GEORGINA CALLED ME at five o’clock from Paddington to tell me that she would be on the expected train, getting in to Didcot at ten past six.
“Shall I buy something for supper from Marks and Spencer?” she asked.
“If you like,” I said. “But I have already bought us a ready meal for tonight. But it will keep until tomorrow if you want something else.”
“What did you get?”
“Chicken jalfrezi and rice.”
“That’s great. I could really do with a curry. All the food Mum cooks is so desperately bland. Neither of their systems can cope with anything spicy. She doesn’t even put salt in anything because she thinks it’s bad for Dad’s blood pressure. I tell you, I can’t wait to get home.”
She sounded so excited at the prospect.
But how did I feel about it?
Georgina and I had now been apart for a whole week—far longer than ever before during the twenty-five years of our marriage.
I had to admit that, in spite of a few lonely moments, I had quite enjoyed the separation, and not just because I had been brazenly seduced by a blonde beauty from across the Atlantic.
Part of me was actually looking forward to having Georgina back, to returning to normality. But another part of me ached for someone thousands of miles away in Kentucky.
I again resisted the temptation to call Toni, partly because I was afraid she would tell me to go away and stop being so silly. Didn’t I realise that it had simply been an away-day fling—at least for her—and we had to now get on with our lives as they had been before?
So did that mean I had to return to tiptoeing around on the eggshells? To always do what Georgina wanted, to go back to having a quiet but boring domestic life?
Or should I become more uncompromising in my approach to our marriage, more resolute, and more determined to lead my life in the way I really wanted?
Or would that result in the marriage being over?
Was it, in fact, now time for Georgina and me to go our separate ways physically, as we had done emotionally for quite some time?
With all these thoughts swirling around inside my head, I set off for the station to collect her.
I was standing by the car when she came out of the station.
Once upon a time, at the start of our relationship, we would have run towards each other, embracing and kissing passionately, even if we’d only been away from each other for a few hours, never mind a whole week.
But now there was hardly a flicker of emotion between us.
We simply pecked each other on the cheek.
“Good journey?” I asked.
“Yes, very good,” she replied. “I paid an extra ten pounds to upgrade to a first-class seat between Leeds and Kings Cross. It was a weekend offer.”
“That was good.”
I put her suitcase in the car boot, and we both climbed in.
In spite of us having been apart for a whole week, I drove home in silence.
“Have you spoken to either James or Amanda?” Georgina asked as we turned into the driveway.
“Both of them,” I said. “They’re fine.”
I’m not sure why I didn’t mention Amanda’s second disappearance to my wife, either previously or now. I suppose it was mainly not to worry her, but it also may have had something to do with me not having to explain to her why I hadn’t immediately gone out searching. And Thursday evening seemed like a very long time ago now, and in more ways than one.
We went in and I took Georgina’s small suitcase upstairs. She followed.
“It’s so good to be home,” she said. “I only really took enough clothes for three days, so I’m looking forward to putting on something different.”
“You unpack and change,” I said. “I’ll go down and put the oven on. Do you fancy a glass of wine?”
“Is there any white?”
“I bought you some Sauvignon Blanc. It’s in the fridge.”
“Lovely.”
I went downstairs and opened two bottles, white for her and red for me. Whereas we had once always shared a bottle, even our taste in wine had now gone its separate ways.
I switched on the oven to heat up and then took her wine up to her. She was in the shower, so I left it on her dressing table and went back down again.
Why did I suddenly feel that my life straitjacket, which I had so spectacularly discarded during this past week, was suddenly being refitted tightly around my body?
I took my wine into the sitting room, but that only seemed to intensify my discomfort. It also made me think about Toni and what she would be doing.
There was a five-hour time difference between the U.K. and Lexington, so it would be about two o’clock in the afternoon there. Would she also be thinking of me, or would she be just getting herself ready to go back to work at Keeneland Racetrack the following morning?
I shook my head. Stop it, I told myself silently.
I went back into the kitchen for some more wine.
Georgina came downstairs in pyjamas and a dressing gown.
“Everything looks fine,” she said, walking around and running her finger across the worktop as if she was looking for dirt.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I replied sharply. “I’m quite able to look after the place on my own.”
“I didn’t it mean as a criticism,” she mumbled. “Quite the reverse.”
Why was I being so tetchy with her?
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s good to have you home. More wine?”
We went to bed early, but not for any excitement in the sexual department. More because we were both tired.
Georgina was asleep before I’d even finished in the bathroom.
At least the chicken jalfrezi had been a success, even if Georgina had reprimanded me for finishing the rest of the bottle of red wine with it.
“That’s far too many units,” she’d said, tut-tutting as I’d poured the last bit into my glass.
It was a good job she wasn’t here last night, I thought. I’d drunk a whole bottle of red wine at home, plus two more large glasses of it at the Red Lion.
