Mount! (52 page)

As Gropius curled up blissfully on her feet, Gala glanced at Gav’s lean, inscrutable profile and wished he would curl up in bed beside her at Lime Tree Cottage. If only she could have
Gav, she was sure she would stop lusting after Rupert. They always said the best way to get over someone was to get under someone else.

Having switched on her computer the following morning, Geraldine gave a sigh of happiness. ‘Oh dear, Rupert is
not
going to like this.’

Eddie was on to Dora instantly.

‘Christ, have you seen the
Mail
? Those security guys must have been paps in fancy dress. They’ve got pix of you, me and Gala, even one of Gala smooching with Cosmo on the dance floor. Talk about sleeping with the enemy. Even worse, poor Gav must have picked Gala up because there’s a picture of them in a clinch in the car park.’

‘Omigod, omigod, I am so sorry.’

‘Wasn’t you who sold the story, was it …?’

‘No, it bloody wasn’t. Must have been Janey Lloyd-Foxe. Could have been Sauvignon, although she was otherwise engaged.’

‘Shurrup. What do we do? Rupert’s bound to fire us now.’

Gala, who was rubbing down Delectable, also went ballistic. The entire awful evening had totally convinced her how happy she was at Penscombe, and of the horror of never seeing Rupert again; but equally she’d been overwhelmed by Gav’s kindness and now he’d been totally compromised. She steeled herself to ring Geraldine. ‘You’ve got to tell Rupert, Gav wasn’t at the party. Out of the kindness of his heart, he drove over and picked me up, and I was hugging him out of gratitude.’

Back from Deauville where Tarqui got a double, and finding
Taggie out with the dogs, Rupert stalked into his office. ‘Bloody traitors, I’m going to fire the lot of them.’

Fortunately, Geraldine had gone to gloat in the tack room, so he caught sight of an email from Dora before Geraldine binned it.

Dora had then photostatted:

Before he read any further, ecstatic squealing dogs poured into the office to welcome him. Taggie must be back, so he stalked into the kitchen.

‘How lovely you’re home,’ she cried, hugging him, then having been briefed by Jan, ‘and how brilliant to get that double in Deauville. You must be thrilled you’ve taken on Tarqui.’

‘About the only thing I am pleased about. Half the yard went to Cosmo’s orgy.’

‘Not Gav,’ said Taggie quickly.

‘I don’t want any excuses. Gala really got into the party spirit, wrapping herself round Gav and Cosmo – she’s a whore.’

A muscle was going in Rupert’s jaw; he was much angrier than he should have been.

‘You were going to fire her anyway,’ said Taggie, ‘now you’ve got even more of an excuse.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Honestly, you’ve been so beastly to all the staff, particularly Gala and
Eddie recently, I don’t blame them for going. Think of the fun that will go out of the yard if Dora and Eddie leave, and Gala is such a darling and Gav’s miraculous with the horses.’

Rupert glared at her but carried on reading Dora’s email:

A grinning Rupert pulled Taggie into his arms, looking down at her sweet, worried face. ‘Thank God for you,’ he said, then, groping for a suitable quote: ‘Thou art my true and honourable wife, as dear to me, as are the bloody drops that visit my sad heart.’ Then he grinned again. ‘At least you needn’t waste time making all those lasagnes for the staff party this year – Cosmo’s already done the honours.’

Rupert was very cool with his defecting staff, but he forgave Gav first because he had tracked down an exciting red chestnut filly who was coming up for sale at Tattersalls on 15 October. No one else seemed to have sussed her because she was coming under the hammer on Book Three of the sales, which is when the less good horses are on offer.

Gav and Rupert proceeded to concoct a plan that Rupert would stay away on the day, because if he showed interest in such an ostensibly insignificant horse, rivals or their reps from all over the world would flock in.

Gav would roll up, therefore, because he was known to recce everything and Gala would arrive separately and bid for the filly so as not to arouse anyone’s suspicions.

Gala was honoured and passionately relieved to be forgiven.

