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Searching in her bag for a handkerchief, Etta realized she had left her mobile switched off.

‘I knew Bonny and Valent would get back together again,’ crowed Phoebe.

‘Don’t worry,’ Painswick tucked an arm through Etta’s, ‘Wilkie’ll live to fight another day.’

As Valent clambered into the passenger seat of Rupert’s dark blue helicopter a quarter of an hour later, Rupert demanded, ‘What have you done with that pretty girl? She seemed rather keen on you.’

‘She’s going back to London in my chopper.’

‘Isn’t she expecting you to go with her?’

‘Yes, but I’m not, I’ve got things to sort out here.’

As Rupert’s helicopter took off into the lilac evening, Valent caught sight of an utterly outraged Bonny beckoning from the window of his red and grey helicopter.

‘Funny old day,’ said Valent.

Rupert was still brooding: ‘A man would have been able to fend off that kind of bullying from Killer and Johnnie. Amber’s too slight, and what the hell was she doing necking with Marius in the middle of a Gold Cup? World’s gone mad.’

Perhaps Amber needed a father figure now Billy was on the way out; Rupert was overwhelmed with sadness.

Valent felt ashamed. He’d just won one of the greatest races in the world, and had no right to be depressed because Etta hadn’t bothered to ring him and had deliberately switched off her mobile. Business, however, prevailed.

‘I’ve got to come clean, Rupert,’ he said in embarrassment. ‘What am I going to do about six hundred thousand cooddly Wilkinsons and four hundred thousand cooddly Chisolms arriving from Kowloon?’

‘You what?’ Over the engine Rupert wondered if he’d heard right.

‘If they’d been delivered as promised before the Gold Cup,’ said Valent, ‘I’d have sold the lot, but the ship got held oop by pirates. Probably expected liquor or cocaine but didn’t have much use for a cooddly pony, even one who shakes hands and sticks her tongue out. The cooddly Chisolm’s almost cuter, got a primrose in her mouth.’

‘And her bloody diary got confused with my column. Remind
me to murder Dora when I see her,’ said Rupert, who was trying not to laugh. ‘Are you talking about stuffed toys?’

‘A million of them,’ said Valent gloomily. ‘That’s why I offered to buy Mrs Wilkinson, to stop any infringement of copyright.’

‘How much for?’

‘Six hundred thousand.’

‘Jesus.’ Rupert thought for a minute then he said, ‘Your only hope is to enter Mrs Wilkinson for the National. The public still adore her.’

Etta would like that, thought Valent, her favourite book was
National Velvet
.

‘I’ll train her for you,’ said Rupert. ‘We’ve got three weeks.’

‘I’d have to check with Marius.’

But Rupert was leaping ahead: ‘And once you’ve bought her you can dump that ghastly syndicate. Harry Herbert copes brilliantly with syndicates at Highclere, but I’m not being pestered by your job.’

Over at Throstledown, the crimson and royal-blue flag was flying again. Furious had won the Gold Cup and as the first Muslim to ride the winner Rafiq received massive publicity. He had also notched up a tenth win and could qualify to ride in the National, but his delight was tempered. Every newspaper led on his amazing turnaround, his jailbird past.

‘“Marius rescued us both,”’ wrote the
Scorpion
, beneath a lovely photograph of Rafiq hugging Furious. ‘“Furious and I found each other in prison.”’

Before, only a sprinkling of people were aware he’d been inside and was a possible terrorist threat. Now the whole world knew.

He’d switched off his mobile but he knew the Mafia would soon return with their death threats, ordering him to pull Furious and other horses. After all this publicity, the sophisticated techniques of MI5 would also soon find out he was speaking to the enemy and pack him off to a detention camp in Eastern Europe, never to return. What would they do to darling Tommy? Vakil, whom he distrusted, had caught them kissing – so Rafiq went back to ignoring Tommy, hurting her dreadfully.

Nor were Marius and Amber very happy with the press as they woke up, on the morning after the Gold Cup, in Marius’s double bed where the sheets had hardly been changed since Olivia walked out. If only they could have confirmed their commitment and reached insensibility having sex all night! Alas, Marius suspected Rogue had fractured his jaw, Amber had been kicked everywhere, and even after a lethal cocktail of champagne, whisky and Nurofen, any lovemaking had resulted in ‘Ouch, ouch, ouch.’