I lay awake for a short while, sorting out some plans in my head, but I must have drifted off fairly quickly, because the next thing I knew the alarm on my phone was sounding at seven o’clock.
I left Georgina in bed and went downstairs in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt to make some coffee. I took a cup up to her.
“Sleep well?” I asked, putting the coffee down on her bedside table.
“Like a log,” she replied. “There’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed.”
Except, maybe, sleeping in Toni’s, I thought.
“I need to go down to make my calls,” I said.
“Are you going racing today?” Georgina asked.
I nodded. “At Bath, this evening. Victrix has a runner in the 7.10.”
The runner was Dream Filler, and it was his first outing since his infamous disqualification at Lingfield sixteen days ago.
“I should be back home by nine o’clock, nine-thirty at the latest.”
“Will you have eaten?”
“Probably. I’ll find out for sure when I know how many of the syndicate will be there and how many dinner tickets we have available. Would you like to come with me?”
“No,” she said firmly.
“But you always liked going racing at Bath, especially since they’ve spruced up the whole place with that new grandstand.”
Bath Racecourse is not in the city itself, but three and a half miles away to the northeast, up on top of Lansdown Hill. At seven hundred and eighty feet above sea level, it is the highest racecourse in the country for flat racing, and there are some spectacular views of the city and the surrounding Somerset countryside.
“I still don’t want to come,” Georgina said. “I’d rather spend the evening here at home, catching up on some correspondence.”
“Okay,” I said, somewhat relieved. It was always easier, and safer, for me to go to the races alone.
I went downstairs to my office and logged on to my computer.
I skimmed through the daily emails from my remote assistants, one of which said that there would only be four of Dream Filler’s syndicate at Bath this evening, two of them accompanied by their wives, which meant that there would be a complimentary dinner for me, that’s if I wanted it.
I emailed back, thanking her, and saying that yes, I did want.
Next I made my regular morning calls to the trainers.
Owen Reynolds was the last one.
“All set for this evening at Bath?” I asked.
“Are you coming?”
“I certainly am,” I said. “I want to watch Dream Filler put everything to rights after last time.”
“But this race is two steps up in class from the one at Lingfield. And the bloody handicapper has raised his rating by four points despite him being disqualified.”
“Are you saying that he won’t win this evening?” I asked.
“Let’s just say that I’m not as confident as I was last time. But he should still run well. I’ve decided to put Tim Westlake up on him again, to make up for Lingfield. He deserves it. But this time, I’ll be in the weighing room when he weighs out, to check for myself that he’s at the correct weight.”
“Good idea,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.
We arranged to meet outside the Owners and Trainers’ Restaurant before the first race, and then we disconnected.
As I put my phone down on my desk, it started ringing.
I looked at it.
No Caller ID.
I didn’t answer, and after about six rings it stopped.
It started again, but I still didn’t answer.
It rang for a third time. I switched the phone to silent, but it went on vibrating. I ignored it.
Then a message notification popped up on the screen
Dream Filler will lose again today.
He might well lose again today, I thought—but it certainly wouldn’t be due to anything that I did.
Bath races on a warm summer’s evening is truly delightful, although the same cannot always be said of their early April or late October meetings, when an icy wind off the Atlantic can cut through you like a knife on the exposed hilltop.
The course itself is kidney shaped, which gives those in the stands a great view of the action, as the horses are never too far away. As you might expect for a track built on the top of a hill, there are numerous undulations, including a steady climb over the last three furlongs, all the way to the finish line, which can prove a severe test for even the most experienced horse and jockey.
It also has one of the prettiest approaches to any racecourse in the country, as you drive between Cotswold dry-stone walls and through the centre of Lansdown Golf Course on arrival.
I parked my Jaguar in one of the spaces reserved for owners and walked into the enclosures, collecting my owner’s badge and meal voucher on the way.
I was very early.
The first race was not for another hour, at 5.40.
But I’d had something to do in the centre of Bath beforehand, to meet someone, and it hadn’t taken as long as I’d allowed for.
I sat at a table, under a sun umbrella, on the lawn outside the owners and trainers area and made a call to Patrick Hogg, KC, the barrister from Middle Temple, whom I’d met in Jim Green’s box at Ascot.
“Do you have time to talk?” I asked.
“Court adjourned early at half three today,” he said. “So fire away.”
“Can I speak to you in confidence?”
There was a pause.
“Strictly speaking,” he said finally, “the confidentiality rules exist only between a lawyer and his or her client. I am not your lawyer, and you are not my client.”
“Can I be?” I asked.
Another pause.
“I am not what is known as a “public access barrister,” so I can only be instructed by a solicitor or the Crown Prosecution Service, not by members of the public.”
“Could you give me some advice then, just as a friend?”
Yet another pause.
