Jump! (58 page)

A week later, in early July, Painswick was leaving work when Mistletoe leapt on to her desk, leaving muddy paws all over the medical book and scattering papers.

‘Get down, Mistletoe dear,’ said Painswick fondly, reflecting that six months ago she’d have hit the roof.

Looking out, she saw Valent getting out of his Mercedes, carrying a big bunch of young carrots like a bouquet and heading towards the tack room, then going with Marius into Wilkie’s box. Seeing them return, Painswick turned down
At the Races
, and poured a beer for Valent and a modest whisky for Marius.

‘And don’t go to bed too late,’ she chided him as she set off for home. ‘You’ve got an early start to Fontwell. There’s a chicken pie for you and Mistletoe in the fridge.’

‘Getting on all right?’ asked Valent as Marius turned up
ATR
again.

Marius nodded. ‘She drives me round the twist, but she’s an old duck and bloody efficient. She sees off Bolton and Bertie Barraclough, even Nancy Crowe.’

Proudly, shyly, he showed Valent the sapphire and crimson cushion embroidered with the words ‘God, give me winners’, which Painswick had made for him.

‘That’s neat,’ said Valent, and proceeded to give Marius a dressing-down.

‘I know it’s the pot calling the kettle black, Marius, but you’ve got to be more diplomatic, socialize more and stop being so bluddy rude and grumpy. You’ve got to offer owners a more exciting time. They’re not just buying horses, they’re buying oopmarket fun.

‘And Amber mustn’t be so snotty, or Rafiq so sulky. Tommy’s the only decent ambassadress in your yard and she screwed up when she tipped a bucket of water all over Cindy at Worcester. I heard about that.’ Valent started to laugh. ‘Must’ve been bluddy funny though.

‘For a start, I think you should give Rafiq a contract as stable jockey.’ Then, when Marius looked appalled: ‘I rung them up at the Northern Racing College and they said he was bluddy marvellous.’

‘And bloody tricky.’

‘The trickiness would disappear with a bit of recognition. You’d get a 10 lb allowance for him. You need to win more. You won’t get your wife back by losing races.’

‘That’s fuck-all to do with you,’ snarled Marius, picking up the schooling lists.

‘And when are you going to replace Collie? The yard lacks direction.’

‘Soon. Probably with Michelle. She’s already acting head lad.’

‘Acting up head lad,’ growled Valent. ‘She’s lippy, bitchy, she can’t ride. She hardly ever gets up to ride out, the others have to do five lots sometimes. She cheeks Miss Painswick. All the staff except Josh and Tresa are scared of her and she grasses to Lester Bolton too much.’

‘You’ve been in China,’ exploded Marius, ‘how d’you know all this?’

‘Phone works in China too. I ask questions and I learn a lot. You orta sack Michelle.’ Valent thought Marius was going to hit him.

A diversion was then caused by Chisolm running into the office pursued by Horace the Shetland. Having done a lap, scattering magazines and papers, they ran straight out again.

Marius looked at Valent, and they burst out laughing.

I’ve never let anyone bawl me out like this, thought Marius as he got up to refill his drink. But I trust this man, he’s straight.

Valent in turn was wistfully thinking how handsome Marius was and how elegantly he was built. If he looked like that, Bonny wouldn’t be giving him the runaround and always bullying him to lose weight. Last night, Valent had nearly fallen off the heart-shaped bed, which ought to have seat belts, and the mirror on the ceiling only showed how out of shape he was.

‘What’s your take on Mrs Wilkinson?’ he asked.

Marius shrugged. ‘Not great. Charlie X-rayed her again today. The fracture isn’t as bad as we thought but she’s terribly low. She’s a mare who suffers from depression, tough as hell but easily cast down.’

‘We don’t want to lose a bluddy good horse,’ said Valent. ‘I’ve got a plan. Send her back to my place to convalesce. Trixie, Dora, Poppy and Drummond will all be home for the holidays, and Wilkie loves children.’

Marius was dubious and said he’d have to ask Charlie Radcliffe.

Getting up, Valent thought how pretty Marius’s garden looked, with foxgloves, pinks, alstroemerias, delphiniums and roses jostling for position in the beds and spilling over emerald-green lawns. A white rose had been grown up the office wall and peered in, pale and lovely as Bonny.

