At Long Odds (A Racing Romance) (8 page)

Julien flashed her a row of white teeth.

‘You have a one track mind. It is horses all the way with you.’

Ginny frowned. That made her sound narrow-minded.

‘No. I just like his way of painting,’ she defended herself. ‘His subjects, whether they be horses, people or landscapes, all show a likeness to reality. They’re not exaggerated; they’re just true to life. In proportion.’

‘You like the
Vitruvian Man
then?’

‘The what?’

‘Da Vinci’s
Vitruvian Man
.A man of perfect proportions.’

‘Oh, that one. Yes, I like it. Although when you think about it, that isn’t particularly true to life either.’

Julien laughed.

‘You mean you have not found the perfect man?’

Ginny felt a smile twitch her mouth.

‘No, still searching on that front.’

‘I wish you luck then,’ he chuckled. ‘Good evening,
mademoiselle
.’

She watched him walk away. A pity about the personality but his body was pretty well-proportioned from this angle. Deidre Forrester nabbed him as he approached another painting and shepherded him over to the drinks table. There she unearthed a bottle of Jameson’s Whiskey from behind the rows of wine bottles huddled against the wall and poured him a generous measure. Ginny shook her head at the woman’s enamoured attitude. Still, she thought to herself, draining the last of her wine, the poor woman must award herself some respite from being married to Basil Forrester.

Chapter Eight

A fortnight later, Ginny concluded being a horseracing trainer wasn’t as frightening as she had originally imagined. Her first runner of the season, Pacifist, had run a decent fourth in his race, giving her a new lease of confidence. Since then, she had sent out three other runners. Two of them had finished out of the frame but Golden Marble, a flashy chestnut horse, had performed well in his chosen event and had finished runner-up. She had been pleased with the result and was sure that with softer ground he would better it.

On a damp Sunday morning, Ginny stood beneath the office’s overhang scowling up at the sky. Voluminous black clouds tumbled over the skyline and fat cold bullets of rain sprayed down. She wanted it soft but not this soft. She tapped that day’s edition of the
Racing Post
against her jodhpur-clad leg as she contemplated making a run for it. Beyond her, the stables were deserted. All the horses were taking refuge in their warm dry looseboxes and no inquisitive heads looked across to her standing at the office doorway. Amidst the battering of rain, she could hear the gurgling of the drains choking beneath the onslaught of water.

As an alternative to making a dash for her parents’ house, she lifted her newspaper to read the headlines again. She felt a sneer soil her face as once more she looked at the picture of Shaman, one of Basil Forrester’s horses, winning a stakes race by a crushing eight lengths. The reporter was heavily hinting that Julien Larocque should take the horse to Royal Ascot next.

If the Forrester horses were still at Ravenhill Stables, would she have been that bold, she wondered? Royal Ascot was the crème de la crème of horse racing, and Ginny considered whether or not she would have had the guts to enter anything there.

‘Of course you would,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Forrester just didn’t give you the chance.’

Giving the newspaper one final shake, she held it above her head and brazened the downpour. With a soggy
Racing Post
flapping in front of her eyes, she hurried across the car park but stopped short as a loud bang shattered the steady drum of rainfall. Looking up in surprise, she saw one of the wine glass-shaped terracotta flowerpots, which stood outside Ravenhill’s gates, lying in pieces across the drive. Its earthen innards spilled over the road, turning into mud as the rain battered down, and the colourful flowers lay scattered in careless disregard. Her original dismay turned to burning rage as she saw the culprit.

Trying, but not succeeding, to make a quick getaway was the Cobalt Lodge horse lorry. In trying to reverse on to the road in the squalid conditions, they had slammed straight into Ravenhill Stables’ entrance.

Acknowledging that this was probably an innocent accident given the torrid weather, she still felt furious that Larocque’s yard had tried to make a run for it. Anger overcame her as she watched the lorry bump onto the main road and make a noisy escape. Forgetting the rain, she marched out of the gates and in through her neighbour’s.

