Year of Being Single (25 page)

Huge coaches were rolling in from Brighton, from Essex, from Surrey, from Kent. Screeching women in glamorous dresses were clambering out of them. The sharp edge of an enormous hat nearly caught Imogen’s eye and Richard took her hand. She could tell women were looking at him. He didn’t look stupid in the top hat and tails. He didn’t resemble the fat controller in any shape or form. He looked like he was born to wear such a get-up. He was majestic. A woman in peach headgear shaped like a Babybel was gawping, her mouth open like a guppy’s. If Richard had uttered anything at that moment, in that rumbling American accent of his, she probably would have dissolved into a peach polyester heap.

Mitts off, thought Imogen. He’s mine.

Her resolve had crumbled as soon as she’d got his text. It felt like a minor miracle and you don’t ignore minor miracles He wasn’t giving up on her. He didn’t care that she’d ignored him and hadn’t taken his calls. He wanted to see her and
she
didn’t want to be a woman who was frightened. It was time to put fear to one side and take a very deep breath. He wouldn’t hurt her if she didn’t let him, would he? It was a just a day. One day out. He was gorgeous,
she
was single and fabulous; she was going to Ascot and she was bloody well going to enjoy herself.

She grinned unashamedly as they walked through the entry gate and into the main concourse of the Grandstand. They were greeted by umbrella-canopied bars, hordes of wandering people dressed to the nines, chatting and laughing, and understated officials in smart suits strategically placed to direct people where they needed to go. One approached Richard, and chatting politely, led them to some very posh silver grey lifts. Imogen called out, ‘Thank you!’ with unconcealed delight, as the lift door closed on them. She was effusive, full of it, brimming with fun and possibility. Fear had been put in its place.

‘Excited?’ said Richard, in his lovely voice, as they glided to the fourth floor.

‘Thrilled!’ replied Imogen.

He’d picked her up from outside her office. It was a bit of a pain pretending she had to go into London for an early Saturday morning meeting, and going up on the train and getting changed and ready there, but there was no way Richard could collect her from home, for obvious reasons. He’d pulled up, with Nigel at the wheel of a long black limo, complete with champagne. She’d almost jumped up and down with excitement. And when Richard had swung open the door for her like he had before, she’d almost swooned. In his Ascot suit he was divine. She was pretty much powerless.

She’d grabbed the champagne greedily; it would give her something to do with her hands – she wanted to jump on Richard and put them all over his body. They’d kept doing that thing, where two people who fancy the pants off each keep grinning at each other. It made the journey fly. Every time he grinned, it made her knickers leap. Glorious.

He’d started telling her who else was in his box at Ascot. Imogen was the only ‘friend’ he’d invited – she’d been asked to save his sanity, apparently – the rest were ‘corporate folks’. He reeled off a list of very boring-sounding people, casually giving the names at the bottom of the list as Phil and Carolyn Boot.

Oh. My. God.

‘Carolyn Boot! You know
her
?’ she asked Richard, startled.

‘Yes, I do business with her husband. Do
you
? By the horror on your face I’d say you do!’

‘I used to work with her.
For
her.’ She grimaced. ‘I gave her a piece of my mind when I left the company,’ said Imogen. ‘I don’t think she’ll relish spending any time in mine.’

‘Oh, really? Will you be okay?’

‘I’ll brazen it out and rise above,’ said Imogen. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She was bricking it, slightly, but yes, she
could
brazen it out. Nothing, not even Carolyn Boot, was going to spoil this day.

The lift opened. Richard took Imogen’s hand and together they walked along the plush corridor and into Box 356.

It was wonderful. Hugely smart and very, very corporate. There was a large table with white linen, on which coffee and tea pots and interesting-looking biscuits were displayed. A bar. A huge television up on the wall. And a corner balcony outside with full vista of the track and all the hordes of well-dressed people below. When she’d been to Ascot before it had all been quite posh but not like this. The acting and directing circle she moved in didn’t run to
boxes
.

‘Amazing…’ she said, looking round her.

The word died on her lips but she kept her smile going – Carolyn Boot was walking into the box. She was trailed by a tall thin man – her husband, Imogen presumed – who looked like a much uglier Richard E. Grant. He’d always been a bit of a crush of Imogen’s. What was it with these
Richards
? She wouldn’t have said no to a bit of Branson, either, once upon a time… Even a Madeley was not an unattractive proposition. God, was she on heat?

