At Long Odds (A Racing Romance) (3 page)

‘Bloody rude more like it,’ she said out loud. ‘Arrogant pig. Now we’re going to have to wait and this damn animal won’t stand still.’ Pacifist was now showing off his best tap dance. Kerry leant forward and held the horse’s head while Ginny vaulted back into the saddle.

‘He is a bit of an arrogant guy,’ Alex agreed. ‘But you get used to him, being neighbours and all.’

‘Neighbours?’ Ginny echoed in horror. ‘Since when?’

‘A couple of years now. Moved over from France to set up by himself at Cobalt Lodge. Tired of living in his
papa’s
shadow.’

She blinked in surprise as her brain connected the dots. That smooth condescending man now galloping across the English countryside was the son of one of France’s finest racing trainers. Vincent Larocque seemed to have been around forever, yet she’d never known he had a son. Must be a pretty big shadow.

‘I bet
Papa
was relieved to be rid of him,’ she muttered.

‘Don’t worry. He grows on you,’ Alex reassured her.

‘Yeah? So does foot fungus.’ Shaking her head, she adjusted her seat and sent Pacifist forward. Hopefully, this workout would flush away the restless heat that now whirled through her body.

*

Before heading into the house that evening, Ginny paused outside the two-year-old, Caspian’s stable. The colt stood against the back wall with his muzzle shoved into his feed trough, the deep grinding of his teeth on grain a steady, contented sound. Again, Ginny thought back to the notes on him she had read earlier that morning. She looked hard to see something familiar about him, something that with hindsight she could say ‘Of course!’. But there was nothing. He was just an ordinary dark bay colt. With a defeated shrug of her shoulders she turned away and headed for the house, intent on quizzing her father whom she hadn’t seen since her discovery in the early hours of that morning.

She found him with her mother in the lounge, sitting in his favourite worn and faded armchair, stuck into a John Francome thriller. He looked up as Ginny stepped into the room, and smiled at her above his specs. Ginny made for the equally-aged sofa where her mother was seated and sat down, tucking her legs beneath her.

‘Lovie,’ Beth said brightly and putting down her Sudoku puzzle. ‘How did it go today?’

Ginny hesitated, uncertain whether she should tell her parents she had fallen off the first horse she’d ridden. Perhaps not.

‘Okay, thanks. Nothing too drastic. Everyone seems very nice, except…’ Suddenly, Caspian’s importance waned as she recalled her morning. ‘What do you know about Julien Larocque?’ she asked, turning to her father.

‘Ah, Julien,’ Jim smiled. ‘Been getting under your skin already, has he?’

Ginny shifted uneasily.

‘You could say that. He barged in front of us on the Gallops. Pacifist nearly went into orbit.’

Jim chuckled, making Ginny feel even more indignant.

‘He’s a good trainer. Like Vincent, except a little more glamorous.’

‘That doesn’t excuse reckless behaviour like that. Someone could’ve got hurt.’ Like me, she silently added, knowing it was her pride more than anything else.

‘The French can get away with anything,’ Beth said, getting up and pouring Ginny a cup of tea from a tray on a side table.

‘The inmates of Fleury-Mérogis Prison might argue that point, Mum. How is he glamorous?’

‘Wealthy owners send their horses to be trained by him because their bored wives fancy him,’ Jim explained. ‘You always see him with some pretty bird hanging onto his arm. He’s not afraid of opposition either. It’s not difficult to feel intimidated by big guns like Michael Ramsay and Andrew Pearson, especially when you’re on foreign soil. But hats off to the boy, he seems to take it in his stride. Cobalt Lodge had plenty of winners last year.’

‘Humph.’ Ginny frowned into her freshly-poured teacup and took a tentative sip. It seemed everyone loved Julien Larocque except her.

‘Do you see much of Charlie anymore?’

Ginny looked at her mother in amazement. Beth’s trail of thought could be followed by a bloodhound with anosmia.

‘Our paths cross now and then,’ she mumbled into her cup. ‘Hard not to when you’re in the same business.’

‘He was also glamorous, wasn’t he, lovie?’

Ginny had forgotten how tactless Beth could be sometimes, especially when she seemed intent on marrying Ginny off.

‘I guess so.’

‘It was so sad when you broke up.’

Try heartbreaking, thought Ginny.

‘That’s how it goes, I suppose, mixing business with pleasure,’ she shrugged. ‘I watched Alex ride that two-year-old, Caspian,’ she said to Jim, blatantly changing the subject. ‘Nice-looking colt, that one.’