‘Looks good. Place looking much better, but you’ve got to get rid of Furious.’

‘Not mine to sell. I can’t afford to buy him back.’

‘He’s not going anywhere and Bolton will sue you if he does any more damage.’

‘He’s been better since Rafiq came back.’

What Rafiq hadn’t told Marius was that when he came back from the course to get a licence up in Doncaster, which he’d really enjoyed, Furious had greeted him with every affection until he’d entered the box, whereupon Furious had picked him up by the ribs, thrown him into the corner so he couldn’t escape and kicked him in the back of the head.

Reluctant to show the terrible bruising, Rafiq had made excuses not to sleep with Amber when she needed him, the night after Wilkie broke down. It had not improved their relationship.

Despite 120 get-well cards from the children of Greycoats, Mrs Wilkinson was not responding, and after a week Charlie and Marius agreed to Valent’s plan.

Gleefully Valent rang Etta.

‘Mrs Wilkinson’s coming home to Badger’s Court.’

‘But she’s not allowed out.’

‘She can start in her old stable. Tommy and Rafiq aren’t busy. With so many horses turned out, they’ll lend a hand.’

‘But that’s your lovely office,’ said Etta, aghast.

‘I’ve decided to turn the cockpit into my office,’ said Valent. ‘Octagonal shapes are considered very auspicious and it’s more peaceful away from the house.’

He didn’t add that Bonny, on her latest feng shui kick, had junked the £9,000 wallpaper and redecorated his office in flesh-coloured paint to balance the flow of positive and relaxing energy. Then she’d littered it with seashells and joss sticks, and hung his white kaftan on the back of the door. On the windowsill she had placed a yellow teapot, which according to feng shui encouraged stability in relationships, and given him an orange chair to provide the fire element to boost his career.

Worst of all, she’d thrown out his microwave because electro-magnetic waves weren’t friendly, so, if he was hungry, he could no longer chuck in a pizza at one o’clock in the morning. She’d also covered the television in the bedroom and his Lowry with throws because they acted as mirrors, which was bad feng shui.

According to a gleeful Joey, who reported all this to Etta, the mother and father and baby bear of all battles had followed.

Bonny was incandescent with rage. She’d earmarked the cock-pit for herself, as a quiet room for learning lines and meditation,
and what about the private cinema Valent was going to build for her? Even worse, Mrs Wilkinson would be back in the office, which meant Etta Bancroft and that pestilential goat bleating round the place 24/7.

Immediately she rang Romy, who was appalled and rang Etta.

‘You must stop taking advantage of Valent’s kindness. Don’t you realize Bonny is an artist who needs her personal space? She has incredibly kindly put her name to a beautiful letter launching WOO – the War on Obesity. Do you really want to rock the boat?

‘Valent has a sentimental attachment to Mrs Wilkinson, but he’ll soon transfer his affections to another horse.’

Etta was mortified, but it was too late. Joey, utterly fed up with repainting and being bossed about, was joyfully transforming the office back into a stable and the cockpit into an office. It meant several months’ more work. He wanted to put his elder daughter on the tennis circuit, and he was worried Chrissie might be pregnant. Times was hard.

The change in Mrs Wilkinson was dramatic. Installed in Badger’s Court, peering over a newly painted dark blue half-door, she could see the orchard and the valley. Etta was close by and Chisolm, chewing the bark off apple trees and stealing the workmen’s lunches, was never far away. Gwenny curled up on her back again, and the syndicate popped in to see her as they’d never felt able to at Throstledown.

She’d perked up in a fortnight and was walking by the end of July. Etta, having been so upset by Romy and Bonny, had also cheered up. Listening to her singing as she skipped out Mrs Wilkinson and rebandaged her legs, Willowwood smiled.

‘So lovely for her, having her Village Horse home again.’

Etta’s apparent ecstasy was not just due to Mrs Wilkinson’s return to Badger’s Court. One lovely morning soon after she had moved back in, Etta was watering her garden, delighting in the way white and pink clematis and honeysuckle swarmed up the mature conifer hedge as if to catch a glimpse of Valent.

But she mustn’t think of Valent, who was on a yacht somewhere, supposedly ‘mending his relationship’ with Bonny.

Etta did, however, still harbour a long-distance crush on Seth and was saving up to see him at Stratford when he opened as Benedict in
Much Ado
.

