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Romy’s eyes gleamed. People were already chucking £20 notes into buckets that were being circulated. If only Shade could become a patron of WOO, their War on Obesity charity.

As the head of fundraising drew Shade aside to thank him, Olivia, so beautiful in her simple little lime-green suit, turned to Alan.

‘Please don’t hate me,’ she whispered.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he murmured.

‘Me too.’

‘Why didn’t you warn me you were leaving Marius?’

‘I thought you might stop me.’

‘Are you happy?’

Olivia gave a half-smile.

‘Shade’s trying so hard to look after me better than Marius did.’

‘I’d like some glazed tart,’ Cindy told a waitress.

‘Takes one to know one,’ sneered Bonny.

‘That was so moving,’ Romy told Shade as he came back to the table. ‘Martin and I have a colossal database but we find the best way of fundraising is face to face. We employ students to confront people in the street and persuade them to give ten pounds a month for African orphans.’

‘I’d pay students ten pounds to leave me alone,’ drawled Seth.

‘Oh get away, I know you don’t mean that,’ said Romy roguishly.

Glancing round, Bonny caught sight of the Scorpion, a copy of which two women at the next-door table were avidly reading. In it some outwardly respectable ageing actress had told all and more to Amber’s mother, Janey Lloyd-Foxe.

‘I cannot understand why celebs suddenly reveal sordid details about their past,’ said Bonny disapprovingly.

‘For money,’ said Seth, forking up Bonny’s rejected mushrooms, ‘or to sell books. My sister and I,’ he added idly, ‘are going to sue our parents.’

‘Whatever for, Seth?’

‘Because neither of them sexually abused us and consequently gave us nothing with which to spice up interviews or our autobiographies.’

‘Oh Seth.’ Bonny, who wore no mascara to run, burst into tears.

‘Earth’s the matter?’ asked Seth, reaching across and tugging Alan’s yellow silk handkerchief out of his breast pocket and handing it to Bonny.

‘I was abused by both my father and my stepfather,’ she sobbed.

‘Can’t really blame them.’

‘Seth,’ thundered Martin, adding, ‘That’s what makes you so able to express suffering in your acting, Bonny.’

‘Certainly the abuse I suffered informed my life experience, Martin,’ sniffed Bonny. ‘Through therapy, I recognized I must put myself first for a change. I recognized my own fragility.
The Blossoming
is indeed resonant of my special trauma.’

‘Can you pass the potatoes?’ demanded Corinna.

‘I’m sensitive, me,’ piped up Cindy, ‘but one has to move on.’

‘My goal this year is to internationalize the Bonny Richards phenomenon,’ said Bonny.

‘That won’t be hard,’ gushed Romy. ‘Charity work would raise your profile. Your voice alone would do it, you have such a fascinating accent.’

‘I spent a lot of time in the States.’

‘About three minutes,’ snarled Corinna.

‘Land of the freesome,’ giggled Alan, who was already drunk.

It was nearly time for the Best Dressed Lady contest. Competitors were powdering their noses.

‘Neither of you need do a thing to improve your faces,’ Seth told Romy and Bonny, but they still went off to the Ladies.

‘I cannot understand your mother-in-law, allowing Debbie to force her into that dreadful hat,’ murmured Bonny as she tilted her little pink pillbox.

‘Etta’s always been a wet blanket,’ murmured back Romy, adjusting her gentian-blue picture hat. ‘Not up to Martin’s wonderful father’s speed at all.’

‘I can’t figure out why she bugs me,’ mused Bonny. ‘I guess it’s the way she hangs on Valent’s and Seth’s every word like a hysterical spaniel, laughing at their jokes. Do you know what Seth calls her?’

‘Tell me.’

‘“Sorry with the fringe on top,” because she never stops apologizing!’

‘Sorry with the fringe on top! How priceless.’ Romy burst out laughing. ‘Do let’s lunch.’

The loudspeaker crackled.

‘Will all the runners in the Best Dressed Lady competition please make their way to the winners enclosure to meet their celebrity judge,’ ordered the loudspeaker.

‘Who’s that darling old boy? He looks very familiar,’ murmured Bonny as the ladies lined up.

‘He’s an actor,’ said Romy.

