1

She was trouble and everyone seemed to know it but me.

Kate was the first to warn me off, but what would she know? Ex-girlfriends never want you to find anyone else after they’ve finished with you. Big Oakie White said pretty much the same thing. He’s my main bookmaker and I respect his opinion, but he should stick to the horses, something he knows more about.

Jim Beering said to ‘watch her’. Can you believe the guy? Beering was a cop for twenty-five years before he lucked into his cushy role as racecourse detective, so it’s his job to be suspicious. But watch her? Made her sound like a suspect, for Christ sake. Even Billy, who manages my restaurant, had a word in my ear. ‘Be careful, Punter, she’s a ball breaker.’

I mean, what were they getting at? Was she a livewire? Yeah, so what? I wouldn’t want to be with someone who agrees with me all the time. Does she flirt like a movie star? Too right. With her looks, I would too. Does she like a drink? Hell, yeah. I’d be suspicious of her if she didn’t. Was I going to spend my money on her, buy her things? You bet, I wanted to. Maxine’s only ‘crime’, as far as I could tell, was being the socialite daughter of talkback radio star Russell Henshaw. Henshaw was about the biggest name in radio, and the word was he had an ego to match his ratings, but I didn’t much care for Henshaw or his radio show. It was Maxine, his daughter, I was dating.

I was on the tram on the way to meet her, in fact. I got off in town and for the first time I noticed that the city shop windows were all plastered with Christmas decorations and posters urging shoppers to buy their presents. To be expected, I suppose; it was, after all, the first week in December. Not that I’d done any Christmas shopping yet. I resist the buying of any yuletide gifts for as long as possible. I simply can’t stand the big department stores and all the hype and useless stuff they try and sell you. I’m sure I’d think of something over the next few weeks, probably right on Christmas Eve, which is when I usually did my shopping.

I walked along to the restaurant, dodging the Friday night shoppers, and worked out how long I’d known Maxine. I met her barely a month ago in the champagne bar at Caulfield races, yet I’d spent almost every night since either staying overnight at her place, or she at mine. I didn’t think that could happen to someone like me. Crazy girl had taken over my life. I hadn’t studied a formguide or watched a race replay all week, and for someone who makes a living out of betting on the horses like I do, well, that’s just insane. Formguides weren’t the only thing I was guilty of forsaking. I hadn’t kept my regular weekly meeting with my manager Billy. He runs my pizza restaurant, Gino’s, and we meet religiously every Monday to go through the books and discuss business. I’d also missed my usual Tuesday night snooker game at the Red Triangle with Tiny and the boys. Don’t think they didn’t know what was going on. And for the first time ever, Big Oakie had to chase me for my betting markets on Thursday night. Why? Because I was with Maxine. She had me hook, line and sinker. They said she was trouble. Well, I’d never been happier.

Her curious moon eyes peeped at me over the top of the menu, black-studded diamonds that flickered and shone with amusement, and I knew when she lowered the menu she’d be sporting that infectious smile, ready to laugh at anything I said.

‘What? What’s so funny?’ I demanded.

‘You. How you take so long to order anything.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You do. You know you do. You’ve been there ten minutes reading the menu and you still haven’t made your mind up, have you?’

‘I would have, only the waiter confused me with his specials.’

‘Here he comes now. I’m going to order for both of us if you’re not ready. I’m starving.’

She did, too. Aged Warrnambool sirloin and a glass each of an inky-purple, five-year-old Coriole shiraz. Bit of a blokey meal, not what you’d expect a woman to order. But as I was finding out, Maxine wasn’t exactly a conventional lady.

‘I want mine rare,’ she told the waiter. She had her chin on a fist, fingers showing off her rings and other assorted jewellery dangling from her wrist. Her other hand played with shiny strands of shoulder-length black hair.

‘That’s not medium or well done, but rare, okay?’

The waiter promised ‘absolutely’ it would be rare. He made a special note with a flourish in his notebook. Probably wrote down Beware of table six. When we’d got our drinks, Maxine swirled hers around expertly in the big Riedel’s Vinum glass and took a deep sniff.

‘God, that’s good,’ she said. ‘And you were, too, last night. I can hardly walk.’

I grinned sheepishly at her across the table. There was a guy and a woman sitting next to us and another table of four on the opposite side. The guy must have heard; he turned his head none too subtly to catch our conversation. His partner would have heard too, but she was pretending not to notice.

