‘I get a kitten called Lester,’ giggled Cindy. ‘I don’t read books, but I’m writing one.’

‘You what?’ asked Bonny incredulously. ‘What on earth about?’

‘About me, a hautobiography, a voyage of erotic discovery and
how I found fulfilment wiv my gentle little Lester. I’ve made over forty movies.’

‘You must have some terrific stories, do tell us more,’ begged Alan, topping up her glass.

Clearly disapproving, Debbie got up and retreated down the bus. The Major moved closer.

‘What’s next?’ he asked, rheumy eyes gleaming.

‘Well, Lester is planning to shoot me as Lady Godiva in the Harboretum, riding Furious.’

‘Furious might need a stand-in,’ suggested Alan.

‘And then he wants me to play Gwendolyn.’

‘Oscar Wilde’s Gwendolyn?’ cried a horrified Bonny.

‘Dunno how wild she was,’ giggled Cindy, ‘but she was pashnit about Sir Francis Framlingham, such a romantic story, and we want Mrs Wilkinson, who’s grey, to play Beau Regard. If you shot carefully, you wouldn’t know she hadn’t gotta winkle. Perhaps you could play Sir Francis, Seth – I can just see you in a Cavalier ’at with a fevver or perhaps Marius, he’s well fit, phwoar!’ Cindy at last lowered her voice. ‘Lester’s a bit jelly of Marius.’

The stunned silence, no one daring to meet anyone’s eyes, was broken by an outraged Phoebe.

‘My husband Toby would have inherited the title if Aunt Ione’s sister had been a boy. If anyone should play Sir Francis, it should be him. But I know Aunt Ione would fight tooth and nail to stop the Willowwood Legend being made into a porn film.’

‘Erotic fantasy, perlease,’ cried Cindy. ‘Lester’s always tasteful.’

Lester, glued to his BlackBerry, didn’t rise.

‘I’m sure it’s out of copyright,’ grinned Alan. ‘
The Willywood Legover
. Let me play Sir Francis, Cindy.’

‘The porn is green,’ said Seth. ‘The best person to play Sir Francis,’ he grinned, ‘is Alban, our driver. You wouldn’t mind getting your kit off, would you, Alban?’

Alban brayed with laughter and nearly ran into a lamp post.

Cindy shrieked as well.

‘You’d ’ave to be an ’orseback rider, Allbare. I like that title, Alan,
The Willywood Legover
.’

‘It’s a travesty,’ hissed Phoebe.

‘I agree,’ said Bonny.

‘Not if it were done tasteful,’ insisted Cindy. ‘Have you ever taken your kit off in a film, Bonny? You’d enjoy it, it’s very liberating. You’d need a boob enhancement first, but Valent would pick up the tab, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind in such a good cause.’

For once Bonny was silenced.

Etta gazed at the racing page of the
Mail
, willing herself not to laugh.

‘I suppose it turns you on to – er – make this kind of film,’ said Phoebe scornfully.

‘Naah, you do it over and over and over, tike after tike. Lester’s always present, he spanks my botty afterwards if I’ve underperformed. Makes me go all warm underneaf.’

More stunned silence was interrupted by a cough from Debbie. She was progressing down the bus with a large hatbox, wearing the serene smile of a head waiter bringing in a surprise birthday cake. She nearly knocked off Pocock’s flat cap on the way.

‘This is a gift from Normie and me, Etta. Enjoy.’

Inside, rising like a vast raspberry summer pudding, was a huge bright magenta stovepipe, the most awful hat Etta had ever seen.

‘Gosh,’ she squeaked.

‘For you.’

‘How terribly kind, but I couldn’t possibly accept it. It’s far too grand for me.’

‘Try it on now.’ Phoebe leapt to her feet.

‘And far too expensive.’

‘Furious paid for it,’ chortled Debbie. ‘I placed a bet on him at Wetherby.’

‘It’s lovely,’ stammered Etta, ‘but it would really show up my old coat. It’d look so much better on you, Debbie.’