‘You are lucky,’ sighed Dora. ‘Tattersalls is intensely theatrical and cosmopolitan, and with all the young bloodstock agents, trainers, breeders and owners, you’ll see the most glamorous men in the world, and horses going for the same price as houses in Chelsea. Although you might not on Book Three Day, but it’ll be very exciting.’

Gala was also pleased at the prospect of a day out with Gav; she was so grateful to him for rescuing her from Cosmo’s party, and for defending her to Rupert, saying Cosmo was a manipulative snake.

‘What’s so special about this filly?’ she asked, as they set off for Newmarket with Radio 3 playing Brahms’ First Symphony.

‘I got a tip-off. A yearling of no pedigree, sire some obscure Turkish stallion, escaped from her paddock in the National Stud at the crack of dawn and got loose on the gallops. Two serious four-year-olds and several three-year-olds were overtaken by her. OK, she wasn’t carrying any weight, but she left them for dead. No one was about, so fingers crossed.’

‘Like Eclipse,’ said Gala. ‘No horse could catch him if they ran to the world’s end. How exciting. You are clever, Gav.’

Gala had lost more weight and was wearing new jeans and a tight peat-brown jersey which showed off her sleepy dark eyes.

She’s gorgeous, thought Gav, and being with her was like getting into a hot bath on a freezing day and easing one’s aching bones. Both Chuck-Off and Quickly had had him on the dry, firm ground this week.

The whole yard were revving up for Champions Day, the culmination of the flat-racing season at Ascot on Saturday, when the leading trainer almost certainly would be revealed.

‘Where’s Rupert?’ asked Gala.

‘Gone to the Proms. Marcus is playing Prokofiev’s First. Rupert’s bound to nod off and Helen will wake him with one of her very sharp elbows.’

‘Poor Eddie’s still desperately low about the Leger,’ said Gala.

‘Poor boy,’ agreed Gav, ‘although the surest way to imprint your name indelibly on the turf is a spectacular failure – think about Devon Loch.’

‘I do hope Sauvignon’s not going to hurt him,’ mused Gala. ‘She was taking him to some party last night, and he re-did his hair with product three different ways, then she cancelled. He did say her enlarged boobs felt as hard and rubbery as wine gums.’

‘When we get to Tattersalls, we’ll split up,’ said Gav, ‘so people won’t associate you with Rupert. I’ll go and look at the filly, hopefully the only person who’s asked her to come out. In the big sales,’ he went on, ‘the stand-out foals get so exhausted, dragged out of their boxes a hundred times to be looked at,
they can hardly walk when they get to the sale ring, although it didn’t stop a Roberto’s Revenge yearling going for over a million last week.’

When they arrived, Gala, who’d disguised herself in dark glasses, baseball hat and high-necked leather jacket, went and admired the famous fox statue, surrounded by flowers in his domed pillared home, the symbol of Tattersalls. Hopefully she’d be as crafty as him in her bidding. She then hung over the rail watching horses parading before they were sold, and taking a good look at the men, who were certainly gorgeous. Inside, the sales ring was surrounded by tiers of seats going up to a high ceiling, except where a rostrum of suave and witty auctioneers were expertly revving up buyers and setting rivals against each other. The auctioneers were flanked by pretty girls, well-bred fillies armed with clipboards, keeping an eagle eye out for bidders. Above the rostrum was the money machine where the amount wagered flashed up and was immediately translated into guineas, yuans, dollars, euros, dirhams and roubles. The machine had been known to explode when a bidder went astronomically high.

The yearling being sold was led round the ring anti-clockwise with a sticker containing a number on each quarter like an apple. In the centre was a thick circle of straw like shredded wheat, on which a minion deposited the droppings of nervous horses.

Once a foal was in the ring, crowds filled up the exit and the entrance, particularly when a fancied lot was up for sale. Gavin posted himself in the entrance beside a pillar topped by an acorn. Gala took up her position near the exit, through which horses that had been sold went to their destiny and where stairs led up to the gallery.

