Special Relationship (2 page)

Katherine scoured the prices being offered on the big race and, after turning to ask Alex how much she wanted to bet, confidently approached the bookmaker offering the biggest odds on
Manarola. “I’ll have £200 on Manarola at five to one.”

The bookmaker took her money and printed a receipt from an electronic machine.

“Wow, £200 on a horse. I only wanted £10...so the rest is for you?”

“No it’s for you,” Katherine said.

“What?”

“Mr
Hensen asked me to ensure you have a good day. I’m not sure he won’t consider putting money on a horse for you a bit tacky, but you’ll have fun anticipating the race and even more fun if you win, so really I’m only following orders.”

They both laughed.

For lunch, Alex enjoyed pan fried sea trout with lobster, potatoes, pea mousse, lemon grass and samphire accompanied by a glass of 2003 Château d'Yquem. After the champagne, she decided to pace herself with the vintage white.

She chatted easily with her fellow guests on the table who came from both horse racing and financial worlds.

During coffee Katherine came over. “So how was lunch?”

“Excellent, thanks.”

“There is a group of us going into the parade ring before the big race. I wondered if the racing newbie would like to join us?”

She hesitated. “What do I have to do?'

“Oh nothing, just stand there in the middle with the owners, trainers and jockeys and look important.”

“OK, put me down, girl,” she said, mimicking a Texan drawl.

Katherine smiled. “You might also want to pretend you know the difference between racing and rodeo.”

Alex watched the first race from the suite’s balcony. The one horse she could see easily was a big grey in front and she willed it to win only for it to fade into second.

Returning to the suite, she decided she needed help if she was to get the most from horse racing, so she approached a late middle-aged man who was sitting alone at a table studying the runners and riders.

He wore a light-coloured suit with blue shirt and tartan tie, an ensemble, she thought, that didn't quite work but somehow made him more approachable than some of those who had planned their outfits more carefully.

“Any luck?”

“Yes, bad as always,” he smiled before gesturing to the seat opposite “Please, join me.”

He was Tavis Hamilton, a Scottish banker and long time friend of Nick Hensen's. He also owned a stake in his company and worked for it as a consultant.

His light brown hair was thinning and his forehead showed his age, but he had strong features and kind, hazel eyes and she guessed he would have been quite attractive in his younger days.

After they had discussed her contract, Tavis spoke of Hensen the person. “He is a good man, do anything for anyone, and that is anyone, a Lord of the realm or down-and-out under Waterloo Bridge. And I don’t mean just writing a cheque either. He came from a modest background and, I have to say, he remains very humble despite the fact he is stinking rich.

“Excuse me, back in a minute.”

He returned with a bottle of something that Alex quickly recognised as whisky, a bucket of ice and two glasses.

“Now, let’s forget the wine and start on the proper stuff,” he said, half-filling the tumblers before she could refuse.

“Whisky?”

“
That’s right, a very fine Scotch indeed, Black Bowmore 1964. Fruit, peat and pure pleasure. I’m not trying to impress as I didn’t buy it - Nick did. But it’s amazing that when they first released this in the 90’s it cost £80 a bottle. Now it’s probably thirty times that.”

She was staggered that anyone would pay so much for just one bottle of liquor. Was any drink in the world worth so much? She was about to find out. It was rich and dark and powerful, and immediately she felt a warm comforting tingle sweep through her body.

“Wow. That’s not a drink, that’s an experience.”

Hamilton laughed.

“I came to you for some investment advice on the horses, not to get drunk.”

“We have just missed the second race, the next is the big one, the
Hensen race. And I guess you’ll be backing Manarola in that?” he asked.

“I already have. Mr
Hensen told me to,” she answered without wishing to divulge that, with the connivance of Katherine, his company had also supplied her stake.

“
Manarola is the town in Italy where Nick likes to holiday. He named the horse after the town.”

“Running his own horse in a race his company sponsors sounds like good business.”

"Only if it wins"

Alex looked at her watch. "I have been invited into the parade ring before the race.”

“Well, you’d best be making a move. The horses will be coming out soon and it’ll take you a few minutes to get there. Be sure to come back afterwards and I’ll let you know the winners of the other races.”

“OK, nice to meet you, don’t drink all the Scotch before I get back.”

“Wouldn’t be difficult,” he laughed.

She found Katherine talking to a newspaper photographer, with a “PRESS” armband and three cameras strapped round his neck. But she caught her eye and they were soon on their way, stopping only for the PA to buy some cigarettes at a kiosk. She quickly unwrapped the packet, took one out, puffed heavily on it a few times and then threw it on the floor to stamp on it.

“Better?” asked Alex.

“I really must give up.”

In the parade ring, Katherine introduced her to James Strauss, racehorse trainer, whose job was to teach Manarola how to race, to give him the best food and to keep him fit. “Pleased to meet you, Alex,‘ taking her hand and kissing her on the cheek. "I hope you are having a good day.”

“I’m having a great day, thanks, and it’ll get better still if
Manarola wins,” she said, smiling broadly.

The trainer laughed. “Well, he’s in terrific shape. We really couldn’t have done more with him.

“Here he is,” he said pointing to a lively bay entering the parade ring with two girl handlers, one either side, trying to keep him under control.

“He has a bit of attitude.” And then seeing
Hensen and several others had joined them, he added: “Like his owner.”

“James, you really should be on the stage,” Nick retorted.

