‘Good win on Scusami,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Clare replied, keeping her eyes on the table.
‘Do you think he’ll win the Guineas?’
‘I doubt it. That Peter Williams colt, Reading Glass, he’ll take a lot of beating. But Scusi’s good, and it would be nice to be the first lady jockey to win a Classic.’ She looked upwards wistfully. ‘One year, anyway.’
‘But you’ll ride him?’
‘Maybe,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘That’ll be up to Geoff.’ Scusami was trained by Geoffrey Grubb in Newmarket.
The coffee arrived.
‘Shame about Bangkok Flyer,’ I said.
Clare sat in silence and looked down at her cup.
‘Don’t you think?’ I prompted.
‘I’d forgotten you were commentating.’
‘You don’t deny it, then?’ I asked.
More silence.
‘Why, Clare?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘How can it be complicated?’ I asked incredulously. ‘You fixed the bloody race.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, looking up quickly. ‘I didn’t fix it, I just didn’t win it.’
‘Don’t split hairs with me,’ I said sharply.
‘Ooh! Look at you, getting on your high horse.’
‘Be serious.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because it’s a serious matter,’ I said. ‘You could lose your licence, and your livelihood.’
‘Only if I get caught.’
‘I caught you.’
‘Yeah, but what are you going to do about it?’
I sat and watched her. I could tell that she already knew the answer.
‘Nothing. But someone else will be bound to notice if you do it again.’
‘No one has done so far.’
I looked at her in disbelief.
‘Are you saying this wasn’t the first time you’ve done this?’
She smiled at me. ‘Of course not.’
‘Clare!’
The couple on a table nearby both looked over at us. I lowered my voice but not my anger.
‘Are you telling me that you regularly don’t win races you should?’
‘I wouldn’t say regularly,’ she said. ‘But I have done.’
‘How often?’
She pursed her lips.
‘Three or four times, maybe five.’
‘But why?’
‘I told you. It’s complicated.’
I didn’t know what to say. She was so matter-of-fact about it all. If the British Horseracing Authority knew she had ‘stopped’ horses three, four or five times they would probably have taken away her licence for good and banned her from all racecourses for life.
And she didn’t seem bothered.
‘Well, don’t ever do it again,’ I said in my most domineering tone.
‘And what will you do about it if I do?’ She was mocking me.
‘Clare, please. Don’t do this. Don’t you understand. I love you and I don’t want to see you destroy all that you’ve built up.’
I glanced around to make sure no one was listening.
‘Don’t be so patronizing,’ Clare said.
I sat there stunned.
‘I’ve had to claw my way up in this business,’ she said with feeling, leaning forward across the table. ‘No one gives you an inch. Lady jockey — ha! Don’t make me laugh. Half of those in racing think we’re no bloody good and should leave it all to the men, while the other half are a bunch of dirty old men who fantasize about us wearing tight breeches with whips in our hands. I’ve had to bow and scrape to them all, and to sweat blood to get where I am today, and now, at last, it’s me who’s in control of them.’
‘Is that it, then?’ I asked. ‘Is this all about control?’
‘You bet. Control over the bloody trainers, and the owners.’
Control, I thought, could be a powerful force. What was that old adage? — Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Absolute power and unbridled control over others had led to the Nazis, and a world war had been needed to wrest the control from their dead fingers. Control over others was a dangerous concept.
‘I thought I knew you,’ I said slowly. ‘But I don’t.’
‘I’ve changed,’ she said, ‘and I’ve been hardened. I’ve had to climb the slippery pole while others kicked me in the teeth. Success didn’t just fall into my lap by chance.’
We both knew what she meant.
I had been in the right place at the right time.
It was now eight years since that day at Fontwell Park races when the paddock presenter for RacingTV had been taken seriously ill with a heart attack just before he was due to go on air. The back-up presenter, the much respected wife of an up-and-coming young trainer, turned out to be the main presenter’s mistress and she had insisted on going with him to hospital in the ambulance.
I was only there as a guest to watch because I’d carelessly put my hand up at a charity auction to spend a day with the RacingTV team. But I found myself putting up my hand again and volunteering to stand in.
‘Do you know the horses?’ the agitated producer had demanded while pulling out clumps of his already-thinning hair.
‘Yes,’ I’d replied.
And I had. As my sister had so correctly pointed out, I tended to drift rather a lot and I hadn’t actually acquired a proper job since returning from my brief sojourn in Lambourn two years before. Rather, I’d decided to earn my living as a professional gambler and had consequently spent most of my time studying the form. I knew the horses very well.
‘Only for the first race, then,’ the producer had said. ‘I’ve sent for a replacement but he won’t be here until two o’clock.’
I had talked easily to the camera about each horse in the first race and had even tipped the winner. When the replacement had arrived, he’d just sat and watched me all afternoon as I’d tipped the winner in three other races as well.
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ the producer had asked as they were packing up.
‘Nothing,’ I’d replied honestly.
‘We’re at Wincanton. Fancy a job?’
Since that day I had never looked back, spreading into commentating again by accident when the race caller at Windsor had been held up by a big crash on the motorway and I had been asked to stand in.
Nowadays I split my time three ways — commentating at the racecourses, paddock presenting for RacingTV, and also hosting the TV coverage on Channel 4, the terrestrial broadcaster of horseracing in Britain.
But Clare firmly believed that I still didn’t have a ‘proper’ job, and that I would soon drift off into something else.
Maybe she was right.
‘I much preferred the old you,’ I said to her.
‘Oh, God!’ she said. ‘Don’t start all that again. I live in a competitive world. I have a competitive job. I have to compete. Otherwise I’d be trampled on.’
‘Do you have to compete on everything?’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘I just feel that, whenever we have a conversation these days, it’s a points scoring exercise.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
I wasn’t going to argue with her. There was no sense in it. For whatever I might say, she would have a riposte. Losing was not an option for her, except clearly, of course, when she lost on purpose.
I paid the bill and we went out together to the car park.
‘Is there anything I can say that would stop you doing it again?’
She turned to me. ‘Probably not.’
‘I might report you to the authorities.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Don’t bank on it,’ I said.
‘Mark, don’t be such a prat. You know perfectly well that you won’t tell anyone. For a start, it would reflect badly on you. So just keep your eyes and mouth shut.’
‘I can hardly do that in my job.’
‘Then you’ll have to turn a blind eye instead.’