The stream had dried to such a trickle, she was just sliding her watering can along the pebbly bottom to refill it when Stefan the Pole rolled up and admired Etta’s garden saying he wished Corinna and Seth were more interested in theirs, so many plants had died in the drought. Corinna Waters, reflected Etta, was something of a misnomer – but she had been away on tour.

Stefan confided that, pre-Stratford, Seth was running around like a ‘blue-iced fly’. He then handed Etta an envelope marked ‘Private’.

The letter was on Royal Shakespeare paper.

‘Darling Mrs B,’ she read incredulously, ‘I know I shouldn’t write this but I think you’re absolutely gorgeous and bedworthy. We must keep it a secret but I wonder if you’d have lunch with me on Wednesday, one-ish at Calcot Manor. I’m not expecting miracles, but if by any chance you’re free just turn up and I’ll be waiting. Yours adoringly, Seth (Bainton).’

And she’d covered it with earthy finger marks. Rushing inside, Etta had to sit down and read the letter twenty times, leaping up
to check in the mirror that she was ‘gorgeous and bedworthy’ and real.

‘Oh my goodness,’ she cried, gathering up Gwenny and dancing round the room. ‘Could he mean me? “Yours adoringly”?’ And Wednesday was tomorrow.

Etta was waltzing on air, worries about syndicates and fractured cannon bones forgotten. Rushing off to Larkminster, she blued most of next month’s pension on a dress in lilac linen which brought out the dark violet of her eyes. Such a pretty dress needed new dark blue high heels and a lovely new scent called 24 Faubourg.

And if I’m going to be an Oldie, decided Etta, I’m going to be a golden one, and had blonde highlights put back in her hair.

Wednesday was ideal because Drummond and Poppy were going to some end-of-term party and didn’t have to be picked up until four o’clock. As she got out of the shower on Wednesday morning, however, euphoria gave way to despair. If only she could afford some Botox, or her body looked less old and unused, as the morning sun fell on the evening pleating on her breastbone and inside arms. Perhaps the letter was a wind-up.

Driving all dolled up past Badger’s Court, she was surprised to see Valent coming out of the gates and waved at him gaily but he just stared and didn’t seem to react. Stopping every few minutes to check her face for caked powder or lipstick escaping down wrinkles, she arrived at Calcot Manor, a beautiful sixteenth-century house whose emerald-green lawn defied any hosepipe ban.

Omigod! Omigod! She felt just like Cindy, for there was Seth in the dark of the champagne bar with a bottle of Moët on ice, being drooled at by pretty women at adjacent tables. He looked bronzed and utterly stunning in a dark green shirt and chinos. The beard he was growing to play Benedict had reached the stubbly stage and really suited him in a piratical way.

‘Etta!’ He looked startled. Perhaps she really was looking good. ‘What a coincidence, both of us here on the same day. Have you got time for a drink?’

As Seth was always joking, Etta said she had all the time in the world, at least until she had to pick up the children.

‘Such a thrill,’ the words came tumbling out, ‘I haven’t been asked out to lunch for centuries. Sampson would never let me, and after he was ill it was impossible to get away. Thank you for your dear, dear letter, it’s the naughtiest, loveliest letter I’ve ever had. Even if you were a bit plastered, it’s been such a boost to my ego.’

And Seth poured Etta a large glass of champagne and on no breakfast, she proceeded, as they downed one bottle and started on a second, to get legless. Under his warm, sympathetic, admiring gaze, as she inhaled great wafts of Terre, his sexy aftershave, she was soon telling him about her life with Sampson – ‘I was so in awe of him’ – and how worried she was about Carrie and Alan.

‘Carrie’s a workaholic like Sampson and I’m so sad she and Trixie don’t get on and see so little of each other. I love Alan, he’s so sweet to me, but he’s so wrapped up in his writing.’

‘Could I possibly have your autograph, Seth?’ asked one of the prettier ladies. ‘I’m such a fan of you in
Holby City
, I wish you’d cure my migraines, and we’re all coming to see you at Stratford.’ As Seth smirked and scribbled, Etta studied the menu, feeling humble. How could such a gorgeous man ask her out to lunch? She was far too nervous to eat much, which ruled out roast pork, so she settled on grilled lamb’s liver and when persuaded to have a starter, opted for melon and smoked duck with grilled figs.