“Not that you could rely on in court. And if you tell me you have been money laundering or avoiding your taxes, then I would be honour-bound to report you straight to the authorities.”
“I haven’t been doing either of those,” I assured him with a laugh, hoping that he didn’t ask me about race fixing.
“So what sort of advice?” he asked with a huge degree of wariness in his voice.
Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to contact him, after all.
“It’s about a family matter,” I said.
I spoke with him for the next twenty minutes or so.
“Look, Chester,” Patrick said, interrupting my flow. “I’m sorry, but I have to go now. I have to get to Paddington to catch the train home. We have a family event this evening. Perhaps we can speak again tomorrow morning. Call me any time after eight and before a quarter to ten.”
At least he hadn’t said, “Don’t ever call me again.”
Did he say train home from Paddington? That was our direction.
“Where do you live?” I asked quickly.
“Near Reading,” he said. “A village called Upper Basildon.”
“But that’s only nine miles away from my house.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I must dash now.”
He hung up.
I sat there for quite a while, thinking and staring into space.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said a voice above my head.
I looked up. The voice belonged to Bill Parkinson, one of the Potassium syndicate.
“Oh, hi, Bill. What are you doing here?”
“Enjoying myself at the races,” he said. “I’m a member here.”
“Beautiful evening for it,” I said.
“Does Victrix have any runners?” he asked.
“Dream Filler in the fourth.”
“Isn’t that the one that was disqualified at Lingfield a couple of weeks ago for weighing in light?”
“Sure is,” I said. “We’re hoping he’ll make up for that this evening.”
“Then you’d better keep your eyes firmly fixed on his weight cloth,” he said with a chuckle. “That was a rum business.”
“It certainly was,” I agreed.
“Are you any closer to finding out what happened?”
I shook my head. “It’s all water under the bridge now, anyway.”
Thames river water, I thought, under Goring Bridge.
Owen Reynolds arrived to join us.
“Evening, Owen,” said Bill. “How’s that horse of mine?”
“If you mean Potassium,” Owen said, clearly not amused, “he’s fine.”
“Have you two decided where he’s running next?” Bill asked us. “How about the King George and Queen Elizabeth back at Ascot?”
“He is entered for that,” Owen said. “But he’s also entered for the Sussex Stakes at the Goodwood Festival, and he won’t run in both, that’s for sure, as they’re only a few days apart. He’s also still in the Eclipse, but I think that might be too soon after last week. And entries close tomorrow for the International at York in August, so I’ve already put him in that.”
“You and I have much to talk about,” I said to him. “When do we have to decide?”
“Confirmation for the Eclipse would have to be made by noon next Monday. We have another week to decide on the others. Let’s have a proper chat about it on Sunday, when I’ve seen how he performs on the gallops this week.”
For a racehorse trainer, choosing the correct races in which to run their horses is as important as ensuring that the animals are fit and healthy. Without both of these things being just right, they will have no chance of fulfilling their potential and winning the big races.
“Right,” I said. “Owen, you and I now have to talk about this evening.”
Bill took the hint.
“Good luck later,” he said, and wandered off.
“He’s a real pain, that one,” Owen said to me under his breath when Bill was far enough away not to be able to hear. “He’s always ringing me up at home to ask about Potassium and tell me where he should run next, or even what feed supplements I should give him. And he always refers to him as ‘his’ horse.”
“But I specifically instruct all my syndicates to contact only me with their concerns, and never to call the trainers direct.”
“Well, he takes no notice of that.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll send a reminder to all the members.”
Yet another thing to add to my ‘to-do’ list.
“So how about Dream Filler?” I asked.
“He should do all right,” Owen replied. “But he won’t start as favourite this time. It’s that Gosden filly that’s the main danger. And I’m a bit worried that the ground may be too firm for our boy. They don’t water up here, and it’s still as hard as iron after all the hot weather we’ve been having. If it hadn’t rained early on Saturday morning, I’d have probably not declared him. But I don’t think the rain has made any difference. I just hope he comes home sound.”
“Apart from that, is everything else okay?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“Good,” I replied. “Are you going to eat?” I pointed behind me at the Owners and Trainers’ Restaurant.
“No time. I have another runner in the second. I had a cheese sandwich before I came out.”
“All right, then. I’ll see you later.”
I went inside the restaurant and used the meal voucher to collect from the buffet my free supper of cod in a white wine sauce.
As I was sitting down, I was approached by two members of Dream Filler’s syndicate, plus their wives.
“Hello, Chester,” one said. “May we join you?”
“Of course,” I said with a forced smile.
They pulled across some chairs and another table to abut the one where I was sitting.
In truth, I would rather have been left alone to think, especially when I found out that the sole topic of discussion between them was the disqualification of Dream Filler last time out.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t happen again today,” one of the wives said.
“I don’t think it will,” I replied.
In fact, I was quite certain it wouldn’t.