Mount! (57 page)

More ecstasy for Penscombe, as they celebrated Delectable and Touchy Filly’s triumphs. Rupert, however, warned them not to get too plastered. ‘We’ve got to do Quickly justice tomorrow,’ he told them. Then: ‘Slope off early, tell Etta and Valent you’ve got a headache,’ he murmured to Gala.

‘I thought women claimed to have headaches when they didn’t want sex,’ Gala murmured back. ‘You’d better be careful, Tarqui and Louise are two doors down.’ She glanced across to where the two were laughing uproariously, Tarqui saying, ‘A first and a tird – you can’t do better than that.’

‘Although,’ added Gala, ‘they’ll probably be too busy having a victory shag to bother about us.’

Gala’s pretty room in a hotel near the racecourse had on its primrose-yellow walls framed photographs of Judy Garland, Hedy Lamarr, Tyrone Power, Rock Hudson and equally famous equine stars: Seabiscuit, Secretariat and Zenyatta. Quickly might be up there soon, prayed Gala.

Collapsing on to the largish single bed, she wondered if it would be big enough to contain their passion. She couldn’t stop trembling, hollow with longing, yet terrified as a virgin bride on her wedding night. Was it really going to happen?

Presumptuously, before she left England, she’d splurged a month’s wages on a white silk nightgown from Cavendish House. This beautifully set off her all-over fake-tan. Waiting for Rupert she’d downed three quarters of a bottle of wine, showered three times – be careful who you wash for – cleaned her teeth every ten minutes. Make-up was another dilemma, without it her tired eyes looked tiny, but she didn’t want mascara and eye-liner all over the pillows. She also drenched herself, and particularly her hands, in Bluebell body lotion, to combat the allegedly Brillo-pad paws of stable lasses.

Oh help, help! She leapt at a thunderous banging on the door, but, opening it, found only a man with long blond hair wearing dark glasses and a Stetson.

‘Go away,’ she screamed, slamming the door.

There was another rat-a-tat.

‘Let me in, for fuck’s sake.’ It was a grinning Rupert. Removing the dark glasses and Stetson, he patted his blond locks. ‘I pinched Dame Hermione’s wig.’

‘How did you get hold of it?’

‘She’d shoved it into her bag like a Cocker Spaniel puppy so I rescued it.’ Then he tore it off, singing ‘Here’s to the Heroes’ in a high falsetto, making Gala laugh, dispelling her nerves.

‘It’s pissing with rain outside,’ grumbled Rupert. ‘Be like a quagmire tomorrow – Quickly had better learn to swim.’

‘Do you want a drink?’

‘Yes, down here.’ He slid a hand between her legs until she writhed away in ecstasy, then, putting her hands round his neck, she kissed him, only breaking off so he could pull her white nightgown over her head. ‘My God, you are so beautiful,’ he sighed. How could breasts be so soft and nipples as jutting as biro tops?

He was wearing a navy-blue shirt. As she undid the buttons, she asked: ‘Is this your latest lucky one?’

‘It is now.’

As her hand crept down to unzip his trousers, she gasped. ‘Oh wow, talk about a cock star.’

‘Don’t take the piss.’ He led her over to the bed. ‘Christ, I hope we don’t fall out.’

‘We’re always falling out.’ She had to joke not to betray the force of her passion. ‘Promise not to fire me for at least a week.’

‘I only want to fire you with enthusiasm.’

He tried to take it slowly, but desire swept them away.

‘Christ,’ he said, as he slid his hand inside her. ‘They ought to issue a flood warning in here as well as outside.’

And after a few moments of stroking, he couldn’t resist plunging his cock into her … oh, the rapture! ‘Buttercunt,’ he murmured, ‘oh, you lovely buttercunt,’ because she was so warm, slippery and welcoming, and gripped him so tightly as he moved in and out in perfect rhythm.

Rupert tried to stop himself coming by studying the differing confirmations of Seabiscuit and Secretariat, but it was no good. Next moment they both stiffened and shuddered in ecstasy,
then he slumped on top of her, mumbling, ‘Oh you darling child.’

‘I can’t help it,’ gasped Gala. ‘I love you, I love you.’

Rupert smiled down at her, pushing her hair back. ‘And I too,’ and he kissed her damp forehead.

Coming back to earth, she rolled him on his back, crouching between his legs and getting to work on him, licking him everywhere. He’d never been given head like this, and in no time, shot into her once more.

‘Now it’s my turn,’ he said, a moment later. ‘The foreplay’s the thing.’

Gala woke at five; it was still dark. Rupert was dressed and looking at the weather on his app.

