‘Rafiq, Rafiq. Great win!’ called out Tresa. ‘Come and join our game.’
‘What game?’ said Rafiq.
‘It’s called Snog-a-Trog,’ brayed Jamie Catswood, with whom Rafiq had already had spats about the British Army’s presence in Afghanistan.
‘Snog-a-Trog,’ shouted Michelle over the din. ‘You each pick the ugliest person in the room and then have a competition to see how quickly you can snog them. Johnnie’s about to get a black eye from Lotto Briggs and Michelle goofed with a geek. It’s your turn next, Vakil.’
‘And Eddie’s chosen Tommy,’ said Tresa bitchily. ‘He’s doing good.’
‘He what?’ It was like a rifle shot. Rafiq swung round. There was Tommy, laughing and bouncing around on the dance floor.
‘Eddie’s got a dog on his telephone already,’ giggled Jamie.
‘Black Lab – another dog won’t make any difference.’
‘Take that back,’ hissed Rafiq, seizing Jamie’s arm and raising his fist. ‘Take it back.’
‘All right, mate, calm down,’ said Jamie, looking rather frightened. ‘I was only pulling your leg.’
‘What you mean “pull my leg”? You think I’m gay?’
‘It’s a figure of speech, dickhead,’ said Josh. ‘Means taking the piss. For God’s sake, cool it, Rafiq. Get him a drink, someone.’
Eddie’s hand had moved downwards. Tommy had a big butt for sure, but as she smiled up in wonder, he noticed she had very pretty white, even teeth for a Brit and a sweet pink mouth and such sweet breath it would be no hardship to kiss her.
But as he bent his head, a vice gripped the shoulder he’d dislocated last year and he howled in pain, as he was pulled off Tommy and punched in his own perfect American teeth, a blow which threw him across the room.
‘Leave her alone, you bastard.’
‘Rafiq,’ stammered Tommy, ‘whatever’s the matter? Eddie only asked me to dance and bought me a drink, he was being so lovely.’
‘Lovely, my arse,’ snarled Rafiq, grabbing her bruised arm so she too shrieked in pain. ‘We’re going home.’
‘He knew all about Furious.’
By this time Jamie and Josh had jumped down from the platform and closed round him, Jamie picking up Eddie and restraining him as he tried to take a pot at Rafiq.
‘Cool it,’ snapped Josh, ‘you don’t want to get stood down before Cheltenham.’
‘Get out of here,’ Rafiq snarled at Tommy, then as she reluctantly moved towards the door, ‘go on, quickly. Wilkie’s cast herself.’
The moment she’d gone, he turned on Josh and a swaying about-to-lunge Eddie.
‘I’m not having her humiliated,’ he spat. ‘If any one of you bastards breathes a word about snogging trogs, I keel you, I keel you.’ Such was his mad dog frenzy, even Eddie backed off.
‘It was a game, Rafiq,’ called out Tresa, who’d also jumped down from the platform.
But Rafiq had vanished into a night as dark as himself.
‘My God, there was murder or rather suicide bomb in his eyes,’ said Dare.
‘I’d commit suicide if I had a bum as big as Tommy’s,’ Tresa said, giggling nervously as they climbed back up to the table.
‘Well well well,’ Josh shook his head, ‘I thought Rafiq was hopelessly hooked on Amber.’
‘Amber’s well fit, I’d love to shag her,’ mumbled Eddie, grabbing a napkin to stem the blood pouring from his mouth.
‘Tommy’d look better if you hid her face and that frizzy hair under a burka,’ said Michelle bitchily. ‘Are you OK, Eddie?’
‘It’s your turn to choose a trog to snog, Vakil.’ Jamie got out his stopwatch.
But everyone had lost their taste for the game, particularly Michelle, when the geek with the mullet and the fiancée sidled up and asked for her telephone number.
Tommy and Rafiq were silent on the way home. Brilliant stars glittered through the bare trees, gardens were lit with snowdrops. Rafiq was desperately analysing his feelings, his volcanic burst of rage … Was he merely defending his dear friend whom above all things he didn’t want hurt, or could it be jealousy, a lightning strike, sudden excruciating pain to see her smiling up at the effortlessly handsome Eddie?
‘Is Wilkie OK?’ muttered Tommy.