‘Are you always like that?’ she persisted. She had a voice that carried, a radio announcer’s voice just like her father’s. One that demanded to be heard above a crowd. I leant forward, spoke in a whisper.

‘Can we, er, keep it down a bit?’

Maxine laughed at me again. Don’t know what she found so amusing. She took one of my hands in hers, spoke a little more softly – but not much – and said, ‘I’m sorry, Punter. I didn’t mean anyone else to hear.’

I was beginning to blush. Felt a red rash flooding my face like a tide that everyone in the restaurant must surely see. Those moon eyes were fighting back laughter again. Playing with me.

‘But you were good,’ she said. She’d taken her shoe off and I felt her foot explore my calf. Outrageous.

‘And what you’re doing is against regulations.’

‘What regulations?’

‘Government thingummy regulations. Applies to all restaurants. No funny stuff by patrons before dessert.’

She giggled again. Hadn’t actually removed her foot. Mind you, I hadn’t shifted my leg either.

‘Would you . . . like to go outside for ten minutes?’

I nearly had a coughing fit. God, didn’t she ever play by the rules?

She leant forward slowly across the table so that my eyes zeroed in helplessly on her cleavage like she knew they would. And there was a generous portion of that thrusting out of the little black dress she was wearing. Her smile left her mouth slightly ajar, a delicious little trapdoor revealing her tongue caressing the back of her teeth.

‘There’s a ladies’ powder room out the back,’ she whispered huskily.

I must have looked like a shocked prude. It set her off on another giggling fit. This time I could feel every eye in the room on us when she spoke. I leant forward and whispered desperately through clenched teeth, ‘Will you cut it out!’

‘Don’t worry, Punter, I’m not going drag to you off and have you in the powder room before my steak arrives.’

‘That’s good to know,’ I said meekly.

She turned and faced the couple staring at us goggle-eyed from the table opposite. They’d abandoned their own conversation. Why wouldn’t they; ours was much more interesting.

‘I’ll wait till after dessert.’

‘You’re trouble,’ I said with a grin.

I tiptoed gingerly out of her apartment at six the next morning and went home to try and get some form study done for that afternoon’s races. Who was the one who could hardly walk? This was getting ridiculous. Che, my sixteen-month-old black Burmese cat told me as much as I let myself guiltily into my apartment. He let out a high-pitched yowl designed to let me know that I’d been neglecting him. I fixed him up some dried food, put on the kettle and jumped into the bathroom for a quick shower.

When I came back out into the kitchen, Che had already finished his breakfast but he gave it a try; pulled a face as though I’d only doled out half rations.

‘I don’t think so, buster, you’ve had enough,’ I said, picking him up and opening the back door. Outside, Mrs Givan, my downstairs neighbour, was already putting out her first load of washing. A day like today, with a hot northerly and the forecast for thirty-two degrees, she’d be good for at least three more loads. It had me beat how much washing an old widow could possibly find to do.

‘Here,’ I said to Che, setting him down, ‘Go out and play with Mrs Givan. Do you good to get an airing.’

Over freshly ground coffee, I did some form and marked out betting prices for the races I wanted to play. After an hour or so I was done. I suppose I’m what you call a lazy sort of punter. For a person who makes his living from the track, I don’t usually dedicate myself to hours of form study like some of the pros do. There’s a woman punter I know, they call her the Professor, because she’s always studying the horses. She spends up to ten hours a day doing the form; I mean, can you believe it? If the winners don’t jump out at me inside of ten minutes, I move on to the next race. I’ve got better things to do than read the Winning Post cover to cover.

My mobile rang; it was Billy.

‘Punter, you still catching up with me for breakfast at eight?’

‘What’s on the menu?’

‘Poached eggs and mushrooms on rye and fresh juice and coffee.’

‘I’ve already left,’ I said, hanging up.

Half an hour later, I drove past Gino’s looking for a park. You’d think early on a Saturday morning I’d get a space right outside. Not so. The twenty-four/seven supermarket opposite always had people taking the car parks on the road, so I ended up having to find a spot a couple of hundred metres past the railway boom gates. I hardly ever came over this side of the railway tracks, but when I did I was always surprised by how much it had changed since I was a kid. The shops were all different back then. There was a milk bar where my brother and I used to ogle Mrs Vladimoss’s daughter, Angie. In the summer when Angie wore those low-cut tank tops, we’d be in there four times a day. I wonder if she realised we didn’t just come in solely for her strawberry malted milkshakes. The milk bar was long gone, as were Mrs Vladimoss and her daughter. So too were the haberdashery and the fish and chip shop. In fact, as I thought about it, most of the new shops that had sprung up replacing them were restaurants and cafés, catering for the younger crowd which had shifted in and always seemed too busy to cook for themselves. There was another pizza shop which had recently opened; competition for Gino’s, but it was all good for business and kept Billy on his toes. There was also a Vietnamese restaurant and a Chinese noodle shop, plus a Japanese sushi place which only opened at lunchtimes. It looked like this end of the street was starting to prosper.

