THE WEATHER FORECASTERS were absolutely correct. Wednesday morning again dawned bright and sunny, and the mercury was predicted to climb several degrees higher than it had yesterday.
I didn’t sleep particularly well, not least because I had eaten so late.
I hadn’t picked up the last curry of the night from the Raj Tandoori. Rather, I had made myself some sourdough toast at home, liberally spread with chicken liver pâté. And I’d had a glass of red wine to help wash it down.
I should have been so happy.
Victrix’s star horse had proved again that he was a true champion, winning yet another Group 1 race. But I worried about what the consequences of that win might be for me, and for my family.
I was really pleased that I’d managed to see Amanda, but also disappointed I hadn’t convinced her to come home with me.
In the morning, I spent the usual couple of hours in my office, speaking with the trainers.
The office had obviously been built on as an afterthought, subsequent to the construction of the main house, but it had been done before we bought it.
It was a single-storey extension and one of the main reasons I had liked the house so much in the first place. It allowed me to somehow feel that I could escape from the rest of the family and concentrate on my work without disturbance.
“How’s Potassium today?” I asked Owen, the last trainer on my list. “Did he get home all right?”
“No problem, but he’s clearly tired. He was a bit unsteady coming off the box last night, and he didn’t eat up very well. He’s just going in the walker for half an hour to dispel any stiffness in his legs. Other than that he’ll have a quiet day today and only a gentle canter tomorrow.”
“How about you?” I asked. “Did you have a good evening?”
“Quiet,” he said. “I had a beer with a few friends in the trainers’ car park after racing, then came straight home. I was in bed before nine.”
I wished I had been as well, but there again, I hadn’t had to get up this morning at sunrise.
“Are you back at Ascot again today?” I asked.
“I suppose so, but I’m not looking forward to it much in this heat. And I won’t be getting there very early. I have only one runner, Silvia’s Choice in the Royal Hunt Cup, and that’s not off until five o’clock. There are thirty declared runners, so I suspect it will be the usual cavalry charge.”
The Royal Hunt Cup was a handicap, run over the straight mile. It was one of the biggest gambling races of the whole week, and the bookies usually had a field day, with plenty of long-odds winners in the past.
“Does yours have a chance?” I asked.
“They all have. The race is a bloody lottery. Silvia’s Choice is drawn right in the middle, and that’s not normally good.
“Well, good luck anyway. I’ll look out for you later.”
We disconnected and I went back into the house to get ready to depart.
“Was it something I said?”
I turned around.
Today, Toni Beckett was in blue—blue dress and blue hat.
“Did you bring a trunk load of hats?” I asked, smiling.
“Only two. I’m back in the yellow again tomorrow. So what happened to you? I was all ready to party in the car park last night, but you weren’t there.”
“I had to go home. How was tea with the ambassador?”
“Boring. There was another man there with him, who leered at me all the time. It was creepy.”
“I’ll try and remember not to leer.”
“You can leer at me as much as you like,” she said, looking me straight in the eyes.
“So where are you today?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“Where would you like me to be?”
We were standing on the parade-ring concourse, just outside the entrance to the grandstand, and I instinctively turned and looked around me, to make sure that no one I knew had seen or overheard this overtly flirtatious encounter between us, occurring in the most public place on Ascot racecourse.
I turned back to face her.
“I meant, which box are you in today?”
She looked down at the triangular badge pinned to her dress, above the Royal Enclosure one.
“Box 522,” she said.
“That’ll be nice. The views from the private boxes are spectacular, especially from up on the fifth level.”
“I’d rather be having a spectacular view of the rest of you,” she said.
I blushed. “Stop it.”
“Why? It’s only a bit of fun. Although I mean it. Come on—let’s go and have some champagne. I don’t have to be at the box until twelve-thirty.”
I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to midday, and I had made no appointments until after the first race.
“Okay,” I said.
I led her away from the Royal Enclosure, down some steps to the Moët & Chandon Champagne Bar, situated near the bandstand. Maybe because I felt there would be less likelihood of running into anyone I knew down there.