‘This hat will lift any outfit,’ insisted Debbie.

‘Chapeau, chapeau, and off to work we go,’ sang a giggling Alan as he filled up his and Seth’s glasses.

‘Go on, Etta.’ Phoebe lifted out the hat and, as if she were snuffing out a candle, dropped it over Etta’s head, covering her eyes and most of her little snub nose.

‘Where’s Etta?’ cried Seth. ‘Where’s she gone? I can’t see her anywhere.’

‘Not like that,’ chided Debbie, tipping the huge contraption backwards. ‘Give me your comb, dear.’

‘I’ll find it.’ Seizing Etta’s bag, Cindy scrabbled among a lot of tickets, pencils, Polos and a dog biscuit and unearthed an embarrassingly dirty comb, some grey fluff down its prongs, and handed it to Debbie, who coaxed feathery tendrils on to Etta’s forehead.

‘There, doesn’t she look a poppet?’

‘A pleasure dome of high degree,’ murmured Seth.

‘At least you’re not swollen-headed, Etta,’ quipped the Major, as Etta hung her head and the hat fell over her nose once more.

‘It’s lovely,’ mumbled Etta from the magenta depths, desperate not to hurt Debbie’s feelings. ‘It’s just a bit smart for me.’

‘Not the new you,’ said Debbie, tipping the hat again. ‘Next week we’ll find you a nice skirt suit in town.’

Gazing imploringly down the bus, Etta could see Alan, Woody, Joey and even Pocock creased up with laughter.

Alas, there were no gales blowing at the Cheltenham drop-off point to sweep the hat away into the ravishing green valley, no river to swallow it up.

The hat was so vast, Etta kept bumping into racegoers and knocking them and the hat sideways. Nor with it over her face could she feast her eyes on the most beautiful course in England with its ring of hills, lovely houses and little square church peeping out of angelically green trees, the blue Malvern hills to the left and the three radio masts looking down from Cleeve Hill opposite. Fences, hurdles, rails, cars, copses and helicopters spilled across the course like some divine toy a child couldn’t bear to put away at night. Etta could at least breathe in a heady smell of hot horses, frying onions, burgers and scampi.

All around, too, were sculptures of great horses of the past. Cindy promptly handed her cigarette holder and glass of champagne to Alban and clambered on to Best Mate’s statue, flashing a leopardskin thong while Lester took photographs.

‘Try side-saddle, princess.’

‘Isn’t she dreadful,’ whispered Phoebe to Debbie.

‘Dreadful,’ replied Debbie. ‘Don’t take your hat off, Etta, it looks so elegant.’

Bonny was delighted to see Etta so discomforted.

At least Mrs Wilkinson marched into the paddock looking cheerful. She adored crowds and they came running down to the rail to admire her and Chisolm, who trotted round in her new collar and lead, snatching at fading daffodils or any chip, burger bun or ice cream in unwary hands.

‘There are thirty-three cameras in the stable block,’ an amazed Dora, who was leading Chisolm, informed Tommy. ‘Corinna and Bonny should hire a box for themselves.’

‘Security is very tight,’ observed Tommy.

‘So is Cindy Bolton,’ giggled Dora.

The crowd were also gazing at Cindy, who, having abandoned her mink to Lester and reached the centre of the parade ring in her six-inch heels, was squawking, ‘Oh my God’ and ‘Phwoar’ at the trainers and owners around her. Bonny, aware of not being
gazed at as much as usual, had taken off her trilby so the world could appreciate her flawless but bleak face.

‘Aren’t you frozen, Cindy?’ she said disapprovingly.

‘No gain without pain,’ giggled Cindy. ‘Phwoar, here comes Marius, I really fancy ’im. I love mean, difficult fellows, can’t fink why his wife left ’im.’

Mrs Wilkinson was looking for Etta. Only when Etta surreptitiously raised her hat as though she were peering through a letter box did Mrs Wilkinson recognize her, break away and tow a giggling Dora and Tommy to her side, bowling over a group of owners like skittles.