‘Alex or Caspian?’

‘Don’t you start. You bought him as a yearling at Deauville, didn’t you?’

At her father’s nod of ascent, Ginny probed further. ‘What made you pick him?’

‘Stop it, Ginny. You know full well why I picked him. You would have seen his pedigree. Call me a sentimental old fool, but he had everything going for him at the Sales: great-looking, sound, bargain price. And of course, his granddam…’

‘…Is Just Kidding,’ she finished for him.

‘Yes,’ Jim said, sounding sheepish. ‘I only noticed Caspian’s breeding when I got there and I know it’s reckless of me, especially when we’re strapped for cash, but he’s not a bad investment, even allowing for my sentimental flaws.’ He sounded almost like he was looking for reassurance from her.

‘Well, he seems a nice enough colt,’ Ginny tried to be unbiased.

‘He’s going to be a winner, Ginny. I can feel it,’ he enthused, as if he was trying to convince himself as well as his daughter. Beth tutted as if this was something she had heard a hundred times already but Jim didn’t appear to hear her. ‘Shanghai Dancer might turn things round for us this season but Caspian’s the one for the future.’

‘Why are you so sure?’ Ginny asked.

‘I don’t know. It’s his attitude, you know? Just Kidding was the same. They’ve both got that – I don’t know, that
look
in their eye.’

‘So you think he could win the Derby like she won the Oaks?’ Ginny said, unable to keep the skepticism out of her voice.

Jim heard it too and sighed, shaking his head.

‘His Derby is still over a year away. A lot can happen in between. In the meantime though, maybe the Dewhurst Stakes later this year.’

Ginny nodded, more in sympathy than anything else. The Dewhurst Stakes for two-year-olds was one prize Jim had always yearned for but never won. It was also the richest and most sought-after juvenile races in Britain.

‘When we start faster work, we’ll see what we’ve got,’ Ginny reassured him. She found herself hoping her father was right not only for his sake, but to bring a certain Frenchman down a peg or two as well.

Chapter Three

After a thankfully uneventful week that had allowed Ginny to find her stride, Friday started like all the previous days. Ginny sat in the racing office toying with the idea of returning the call she had received yesterday evening. A message had been left from some self-important secretary, on behalf of one of their owners, Basil Forrester, requesting that she ring back as soon as was convenient.

Having only got his answering machine yesterday evening, Ginny was dreading their eventual meeting. Kerry had already described him to her: Jabba the Hutt in human form, saying she wouldn’t have been surprised if he had a Princess Lea chained up in his Kensington detached home. Jim hadn’t inspired much confidence in her either, telling her about the man’s bullying strategy that had shoved him up the social and financial ladder. He was, however, one of their best owners, calling the shots on the futures of three of the yard’s most talented horses: Shanghai Dancer, Storm Chaser and Shaman. She turned to the paperwork on her desk, deciding she needed a bit more courage before returning the call.

As she idly flicked through entries for the first meetings of the season, a flash of colour and movement through the office window caught her attention. Three lads were slinking into the yard. Wondering if they were here looking for work, Ginny stepped outside to meet them.

‘Hi, can I help you?’

The oldest of the three looked uncomfortable and wouldn’t quite meet her eye. Ginny recognised him as the head lad from Julien Larocque’s yard. She looked at him with fresh suspicion.

‘Hi, Miss Kennedy. We’ve, er – come to collect the horses…’

Ginny’s heart rate trebled as an icy feeling slithered down her spine.

‘Horses? What horses?’

‘Basil Forrester’s three.’

Panic blew the lid on Ginny’s patience and she stared at him in bewilderment.

‘What?’

‘That’s all we been told,’ he shrugged.

‘Wait here,’ she instructed and hurried back into the office. She snatched up the scrap of paper with Basil Forrester’s number on it and stabbed the numbers on the telephone keypad.

‘Forrester Corporate Holdings, how may I help you?’ a receptionist chimed.

‘Please put me through to Mr Forrester.’ Impatiently, she tapped her foot as she was transferred. Through the window she could see the Larocque lads ignoring her instructions and sloping across the yard, looking for the three horses. Head collars dangled ominously from their hands.

‘Mr Forrester’s office,’ carolled the same prissy secretary who had left the message on the office voicemail.

‘Please put me through to Mr Forrester. It’s Virginia Kennedy, his racehorse trainer.’

‘He’s not in the office at present, Miss Kennedy. Would you like to leave a message?’

Ginny tutted in annoyance.