“Get a bottle,” Toni said as I surveyed the prices.
“I have to drive later,” I said.
“Boring!”
I bought a bottle of Brut Imperial for over a hundred quid, but it did come ready opened, and in a see-through acrylic Moët & Chandon ice bucket—but that had to go back to redeem the twenty-pound deposit.
We found a couple of spare seats under a sun umbrella.
“Who are your hosts today?” I asked after I had poured two glasses.
“I don’t know. Some rich cronies of the Farquhars.”
“And they don’t mind that you tag along?”
“Don’t seem to. Mr and Mrs Farquhar have sorted out this whole trip for me. It’s really kind of them. But I do lots for them back home. They regularly need clubhouse hospitality for their guests at Keeneland, and I fix it for them, at a price of course. They have a reserved box in the grandstand, but our boxes aren’t like the ones here. We call those suites. For us, a box is just a small railed-off area with six or eight chairs in it. There’s no privacy. And the Farquhars always want a private suite with food and wines when they have visitors.”
“You’re clearly a useful person to know.”
“You can bet on it,” she said with a laugh. “And they will expect more of the same from me in the future after this little jaunt.”
She took another sip of champagne.
“You should come over for our Fall Meet in October,” she said. “I’ll sort you out properly.”
I was quite certain she would.
“And we also have the Breeders’ Cup World Championship weekend at Keeneland this year.”
“Do you, indeed?”
Running Potassium in the International Stakes at York in August suddenly seemed much more attractive. It was one of their “win and you’re in” qualifiers for the Breeders’ Cup Classic. So a win there would secure him a guaranteed berth in the race.
“Tell me more about you,” she said.
“Not much to tell, really,” I replied. “I’m a workaholic who never seems to take a day off. Horseracing in this country is a seven-day-a-week activity. Apart from Christmas Day and the two days beforehand, there are at least two race meetings in this country every single day of the year. On most days, there are four or five, and on some, as many as eight or nine. There are over fourteen hundred different fixtures over the whole year.”
She stared at me in amazement.
“Not that they’re all like this,” I said, waving my hands around at the grandeur of Royal Ascot. “There’ll be over sixty thousand people here tomorrow for the Gold Cup, but there may be fewer than a hundred at a wet January evening meeting at Wolverhampton.”
“So why do they bother to hold it?” she asked.
“For the betting shops and the online bookmaking sites. Racing is kept afloat by people gambling on it, and most of them don’t go anywhere near the actual racecourses. The government collects a portion of all bookmakers’ profits through something called the Horserace Betting Levy. And that money is used to keep racing going.”
“But you must do something to relax,” she said. “Do you have any hobbies?”
Did I? Not really. Horseracing was my hobby as well as my work. I didn’t actually need to be here at Ascot today, but I had chosen to be so.
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s official. I am totally boring.”
“I could change that,” she said. “How about another drink later? Maybe in the car park or … back at my hotel?”
“You’re very forward,” I said.
She laughed. “I have to be. I’m only here for six nights, and three of them have gone already.”
“What about the Farquhars?”
“They’re out to the theatre in London this evening, and I wasn’t invited.”
How convenient, I thought.
“So are they leaving here early?” I asked.
“They have a driver collecting them at quarter of six.”
The last race was not until ten past six, so they should avoid the worst of the traffic, but it would still be tight if their show started at seven-thirty.
“Are you leaving with them?”
I wondered what the hell I was doing, asking such a leading question.
“No. The Farquhars have kindly arranged for me to have my own car back to my hotel, as they are going direct from here to the theatre. I just have to call my driver forty minutes before I need him.”
She smiled at me. She seemed to have everything perfectly worked out.
“I’m sorry,” I said, bursting her balloon, “but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Damn men!” she said with feeling. “I spend half my life fighting most of them off me because I don’t want them, and now, when I absolutely do want one, he has a fit of conscience.”
“I’m a married man.”
