Tatts — Tattersalls. Of course.
‘Doing what?’ I asked.
‘I’m on the bloodstock sales team. I help prepare the sales catalogues. And I act as a runner at the sales.’
‘A runner? In a race?’
She laughed. ‘No, silly. When the hammer comes down on a sale, it’s my job to run to get the successful bidder to sign the purchase confirmation form. It’s quite exciting when the amounts are big — several million guineas.’
‘Why are horses still sold in guineas?’ I asked, taking another sip of my champagne.
‘Tradition, I suppose. Tattersalls have been selling horses in guineas for two hundred and fifty years.’
‘Why are they called guineas?’
‘Originally a guinea was a coin made from gold found in Guinea, West Africa. I know because we recently had one on display up at Park Paddocks. At first, the value of a guinea used to go up and down but then it was fixed at twenty-one shillings, or a pound and five pence in modern money. The vendor was always paid the pound and we kept the odd shilling for our services. It’s pretty much the same these days, but now there’s VAT to add, of course.’
‘It must really confuse your foreign buyers,’ I said.
‘There’s a big electronic board in the sales ring to help them. It also shows the bid price in dollars, euros and yen.’
‘Do the sales go on every day?’ I asked.
‘Oh no,’ she said with another laugh. ‘We only sell for thirty-three days in a whole year here. Our next one’s not until mid-July. But our Irish division has twenty days or so at Fairyhouse, near Dublin, and they also run a few sale days at Cheltenham and Ascot as well. And that’s just Tatts. There are several other sales companies. Racehorses are being sold somewhere in the world on most days. It’s a huge global business. We alone sold over thirteen thousand horses last year.’
‘Thirteen thousand!’ I was astounded. ‘That’s an awful lot of guineas.’
‘How about you?’ she said. ‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a lawyer.’
‘I know,’ she mocked. ‘Janie told me that much. But what do you do?’
‘I sort out other people’s crises, at least I try to, especially their public relations disasters that inevitably follow on from their physical ones. Although, this week, I feel more like a detective than a PR man.’
‘A detective?’
‘I’m here representing the owner of Prince of Troy. He wants me to find out why his red-hot favourite for the Derby died in a fire.’
‘Literally a red-hot favourite,’ she said, but then winced at her poor attempt at humour. ‘Sorry. That was inappropriate.’
‘Very,’ I agreed. But I laughed anyway. The way I felt at the moment, I would laugh at anything.
We discussed our backgrounds and our families.
Kate was thirty-five, three years older than Janie, and they had lived all their lives in the Newmarket area.
‘Where do you live now?’ I asked.
‘In Six Mile Bottom.’
I laughed. ‘Is there really such a place? It sounds rather rude.’
‘Back in the seventeenth century, the original racecourse was eight miles long. There was a dip in the land six miles from the finish and that’s how the village got its name.’ She smiled and it lit up my life. ‘How about you?’
‘Nowhere near as exciting,’ I said. ‘I rent a flat in Neasden, northwest London. I’ve lived there for seven years, since I first came up from Devon. It’s high time I moved somewhere nicer. It really is the most depressing place, noisy and close to the North Circular Road, but there’s a good gym just round the corner and it’s convenient for the tube, easy for getting to work on the Jubilee Line.’
‘Where’s work?’ she asked.
‘Knightsbridge.’
‘Harrods,’ she said. ‘They’re in Knightsbridge.’
‘I work just round the corner from Harrods but I hardly ever go in.’
‘I went once, but all I remember is getting lost looking for the ladies.’
We laughed in unison.
Boy, this felt good.
I ordered another round of fizz from the bar and we sat together on the couch comparing our likes and dislikes, favourite films and music, indeed, anything and everything.
‘Best holiday destination?’ I asked.
‘The Maldives,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Fabulous villa on stilts set in the turquoise Indian Ocean. Absolute paradise.’
‘When did you go there?’
‘Twelve years ago,’ she said. ‘On my honeymoon.’
‘Your honeymoon!’ I was stunned. ‘You didn’t say you were married.’
‘I’m not. Not any more, anyway. The marriage lasted only a fraction longer than the honeymoon.’
‘So why are the Maldives still your best destination?’
‘Because I suddenly realised when I was there that I loved the place far more than I loved the man. Woke me up, in fact. I’d have been happier if he’d gone home and left me there on my own. We should have gone on the honeymoon before the marriage ceremony. That would have saved us both a heap of grief. Stupid, really. I married far too young and to the wrong man.’
She looked at me and I wondered what was going through her mind.
‘Fortunately the divorce was fairly straightforward,’ she said. ‘No kids. Realised in time with that one, thank God. Not that I wouldn’t like to have some one day, although I’m getting a bit old now. Can you believe it that if a woman has a baby over thirty-five, she’s called a geriatric mother?’ She shook her head. ‘How about you? Any little Fosters running around?’
‘None that I’m aware of,’ I said, and decided it was time to change the subject — this one was getting far too heavy much too quickly and I wasn’t sure I was ready for a discussion about marriage, let alone children.
‘Are you a cat or dog person?’ I asked.
‘Dog,’ she said. ‘Definitely.’
‘Why not cat?’
‘Dogs are more affectionate. Cats don’t wag their tails at you when you come home from work.’
‘I like that, good answer,’ I said. ‘Mac or PC?’
‘PC at work, Mac at home.’
‘But which do you prefer?’ I asked.
‘Don’t mind. I’m used to them both.’
‘So you’re bilingual?’
‘More like ambidextrous,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ I said, mocking her this time. ‘I’d give my right hand to be ambidextrous.’
‘Oh, do shut up.’ She laughed, leaned over and nestled her head on my chest.
I could smell her hair. I stroked it and she remained there in silence, pressing into me. I nearly asked her right then to come with me to my room but I was afraid of being too forward, too impatient.
I glanced at my watch.
‘Good God. It’s nearly nine o’clock. Do you fancy some dinner?’
‘I fancy you more,’ she replied seductively.
Now who was being too forward, too impatient?
Did I care?
‘So what do you want to do?’ I asked.
‘Dinner or sex?’ she said. ‘Decisions, decisions. How about a little dinner first and then lots of sex after?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ I said. ‘Or we could have lots of sex first and then room service after?’
‘That’s a much better idea,’ she said with a giggle, and I wondered if it was just the champagne talking.
Once a lawyer, always a lawyer.
The last thing I wanted was for her to wake up in the morning with a sore head, accusing me of having taken advantage of her, even of raping her, on the grounds that she had been incapable through drink of giving proper consent.
I decided that I’d take my chances with that, but in the end it didn’t matter, for we never got to do it anyway.
My phone rang as Kate and I were leaving the bar, hand in hand, en route to my bedroom. I very nearly ignored it, but habits are strong, so I slid my finger across the screen to answer.