Neither was into masochism so they fell into a fitful sleep, to be woken by Painswick bringing them cups of tea with averted eyes and pursed lips. Once again she had found her office a tip, with papers all over the floor, empty bottles, glasses everywhere and a disgusting smell of burnt tinned tomato soup.

As Florence Nightingale, Marius was clearly a washout.

‘People have been leaving messages all night asking after Wilkie and congratulating you on winning the Gold Cup,’ said Painswick tartly. ‘Her Majesty, the Prime Minister and the Archbishop of Canterbury all sent texts. Flowers, consignments of Polos and carrots keep arriving. And the press are at the gate.’

‘I’ll shoot the buggers,’ snapped Marius, reaching for a cigarette. ‘Bring me a large whisky – please. How’s Wilkie?’

‘Terribly depressed. She walked out sound but she won’t eat up. Furious seems fine. The press want to know what time Furious and Rafiq are going to make a victory parade through Willowwood and when’s the party. And they all want to talk about you and Amber and Rogue.’

‘I’m not talking to anyone, I’ve got a black eye.’ Amber peered at herself in the dusty mirror.

‘Neither of us has anything to say to the press,’ snarled Marius. ‘Amber’s moved in. End of story. Has anyone done the declarations?’

‘Not yet, and you’re not going to like this.’ Painswick dropped the
Scorpion
on the honeysuckle-patterned counterpane.

‘Omigod,’ groaned Amber, a few seconds later. ‘Bloody, bloody Mum’s done it again. T
HE
LIVING NIGHTMARE WHEN
I
THOUGHT MY
A
MBER HAD DIED
. Oh my God.’

Janey Lloyd-Foxe must have written and filed her copy as fast as any of the journalists in the press room at Cheltenham. There were big pictures of Marius, Amber, Rogue and Mrs Wilkinson.

‘“Two of the most charismatic men in racing fighting over my baby,”’ read out Amber in increasing horror. ‘“When she was a teenager, my Amber had pin-up photographs of sexy champion jockey Rogue Rogers. But she also used to refer to handsome Marius as MFH, which stood for My Future Husband, and now it looks as though her dreams have come true. Our photographer caught Amber locked in Marius’s arms. Heart-throb Rogue could not contain his jealousy and swung his mount round and later hit tasty Marius across the winners enclosure. Rogue has lost the race and his job as Rupert Campbell-Black’s jockey. What a price to pay for love. But there was a happy ending for handsome Pakistani Rafiq Khan, my daughter’s former boyfriend, who put his dark prison past behind him and stole the show.”

‘The bitch, the bitch. Oh God, I’m sorry.’ Amber clutched her head and shrieked with pain.

‘It’s all right, darling.’ Marius seized the
Scorpion
and thrust it at Painswick. ‘Of all the bloody tactless things to produce. Get out,’ he thundered at a reporter who’d climbed up the flagpole and was peering in.

‘They’re all the way down the drive,’ sniffed Painswick.

‘You get out as well, get out,’ roared Marius, rearing out naked from under the duvet, so Painswick scuttled. Then, turning to Amber, he saw she was in tears.

‘Doesn’t matter, we’re what matters. You stay there, I’ll go down and sort things out.’

Admiring the flat broad shoulders, the taut high bottom and the long muscular legs, Amber thought what a pity that Marius ever had to get dressed at all.

Painswick found Dora talking to Mistletoe in the kitchen.

‘Lemme go upstairs and see them.’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘All my contacts want a statement. Someone’s got to deny that crap written by Janey Lloyd-Foxe. Poor Amber, what a cross to bear, even worse than my mother. Have they both got black eyes? People who look alike are supposed to be attracted to one another.’ Dora sighed. ‘Wilkie’s not speaking to anyone, I better go and interview Chisolm.’

Furious got his parade through Willowwood, wearing his black Cheltenham Gold Cup Winner rug, and managed not to kick or bite anyone. Perhaps Trixie’s euphoria, resulting from a pocketful of greenbacks from Valent and the prospect of Eddie taking her out on the toot that evening, had rubbed off. Wilkie stayed at home, still depressed.

