It was the furtive whispering that caught his attention. The shouts and yells and loudness were everywhere. Hearing someone speaking urgently and quietly in the darkness made him stop and listen.
Ned Filkins! For Christ's sake! What the hell was he doing here? He hadn't been on the guest-list.
'... just a final word, mate. We don't want nothing dramatic, understand? A couple more wins'll go down a treat – and then the little mishap at Newbury. Okay?'
'Okay.'
Charlie's skin crawled.
'And we'll be watching you, me and Vince, so no funny business. Not unless of course you want everyone to know what we know. Understood?'
'Yeah.'
'Good, lad. You'll be paid well, son, have no fears. And it'll all be for the best, won't it? Now you run back in to your young lady – we wouldn't want her getting any ideas now, would we?'
'Bastard.'
'Takes one to know one, mate. Takes one to know one.'
Two sets of footsteps swished through the grass in opposite directions. Both of them hidden in the darkness. Charlie wiped his hand across his mouth and exhaled. Bloody sodding hell! Matt – taking backhanders from Ned – for what? Something at Newbury? Not the Hennessey – dear God. Surely not? And Vincent was involved. Jemima's father....
Charlie groaned. What the hell should he do? Confront Matt? He'd deny it. Tell Kath? She wouldn't believe it. He must warn Jemima. But he couldn't, could he? How the hell could he tell Jemima that the two people she trusted and loved most in her life were cheating – and Matt doubly so?
Shit! She'd hate him for telling her. She'd hate him even more for
knowing.
It was cold. The wind swept across Newbury racecourse on a steel-grey day, blowing discarded betting slips around snugly muffled ankles like cut-price confetti.
Matt sat in the changing room and wondered whether, if he killed himself, anyone would care. He might as well be dead. He was risking losing everything he'd ever wanted. There were no guarantees that he'd gain anything at all out of this; his reputation would be shot whatever happened. Being dead and out of it seemed like a good idea. Getting there, though, appeared to have its disadvantages. Matt reckoned you had to be pretty brave to commit suicide. And he wasn't.
'Cheer up – it may never happen.' Liam Jenkins, half-dressed, slapped him on the shoulder. It hurt. Every part of his body hurt.
Matt grimaced. He'd heard the same words all day. He really should try to look a touch more cheerful. He was riding the bloody favourite in the Hennessey in – what? – just under an hour's time. Almost an hour in which to decide. Such a simple choice. Should he go along with Ned and Vincent and throw the race in Bonne Nuit's favour, even if Dragon Slayer was miles ahead, or not?
Win or lose, the stakes were high in both deals. All he had to do to stop Ned telling Jemima – and, infinitely worse, Charlie and the rest of the world – about his habit, was to chuck away the Hennessey. Oh – and probably the Cheltenham Gold Cup. Sod all, really. Then Dragon Slayer would be out the back door in the betting come the National – and they'd all clean up. Once bed knocked Charlie out of the frame at Aintree, of course. Nothing to it.
He laughed bitterly. What the hell. If he won or lost he would be finished in Milton St John, finished in racing; he wouldn't even be able to crawl home to the Devon farm and find solace in Jennifer's arms. That was part of Ned's squeeze on him too.
Matt was under no illusions that his parents and his home-based girlfriend would be informed in graphic detail about his nocturnal habits long before he'd even left the Berkshire borders.
The changing room was charged with high energy. The Hennessey was steeplechasing's greatest early-season test. Win this one and you were up there in the highest echelons: your previously unfancied horse ranking alongside the all time greats like Sea Pigeon or See You Then or Red Rum, and hotly tipped for Cheltenham and Aintree. The Hennessey had thrown up stars like Arkle and Mill House. It was everyone's ambition to be the next Scudamore, Francome or Dunwoody.
Matt wiped his hands across his face. They all wanted it so badly. So did he. Oh, God – so did he. It seemed like years ago, that race at Fakenham at the end of last season, when Dragon Slayer had gone like the wind and he knew they could win the National. Then he'd been sure he'd kill to win at Aintree. Now, he might just have to.
So soon after that, it had all crashed around his ears. Jemima – poor girl – had appeared in his life at precisely the wrong moment. He tried not to think too much about Jemima. Of course, the easiest and most sensible thing would be to finish with her. That would be one less lever for Ned to exert. She'd have no reason to be surprised, would she? Christ, he'd been about as amorous as a castrated tomcat for months and then, and then – Matt swallowed. He still felt bloody awful about that night. Jemima hadn't deserved it. And he'd let her think it was her fault. Let her go on thinking it.