Carolyn turned a laser-like stare on Imogen and raised her eyebrows. She had obviously not been forewarned, like Imogen had.

‘Abigail, is it?’ said Carolyn, alarmingly coming over.

‘Imogen,’ said Imogen. Richard had temporarily deserted her. A man with a goatee had commandeered him and he was over by the floor to ceiling windows. She knows damn well what my name is, Imogen thought.

‘Right.’ Carolyn held out a claw for her to shake. ‘And your connection is?’

‘To?’ Imogen knew she sounded insolent, but she didn’t care.

‘Richard Stoughton.’

‘Oh, we’re dating.’

‘Really?’ said Carolyn, looking incredulous. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. I think he may be in love with me,’ said Imogen. There. That told the old bag.

‘I find that very doubtful,’ said Carolyn, with a sneer. She looked about to say more, then her face closed down to a blank glare. ‘Excuse me, I need to get some champagne…’ She started looking round her and clicking fingers at the substandard E. Grant. He made to take her pashmina.

‘No, no, not that, darling,’ she said, brusquely. ‘Champagne. Get me champagne.’

The poor man practically ran to the bar to grab a glass of champagne off a waiting tray.

Imogen stepped away. So Carolyn was going to be imperious and icily friendly, she thought. She could handle that. At least there’d been no mention of her terrible departure from Yes! Productions. Perhaps it would come later. Carolyn’s revenge. She couldn’t imagine Carolyn was the type of woman not to
execute it.

Fortification. That would help. Imogen went to the bar and got two glasses of champagne, one for herself, one for Richard.

‘Cheers,’ she said, walking over and handing it to him.

‘Bottoms up, me old mucker.’ He grinned.

‘Uh-oh, Bert’s back,’ said Imogen. Richard laughed.

They bumped glasses and each took a sip. That fizzing sip of champagne held all the promise of the day. Fun, frivolity, slight inebriation, excitement. She could take Richard on. One day at a time.

Several more people entered the box. A horsey couple – she couldn’t decide whether the man or the woman looked more like a thoroughbred showjumper – a big American lady in a straw hat and an embroidered tent, and two or three indistinguishable city types who already looked well-oiled and were braying like donkeys about the FTSE 100. They were the type she used to go for, until she knew better.

A smiley, very posh bloke came in to talk about the horses and to give tips on the bets. It was almost like a stand-up comedian’s routine, all his asides and in-jokes seemed well rehearsed. Imogen listened as intently as everyone else and laughed in all the right places. She didn’t have a clue. She wasn’t a horsey person and had never bet on anything in her life. Carolyn was earnestly marking things down on a piece of paper and circling things in her programme.
She
knew what she was doing – of course she did.

Out on the balcony it was blowing a gale. They all had to troop out there for the first race. It was real
hold on to your hats
weather, and like a welcome vacuum when you swooshed back inside. Imogen was happier in the warmth of the box, hovering around the buffet table or chatting randomly to the characters in there. She only braved the balcony again when the Queen rumbled down the track in her carriage. Imogen, buoyed by champagne, gave her a wave, clutching her pashmina to her with her free arm. The Queen didn’t wave back.

When she was suctioned back into the room, a spread was laid out on the table replacing the tea, coffee and biscuits. There were salads, flans and quiches, cheeses and breads, smoked salmon – all delicious-looking. Imogen knew she was going to eat loads; champagne always gave her the munchies.

‘Everything okay?’ said Richard, coming to stand by her side as she finished her plateful. She hadn’t wanted to shadow him; he had people to schmooze. She’d pretty much done her own thing since she’d been in that box. She’d chatted to people, been friendly to the women (the Boot excepted) and acceptably flirty with the men, had eaten and drank…and had watched Richard from the corner of her eye as he worked the room.

He was so good at it. He was charming, disarming, friendly, all-inclusive and all-encompassing. He had the large American lady laughing like a drain. Even Carolyn, in his current circle, appeared to be tittering, slightly. Simpering. She almost looked girlish. She had one foot hooked behind the other, the toe of her sandal rubbing the back of her calf as though she were playing footsie with herself. It amused Imogen no end. The ice lady melteth in the hands of the right man, clearly. Did her husband know?