‘She wasn’t cast, I made it up. I am sorry, Tommy. We have another early start tomorrow. I kept you waiting, I don’t want you to get too tired.’
Slowly Tommy’s heartbeat grew slower.
Back at Throstledown, they found Furious and Wilkie flat out and snoring. Furious looked particularly sweet, his hooves curled round his nose. Chisolm, snuggled up against Wilkie’s belly, opened a long yellow eye.
Rafiq looked at Tommy. It was as if he’d seen her for the first time, through newly polished spectacles. How dare those pigs call her a trog? He walked her upstairs to her room.
Outside she stammered, ‘That was such a brilliant win.’
‘I learn Furious could win the Gold Cup today,’ said Rafiq softly, ‘but tonight I learn something much more important. I have been barking up wrong treat.’
He took her round, anxious face in his hands, flattening the fuzzy hair, seeing how long and dark were her eyelashes and how bemused with love her eyes. Unable to stop himself, he dropped a kiss on her trembling lips, which tasted faintly of champagne.
Tommy shuddered then kissed him back, keeping her mouth
shut then opening it timidly as her hands crept very slowly up his chest.
‘Oh Tommy,’ mumbled Rafiq and kissed her much harder. ‘It is truth, I dragged you away because I was jealous.’
‘Jealous,’ squeaked Tommy in amazement.
‘I want you to be just mine.’
Then he let her go and opened the door further.
‘You need sleep,’ he smoothed the purple shadows beneath her eyes, ‘and we must take this very slowly because you are so precious to me. I cannot bear anything to go wrong.’
Afterwards, Rafiq couldn’t sleep. He felt huge happiness and confusion. Sweet Tommy, how could he have wasted so many opportunities when they’d been alone together?
As he prostrated himself in prayer on the white fur rug Tommy had given him for Christmas, he thanked Allah first for Furious’s amazing win and then for Tommy. Then he groaned. ‘Oh God, when I begged for someone to love, I forget to tell you what colour and what faith.’
Reeling with ecstasy and shock, Tommy, once her door was shut, was brought down to earth by a message to ring her father whatever time she came in.
‘Young Rafiq was in a fight at Electric Blue tonight,’ were his first words.
‘Jockeys are always having fights,’ protested Tommy.
‘Knocked out Rupert Campbell-Black’s grandson’s front tooth.’
‘How d’you know this so fast?’
‘We’re watching him. His cousin Ibrahim is rumoured to be back in England. Find out what you can. If he says anything it’s your duty to tell me.’
‘I love him, Dad,’ said Tommy.
In a corridor of the Marsden, Amber slumped against the wall, desperately pale beneath the fluorescent lights.
Her father, all wired up in bed, had just told her he’d got lung cancer but in his usual sweet way had belittled any horrors.
‘Don’t worry, darling, I’ll lick it. God, I could murder a fag or a drink now.’ He had started laughing and coughing, then couldn’t stop.
‘Does it hurt terribly?’
‘A bit – just had a shot of morphine – like Oliver Twist asking for morphine.’ Billy laughed again, triggering more coughing.
He reached for her hand. ‘Darling – oh shit – I know it’s hard but please don’t tell anyone. If the BBC find out they’d probably lay me off and I’ve got a few bills to pay. Your mother’ll want to make it public.’
Amber said she thought she ought to tell her brothers, Christy and Junior, who were both abroad.
‘Not yet,’ Billy pleaded. ‘How’s Mrs Wilkinson?’
‘Good. Entered for the Gold Cup. I’ll try and win it for you.’
‘That’s great, darling.’ Billy’s eyes were drooping. ‘Rupert’s having trouble with Eddie Alderton, who’s just like Rupe when he was young. Like Bambi and Bambi’s father or grandfather. Rupert’s never had a son that played up before. I’m so lucky to have you.’ Billy’s words were slurring. He was asleep.
Amber fled into the corridor, too stunned to cry. Twenty was too young to lose a father. She hadn’t spoken to her mother since the appalling interview with Rogue. She could only imagine the meal Janey would make of ‘my beloved Billy’s battle with cancer’. It was Janey who’d leaked the quite untrue story about Amber having a walk-out with Dare Catswood, who Milly Walton was mad about anyway. But Janey would love a rich daughter she could bum off.
