‘Hi, Chester,’ Herb said. ‘Good to see you again.’
‘And you too,’ I replied.
We shook hands and I wondered if now would be a good time to talk to him about taking a share in a Victrix horse next year.
But, on balance, I decided that it probably wasn’t.
Tea of sandwiches, scones, and all sorts of delicious-looking cake was laid out on the table, and the other box guests came back in from the balcony to take their seats. I went outside with my glass, and Toni came out briefly to join me.
‘Have you phoned your wife?’ she asked me quietly, straight away.
‘Not yet,’ I said.
‘At least that sounds more promising than “no.” ’
‘Do join us, Chester,’ Mark said, stepping outside. ‘There’s plenty of food, and we have just had a huge lunch.’
‘Thank you,’ I said once again. And the staff found me a spare chair.
‘What’s the name of Owen Reynolds’s horse in the next?’ Mark asked.
‘Silvia’s Choice. But he doesn’t think it has much of a chance.’
‘But we must have a bet on it,’ Toni said. She stood up and looked across at me. ‘Come on. Let’s go and make it.’
I stood up and followed her out of the box.
‘Call her now,’ Toni said intently when the box door had closed behind us.
‘I will. Later. Don’t rush me.’
I placed a ten pounds each-way bet on Silvia’s Choice at the Tote desk, and then we went back into the box to watch the race.
‘You’ll find this interesting,’ I said to her as we took two of the seats outside on the balcony. ‘It’ll be like two separate races happening at the same time.’
The thirty runners were loaded into the stalls, which stretched right across the track at the straight-mile start, way off to our right, near the Golden Gate.
When the stalls snapped open, the field immediately split in two, with one half running down the near rail, and the other half over on the far one.
It was the race commentator’s nightmare to try and decide which side was in front. And the jockeys had little idea either.
But whichever side was in front, Silvia’s Choice was not going to win. The horse faded badly in the last couple of furlongs and was well beaten.
In the end, the leading horse on the far side edged out the one on the near side by about half a length, but neither of the jockeys was sure which of them was the winner, nor were most of the crowd until the judge made the announcement. But Silvia’s Choice wasn’t one of them anyway.
‘Another loser,’ I said tearing up our Tote ticket.
‘Never mind,’ Toni said. ‘You might be a winner tonight.’
Chapter 22
‘I’ve been invited to dinner tonight in London by an American couple,’ I said to Georgina when I finally made the call. ‘Their names are Herb and Harriet Farquhar, and they own a stud farm outside Lexington in Kentucky. I met them in the car park yesterday, when we were fellow lunch guests of Nick Spencer. They’re over here for Royal Ascot, and they could be very useful contacts if I ever want to expand Victrix into the United States.’
It was so easy. Too easy.
‘You’re surely not going to drive home afterwards,’ she said.
‘No. I’ll get a hotel room for the night. You’re not at home anyway, and I’ll come straight back here again tomorrow.’
‘What about a clean shirt?’ she asked, practical as ever.
‘I’ll just have to make sure I don’t drop soup down it,’ I said. ‘Or I’ll pop into Marks and buy a new one.’
‘The hotel might do overnight laundry.’
‘A new one would probably be cheaper.’
‘Well, have a nice time,’ she said. ‘And don’t drink too much.’
‘Did Amanda call you?’ I asked, changing tack.
‘Yes, thank God. She called this morning. She even spoke to my father. It perked him up no end.’
‘Good.’
‘But she told me not to call her back unless it was an absolute emergency.’
‘She said the same to me.’
I’d already told Georgina about going to see Amanda last night, without saying that I’d spent the whole evening waiting for her.
‘I told her not to be so silly,’ Georgina said. ‘But she was adamant. She said she’d change her number again if I did.’
I could tell that Georgina was distressed by that, but not as distressed as she could be.
‘It might be a late dinner,’ I said. ‘So I’ll call you again in the morning.’
‘Okay. Sleep well.’
We disconnected and I felt terrible.
What was I doing?
I should just tell Toni to forget it, and go home alone, even if I had to order a taxi to get there, but there was something driving me on. Perhaps it was the niggling feeling that life was somehow passing me by, and it was time to try something different.
Something exciting.
Toni’s driver dropped us outside her hotel in Kensington High Street.
‘I’ve never done anything like this before,’ I said nervously as we walked into the lobby, my top hat in my right hand.
‘It’ll be quite easy,’ Toni said, taking my left. ‘We go up to my room, open the bottle of champagne from the mini bar, get undressed, and then we go to bed. Then we’ll have some dinner, and later on, we go to bed again.’
How could any man say no to that?
We took the lift to the eighth floor and went along the corridor to room 807.
‘Which is Herb and Harriet’s room?’ I asked, almost in a whisper in case they could somehow hear me.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Toni said, laughing. ‘They’re not staying here. They’re at the Peninsula. They pick me up on the way past in the morning.’
We went into her room. It had one large double bed, a desk and a chair, plus a sofa by the window, but it was the view through that window over the trees of Kensington Gardens towards the city that was the true five-star experience.
‘Open the champagne,’ Toni said, pointing at the mini bar and tossing her blue hat onto the desk. ‘I’ll be out in a moment.’
She went into the bathroom while I took off my coat and laid it on the bed. I then took the bottle from the fridge and fumbled with the wire over the cork, my hands shaking.
Finally it popped, and I poured two glasses.
‘Do you want yours in there?’ I asked.
She didn’t answer. Instead, the bathroom door opened, and she came out.
She was stark naked.
‘What do you think?’ she asked, posing with her arms held up. ‘Not bad for forty-six. I’ve still got firm, pointed tits and a flat belly.’
Not bad at all, I thought.
I stood there with the champagne glasses still in my hands as she came over and stood close to me. She undid the buttons on the front of my waistcoat and carefully removed it without me spilling a drop.
She pulled my braces to the sides, lifting them over the glasses.
Then she went down on her knees and began to unfasten the front of my trousers.
‘Why do these pants have buttons, not a zip,’ she said, looking up at my face.
‘All morning-dress trousers have buttons,’ I said breathlessly, looking down at her face and at the further delights beyond. ‘I don’t know why.’
Did I care?
She finished undoing everything, and the trousers fell down to the floor around my ankles.
‘I love a man in boxers,’ she said. ‘Or rather, I love a man out of boxers.’
She tucked her thumbs over the elastic waistband and pulled them sharply down to join the trousers. It caused a shiver to run through my whole body.
‘I’m spilling these,’ I said in a sort of croak.
She stood up, took the glasses, drank from one, then put them both on the bedside table. Then she unbuttoned and removed my shirt.