“So what? Tell your wife you’ve met an important client at the races, and you will be going to dinner with them in London tonight, so you might as well stay over in a hotel. And you’ll be home tomorrow—or on Friday—or Saturday.”
She smiled at me once again.
And Georgina herself wouldn’t be home until at least Saturday.
At twelve-thirty, Toni went off to the private box for lunch while I remained sitting a little longer at the table, having another glass of bubbly and cogitating about what to do.
We had agreed to meet again later.
I would collect her from Box 522 after the big race of the day, the Group 1 Prince of Wales Stakes, and we would watch the next race together from the seats on level four, before she went back to the box for the last two races and afternoon tea.
And then what?
She had made it perfectly clear what she wanted, but she was a long way from home.
What happens on tour stays on tour.
But this was my backyard, my place of work, where hundreds, if not thousands, of the people here today would recognise me. My face had been on the television after the Derby, and again only yesterday, collecting the St James’s Palace Stakes trophy from royalty.
I returned the ice bucket to the bar and collected the deposit, then went back up to the parade-ring concourse. It was as good a place as any to see some of the people I quite hoped to run into, but it was very quiet there at this time of day. Everyone was busy having lunch, either in the restaurants or in the car parks, and no one had yet started to arrive for the Royal Procession.
I wondered what Toni would be eating in Box 522.
The standard of the box catering at Royal Ascot is legendary, and I’d been lucky enough to have been invited to savour it quite a few times over the years. And there is also ample fine dining available in the many racecourse restaurants, some with Michelin-starred chefs on duty—provided you had booked your table many months in advance.
However, as I had no box invitations, no restaurant bookings, and no access today to the Owners and Trainers’ Dining Room, I opted for sweet and sour pork with sticky rice from the Chinese takeaway in the base of the grandstand, served in a cardboard box, with a choice of a wooden fork or chopsticks.
Conscious that there were three more days of Royal Ascot after this, and I had no time between days to get my morning dress cleaned, I chose the fork.
And very delicious the food was too.
I hadn’t realised how hungry I was. I’d had hardly anything to eat since lunch yesterday in the car park with Nick and Claire Spencer, and I’d expended a lot of energy since then, both physical and emotional.
After finishing the pork, I went up to level four and bagged myself a front-row seat for the Royal Procession, and wished I were watching it again with Toni Beckett.
“Well done, yesterday,” said the man behind me, patting me on the shoulder. “That Potassium is quite a horse.”
I turned in my seat. I’d never seen the man before.
“Thank you,” I said. “Yes, he is.”
“Will he go for the Arc?” he asked. “I fancy a trip to Paris.”
“Probably not this year,” I replied. “Do you own any horses?”
“No,” he said. “But I’ve thought about it.”
I pulled one of my Victrix Racing business cards out of my inside coat pocket and gave it to him. “If you fancy joining an owning syndicate, give me a call.”
“Thanks,” he said, looking at the card. “Maybe I’ll do that.”
The seats filled up fast as two o’clock approached, and right on time, the first of the Windsor Greys appeared through the Golden Gate.
I never tired of watching this.
Horseracing is known worldwide as the Sport of Kings, and here was the King at the races to prove it, carrying on the tradition first started by his great-great-great-great-great-uncle, King George IV, in 1825.
The four carriages made their steady way down the course, and a military band, standing on the grandstand steps, struck up the national anthem as they passed. Then the royal party disappeared from our sight as they went through the tunnel, and on to the parade ring.
I remained in my seat to watch the first race, the Queen Mary Stakes, a five-furlong dash for two-year-old fillies. There were twenty-six runners, and if you blinked, you could miss it, the whole thing being over in less than a minute, after it had taken almost five times that long to load them all into the starting stalls.
I went down to the concourse to meet with my first appointment of the day, a young man from Yorkshire, whom I’d had my eye on for some time as a possible future Victrix trainer. He had a runner later in the afternoon, and he had made a rare excursion south, so here I had a chance to meet him face to face.