‘Just tell him I rang. Thank you.’ Ginny slammed down the phone and wrenched open one of the desk drawers, bouncing pens onto the floor. She snatched up her father’s Filofax. Glancing up, she could see one of the lads already opening Shaman’s stable. Skimming through the pages, she found the mobile number for Basil Forrester, to be used only in emergencies. This was definitely one.

‘Basil Forrester,’ an abrupt gruff voice answered the call.

‘Mr Forrester, it’s Virginia Kennedy at Ravenhill Stables –’

‘Ah, Miss Kennedy,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’ His tone was almost accusatory.

‘What’s this about, Mr Forrester?’ Ginny said, refusing to apologise. ‘I’ve got three of Julien Larocque’s staff here wanting to remove your horses.’

‘That’ll be correct. Hold on. Jones, use your five iron, chap.’

Ginny’s nostrils flared as she inhaled a lungful of annoyance.

‘Look, Miss Kennedy, I’m sure you’ve realised my three have very bright futures ahead of them, the colt especially. And, this being his most important season as a three-year-old, I’m sure you can appreciate I don’t want to take any risks.’

‘Yes, of course but –’

‘You, I’m afraid, are a risk and I’m not going to jeopardise my chances by your inexperience.’

‘I’m hardly inexperienced,’ Ginny spluttered. ‘I was born into racing. My father is Jim Kennedy –’ A loud ‘FORE!’ interrupted her and she took another deep breath. ‘Mr Forrester, I’m sure my father wouldn’t have left Ravenhill Stables for me to run unless he was absolutely sure I was capable. And should I, at any point, make a mistake, he is always here to correct me –’

‘If you make a mistake, Miss Kennedy, the damage will already have been done. I’ve made my decision. Shanghai Dancer, Storm Chaser and Shaman are going to Larocque. I’ll be expecting my last bill at the end of the month.’

‘Mr Forrester –’ Ginny tried to intervene, but he had already rung off. ‘I’m not done with you,’ she growled and hit Redial.

‘
The number you have called is unavailable
…’ Ginny swore and slammed down the phone. She ran to the door, in time to see her three best horses being led out of the yard. They all walked happily away at this unusual jaunt in the middle of the afternoon, oblivious to their fate. Shanghai Dancer pointed his toes and jogged sideways, the sun bouncing off his golden rump. Ginny watched her Classic hopes disappear beneath the brick archway and out of Ravenhill Stables.

And into bloody Larocque’s clutches, she thought, her fists clenching and her mouth forming a grim line.

*

Ginny left it as late as she could before returning to the house, but as darkness settled like a miserable damp blanket over the yard, she couldn’t put it off any longer. Gloomily, she left the office and went to break the news to her father. She found him in his usual armchair, studying Saturday’s form in the
Racing Post
.

‘Hey, Dad,’ Ginny chirped and sat down next to her father. She wouldn’t say she was a naturally negative person but upholding this air of optimism she decided ranked right up there with her fourth grade nativity play performance when she’d forgotten her four lines, tripped over the polystyrene-carved sheep and referred to Mary by her real name rather than her character’s name.

‘Lovie,’ Jim acknowledged, lowering his newspaper. He looked at her suspiciously, a seasoned expert on Ginny’s poor acting abilities.

‘So, do you want the good news or the bad news?’

‘Let’s go with the bad first.’

‘Well, there’s no easy way to say this,’ Ginny began, fiddling with a stray thread on the arm of the sofa. She took a deep breath. ‘But, um…Basil Forrester has removed his horses.’

When Jim folded the newspaper deliberately on his lap, she hazarded a look at his face. He didn’t say anything, and Ginny struggled to read any emotion in his expression.

‘Did he give a reason?’ he said at last.

‘He said he didn’t think I was qualified enough to train the likes of Shanghai Dancer.’

‘And when did all this take place?’ His calmness was unnerving.

‘He left a message to call him yesterday afternoon, but he wasn’t there when I tried to ring him back. And then Larocque’s lads came round earlier and took them.’

‘Larocque?’

‘Yes. I managed to get hold of Basil Forrester on his mobile, and he said they were moving to Julien Larocque’s yard.’

‘Hmmm.’ Jim looked thoughtful, and Ginny was half hoping he would come out with something that would make it all better, like a clause in a contract or something. But reality reasserted itself and instead, she could only imagine the dreams of another Classic winner crumbling to worthless dust in her father’s mind. She squirmed, waiting for him to break the strained silence which followed.