‘He’s off of the telly anyway,’ said Cindy.

‘I know who he is, he’s in
Buffers
,’ cried Romy, ‘that army quiz
game where old generals and war heroes argue over campaigns.’

‘So he is. It’s Rupert Campbell-Black’s father, Eddie,’ said Corinna.

‘Ooh, I wonder if Rupert’s here?’ All the ladies looked round in excitement.

As they paraded before him in their finery, letcherous Eddie was like a pig in clover.

Shuffling down the line, he particularly admired Romy’s cleavage, Bonny’s legs, Olivia’s kitten face and the scarlet drooping lips of Corinna, whose make-up had just been touched up in the car park by Stefan the Pole.

Eddie then caught sight of Cindy in pink Versace with her boobs hanging out. Her pink feather fascinator tickled his nose, making him sneeze, as he leaned forward to have a better look. Awarding her first prize as Best Dressed Lady, he was rewarded with an explosion of excited squawks and omigods and kisses.

‘Fancy me being better dressed than famous older celebs like Corinna and Bonny Richards,’ screamed Cindy.

‘Bonny Richards?’ asked Eddie. ‘Is that Gordon’s girl?’

‘I gave Cindy that reconstruction,’ Lester Bolton told Shade complacently. ‘Each boob cost nine thousand.’

This event had been taking place in the winners enclosure while Furious, in an LB-initialled rug, and Tommy, in an LBinitialled sweatshirt, both sweating up worse than Lester in his tweed suit, were walking quietly round the parade ring next door.

Unfortunately, Cindy’s prolonged and hysterical victory screams coincided with a woman hanging over the rails and putting up her rose-patterned parasol in Furious’s face. Furious spooked, Tommy, caught off guard, let go of the lead rope. Furious took off, clearing the rail and, people swear to this day, the cowering spectators. By the time he was caught, glaring into a bungalow and terrorizing two pensioners, the race was over.

Marius also lost it. When greeted by an even more shrilly shrieking Cindy: ‘Oh Marius, our horsey’s run away,’ he had yelled back, ‘It’s your fucking fault for making such a bloody awful din.’

‘How dare you insult my wife,’ yelled Lester, secretly delighted to have even more of an excuse to hate Marius.

This hatred was intensified when Count Romeo, wearing blinkers for the first time to make him concentrate, ran a blinder for Rogue Rogers and took the next race.

And even further intensified when Tommy, in the winners enclosure chucking buckets of water over Count Romeo to cool him down, caught sight of Cindy, waiting as Best Dressed Lady to
present the cup. Tommy was so cross with her for spooking Furious, she deliberately drenched her at the same time.

Furious had banged a hock while running around Worcester. Examining it, Charlie Radcliffe got kicked again.

‘The sooner you get that brute out of your yard the better,’ he roared. ‘It’s a pit bull. You’ll be done for murder soon.’

Marius didn’t care. He had looked across the paddock and seen his wife, infinitely lovelier, in beautiful clothes, no longer exhausted, and hadn’t returned her shy, tentative smile.

Coming in next morning, Miss Painswick found Marius passed out in the dog basket clutching an empty bottle of whisky, with a shivering Mistletoe on the floor beside him.

‘That’s not the way to get your wife back,’ she said tartly.

Goaded by Bolton, nagged by the Major, Marius reluctantly entered Mrs Wilkinson for a novice chase back at Worcester later in June. He grew increasingly worried that the going was too soft. It had rained heavily in the night and as they arrived at the course, behind the Owners and Trainers, the River Severn, the colour of strong tea, was rising steadily.

‘Any moment you expect a crocodile to jump out and gobble you up,’ observed Alan, whose birthday it was. He was dispensing champagne to a skeleton syndicate in the car park.

Dora, Trixie and Tilda were all tied up with exams. The vicar was taking a funeral. Woody was beautifying North Wood for the filming of Lady Godiva. Joey was flat out at Badger’s Court, being appropriately badgered by Bonny to alter things while Valent was still away in China. The paint in the bedroom had been changed five times. For Valent’s office, once the home of Mrs Wilkinson, Bonny had ordered a special wallpaper of leaping salmon as a surprise, not least because it cost £9,000 a roll.