*

Julien Larocque’s Lotus Esprit crouched in the evenly-tarred car park like a black cat hunched against the elements. Seeing this and realising its owner obviously hadn’t left for the afternoon’s racing yet, Ginny swelled with a renewed sense of resentment. Storming into his office, she found Julien standing behind a desk with his back to her as he wrote things down on a whiteboard. As she knocked hard on the door to attract his attention, she suddenly became aware of what a sight she must look, standing in the warm, spacious office dripping water onto the polished oak floorboards and confronting Julien, who was as dry as a teetotaller. He looked round in surprise, a hint of a bemused smile lifting the corners of his mouth as he took in Ginny’s state.

‘Mr Larocque, I –’

‘Julien, please,’ he interrupted.

She paused to take a deep breath and swallow her temper then started again.

‘
Julien
,’ she spat, ‘I’ve come to complain about your rude incompetent staff.’

He raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘They’ve just crashed into some of Ravenhill’s property, before driving off without even stopping!’

Julien frowned.

‘What did they crash into?’

All of a sudden, Ginny felt a little silly.

‘A flowerpot.’

He snorted, and walked round his desk to lean against it, facing Ginny.

‘A flowerpot?’

‘Yes, but a big special one that sits outside the gate,’ she said, feeling even sillier at trying to justify her fury. ‘It was one of a pair!’

‘Do you need some superglue, perhaps? I have some in here…’ he said, turning and opening a desk drawer and rummaging around.

‘Mr Larocque!’ Ginny exclaimed, the last shred of her patience snapping. ‘Your staff have damaged my property, before buggering off, not even stopping to apologise, and leaving a damned mess all over my driveway!’

‘Honestly, I cannot blame them for driving away if this is how you would have treated them.’

‘I wouldn’t be half as angry if they’d just stopped. I’m not totally unreasonable!’

Julien didn’t look convinced.

‘Maybe you are this angry because of me?’

‘Because of you?’

‘Especially because of me. You seem to have something against me, I think.’ His gaze briefly dropped to the sodden newspaper scrunched in Ginny’s hand where Shaman’s photograph was visible.

‘I’ve something against people who believe they are above the law and better than anyone else!’

‘Miss Kennedy, I do not think myself better than anyone else,’ he drawled. ‘Nor do I believe I am above the law. I apologise for my staff, I did not tell them to run over your flowerbed –’

‘
Pot.
Flower
pot.
’

‘Pot. Maybe you can collect on insurance? You have included flowerpots in your clause,
non?’

Ginny glared at him, her fists clenched at her sides. By contrast, Julien lounged against his desk, one long leg crossed over the other at the ankle and his hands hooked into his trouser pockets, wearing a half-serious, half-entertained expression on his face.

‘Fine,’ she said through gritted teeth, trying to regain some composure. ‘Forget about it. I don’t know what I expected from telling you this, but you’ve just proven my suspicions of you are correct.’

‘Which are?’ Julien said, frowning.

‘You’re an unfeeling selfish prat, who doesn’t give a shit about anyone else, just so long as it gets you where you want to be.’

‘That’s quite a strong conclusion you’ve reached over one little flowerpot. Besides, there is nothing wrong with being ambitious,’ he said, his eyes darkening with annoyance. ‘I am good at what I do, because I work hard and I learnt well. I am sure you feel the same way, since you were taught also by your father. And if I get good business, like Basil Forrester, it is because of that. I will not apologise for having the Forrester horses here, for I have done nothing wrong. I was approached by him. Despite what you might think of me, Miss Kennedy, I play fair. Do you?’

‘Of course I do! But unlike you, I wouldn’t go rubbing your nose in it like you’ve done.’

‘I’ve hardly done that. I didn’t set up that conversation with that halfwit at The Tetrarch. But if any of my horses are transferred to your stable, you are welcome to “rub my nose in it” as you say.’ A hint of a smile played on his lips. ‘But then again, that is not going to happen, is it? Why would anyone want to move from my stable to yours?’

‘You – you –’ Speechless at his arrogance, Ginny struggled to find a suitable name to insult him with.

Julien waited, an eyebrow arched.

‘Rrr!’ Ginny growled in frustration. Unable to stand another minute in Julien Larocque’s presence, she turned on her muddy heel and stalked out of the door.

Chapter Nine

Ginny had calmed down within a couple of days, and even managed a wry smile when a bunch of daffodils and a twenty pound voucher for Homebase was delivered to the yard. It didn’t have a card but she knew who it was from.