Imogen wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to put herself in Richard’s hands. Naked, preferably. Perhaps tonight she would find out. She hoped so.

‘Everything’s great, thanks.’

He whispered in her ear. ‘There’s something about you.’

‘That’s a Level 42 song.’

‘Level who?’

God, he was sexy. His eyes glinted, like the bubbles in her champagne. His lips looked warm and inviting. ‘Do you want to take a stroll down to the Royal Enclosure with me?’

‘I’d love to, sir,’ she said, placing her champagne flute on the table. ‘Let’s do it.’

By the time they got to the paddock, the wind had dropped and the sun had miraculously come out. Imogen was feeling quite warm now. She slipped her pashmina off her shoulders and enjoyed the heat of the sun on them. They stared at a few horses, admired a few coats, saddles, whatever. It was not really her scene. But it was fabulous. She was with Richard. They always found things to laugh at.

After half an hour, after they’d looked and laughed and seen everything there was to see, they made their way back across the busy concourse, to the lifts.

Imogen suddenly stopped.

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s my friend, Grace! I thought she was in Stratford!’

There was Grace, standing next to a man with dark blond hair and queuing at one of the Pimm’s stands. She was rummaging in a pink clutch bag and smiling at something the man was saying.

‘Grace!’ called out Imogen, releasing Richard’s hand and sidestepping a few feet from him. She’d remembered, just in time.

Grace dropped whatever it was she was getting out of her bag. A pair of sunglasses. The man she was standing with bent to pick them up but she more or less shoved him out of the way, to her left, and grabbed them herself. She then rapidly stepped forward, aligning herself with a group of women in mega-tight dresses who were shrieking and laughing in the queue.

‘Imogen!’

They stepped towards each other in unison, like the couple coming out of the cuckoo clock. Grace was smiling, but looked terrified.

‘I thought you were traipsing round Shakespeare country?’ said Imogen.

Grace laughed. A very high, unnatural-sounding laugh. Was she drunk? She didn’t usually laugh like that when she was drunk.

‘The Stratford rumour was wrong,’ said Grace quickly and stumbling slightly over her words. Maybe she
was
drunk. ‘It turned out to be Ascot. One of the gang must have heard it wrong.’ Imogen was a bit confused. Grace didn’t look dressed for what she’d thought would be sightseeing round Stratford. She was in a pale pink sheath dress and nude heels. Unless she’d thought it was going to be a theatre thing. Grace liked the theatre. Or perhaps the mystery coach had a stash of fascinators to hand out, for any eventuality. Or perhaps Grace had brought some from work, for everyone on the trip… It was all a bit…strange. She looked…shifty. Would Grace
lie
about coming to Ascot? And if so, why?

Grace waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the gaggle of hefty women next to her. ‘The gang,’ she said, airily. They looked…up for it. There was a surplus of ugly platform shoes on pasty legs. One girl was straining for release from a sausage-tight lime bodycon dress, her bottom like two puppies fighting in a Lycra sack. She was snorting with laughter and truffling into a bag of popcorn. Wow, Grace was a rose amongst thorns in that little lot. They didn’t look very fit for Taekwondo people.

‘Oh, right. Actually, I thought you were with that bloke, for a minute!’ laughed Imogen.

‘Which bloke?’

‘Him,’ said Imogen, pointing at the dark blond guy, who was now at the front of the queue and relieving a huge jug of Pimm’s from a girl serving.

‘No,’ said Grace, quickly. ‘Who are
you
down here with?’ Mercifully, Richard had been grabbed by a passing toff and was having his ear bent about something clearly terribly interesting, his back to them.

‘Some awful media finance man,’ Imogen said, pointing faintly his way. ‘You know the sort. Thinks he knows it all. I’ve got a right day of it. I’m having to drink an awful lot of champagne just to get through it!’

‘Is he good-looking?’ asked Grace. ‘He looks just your type, from the back.’

‘God, no! And I’m
off
my type, as you know. My type are utter no-hopers, remember? Don’t forget the charter, miss!’

‘Ha, yeah.’

‘So where are you then?’

‘Silver Circle, with the riff-raff. How’s the box?’

‘Fabulous, darling.’

‘Of course it is.’

The gaggle of girls were on the move. They had turned and were walking left, towards the Silver Circle.