Bonny had several times nearly caught Joey in flagrante. On one occasion, Chrissie had to hide in a wheelie bin. What horrors if a nocturnal spying Ione had surprised her with a wind-up torch.

Leaning against a nearby Bentley at Worcester, Bonny was telling Seth about the vast heart-shaped bed she was installing in her and Valent’s bedroom.

‘Tin man with a heart-shaped bed,’ quipped Seth. ‘Want me to give it a trial run?’

‘If you want to spice up yours and Valent’s love life,’ interrupted Cindy, ‘you orta screw a levver swing into the ceiling. We’ve got one hanging down the stairwell, it’s great for sex. We have to unscrew it when Lester’s mum comes to stay.’

As part of the economy drive, the syndicate were enjoying a cold picnic in the car park. Chisolm had proved most useful, eating up Ione’s contribution of chopped veggies and homemade dip. She had even drunk two bowls of nettle soup but drew the line at the little pork pies, past their sell-by date, provided by Phoebe.

Having eaten a bag of chips and read the
Racing Post
, Alban was off to put a tenner each way on Mrs Wilkinson.

‘D’you think she’s got a chance?’ he asked the assembled company.

‘According to Marius, she was given a good blow on Monday,’ said the Major.

‘Sounds so rude,’ giggled Cindy. ‘That’s what I’d like to give her trainer.’

‘Cindy!’ exploded Debbie.

‘That is so gross,’ said Bonny furiously. ‘Must you always vulgarize everything?’

‘That’s because I’m vulgar, me, Miss Toffee Nose.’

‘I wouldn’t argue with that.’ Bonny turned back to Seth.

‘As I was saying, every time Bonny Richards is on the cover, magazines fly off the shelves.’

Alan had brought a tape recorder and was idly making notes for a life of Mrs Wilkinson, for which Valent had given him a five-grand advance. Alan didn’t think it would see the light of day, but he had better look keen.

The syndicate had realigned, he reflected. His friend Seth and Bonny were drifting together. Phoebe, aware of a faint neglect from both of them and with feet that were killing her after two days at Royal Ascot, had gone back to being babied by Debbie and Norman. She was now asking Uncle Alban to put a fiver on Mrs Wilkinson, which she would probably never pay back.

Alan thought it would be nice when school broke up and darling Trixie and Tilda could come racing again. He had noticed Painswick blossoming. Marius, grateful to her for working so many weekends, had invited her to the races that afternoon and left Tresa in charge of the office. Painswick had bought a floral-print tent with a matching hat. It was her first time out not wearing Hengist’s scarf. Work in the engine room had given her knowledge about the horses, the lads and Marius which fascinated the syndicate, and which would be particularly useful for the book on Mrs Wilkinson – if he ever wrote it.

Pocock had also taken the afternoon off and was advising Etta on her continuing dream of creating a rose called Valent Edwards: dark red shot with black and deeply scented.

‘You can use my greenhouse,’ he told her.

Etta has no idea how much he adores her, thought Alan.

Bolton, in green gumboots high as waders on his fat little legs, and a Barbour that came down to his ankles, had buttonholed the Major.

‘I gave Marius a computerized spreadsheet with potential races on it for all the ‘orses in the yard. He hasn’t fucking looked at it. I insisted lovely Michelle lead up Wilkie and Furious, he ignored me. When’s he going to ‘ave an open day, so we can socialize with uvver owners?’

‘I’ll have a word.’ The Major felt his Portuguese villa sliding into the Atlantic. At least he’d forecast the rain and an east wind which was excitingly blowing Cindy’s citrus-yellow dress over her fascinator, but was not able to dislodge Etta’s magenta monstrosity, which she’d taken off during the picnic.

‘Don’t forget your lucky hat, Etta,’ ordered Debbie as they drifted towards the paddock.

‘Don’t listen to that old bat,’ whispered Cindy, tucking an arm through Etta’s. ‘Come and ‘ave a bevvy at the weekend, I’ve got loads of ‘ats you can try on or we’ll find you something nice on the internet. You’re a pretty lady, Etta, and Lester agrees.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ cried Etta, ridiculously touched. ‘And you’re a darling, Cindy.’