I was looking to sign up another northern-based trainer, as I had an increasing number of prospective syndicate members from Manchester and Leeds who preferred to go to stable visits and race meetings close to home.
As arranged, I met him on the small Grundy Lawn near the Owners and Trainers’ Bar, and we spent fifteen minutes or so discussing matters. He said he was very keen to add his name to my list of trainers, and we agreed to meet again at the yearling sale in Doncaster at the end of August. In the meantime, I would send to him all the Victrix information for him to study.
I wandered back towards the parade ring and watched the second race on the big TV screen there, but I didn’t really notice who won.
I had other things on my mind.
I knocked loudly on the door of Box 522 after the fourth race.
It was opened by one of the catering staff. I went in.
Most of the occupants were still on the balcony, having watched the race, but there was one man sitting at the table, studying the Racing Post. He looked up at me.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’ve come to collect Mrs Beckett,” I said.
“Then you must be Chester Newton,” said the man, standing up.
“Yes. I am.”
“Mark Gill. It’s my box.” He came over and we shook hands. “Toni said you would be coming to take her away from us for a race. Do you have a runner?”
“No,” I said, “but I want to watch one trained by Owen Reynolds.”
“Your trainer of Potassium,” he said, smiling. “Great result yesterday.”
“Yes, it was. Thank you. Very exciting.”
Toni saw me through the glass and came in.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
She smiled and nodded.
“You could both stay and watch the race from here if you like,” Mark said. “We’re about to have our tea.”
I looked at Toni and she nodded again.
“Or would you prefer a drink?” Mark asked. “Glass of champagne?”
I’d probably already had too much alcohol to drive home now anyway.
“A glass of champagne would be lovely. Thank you.”
One of the staff poured one and handed it to me.
Herb and Harriet Farquhar came in from the balcony.
“Hi, Chester,” Herb said. “Good to see you again.”
“And you too,” I replied.
We shook hands and I wondered if now would be a good time to talk to him about taking a share in a Victrix horse next year.
But, on balance, I decided that it probably wasn’t.
Tea of sandwiches, scones, and all sorts of delicious-looking cake was laid out on the table, and the other box guests came back in from the balcony to take their seats. I went outside with my glass, and Toni came out briefly to join me.
“Have you phoned your wife?” she asked me quietly, straight away.
“Not yet,” I said.
“At least that sounds more promising than ‘no.’ ”
“Do join us, Chester,” Mark said, stepping outside. “There’s plenty of food, and we have just had a huge lunch.”
“Thank you,” I said once again. And the staff found me a spare chair.
“What’s the name of Owen Reynolds’s horse in the next?” Mark asked.
“Silvia’s Choice. But he doesn’t think it has much of a chance.”
“But we must have a bet on it,” Toni said. She stood up and looked across at me. “Come on. Let’s go and make it.”
I stood up and followed her out of the box.
“Call her now,” Toni said intently when the box door had closed behind us.
“I will. Later. Don’t rush me.”
I placed a ten pounds each-way bet on Silvia’s Choice at the Tote desk, and then we went back into the box to watch the race.
“You’ll find this interesting,” I said to her as we took two of the seats outside on the balcony. “It’ll be like two separate races happening at the same time.”
The thirty runners were loaded into the stalls, which stretched right across the track at the straight-mile start, way off to our right, near the Golden Gate.
When the stalls snapped open, the field immediately split in two, with one half running down the near rail, and the other half over on the far one.
It was the race commentator’s nightmare to try and decide which side was in front. And the jockeys had little idea either.
But whichever side was in front, Silvia’s Choice was not going to win. The horse faded badly in the last couple of furlongs and was well beaten.
In the end, the leading horse on the far side edged out the one on the near side by about half a length, but neither of the jockeys was sure which of them was the winner, nor were most of the crowd until the judge made the announcement. But Silvia’s Choice wasn’t one of them anyway.
“Another loser,” I said tearing up our Tote ticket.
“Never mind,” Toni said. “You might be a winner tonight.