On the left of the entrance, a sign said
Bidders Only
. Here, on Book One and Two Days, gathered the big guns: famous bloodstock agents and buyers from all over the world, often the bitterest of enemies, getting a sexual charge from outbidding each other, holding catalogues groaning with yellow stickers.

‘Do you think I can do it?’ Gala was suddenly terrified and rang Gav. ‘I don’t want to screw up. Rupert’s cross enough with me. Hadn’t you better do the bidding?’

‘You’ll be great. People’ll associate me with Rupert.’

Sliding in separately four lots before theirs, Gala watched a pretty blonde with a clipboard come up to a man who’d just bought a bay colt, then when he signed the receipt, she urged him: ‘Enjoy your purchase.’ Gala giggled.

Gav, on the other hand, was outraged to see Isa in the Bidders Only gallery. Who the fuck had tipped him off? Rupert and he had only spoken about the red chestnut filly once on the telephone. Someone must have hacked into their call.

In the end, Gav had not even viewed her, to avoid suspicion. She was absolutely beautiful, with ears pricked and a huge stride for her little frame, looking around, neighing imperiously, taking everything in. Learning that a big player like Isa had rolled up to bid, the auction house quickly filled up. The bidding started at a negligible 3,000 guineas, then rocketed upwards. Every time Gavin put an idle finger on the acorn, and Gala raised her hand to bid, a ripple of interest went round. Who was this beautiful, vaguely familiar buyer, going so high? And who was she bidding for? Isa, whose nod was imperceptible, was bidding against her, pushing her up to a mighty 250,000 guineas. Gradually, the handsome bloodstock agents, the Irish, the Arabs, Russians and French fell away. The girl from the National Stud leading up the filly couldn’t believe it. It would give her such kudos.

Isa had gone to 400,000 guineas.

Gala paused.

‘She’s a lovely filly, don’t stop now, madam,’ cajoled the auctioneer. ‘Can you afford to let her go? Think of the joy of seeing this filly every day. Think of the rewards she’ll bring you.’

Shaking with nerves, Gala glanced across the sale room. Gavin’s finger was on the acorn. Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand.

‘Four hundred and fifty thousand guineas. It’s with you now, sir.’ The auctioneer turned to Isa. The room was crackling with excitement.

‘Look at the way she walks.’

Isa nodded again. He had gone to 550,000. The press were
hovering to interview Gala. The auctioneer, who deserved an Oscar for histrionics, turned towards her. Knowing how much Rupert wanted the filly, Gav fingered the acorn and glanced across the sale room. Silence. Total silence. No bid came. The filly let out a whinny.

‘She wants to come and live with you, madam.’

Everyone laughed. A second later, Gala had crashed to the ground.

Knowing he should have taken over the bidding, but unable to stop himself, Gav fought his way through the crowd to the tier near the exit where he found Gala in a dead faint. Gathering her up, stumbling down the steps, he carried her outside, laying her on the grass, grabbing the bottled water from her bag and dashing it in her face.

‘What’s the matter, Gala? What happened?’

By the time she came round they had lost the sale. The hammer fell at 550,000. ‘Enjoy your purchase, Mr Lovell.’

Gavin had never seen anyone so grey or more terrified than Gala. She was shuddering worse than Forester in a thunderstorm. Then as reality reasserted itself, she was mortified she’d lost the lovely filly, led off out of the sale ring by her euphoric ex-stable lass.

‘Rupert will never forgive us. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,’ she whispered through white lips and frantically chattering teeth.

Putting his arms round her, Gav tried to steady and comfort her. ‘It’s all right. She probably isn’t any good.’

Then Gala started in terror, as a Tattersalls nurse rolled up, all kindness and sympathy.

‘So sorry about losing the sale. Would you like to come to the office for a cup of tea and a lie down?’

‘No, no, I’m fine.’ Gala’s eyes swivelled everywhere in panic; her only desire was to escape.

‘Could you get us out of here, without alerting the press?’ asked Gav.