‘Mrs Wilkinson doesn’t want to steal Furious’s thunder,’ Dora told the press.

Afterwards, having ascertained from Charlie Radcliffe that Wilkie had suffered no ill effects from her fall, Valent called an emergency meeting of the syndicate at the Wilkinson Arms, which Shagger quipped should now be called the Furiosa.

Here, to everyone’s delight, Valent honoured his pledge. He offered to buy Mrs Wilkinson for £600,000 and, even better, allowed the syndicate to retain a 1 or a 0.5 per cent share each, ‘so we can keep her in the family, so to speak’.

To this, a majority vote agreed joyfully.

‘And we can still enjoy being part of Wilkie without the uncertainty and expense of the bills,’ said Tilda. ‘Thank you so much, Valent.’

Expecting a party, the syndicate were somewhat deated when Valent immediately pushed off to discuss the new arrangements with Marius.

‘That’s about sixty thousand each,’ worked out Alan, who still hadn’t got to the end of his book.

‘Isn’t he kind?’ sighed Etta, whose eyes Valent hadn’t met once.

‘Pocket money to him,’ mocked Shagger.

Journalists were still hanging around outside Throstledown as Valent arrived. Telling them to bugger off, he checked on Wilkie, who was indeed so low she refused a bit of barley sugar.

In the office, Valent found Amber wearing a blue and white striped shirt of Marius’s. Having enquired after her bruises and given her some grapes, Valent also told her to ‘shove off, luv’. His meeting was only with Marius.

Amber retreated upstairs and went on the rampage.

Like Miss Havisham’s house, nothing seemed to have changed since Olivia left. In the wardrobe, Amber found lots of pastels and blacks. Skirts had got shorter since Olivia had left Marius, she’d need to have everything turned up if she wanted to wear them again. Hatboxes were piled under the dressing table, boots under the chaise longue. On the walls were photographs of Olivia with terriers, with India, with horses, jumping them, leading them up, posing with winners. Even her jewels were still in their case.

Had Shade, the control freak, wanted to excise the Marius years and ensure everything Olivia owned had been given her by him?

On the dressing table were bottles of scent, many of which had lost their individual smell through age. One sweet and peppery scent called Silver Rain she remembered smelling on Olivia before the first point-to-point and had occasionally caught wafts of in the paddock. Perhaps Silver Rain had been an affair present from Shade. Olivia had left a bottle of cleansing cream upside down in a loo roll, draining out the last drop. She and Marius must have been terribly short of money. There was arnica for bruises – Amber rubbed some underneath her eye – and even a
bra still in the dirty clothes basket, although that could have been Michelle’s.

Loathing herself, Amber found a couple of whisky bottles inside Marius’s bedside cupboard. Inside Olivia’s she found a Dick Francis and Jenny Pitman’s autobiography face down. In a Bible, she found a handsome photograph of Shade and a letter: ‘My darling, Everything awaits you.’ Another picture fell out. Goodness, it was Alan Macbeth, so like Niles in
Frasier
. Her hand shaking, Amber felt under the cupboard’s lining paper. The pain was ridiculous as she pulled out a photograph and a letter from Rogue, who never wrote letters. ‘Darling Olivia, Sorry I came too soon. Better fuck next time. Yours always, Rogue.’ Amber had heard rumours. God, would she never get over him? She slumped on the bed, face in her hands.

How strange that Marius was so incurious, he’d never bothered to open Pandora’s box. All over the house were pictures and sculptures of horses galloping, yet time seemed to have stopped at the starting gates, waiting for Olivia to come back.

Down in the office, Valent thought how pale and exhausted Marius looked.
At the Races
, turned up sforzando, was showing a race in Kentucky with lots of little Eddie Aldertons in long white trousers and ankle boots riding large horses which were being ponied down to the start by large men on little ponies.

He knew Marius was anxious to get out to evening stables, so, having accepted a can of beer, he immediately broke the news that he’d bought Mrs Wilkinson.

‘Shouldn’t chuck your money away like that.’

‘Got enough for the rest of my life.’

‘Not if you start buying racehorses,’ said Marius, examining the schooling list for tomorrow.

‘Will you turn the foocking television down and concentrate, Marius? I’ll have to put you in a flooffy noseband.’