Above the parade ring, by a statue of the great Arkle, a lovely willow swung in a breeze which was also tossing around Lester’s ginger comb-over, so it fell on his forehead like a giant kiss curl.

Why was Mrs Wilkinson wearing a rug with Marius’s initials on and not his? wondered Lester angrily. He’d ordered a rug, with LB on, for Furious.

‘She’s not going to win the turnout,’ said Joey. ‘She hasn’t come in her coat.’

‘Funny fing to come in,’ Cindy shrieked with laughter, ‘I always take mine off.’

‘Hush,’ said Debbie in horror.

Marius had just had a word with Bertie and Ruby Barraclough and Awesome Wells, before legging him up on to Count Romeo, who at least had won the turnout. Coming back to the Willowwood syndicate, wincing at the sight of Cindy, Marius saw Amber had joined them, her long blonde plait falling down her green silk back.

Next moment Lester had strutted up and, putting a caressing hand on her arm, was telling her how to ride Mrs Wilkinson.

‘Don’t let her make it and exhaust herself. This is a longer trip. You’ve got the Cheltenham ’ill, so don’t start your run too early.’

For a second, Marius was speechless, then, fired up by memories of bullying Shade Murchieson, he strode up.

‘Am I training this horse or are you?’ he said icily. ‘Please stop muddling my jockey and take your hands off her.’

‘Marius,’ hissed Alan in horror, but before Bolton could explode, a voice said, ‘Hear, hear,’ and Rogue sauntered up, giving Amber’s plait a tug. ‘How are you, beauty?’ then nodding at the rest of the syndicate, ‘Seth. Bonny, you’re looking good. Etta, where’s Etta, under canvas?’ He tipped back her hat and peered under it and everyone laughed in relief, as the bell went for the jockeys to mount.

‘Good luck, darling.’ He tugged Amber’s plait again and sauntered off to ride Birthday Boy, the favourite.

‘Phwoar, isn’t he drop-dead,’ sighed Cindy, which pleased Lester even less.

Amber didn’t take in a word of Marius’s instructions and even forgot to be charming to the syndicate.

I am not over him, she thought in horror.

Despite having to be secretive in order not to hurt Tommy, and Rafiq being in a terrible state about Bolton buying Furious, Amber and Rafiq had had wonderful sex since that rapturous first night after Wetherby. But all that was as nothing compared with her sudden explosion of longing for Rogue.

Thank God Rafiq had stayed behind at the yard. As Marius legged her up, Amber went straight over, landing on her bottom on the other side. As she remounted in embarrassment, she could see Rogue, his long legs hanging down out of his stirrups, laughing his head off as he undid Birthday Boy’s four nearest plaits, giving himself something to cling on to.

If only he’d cling on to her, she thought, but as he set off for the start and she saw him flashing smiles at all the pretty women in the crowd, she pulled herself together. She’d got to beat the bastard.

Equally put out was Chisolm, when Mrs Wilkinson was set free to follow Rogue. Dora had to rush off and buy her an ice cream.

High up in the Owners and Trainers, Etta could at least see the race under the brim of her dreadful hat and that Mrs Wilkinson, enjoying the wide undulating track, had gone straight to the front and stayed there.

Amber’s ignoring my instructions, thought Bolton, his heart darkening against Marius, who, below them on the grass, stood apart from the crowd, hands clenched on his binoculars.

‘Come on, Mrs Wilkinson,’ bellowed and screamed Willowwood, as she started her run up the hill.

‘Come on, Mrs Wilkinson,’ shrieked Cindy. ‘Get your fucking arse into gear.’

‘Here we go,’ shouted Rogue, as he and Birthday Boy stormed past.

No you don’t, thought Mrs Wilkinson, grinding her teeth.

Birthday Boy was a young horse. Leading up the hill, he wanted company and started looking around. Rogue picked up his whip and was so busy laying into the horse, who was also carrying 12 lb more than Mrs Wilkinson, that she managed to hurtle up the inner and once again win by a head.