I could tell from her voice that Georgina was getting very stressed.
‘Keep calm, my love,’ I said. ‘It will all be fine. There shouldn’t be much more for you to do except to change clothes and beautify yourself.’
‘You must be joking,’ she said. ‘The caterers clearly have absolutely no idea about how to dress a table properly. They’ve put the wineglasses all over the place rather than in nice straight lines. I’ll have to go and sort it out.’
‘Does it matter?’ I asked.
‘It matters to me.’
Yes, I thought, and the Derby had mattered to me, but obviously not to her. Not anymore.
I sighed.
Once upon a time, when we were first married and I was still trying to establish Victrix Racing, we had always gone to the races together, and Georgina had used her considerable charms on the then meagre number of my syndicate members, encouraging them to buy more shares in my horses. And she’d been good at it too, often flirting with the older men who had plenty of spare cash to invest in my bloodstock.
But that had all changed over time.
As Victrix had become more and more successful, she had become bored with the continuous need to kowtow to potential owners. She told me one day that we should start believing that it was us doing them the favour, not the other way around. And in a way, she was right.
Syndicate membership allows people to own a share of a horse that they would never be able to afford to own in its entirety.
Most of the flat-race horses I bought as yearlings were kept by Victrix for two years, running in races as two- and three-year-olds. After that, they were usually consigned to the ‘horses-in-training’ sales and sold on to new owners to become stallions or brood mares, or to stay in training as older horses, sometimes as jumpers. Occasionally, we kept a horse ourselves to run as a four-year-old and, rarely, at five.
I charged a fixed annual amount that included all the training fees, vet, farrier, transport, race-entrance charges, and other costs, with the first-year amount including the price of the horse. For example, if a yearling had cost £100,000 at auction, I would likely syndicate it with twenty shares, each costing £10,750 in the first year and £5,750 in the second.
Only if the prize money won by a horse exceeded a quarter of a million pounds, or if it was subsequently sold for at least twice what it had originally cost, did Victrix take a ten per cent share. Otherwise, all prize money became the property of the shareholders, and the proceeds of any sale were also divided equally amongst them.
I insured all the Victrix horses against mortality during our ownership, and for all other eventualities prior to me selling the shares, but otherwise the company carried the risk over large veterinary or equine hospital bills.
But not every syndicate company worked to the same model. Indeed, there were a number of small-share syndicating companies that made it possible to buy a share in a racehorse for as little as a couple of hundred pounds.
Some did not even buy the horses in the first place, simply leasing them. Almost all of those were female horses, owned by breeders, who effectively rent out their horse to a syndicate while they raced, so having others pay the training fees. At the end of two or three years running on the track, the fillies returned to the breeders to become brood mares — to create the next generation.
Other companies invoiced shareholders only for the initial cost of the horse and then sent variable monthly statements to cover the training fees and other expenses, but I found that my members welcomed an all-inclusive fixed price, as it gave them certainty over their total outlay, with no unwelcome and unexpected extra charges. Indeed, I wasn’t able to ask them for more, whatever the reason — it was clearly printed in the share agreement that there would be no additional payments asked for.
Horseracing is always a gamble.
‘So when will you be back?’ Georgina asked.
‘In about an hour and a half, depending on the traffic on the M25.’
‘That won’t give you much time to change.’
‘I can’t help that. As it is, I’ve left before I really wanted to. I would have liked to stay and celebrate with the other owners. They’re having quite a party in one of the restaurants.’
‘But you’d have had to drive home anyway,’ Georgina said.
I’d have arranged a taxi, I thought. And would have left my car overnight in the racecourse car park. Or maybe even slept in it.
Because it’s not every day you win the Derby.
As it was, I’d probably had one glass too much of champagne, but what was a man to do when offered another by the reigning monarch in the royal box, as had been the case after the prize giving?
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ I said with resignation. ‘Bye for now.’
I disconnected.
At least I would be having a party tonight, even if I might have preferred to be at the one in the racecourse rather than the one at home.
I tried to call James and Amanda, but there was no reply. The phone signal in our village was pretty poor at the best of times, and particularly so within the thick walls of our eighteenth-century local.
I called the pub’s landline, a number I knew by heart.
‘The Red Lion,’ said the man who answered.
‘Jack,’ I said. ‘It’s Chester Newton.’
‘Ah. Our Derby winner. Well done.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It was on the TV here in the bar. We’ve been celebrating ever since. Are you coming round to join us?’
‘I’d love to, but I can’t because we’re having a party at our place tonight. But are James and Amanda still there?’
‘Sure are. They’ve been leading the singing.’
I could hear it in the background.
‘Could you please tell them to go home before they get too drunk?’
‘Might be a bit late for that.’
Oh God. That wouldn’t go down well with their mother.
‘Tell them anyway and don’t serve them any more. They’re meant to be co-hosting tonight.’
‘Okay. Will do.’
He hung up, and I smiled.
At least some of my family had watched the race.
The traffic on the M25 wasn’t too bad, but still I didn’t get home until gone half past six, and Georgina wasn’t happy as she met me in the hallway, already dressed and ready.
‘Don’t worry,’ I assured her. ‘I’ll be all set by seven.’ I ran up the stairs. ‘Are the kids back yet?’
‘Yes, but they’re all the worse for wear, especially that bloody Darren. He can hardly stand up.’ She wasn’t amused.
‘Has he got a suit?’ I called, removing my shirt and tie on the landing.
‘Charity-shop purchase by the look of it. But whether he can dress himself in it is anyone’s guess.’
I was laughing as I dived into the shower.
Did I care?
Not really. Because I’d just won the Derby.
Our first guests arrived at seven o’clock sharp, and I was down in the hallway wearing my black tie and ready for their all too prompt appearance.
‘Chester, my boy. Well done. Well done, indeed. Saw it on the telly. I told Mary, here, that you’d probably still be at Epsom celebrating.’
But nevertheless, they’d arrived here bang on the dot of seven.
Duncan Matthews always called me ‘my boy’ even though, to my sure knowledge, he was six months younger than I.
‘I got home about half an hour ago,’ I said.
I gave Mary a welcome kiss on the cheek, and one of the catering staff offered them each a glass of champagne from a tray.
Duncan looked around him at the empty house. ‘Are we the first?’
‘Indeed, you are,’ I said.
‘Ah, well, someone has to be.’ He took a glass from the tray and downed half of its contents in one go. ‘We have a taxi coming for us later.’