‘I don’t know what’ll happen later in the day, but that was definitely the Classic,’ he said, kissing her.

Security was tight down at the racecourse, with a guard parked outside every stable. Having fed Quickly nuts and a little hay, Gala took him out, to discover that last night’s rain had turned the dirt track into a sodden pudding, which had been subsequently closed for training purposes.

Reeling with happiness, Gala didn’t care and instead cantered Quickly on the turf. Mid-morning, she joined Etta, Valent and Rupert for a typically stylish Breeders’ Cup breakfast of scrambled eggs, caviar blinis and Bloody Marys. Etta vowed she was only going to have one of the latter.

‘Wasn’t yesterday thrilling? I’ve put Delectable’s yellow garland in water. How’s your headache, Gala? I nearly popped into your hotel to give you some Neurofen.’

‘That’s so kind. I had a wonderful night actually.’

Gala caught Rupert’s eye and nearly laughed, even more so, when he said, ‘That’s the stupidest of the Three Wise Men going past,’ as Dame Hermione strode by in a large crimson turban.

Rupert and Gala were going through the entries in the Classic, which included the greatest horses in the world. Simone de Beauvoir, the French battleaxe, had an all-powerful rival in To Die For, America’s favourite mare, who’d won the Triple Crown, ridden by America’s top jockey, Hammond Johnson.
Hammond’s photo could be seen on the wall: a little man with tiny legs and muscular brown arms bulging out of a white sleeveless polo neck, and strong enough to hold up an army of horses. Also in contention again was the Japanese Hiroshi on Noonday Silence, Hernandez, a Mexican on a wonder bay called Special Angel, and Finger Prince, ridden by America’s leading woman jockey, a beauty called Sharon Peters.

‘Oh Quickers, you’ve got a lot to beat,’ sighed Gala.

‘All change, all change,’ said the irrepressible Matt Chapman from
At the Races
, sitting down at their table. ‘I Will Repay’s switched to the Classic – and guess who’s riding him?’

‘Who?’

‘Your grandson, Eddie Alderton.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘He flew in last night.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Ash evidently doesn’t go. Has a broken arm and three broken ribs – that’s how Eddie got the ride. Rumour has it, Ash hit on Eddie and Eddie hit him back even harder.’

Rupert was silenced.

‘Not a bad idea,’ went on Matt. ‘The boy’s used to American tracks, he’s ridden on dirt before.’

With some amusement Matt waited for fireworks but the cool bugger didn’t miss a beat.

‘Surprised they’re fielding such a Second Eleven jockey,’ drawled Rupert. ‘Thought they could have found a decent local. Good, that gives us even more chance.’

Racing in America is much more of a battleground. Tracks don’t have the undulations and ups and downs of England, but the turns are sharper, and horses explode out of the starting stalls, hurtling towards the first bend, with a huge amount of jostling, swearing and barging – a terrifying stampede.

Eddie had been throwing up all night from nerves. Huddled in the corner of the weighing room, he was aware that in three quarters of an hour, he’d be racing against his gods. He was so pleased that his parents Perdita and Luke awaited him in the parade ring. When they met him at the airport yesterday, they seemed chilled about his and Sauvignon’s baby, but furious with Rupert for firing him, as was Uncle Adrian, Rupert’s gay brother, who had flown in from his New York gallery to cheer on Eddie, his godson. Adrian, a paler version of Rupert with light-brown hair and hazel eyes, unlike Rupert, always remembered Eddie’s birthday.

Eddie, hurt that Sauvignon hadn’t even sent him a good luck text, was surprised how fond he’d got of I Will Repay, who’d never been spoilt rotten like Quickly and adored attention from the public, growing a foot every time he saw a camera, pricking his ears and pulling faces to order.

‘The only time he bites me is when I brush his tummy,’ confided Harmony, of whom Eddie had also grown very fond. She reminded him of a plain Lark and gave him lots of confidence.

‘You’ve improved so much from Isa’s crash course,’ she’d told him last night. ‘And for Repay, it must be like dancing with Anton on
Strictly
. Ash hits his horses so hard and saws on their mouths.’ Now, noticing how Eddie’s pallor was emphasized by wearing Sheikh Baddi’s purple and gold silks, she added: ‘It’s going to be OK, I promise.’

The razzmatazz had increased tenfold on the second day of the meeting. Twenty minutes before they left their stables, the runners in the Classic had to have two more vials of blood taken, which made Quickly even edgier. The crowd were really intrusive, hanging round screaming for their heroes, following the runners down the chutes. Gala was terrified Quickly would kick someone.