Most of these shops seemed to have suddenly sprouted Christmas decorations. Ribbons and streamers and fat red Santa Clauses riding sleighs pulled by reindeer had appeared like mushrooms after a shower of rain. It was like an outbreak, a splash of colour that had swept through the street. I was thinking that perhaps I’d better have a word to Billy about us doing something for Gino’s or we’d look the odd one out. As I walked past the Vietnamese restaurant, I noticed a panel of tin sheeting covering a broken front window. Perhaps a kid had left a bike leaning against the glass pane and it had fallen through. Either that or some drunken hoon had kicked it in. A few minutes later I walked under the sign that proudly announced Gino’s Pizza. In smaller letters underneath it said: Licensee, Billy McCarroll. I’d cut Billy in on a third of the place, with the only stipulation that my name was kept out of the books. A while ago, I’d come into a windfall. I decided a run-down pizza joint might make a good place to park the money, especially during the winter months when the tracks were too wet to bet on and I couldn’t get a reliable earn from the horses. Billy knows how to keep his mouth shut and to this day, the only person who knows it’s my business is Billy himself.

I’d owned Gino’s for a couple of years now and unlike the early days, it was actually starting to pay me a wage, rather than drain my pockets of cash. I’d finished renovating and transformed it from the dark and dingy place it used to be. I’d put in French doors which opened outwards into the street. I’d replaced all the scungy furniture with colourful, funky tables and chairs from Ikea. When we’d got a liquor licence, I put in a new bar at considerable expense. In fact, about the only thing the place had in common with old man Gino who used to own it, was that his name was still on the sign above the door.

Billy let me in when he heard the bell and then closed the door behind us. He led me out to the kitchen, chattering cheerfully away as he always did, asking me questions then answering them himself before I could even open my mouth.

‘How’s it going, Punter? Found me a winner for today? Course you ’ave. Probably been up half the night doin’ form, haven’t you.’

I’d been up half the night, that much was true. It must have shown in my eyes and my manner; I was still dead tired.

‘Ah,’ said Billy, latching on. He didn’t miss much. ‘Don’t tell me, another late one with Miss Troubles, was it?’

I ignored the reference to Maxine. ‘This meeting is strictly about business,’ I said, reaching for the cup of coffee he’d put down in front of me.

‘Oh right, of course. And she’s none of my business,’ he said, busying himself about the stove.

‘Damn right she’s not. Hey,’ I said, ‘did you know the Vietnamese restaurant down the road got its window broken?’

‘Tan Tat’s?’

‘Yeah. Looked recent, maybe last night. Did you hear anything?’

Billy shook his head. ‘Not a thing. Musta been some smart-arse kid walking by. Little bastards got nothing better to do. They should make ’em all go on compulsory national service.’

If Billy had his way, the entire youth of Australia would be packed off to boot camp and made to serve out two years of military service. Not that Billy had actually done any time in the army, but he thought it such a good idea that it was obviously the cure for all of our delinquent teenagers’ behaviour.

‘You wouldn’t see a kid in Israel kickin’ in a shop window, would you?’ he said defiantly.

‘I’ve never been to Israel, Billy.’

‘Either have I, but I bet you wouldn’t see any kids kickin’ in shop windows there. They’ve all learnt a bit of respect, serving time in the army.’

‘It might have been an accident, perhaps a kid leaning his bike against the window and it fell through.’

Billy scoffed. ‘Two years in the Nasho,’ he said solemnly, ‘it’s the only way to learn those little bastards.’

He must have been reading my mind, because he changed the topic and asked if we should start putting up some Christmas decorations like the other shops in the strip.

‘You know, I was just thinking that,’ I said. ‘Perhaps we should get into the Christmas spirit.’

‘You want me to get a quote for some Christmassy stuff? You know, Santas, angels, the sort of shit everyone puts up?’