Then he'd tried being casual and off-hand and hoped she'd call it a day. But she hadn't. She'd insisted that they talked it over like grown-ups. They were friends, she said. She wanted to stay friends. No need to worry. They liked each other... Matt groaned. That was half the trouble, of course. He did like Jemima. He enjoyed being with her. He needed her. She made him feel normal. Decent.
Anyway, at the moment Jemima had a fox-hunting bee in her bonnet. That was another thing he admired about her: she didn't dwell on problems or minor irritations. Not like he did. She faced them, dealt with them, and got them out of the way. She'd worked out all her problems with racing, then the Parish Biddies, then the débâcle of their sex life. Each one had been coped with calmly, sorted, not allowed to interfere too much. She was always in control. Unlike him.
At the moment, her outrage about bloody fox-hunting had taken precedence over everything else. She'd had saboteur posters up in the shop all month, even though he'd told her to take them down. Before long she'd be laying aniseed trails and blowing false halloos with the rest of the great unwashed. He had decided it was probably not the best time to inform her that he spent a good part of his winter months riding to hounds.
Still, her current anti-blood sports campaign had its advantages. At least it took her mind off his lack of sexual prowess. He sighed heavily and wished, in that area at least, that Jemima had been different.
And, of course, it had been just after meeting Jemima at Windsor that Ned had discovered the reasons for Matt's trips to London. Sod's law. At the very moment when he had something to bloody lose. Like with poor Vincent, Ned had left nothing to chance. He had evidence. Hard photographic evidence.
Then Tina – Jesus! He'd walked straight into that one, too. Tina Maloret – who he would shortly be greeting with a professional doff of the cap – Charlie's girlfriend. Tina Maloret – the scalding memories of her last visit to Milton St John would stay with him for ever.
And Charlie, bloody philanderer that he was, had this damn stupid public-school code of honour. Screw around all you liked, but you didn't – on pain of death – cheat on a mate, cheat on your trainer, or cheat on a horse.
Matt was doing all three.
Christ!' Philip Franklin stopped in front of him. 'You been Passed fit to ride?'
'Uh?'
'You're knocked about a bit. You taken a tumble?'
'Oh – yeah. Not from Dragon Slayer. One of Kath's babies. Schooling, you know? Nothing serious. Looks worse than it is.'
'Must have been a pearler. And straight into a bramble patch by the looks of it. Done it myself. Hurts like shit, doesn't it? You'll know about it later.'
'Probably.' Matt fastened the stock round his throat and pulled Tina's colours over his head.
Charlie was sitting on the bench at the far end, joking with Liam and Philip, ignoring him. He'd practically ignored him ever since Drew and Maddy's wedding. Matt couldn't think why. There was no reason. Unless he
knew.
Christ – what could he know? Which part? There were so many things now that kept him awake at night. Still, surely if Charlie had discovered something, he'd have let rip by now? He was never one to let a boil fester.
'All okay?' His valet looked concerned. 'All the tack and that?'
'Yeah. Fine.'
'You looked worried.'
'Nerves.'
The valet nodded sympathetically and shouldered his way through the noisy crowd to find his next charge. Matt stood up. He didn't want to hang around in here, listening to the bragging, the bravado, the jokes. With Tina's black-and-white jersey hanging loose outside his breeches, he headed for the weighing-room door.
The air was still ice cold. The track was riding fast after weeks of fine weather and keen downland winds. Since Newbury's renovation, the weighing room faced the parade ring and the winner's enclosure. The crowds were packed three deep as the horses were led from the pre-parade ring to plod round, manes and tails tangling sideways in the breeze.
Dragon Slayer wasn't out yet. Nor was Bonne Nuit. There was no sign of Kath or Tina. He could see Jemima though, standing close to the rails with the Milton St John contingent it was her first trip to a racecourse since Windsor. He knew how deeply she'd agonised about being there. He wished she wasn't.
She looked lovely. The long conker-brown coat and matching velvet hat pulled low over her eyes made her look tall and elegant. The hat probably belonged to Gillian who seemed to have a whole wardrobe full of hippie gear. She was next to Jemima, in a black cloak with the hood up, pointing out something in the racecard, and on the other side was Maureen in a scarlet PVC trench coat and – oh shit – Vincent.