Alex looked round the parade ring. The circling horses she thought were beautiful. With their power and the shine on the coats, they were overflowing with health and life.

As the jockeys entered, the two stable hands managed to guide
Manarola over to the Hensen group. Stephen Reed, no more than five foot, joined them, donning his cap to first the owner, then the trainer and then to Alex and the other guests.

After a talk on race tactics, Strauss hoisted him into the saddle. It was then that
Manarola really started to show his immense power, taking one quick lunge back and then two forward. “Hold on boy,” shouted the jockey, who despite his slight stature soon regained control.

The last Alex saw of the pair they looked the best of friends as they cantered to the start. Horsemanship like that is quite a skill, she remarked to Katherine as they made their way back.

Only a few guests and the waiting staff were in the suite. Everyone else was preparing to watch the race. Some had stayed downstairs, to watch for real or on TV. The rest watched from the balcony and they decided to try their luck there. Alex, aware of her 5' 10” plus heels, found a space away from the very front.

Katherine was in front of her, and they were joined by
Tavis, who had brought a whisky with him.

“Confident?” he asked her.

“Fingers crossed.”

Some of those on the balcony watched the horses at the start of the race through binoculars, but Alex and Hamilton concentrated on the big screen.

Manarola walked around at the start, looking a more relaxed character than the fiery beast that she had first seen. Then the first of the runners was led into the starting stalls. Some in the crowd rushed to place late bets.

Manarola
was put into stall six in the middle of the field and soon all eleven were in the boxes. “They’re under orders,” the commentator said across the Tannoy. “They’re off!”. Even watching the big screen Alex found it hard to pick out Manarola. But above the noise of the crowd she caught the commentator saying that they were at halfway and Manarola was moving up.

Soon she could make out the colours on the track itself and she could tell
Manarola’s jockey was a lot more relaxed than many of the others. While they were pushing and shoving, flapping their whips, Reed sat there hardly moving.

As they climbed the hill towards the finishing line, his stance in the saddle changed. Much lower now, he started to urge
Manarola to maximum effort and the colt responded with a burst of acceleration that took him from third place to first in a few strides.

“Go on!” shouted Alex. “Go on!”

“He’s going to win it,” shouted Hamilton.

“YES!” exclaimed Katherine as
Manarola crossed the line well ahead of the second horse. The three of them jumped up and down, high-fived and hugged, laughing at their good fortune.

“That's £1,000 to you Miss Anderson. And the company gets its stake back.”

Below, a crowd gathered round Hensen as he made his way to greet his winner. “Well done, he is some prospect,” one racing fan said to the beaming owner.

“Thank you, thank you very much,” he replied.

In the suite, Katherine, Alex and Hamilton toasted the horse. “To Manarola,” Hamilton said “And a wonderful day.”

“
Manarola,” said the ladies, clinking glasses.

“I’d better go and see if Nick needs anything,” said Katherine.

“One more whisky?” Tavis suggested to Alex.

“You are terrible,” she remonstrated as they sat down and he poured.

“So, I’m old enough to ask a young girl like you whether you are married or in a serious relationship without it being taken as anything other than pure interest.”

“Ha, don’t put yourself down,
Tavis, but no, I’m not married and not in any relationship, serious or not.” She explained that she had forsaken her personal life for her business.

“Not just that, though, eh?” he said, looking directly at her.

The comment startled her.

She shrugged it off. “Yes, just
that
Tavis!”

“I ought to say that what makes me a good banker is that I am the best amateur psychologist on the planet. I’m fascinated by social interaction, body language, language use, etcetera. It helps tremendously making deals when I know the other person’s body language says they won’t budge any more or that they haven’t given me anything like their best offer.”

“And what is it in my body language and use of language that makes you think that there are other reasons for me being unmarried?”

“Oh, I can’t say, it would alarm you if I revealed my secrets,” he laughed.

“So I am intrigued now. You think what happened in my past?”

“Well, how old are you now, 30?”

“33.”

“And you are American right?”

“New York City, born and bred.”

“And you came here how long ago?”

“Four years.”

“So, at 29, you up sticks, don’t even stay in America, but cross the Atlantic and set up in business here.”

“I like to help pay for the Queen.”

“You ran away from something.”

She was jolted into silence and sipped more whisky to give her the time to think of her reply.

“
Tavis, you might be a clever man, but I fear the whisky has gone to your head. Let’s talk about you and your family and I’ll check your body language.”

He laughed. "You must understand reading body language is like reading the results of a lie detector. All those squiggles on the graph. It does take some
experience to know what they mean. That is, of course, unless the subject is too obvious with the signals."

"And when they are too obvious?" she asked.

"In my case, you end up marrying them."

"Tell me more."

"Well twenty or so years ago years ago when I was in my mid-thirties I became aware that my, err, body was approaching middle age quite a lot faster than my mind. So I hired a personal trainer. She was married but quite beautiful, not in a perfect symmetrical way but she had a great, smiley personality, the sort of strong facial looks that I like, and, of course being a personal trainer, she was physically in good shape.

"So I became a bit besotted. We used to go running in Regents Park and it became the highlight of my week. Very vulgar thing to say and - excuse me - I used to run behind her and stare at what you in America would call her butt."

"Tavis!"

"So then I started to hire her twice a week, and then three times a week, even though the actual training was a total bore. I'd rather have just taken her to the wine bar or cinema or something"