I mustn’t work myself up, thought Amber. She’d never felt more lonely in her life. If only she could call Rogue, but he’d be shagging some slapper in Fairyhouse or Larkminster.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ said a voice, as a woman in a fur coat sidled up. ‘We thought it was, we’re such fans. How’s Wilkie?’
‘She’s fine,’ stammered Amber.
‘Could we possibly have your autograph?’
She handed Amber a little red diary, and as Amber scribbled her name, said, ‘Thank you so much, we’re such fans of your dear father too.’
‘So am I,’ mumbled Amber.
Rogue, flying back to Fairyhouse, had reached Heathrow. Amber’s number was engraved on his heart, as was everything she’d said about him. He wanted to call her or text her, ‘Sorry about your Dad, call me,’ but she’d have switched off her mobile in the hospital. He located the Marsden number, then tore it up. He’d be the last person she’d want to talk to.
Rafiq’s euphoria and feeling of coming home were also sadly fleeting. Furious came out of the Larkminster Cup so well that Marius entered him for a big race at Ascot a week later, where he was a very hot favourite.
While he was riding out on the morning of the race, noticing bluebell and primrose leaves pushing through the faded leaf mould and rejoicing that spring was on the way for him and Tommy, Rafiq was startled out of his reverie by his ringing mobile.
‘Furious is not going to win today,’ said a voice with a thick Pakistani accent, ‘or we take out your family in Peshawar.’
‘You don’t know my family,’ hissed Rafiq, pulling History Painting into a clearing.
‘Oh yes we do.’ The caller reeled off names and addresses until Rafiq’s blood froze. It must be some terrorist mafia.
‘Just fuck off,’ he stammered.
‘You’ve been spending a lot of time with Tommy Ruddock recently. D’you want her and Furious taken out as well?’ The voice grew thicker and more menacing. ‘We need funds. Allah will reward you if Furious doesn’t win.’
Rafiq, who was vastly brave, hung up. Determined to ignore the threat, he caught up with the others and told no one.
The terror he always felt before a race was intensified a hundredfold that afternoon when he saw Tommy leading Furious round the parade ring at Ascot. She looked so radiantly happy and newly pretty because Tresa, feeling guilty about Snog-a-Trog, had straightened her hair for her.
Eddie Alderton, who was riding in the same race, had also noticed. ‘Like your hair,’ he called out to Tommy. Then to wind up Rafiq: ‘How about a drink later?’
But Tommy had blushed, smiled and, turning lovingly towards Rafiq, said she was sorry, she was busy.
Suddenly Rafiq couldn’t bear anything to happen to her, so he deliberately pulled Furious. This he did by holding him up for too long so that two furlongs out there was still a pack of horses ahead of him. Furious had no desire to mingle with them so he dawdled and came in sixth.
‘Perhaps he was tired,’ Rafiq told Channel 4. ‘He only run a week ago.’
This enraged Marius. ‘Don’t you dare accuse me of overrunning my horses,’ he shouted at Rafiq. Having bollocked him for careless riding, however, he gave him the benefit of the doubt.
The Ascot stewards were less lenient. They and the crowd had been looking forward to seeing Furious repeat his Larkminster Cup form. They suspended Rafiq for a week for breaching the non-trying rules.
Later Marius returned to the attack.
‘If anyone thinks I encouraged you to pull Furious, I could be
banned from entering any horse in a race for forty-two days (which would rule out the Gold Cup and the entire festival), and be fined thirty-five thousand which I can’t bloody afford, so don’t do it again.’
Rafiq felt bitterly ashamed but waited in terror for another telephone call.
Alan for once was working flat out. From his study window, over a pile of Wilkie’s cuttings and photographs, he could often see her let out for an hour or two in her New Zealand rug, trailing her devoted entourage through the frosty fields.
He had accepted the fact that his marriage was dead. He hadn’t seen Carrie for days. The hedge fund market was in free fall, Carrie clinging to the wreckage. He was convinced his only happiness lay in running off with Tilda, and he needed to make a massive success of Mrs Wilkinson’s story to fund it.
He knew he was neglecting Trixie and he hardly had time to see Tilda, but he found intense satisfaction in rising at dawn to write, sustained by endless cups of black coffee made on the percolator Tilda had given him for Christmas. He didn’t even slip out to the Wilkinson Arms at lunchtime or in the evening. Alban and Seth missed him dreadfully, and Chris complained his takings had nose-dived.