She was reminded of the gift the next day as she stood in the centre of the parade ring at Lingfield, and saw Julien Larocque also in attendance. She had Kenya running in a seven furlong race for fillies on the All Weather track, the same race chosen by Larocque for his horse, Shell Seeker. As the jockeys trooped out on to the grass, she looked out for Kenya’s rider. Mark hadn’t been able to get away from work, and a little disappointed, she stood alone in the ring waiting for the green and gold spotted, silk-clad rider to approach her. Damien Woods was small, gaunt-looking with dark raisin-like eyes. He nodded a greeting and gave Ginny a thin-lipped smile, although it came out more as a smirk. Ginny took an instant dislike to him and smiled tightly in return.

‘It’s probably pointless telling you how to ride Kenya, since you’re the only jockey she’s ever had. Just keep her handy and keep her straight. I’ve seen in her past races she tends to drift right.’

Damien nodded again.

‘She’ll win, not to worry,’ he said.

Ginny was hoping she would too, although the punters seemed less optimistic, but she didn’t like Damien’s overconfidence. He could get himself into a lot of unnecessary trouble with that attitude. She boosted him up into the saddle when the bell rang for the jockeys to mount and gave Kenya a couple of reassuring pats on her damp copper neck. As the horses flounced out of the parade ring towards the track, Ginny hurried over to a vantage point by the grandstands to watch.

*

The gates crashed open and the fourteen fillies catapulted forward. Kenya was slow into stride and lost a few lengths on the field before they’d completed the first two furlongs, but made it up quickly in the backstretch, skimming along the outside of the rest of the field. With surprising deftness, Damien slotted the filly into third place beside the rail just before they met the home turn and saved precious ground. The pace began to slow and Kenya took objection, fighting for her head and galloping in leaps and bounds.

Ginny grimaced as she watched. The more the horse stressed, the more energy was being wasted – energy that was vital in the last two furlongs if they were to win.

Unable to settle her any longer, Damien was forced to pull her out wide to overtake the two horses in front. As the two furlong pole flashed by, Damien began pushing the filly, asking for more. Kenya stuck her neck out and battled to the front as the two leaders began to tire.

With only a furlong left, it seemed all over, and Ginny felt a smile warm her face. It was rapidly replaced with dread as Julien Larocque’s filly, Shell Seeker, loomed at Kenya’s right flank. The two horses raced, stride for stride. Damien held his whip in his right hand, fanning it past Kenya’s eye and systematically striking her on her sweat-drenched side, keeping her straight but also interfering with Shell Seeker, beside her. At the last moment Damien swapped hands and with a forceful smack on her left flank, sent her bolting forward and under the wire, a neck in front of Shell Seeker.

Closing her eyes, Ginny sighed with relief, but didn’t feel completely at ease. There would, more than likely, be a Stewards’ Enquiry following Damien’s racing tactics, and they would have to decide whether Julien Larocque’s horse would have won had she not been interfered with.

Her fears were realised as she congratulated Damien cautiously on his return, when the tanoy, announcing an enquiry, resounded about the course. Racegoers were told to hold all tickets while the final result was decided. Ginny waited with Kerry and Kenya for the stewards’ verdict. She held her breath when the loud speaker crackled. A solemn voice announced,

‘Places remain unchanged. First: Number Nine. Second: Number Three. Third: Number Eight.’

Kerry whooped with joy, startling the filly, who threw her head up in alarm. Ginny could barely contain her own glee. Beaming, she caught sight of Julien Larocque, who had also been waiting for the stewards’ decision. He returned her smile with a grim acknowledgement, before turning and leading Shell Seeker away.

Oh, what fun, Ginny thought happily. Not only had she won her first race, but she had done so beating the self-righteous Frenchman. Revenge was a dish best served cold.

*

‘Here’s to a belated victory toast,’ Mark said, raising his glass across the intimately small restaurant table.

Ginny chinked her glass against his.

‘Long may they continue,’ she added with a grin. Even a week since the event, euphoria over Kenya’s win hadn’t yet abated for her and the yard.

‘This was your first win for Ravenhill, if I’m not mistaken?’