‘That’s the thing though, isn’t it? Everyone puts up the same-old same-old.’

‘It’s Christmas, Punter. People expect to see that crap. Come Christmas they want to see Santas and reindeers and angels and stuff. What else you gonna put up this time of year?’

‘I dunno. Leave it with me for a couple of days and I’ll get back to you.’ I asked him how we’d done for the week.

‘Not bad. We’re on track for budget for this quarter. I’m drowning at the moment though, since we lost Andrew. Haven’t been able to find a replacement for him yet. You’d think some kid would jump at a part-time job like that.’

‘You advertised?’

Billy nodded towards the window. ‘Put a sign up out front. I’ve also spread the word we’re looking to hire. In the meantime, I’ll bat on as best I can.’

I could always trust Billy to do the best he could. I’d known him years ago when he was a battling jockey working for my father. Increasing weight had forced him out of the game and he’d drifted into a succession of hospitality jobs before ending up at Gino’s when the old man himself had run the place. There, he’d been chief dishwasher, barman, pizza maker and anything else Gino had asked him to do. It seemed I’d inherited him when the place became mine. And I couldn’t have asked for a more loyal and trustworthy employee. Billy lived rent-free in the tiny flat above the shop as part of the deal. He was on a good wicket and he knew it, which is why he took an obvious pride in anything to do with the place.

Over breakfast we spoke about some operational issues. We had a cracked toilet bowl that needed replacing. And our insurance premium was due. Trouble with a restaurant, there’s always expenses you’ve got to put your hand in your pocket for. I gave Billy the green light for both items and then he showed me the summer menu he’d put together. It was essentially a different mix of the same food we offered all year round; a dozen varieties of pizzas, assorted garlic bread. Some pastas and desserts.

‘What’s changed?’ I said. Other than the new-look font and colour, it seemed pretty much the same to me.

‘Garlic bread. It’s now gourmet, made on the premises.’

‘Gourmet? What do we do that’s different from last week?’

Billy sighed patiently. ‘It’s not what we do, or don’t do to it,’ he explained, ‘it’s the perception in people’s minds when they see the menu.’

I looked blankly at him.

‘A couple come in and see plain old garlic bread on the menu, right? Hardly gonna excite ’em, is it? For all they know it’s just some tasteless frozen shit I’ve bought across the road at the supermarket.’

‘Is that where we get it from?’

‘No, we make it up ourselves. But it don’t matter where we get it from, Punter, garlic bread is garlic bread, either way you cut and slice it. But, tell ’em it’s gourmet, made on the premises garlic bread, and I’ll have to fight ’em off the counter with a stick, won’t I? Specially if I pan-fry some garlic butter up and leave it wafting through the restaurant all night.’

‘I knew there was a reason I hired you as manager.’

‘You stick to your horses and leave me to run the show here. You’ll see, we’ll put Pizza Hut out of business yet.’

After my breakfast meeting with Billy, I drove straight to the races at Caulfield. It’s only a five-minute drive and I parked my kombi van in my usual spot under the shade of the two gum trees by the side of the members’ entrance. My old bus always looks like an intruder in the members’ car park, where gleaming Porsches and BMWs are the usual means of transport. I’d owned my van for over a decade and it was second-hand when I bought it, so naturally it was showing its age. It had telltale signs of rust on the roof and tailgate, and the side door needed an appointment with a panel beater for coming off second best with a trolley in a car park. But I was attached to my van. I’d surfed the entire east coast in it and used it as a sort of pseudo surf room where I kept my wave skis, wetsuits and other assorted surfing gear. I smiled at the driver of a shining Mercedes coupe who pulled in and parked alongside me. The driver got out and turned his nose up disapprovingly at me. Gave me the sort of look that inferred I was parking illegally.

‘Good day for it,’ I said, nodding appreciatively towards his car. ‘Nice motor.’

Mercedes man grunted a reply that left no doubt he didn’t converse with tradesmen and hurried off. Yeah, nice motor, mate, but where would you put the surfing gear?

Just outside the entrance area, old George was standing patiently with his white plastic bucket collecting for the Salvos. I tipped him a fiver and he accepted it graciously as always.

‘Thanks, Punter, hope you back a winner or two today.’

‘You too, George.’