More and more discarded betting slips littered the ground like autumn leaves as the climax of the afternoon – the Classic – approached. The parade ring was so crowded, the only way jockeys and connections could find each other was by a number written on the grass.

So many of the mega-rich American owners seemed to know and admire Valent and were delighted to meet his new-ish wife, pretty in pink and wearing a blue baseball cap bearing Master Quickly’s name, in which Rupert thought she looked ridiculous.

Etta had just called Dora, who said all the animals were fine and had eaten up. Mrs Wilkinson and Chisolm were coming into the kitchen to watch the big race.

‘Every time they flag up Quickly’s name,’ said Dora, ‘they add that Etta Edwards is the breeder. That is so cool.’

‘Isn’t it,’ squeaked Etta.

‘How’s Rupert?’ asked Dora. ‘He looks cross. He really should take a media-friendly course.’

Each jockey was televised as he came into the paddock to huge cheers, and had to announce his own and his horse’s name. ‘Just like
University Challenge
,’ giggled Etta.

‘Not quite,’ said Valent as Tarqui and Manu de la Tour puckered their lips and kissed the camera lens.

Quickly looked magnificent, his silver coat set off by a red saddlecloth with his name on. Nor was he having any truck
with Penscombe not fraternizing with Valhalla. Catching sight of Eddie, receiving last instructions from Isa and Cosmo, he gave a great whicker and towed a giggling, swearing Gala across the paddock to nudge Eddie in his concave stomach.

‘Good luck, Eddie,’ said Gala defiantly. ‘We all miss you, please come back.’

‘Fuck off,’ hissed Cosmo.

‘Rupert’s come without Taggie,’ drawled Ruth Walton, ‘so I’m in with a chance,’ which annoyed Cosmo even more.

The runners were parading down to the start, so sleek with their slim jockeys, compared with the ponies, often buckling under the fat pony persons in their purple jackets, leading them. The crowd, not wanting any overseas rider to take the big one, were yelling for To Die For and Hammond Johnson, now wearing a little red bow-tie at the neck of his red and white silks, and also for Finger Prince ridden by the lovely blonde Sharon Peters. Hernandez, the Mexican on Special Angel, couldn’t stop crossing himself; Hiroshi from Japan had got his bare feet very dirty walking the course. Tarqui knew and was joking with all of them.

‘Godspeed, Tarqui,’ cried Gala as she handed him and Quickly over to Paul the cowboy, their pony person, who said he wanted to be ‘part of the Quickly experience’. Quickly agreed, and stopped jig-jogging for a second to mount Minnie.

The press were everywhere in their Day-Glo green smocks. A rock star sang ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’, the trumpeters blew a tantivy and a huge American flag was laid over the course. God Bless America.

A curious biblical light had bathed the racecourse in brilliant sunshine. Dark clouds with dazzling white undersides gathered on top of the San Gabriel Mountains, which had turned a deep purple.

‘Oh Angel Gabriel,’ prayed Harmony, as she took up her position on the rail opposite the big screen, ‘lend Repay your wings for a few minutes.’

Down at the start, weeping willows reminded Eddie of Valent and Etta’s house, Badger’s Court. He wished yet again he were riding Quickly for them and Grandpa.

The kind loaders, all in purple, patted each horse as they led them into their stalls. Quickly didn’t like sharing his with one of them, who stood up on the ledge and hung on to his bridle, so like Touchy Filly, he bit him, then was distracted by Simone de Beauvoir and wafts of Manu’s aftershave on the left.

Rupert, Gala, Etta and Valent were on the rail, opposite the big screen, so they could see the bobbing hats of the jockeys above, revving up horses. Rupert’s hand slid into Gala’s for a second. Quickly, still gazing at Simone, spooked, as the roar of ‘They’re off!’ reverberated round the purple mountains, and missed the kick. Not that it mattered. Outraged to have so much dirt in his face, Quickly hurtled to the front on the inside rail and stayed there. The horses’ legs couldn’t be seen for the flurry of cinnamon-brown mud. Every time anyone tried to catch up with Quickly, he eyeballed them and accelerated away.

‘Oh well done, Quickly,’ screamed Etta and Gala, but were totally drowned by the Americans bellowing on dark-brown To Die For as she gradually edged closer. Playing hard to get, however, Quickly changed legs, scorched round the bend and shot away again. Tarqui, the swooping king, used to finding daylight between the most closely packed horses, was for once making all.

‘Look at that acceleration. Too fast, he’ll run out of petrol.’ Rupert glanced at his iPhone for a second. Then: ‘Christ, he’s breaking the record.’