Bella

She was turned on by the whole ambience of the racecourse, the heavy smell of hot horse, leather and dung, the shrill neighing from the stables.

She was surprised how done up everyone was. The women, very upper class, displaying thoroughbred ankles. The men were even better looking. The members’ enclosure was crammed with Yock Yocks in light checked suits, with the kind of curly brimmed hats you put in rollers every night.

Bella found she got some pretty odd glances, and some wolf whistles too. It gave her considerable satisfaction that people were gazing at her more than Angora, and that two people came up and asked her for her autograph.

‘We saw you on television the other day. We thought you were so good.’

That annoyed Angora too.

In the paddock, the horses were circling for the first race.

Bella admired their scarlet nostrils, rolling eyes and impossibly fragile legs, and realized how exactly right the artists had drawn them in those old sporting prints.

‘That’s Lazlo’s horse, Chaperone, over there,’ said Rupert, pointing to a chestnut, gleaming like a furniture polish advertisement. ‘She looks well, doesn’t she?’

‘Beautiful,’ sighed Bella, as the filly walked by, nuzzling at her groom, proudly flaunting the green and black rug, with the initials L.C.H. on the corner.

‘She’s the only one who’s walking out,’ said Steve approvingly.

Who with? wondered Bella.

Out came the jockeys. How tiny they looked with their shrill voices and Jack Russell jauntiness.

Lazlo went into the paddock. Trainers, owners and jockeys stood in isolated islands, discussing last minute tactics, the trainers telling jokes and making reassuring noises to the jockeys, like the bride’s father before the trip up the aisle.

‘Will the jockeys mount please,’ said the loudspeaker.

Chaperone was led in. She dropped her head on Lazlo’s shoulder in a friendly fashion, leaving a large smear of green froth on his suit.

‘I must go and wish him luck,’ said Angora, about to duck under the rails.

‘I wouldn’t,’ said Rupert. ‘He’s busy. Racing’s the only thing he takes really seriously.’

Apart from getting rid of me, thought Bella.

‘That’s Lazlo’s jockey, Charlie Lamas, getting up now,’ Rupert went on. ‘Lazlo brought him over from South America.’

Bella watched the little man with a leathery face and mournful dark eyes being hoisted up on to Chaperone’s back. He swore at her, as she gave two light-hearted bucks, and sent her clattering down the tarmac after the other horses.

‘Just time to place our bets,’ said Rupert, taking Bella’s arm.

They all backed Chaperone, except Bella who, out of sheer cussedness, backed an outsider, Hera’s Pride.

From the members’ stand they could see the heat haze shimmering on the rails, as the horses cantered down to the start.

Down below them, rumour and speculation seethed, cauldron-like round the bookies, with their knowing, magenta faces. The tic-tac men gesticulated frantically.

A minute before the start, Lazlo joined the party, looking louche and piratical, and chewing on his cigar.

‘Good luck,’ said Angora.

‘They’re under starter’s orders,’ said Rupert, raising his binoculars.

‘They’re orf,’ said the loudspeaker.

Bella found herself watching Lazlo, rather than the race.

She had to admire his sang-froid as the field rocketed up the centre of the course, like mercury up a thermometer plunged into boiling water.

His hands clenched slightly on his binoculars. He puffed slightly faster on his cigar as he watched the filly flare promisingly into the lead for an instant, then slip to the back of the field as they streamed past the post.

There were no histrionics, no effing and blinding. He just moved away from the cries of sympathy that showered down on him, unable to speak for a minute from disappointment.

‘Who won?’ asked Bella, a minute later.

‘Hera’s Pride,’ said Steve. ‘I can’t imagine anyone backing it.’

‘I did,’ said Bella. ‘To my mind she was the only one who was walking out,’ and, laughing in his face, she skipped down the steps to collect her winnings.

Her euphoria was short-lived. She lost a fiver on each of the next two races.

The high event of the day was the ladies’ race, sponsored by the Bond Street jewellers who make those diamond brooches with ruby conjunctivitis, which rear up on smart racing women’s lapels.

‘Let’s go and look at the gels,’ leered a whiskery old gentleman with a purple face.

‘Lazlo’s got a horse in this race called Baudelaire,’ said Rupert. ‘It’s a bit green, but Lazlo’s got very high hopes for it. It’s the black colt over there. He bought it in Ireland. They think black horses are unlucky there, so he got it cheap.’

Baudelaire, rolling his eyes wickedly, and snorting, marched round the paddock, snatching at his bit.

‘They’ve had a devil of a problem getting weight on him,’ said Rupert. ‘He won’t sleep; walks his box all night.’

‘Sounds rather like his master,’ said Angora.

Out came the women jockeys, one tall girl with blond hair and very green eyes, the rest small and very slight. Binoculars were immediately focused on the transparent breeches which clung to the girls’ svelte figures in the heat.

Chrissie looked at them enviously.

‘Lazlo says if I lose two stone, he’ll buy me a racehorse,’ she said.

‘Which is Lazlo’s jockey?’ said Steve.

‘The prettiest one, of course,’ said Chrissie. ‘The tall one with green eyes.’

‘Do you think he’s banged her yet?’ said Rupert.

Angora’s eyes narrowed for a second, then she said lightly, ‘If he hasn’t, it won’t be long.’

The start was in a different place this time, but Bella was determined to place her bet with the same bookie on the other side of the track.

‘I’ll meet you in the members’ enclosure,’ she called to Rupert.

‘Bella, wait, you’ll get lost,’ he shouted after her.

She was returning across the course when, just as she reached the white railings, she realized she’d dropped her betting slip.

Turning, she saw it lying in the middle of the course. Without looking to left or right, she ran back to get it.

Suddenly there was a thundering in her ears and the ten runners had come out of a side gate and were galloping towards her down to the start.

Terrified, she stood frozen to the spot, then tried to run back to the rails, but it was too late; they were on top of her. She screamed. They must crush her to death. Then, miraculously, Lazlo’s black horse had swerved frantically to the right to avoid her, depositing his blond rider on the grass, and galloping off down to the start.

The next moment Lazlo was picking her up. She’d never seen him so blazing angry before.

‘What the fucking hell do you think you’re doing? Trying to sabotage my horse?’

‘What the hell are you doing, trying to kill me?’ jibbered Bella. ‘She was riding straight at me, no doubt at your instructions, and if it hadn’t been for that darling horse swerving out of the way, I’d be a dead duck now.’

‘Don’t be bloody fatuous,’ said Lazlo. ‘Get off the course.’

He went over to pick up the blonde, who had staggered to her feet, shocked but unhurt.

Baudelaire, having shed his rider, was now having a high old time. Black tail straight up in the air, reins trailing on the ground, he cantered round the course, using up valuable energy.

To the delight of the crowd, and the shredded nerves of Lazlo, the stable lad and his blond rider, he resolutely refused to be caught.