Some gamblers have immutable racetrack habits. They wear the same ties, the same suits. I know one bloke who confesses to wearing the same boxer shorts each time he goes, because he swears they’re his lucky undies. Me, I don’t have too many superstitions when it comes to clothes, but I’ve always tipped the Salvos on the way into a meeting. I sometimes tip them on the way out too, if I’ve had a good day. Other charities won’t get a dollar out of me. Maybe it’s the way they hound you; stick a tin in your face and ask you for donations. I don’t know what they do with the money or where it goes. I’d never stopped to ask George about it. I just gave him my loose change and sometimes I won and sometimes I lost, it didn’t seem to matter. But I know I always felt better if I put a dollar or two in George’s bucket before the first race.

Daisy was working the till at the café when I went to grab a coffee. She used to cook for me and the rest of Dad’s stablehands a lifetime ago, which was why she still treated me like a young nephew. These days she’d ceased preparing meals for strappers and had advanced up the ladder of catering. Daisy managed the restaurant for the caterers at the four metropolitan racetracks, and presided over a large casual staff who turned over hundreds of meals a day and endless afternoon teas.

‘Hello, luv,’ she greeted me. ‘How’s your dad, he got anything going today?’

Daisy loved a bet as much as anyone and she always looked out for my father’s horses on his home track at Caulfield. I told her his best today was Princess Upstart.

Daisy immediately pulled out a formguide from her apron and circled the horse.

‘Thanks, luv. You have a good day now and don’t forget to come back for lunch.’ She eyed me critically over the top of her glasses. ‘I’m sure you’re not eating nearly enough. It’s roast lamb today. Make sure you see me; I’ll slice you up an extra serve.’

I had to suppress a laugh. She remained convinced I was a perennial meal skipper, like I used to be back at the stables. I promised I’d see her later and left her to it.

Later in the afternoon, I saw Maxine again. She was leading in Princess Upstart, owned by her father and trained by my old man. Dad would have been none too happy about it either. The way he saw it, she was a wealthy owner’s daughter playing at being a strapper when it suited her. It was all very well dressing up and taking a horse to the races, but what about getting your hands dirty at four in the morning and mucking out the stables like the horse’s usual strapper did? It takes around ten to twelve weeks to get a horse ready to race and all strappers look forward to their hard work culminating in leading their charges in on raceday. Maxine’s insistence on taking her father’s horse to the races may have created friction with the filly’s regular handler; just another fire for my father to put out. No, Dad didn’t like it one bit, but he went along with Russell Henshaw’s wishes anyway. Henshaw did, after all, have a dozen impeccably bred gallopers in Dad’s stables, so if his socialite daughter wanted to lead them in on raceday and it kept him happy, well, Dad would grit his teeth and bear it.

I leant against the mounting yard fence and watched Maxine and the other strappers walking their horses around. There’s something I love about watching the horses in those few final minutes before a race. Some are flighty and skittish, jumping at shadows and giving the impression that they’d rather be anywhere else but on a racecourse. Others clomp sleepily around as if they were a milk-cart hack. I won’t play a race until I see the horses parade in front of me. I want to know how a horse has come on from its last run, or if it’s ruined its chances by sweating up nervously in the mounting yard. Some of these horses were actually breaking out in a light sweat now, but it wasn’t because they were upset, it was due to the unseasonably hot weather we were getting. Already it was twenty-eight degrees and rising. By late afternoon it would easily get to the predicted top of thirty-two. Since early November we’d been experiencing a spate of thirty degree plus days. Melbourne can cop a heatwave, but you don’t normally get the real ‘hotties’ until January or February, the bushfire season. Must be something to do with global warming; at least that’s what everyone was saying. Even the betting agencies were running a book to see if December would be our hottest month on record.

The area around the mounting yard was starting to fill up with punters, eager to check out their fancies before having a bet. You see a lot of people looking at the horses before a race, although most wouldn’t know a fit horse from a rocking horse. But they lean against the fence and whisper knowingly that number five can’t win because she’s trained off or is wearing bandages, or some other nonsense. Truth is, there’s only a handful of people I’ve met over the years who can look at a horse before a race and tell you what it’s going to do. I had a good teacher of course, my father, although my betting activities weren’t exactly the vocation he’d hoped I’d take up. For me and my brother David, it was always assumed we’d follow in Dad’s footsteps and take over the horse-training duties at Parraboo Lodge. David had slotted easily into that role and had been Dad’s assistant trainer for over a decade. He’d eventually take over from Dad when the old man retired – if he ever did.

