‘Are you leaving with them?’
I wondered what the hell I was doing, asking such a leading question.
‘No. The Farquhars have kindly arranged for me to have my own car back to my hotel, as they are going direct from here to the theatre. I just have to call my driver forty minutes before I need him.’
She smiled at me. She seemed to have everything perfectly worked out.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, bursting her balloon, ‘but I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘Damn men!’ she said with feeling. ‘I spend half my life fighting most of them off me because I don’t want them, and now, when I absolutely do want one, he has a fit of conscience.’
‘I’m a married man.’
‘So what? Tell your wife you’ve met an important client at the races, and you will be going to dinner with them in London tonight, so you might as well stay over in a hotel. And you’ll be home tomorrow — or on Friday — or Saturday.’
She smiled at me once again.
And Georgina herself wouldn’t be home until at least Saturday.
At twelve-thirty, Toni went off to the private box for lunch while I remained sitting a little longer at the table, having another glass of bubbly and cogitating about what to do.
We had agreed to meet again later.
I would collect her from Box 522 after the big race of the day, the Group 1 Prince of Wales Stakes, and we would watch the next race together from the seats on level four, before she went back to the box for the last two races and afternoon tea.
And then what?
She had made it perfectly clear what she wanted, but she was a long way from home.
What happens on tour stays on tour.
But this was my backyard, my place of work, where hundreds, if not thousands, of the people here today would recognise me. My face had been on the television after the Derby, and again only yesterday, collecting the St James’s Palace Stakes trophy from royalty.
I returned the ice bucket to the bar and collected the deposit, then went back up to the parade-ring concourse. It was as good a place as any to see some of the people I quite hoped to run into, but it was very quiet there at this time of day. Everyone was busy having lunch, either in the restaurants or in the car parks, and no one had yet started to arrive for the Royal Procession.
I wondered what Toni would be eating in Box 522.
The standard of the box catering at Royal Ascot is legendary, and I’d been lucky enough to have been invited to savour it quite a few times over the years. And there is also ample fine dining available in the many racecourse restaurants, some with Michelin-starred chefs on duty — provided you had booked your table many months in advance.
However, as I had no box invitations, no restaurant bookings, and no access today to the Owners and Trainers’ Dining Room, I opted for sweet and sour pork with sticky rice from the Chinese takeaway in the base of the grandstand, served in a cardboard box, with a choice of a wooden fork or chopsticks.
Conscious that there were three more days of Royal Ascot after this, and I had no time between days to get my morning dress cleaned, I chose the fork.
And very delicious the food was too.
I hadn’t realised how hungry I was. I’d had hardly anything to eat since lunch yesterday in the car park with Nick and Claire Spencer, and I’d expended a lot of energy since then, both physical and emotional.
After finishing the pork, I went up to level four and bagged myself a front-row seat for the Royal Procession, and wished I were watching it again with Toni Beckett.
‘Well done, yesterday,’ said the man behind me, patting me on the shoulder. ‘That Potassium is quite a horse.’
I turned in my seat. I’d never seen the man before.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Yes, he is.’
‘Will he go for the Arc?’ he asked. ‘I fancy a trip to Paris.’
‘Probably not this year,’ I replied. ‘Do you own any horses?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But I’ve thought about it.’
I pulled one of my Victrix Racing business cards out of my inside coat pocket and gave it to him. ‘If you fancy joining an owning syndicate, give me a call.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, looking at the card. ‘Maybe I’ll do that.’
The seats filled up fast as two o’clock approached, and right on time, the first of the Windsor Greys appeared through the Golden Gate.
I never tired of watching this.
Horseracing is known worldwide as the Sport of Kings, and here was the King at the races to prove it, carrying on the tradition first started by his great-great-great-great-great-uncle, King George IV, in 1825.
The four carriages made their steady way down the course, and a military band, standing on the grandstand steps, struck up the national anthem as they passed. Then the royal party disappeared from our sight as they went through the tunnel, and on to the parade ring.
I remained in my seat to watch the first race, the Queen Mary Stakes, a five-furlong dash for two-year-old fillies. There were twenty-six runners, and if you blinked, you could miss it, the whole thing being over in less than a minute, after it had taken almost five times that long to load them all into the starting stalls.
I went down to the concourse to meet with my first appointment of the day, a young man from Yorkshire, whom I’d had my eye on for some time as a possible future Victrix trainer. He had a runner later in the afternoon, and he had made a rare excursion south, so here I had a chance to meet him face to face.
I was looking to sign up another northern-based trainer, as I had an increasing number of prospective syndicate members from Manchester and Leeds who preferred to go to stable visits and race meetings close to home.
As arranged, I met him on the small Grundy Lawn near the Owners and Trainers’ Bar, and we spent fifteen minutes or so discussing matters. He said he was very keen to add his name to my list of trainers, and we agreed to meet again at the yearling sale in Doncaster at the end of August. In the meantime, I would send to him all the Victrix information for him to study.
I wandered back towards the parade ring and watched the second race on the big TV screen there, but I didn’t really notice who won.
I had other things on my mind.
I knocked loudly on the door of Box 522 after the fourth race.
It was opened by one of the catering staff. I went in.
Most of the occupants were still on the balcony, having watched the race, but there was one man sitting at the table, studying the Racing Post. He looked up at me.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘I’ve come to collect Mrs Beckett,’ I said.
‘Then you must be Chester Newton,’ said the man, standing up.
‘Yes. I am.’
‘Mark Gill. It’s my box.’ He came over and we shook hands. ‘Toni said you would be coming to take her away from us for a race. Do you have a runner?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘but I want to watch one trained by Owen Reynolds.’
‘Your trainer of Potassium,’ he said, smiling. ‘Great result yesterday.’
‘Yes, it was. Thank you. Very exciting.’
Toni saw me through the glass and came in.
‘Are you ready?’ I asked.
She smiled and nodded.
‘You could both stay and watch the race from here if you like,’ Mark said. ‘We’re about to have our tea.’
I looked at Toni and she nodded again.
‘Or would you prefer a drink?’ Mark asked. ‘Glass of champagne?’
I’d probably already had too much alcohol to drive home now anyway.
‘A glass of champagne would be lovely. Thank you.’
One of the staff poured one and handed it to me.
Herb and Harriet Farquhar came in from the balcony.