Was Vincent here to report back to Ned? Probably. Who cared? Matt knew what he had to do. He simply wasn't sure if he had the guts to do it.
There was a sudden stir in the paddock; a whole entourage of people seemed to be pushing their way through to the front. Several stewards in sheepskins and trilbys were clearing a path. Royalty? Matt squinted. Well, hardly – not unless the Royals were now into multicoloured dreadlocks and split-melon grins.
Fizz Flanagan was accompanied by a phalanx of minders. Matt nodded ruefully. So he did own Bonne Nuit, after all. Charlie would say nothing to confirm or deny the horse's ownership despite the speculation in the village. And Bonnie was always entered under Drew's name. Still, a lot of owners chose to remain anonymous for various reasons, although Matt could see no reason why the flamboyant Fizz should want to keep it quiet. He had loads of horses spread through various yards. Maybe Bonne Nuit was a tax fiddle. Matt would have welcomed something as minor as cheating the Inland Revenue. He could handle that.
Nearly time. Dragon Slayer's lad was just leading him into the parade ring. Matt took one fond look at the huge black horse, felt sick, and retraced his steps to the weighing room.
Charlie, who was still stripped to the waist and was just coming to the end of a very blue joke, had neat rows of scratches along the width of both shoulders. Matt wanted to kill him.
Okay?' Kath was back in her winter racing outfit of ground-brushing coat and beret. She gave him a leg up into the saddle.
'You know what to do with him. Let him settle. If he wants to front-run don't stop him, although I'd prefer it if he did the first circuit covered up. See how he goes at the water. Get in on middle ground if he feels spooky. Let him find his own pace. We know he's got the stamina for the final four – so if you've got into trouble early on you should be able to get out of it. Right?'
'Right.' Matt gathered the reins between his fingers. He was pretty sure Kath suspected something. She was giving him options. And she hadn't used one swear word. Not even a mild curse. Christ – he was becoming completely paranoid.
Charlie was in the saddle, too, wearing the shocking pink and black colours that Fizz Flanagan had opted for. It had to be some sort of fiddle, Matt thought, because all the other Flanagan horses ran in Fizz's dazzling green and yellow of Jamaica. Looking relaxed on Bonne Nuit, Charlie was grinning at Drew, joking with Gillian, and – good Lord – Jemima. What the hell was Jemima doing in the paddock? Gillian, too, come to think of it? And why did Charlie – even before the biggest race – always seem like he didn't have a damn care in the world?
Tina wasn't about, thank God. He still felt guilty when Tina and Jemima were together, and he certainly didn't want to watch her with Charlie. All the other owners and trainers were clustered round their horses, tightening girths, giving last-minute instructions to the jockeys, while the television cameras swooped and zoomed and the armchair experts crowded on to the rails and gave their loudly voiced opinions.
Jemima seemed to be talking first to Drew, then to Gillian, and then started to walk towards him. He tried to smile at her. The wind froze it into a manic grin.
'Is it okay?' She tilted her head back to look up at him in the saddle, keeping a safe distance from Dragon Slayer. 'Can I wish you luck? Or am I supposed to say break a leg like in the theatre?'
'I'd rather you didn't. I'm surprised you're here – in the paddock I mean.'
'Drew invited me. He thought I might enjoy the race better if
I understood it all. Dad's hopping mad. He's always wanted to be allowed in this bit, apparently.' She rubbed her gloved hands together. 'It's freezing. Don't you feel the cold?'
Matt shook his head. Bugger Vincent. He suddenly wanted to kiss her. She looked fresh and clean and sweet and wholesome and – oh, sod it. He leaned down and touched her cheek, pleased that she didn't pull away immediately. 'Have you watched the other races?'
She shook her head. 'Gillian did – with Dad and Maureen. I stayed in the bar. I'm going to watch this one, though. There's a first time for everything, I suppose, and I can always take my glasses off if I don't like it. Oh, hello, Tina.'
Matt straightened in the saddle. He wondered if Tina had seen him touch Jemima's cheek. He hoped not. 'Where've you been?'
'Bloody photographers.' Tina, dressed from head to toe by Joseph Ribkoff, was totally stunning. Jemima, Matt thought, however lovely, looked like a small brown sparrow beside her. 'They wanted to do a social diary piece with Fizz Flanagan, for God's sake.'