As for myself, I was still the black sheep of the family, because according to Dad I was ‘wasting my ability and would end up like all punters; broke’. I’d actually avoided penury for the best part of ten years now, and was quite happy with the comfortable lifestyle that I had. Did I have to get up at the crack of dawn to muck out boxes like other strappers did? No. Did I have to worry about the phone ringing incessantly with owners demanding to know how their horse was going? Forget it. I wasn’t cut out for the regimented lifestyle of a trainer’s son. So despite my father’s pre-ordained edict that I follow him into the training business, I haven’t gone back to work for him and I’ve managed to get by living on the punt. I’m not big-time and I have my ups and downs. But betting on the horses is what I do best. So I guess it’s punter by name and punter by trade.

Maxine walked by leading Princess Upstart. An appropriate name, I thought, given the woman who was strapping it. The filly was rock-hard fit, all bone and muscle. That’s the stamp I like to see on my father’s horses. Certain trainers turn their gallopers out with a trademark look and my father, David John Punter, certainly put an unmistakable seal on his horses when they were ready to win. DJ knew a bit about winning. Two Melbourne Cups, a swag of Group races and five training premierships in a career spanning forty-odd years were testament to his training prowess.

The other trainers were by now deep in conversation with their connections. Attentive owners were soaking up every word a trainer or jockey uttered, like a verdict being handed down by a High Court judge. Hoppy Baker declared emphatically to half a dozen clients how well their horse had improved since her last run. Hoppy was a trainer who gave instructions like a football coach booming out orders to his players on an oval. It was said he didn’t need a telephone, and I could guess why; I could hear him from the other side of the mounting yard. The stewards gave the order for the jockeys to mount up and I swung my attention back to the horses.

Princess Upstart was the logical favourite at evens. She had a touch of class, was on her home track and had run a slashing second at her last start. Sixbefour was about ready to peak after two races and she was value at the fives. The other chance was What About Me, who was trained up Albury way. Her trainer, Tosca Hughes, didn’t bring horses to town unless he thought they could win. The bookies were keeping her safe at fours. The rest of the ten-horse field I could safely put a line through. The strappers led them on a final lap around the yard before they made their way out the gate and onto the track. I caught Maxine’s eye and gave her a wink and a wave as she walked by. She gave me her infectious laugh, the cheeky smile, and was that an extra wiggle from those shapely jodhpured hips? A couple of guys behind me thought so – I could practically hear them drooling while they were discussing her.

‘Maaate, get a load of the chick leading that horse around. That’s a crime . . . you can’t go paradin’ round in them things.’

‘Steady, mate. We’re here for the betting, not the birds.’

I laughed to myself. Time to hit the betting ring, try and make a quid.

I watch as the horses parade in the mounting yard. Strappers leading their charges around, waiting for the jockeys to mount up. They’re mostly female strappers; perhaps eight or nine women and a couple of guys. Years ago you hardly saw a woman in racing stables. Nowadays, it’s considered a respectable job. And trainers love employing women. They reckon they’re kinder to the horses and don’t get as aggro with them as men do. What a con. If only they knew what they are really like. Some of the things I’ve seen . . .

I mean, look at that one leading number three around. How typical. Is it possible to wear a pair of jodhpurs any tighter around your arse? Stupid little bitch. God, they make me angry. They’re all the same. Every single one of them. Dolling themselves up for one reason and one reason only. You watch, I’ll bet you anything she tries it on. Here they come, the jockeys. Now, see if I’m wrong. There you go, what’d I tell you? Look at the dirty trollop. She’s not even paying the slightest attention to the trainer, or even the horse. No, instead she’s giving the jockey a slutty smile. A cute look-at-me laugh. You wouldn’t do that for a guy strapper, would you? Bitch. And look at that one with number ten. The one in the red top. How about the way she legged the hoop into the saddle? She’s still got her hand on his boot. That’s not even subtle. Why don’t you just give him your phone number now? Filthy little silk chaser.

After the strappers lead their horses onto the track, they return to the mounting yard. Some make their way up to the area set aside for attendants in the grandstand. A few of them, including number three, elect to watch the race by the fence opposite the winning post. Well, of course she would. That way, she can show off her figure to the whole grandstand. I mean, look at her, sticking her backside out like she’s a bloody model. Laughing loudly at some inane joke with a bunch of other girls. Pathetic. Did you see that, the way that guy strapper tried to make conversation with her? And her complete disregard of him. Dismissed by a toss of her hair. Just like Amanda used to do.