‘Daddy, look, I really don’t think it’s a good idea –’
‘I’m obviously looking forward to joining the board of my daughter’s company,’ continued Oswald, ignoring Venetia’s protests, ‘but I’ve been over the recent board minutes and accounts with that Geoffrey fellow and I have to say I’m a little concerned about expanding into New York at this point.’ He took a cigar out of his top pocket and cut the top with his Dunhill guillotine, as if the subject was closed.
Venetia pulled herself upright into a taller, more determined line. ‘The New York expansion is non-negotiable,’ she bristled, banging her palm onto the rail for emphasis. ‘I already have a small concession in Bergdorf Goodman which is doing really good business. I think Manhattan is ripe for our line of interiors on a bigger scale.’
‘Non-negotiable?’ queried Oswald, blowing a cloud of smoke. ‘I think I had better explain business to you, my dear. Any investment over one million pounds can only go ahead with the passing of a special resolution. For that, you need Jonathon’s approval and, as such, under the new arrangement, you need mine.’
Venetia grabbed hold of the railing so hard that her nails began to sink into the wood. ‘I’m not talking about this now, Daddy,’ she said, her even voice disguising the real fear she felt, ‘but I will fight you all the way. You’re in this to protect Jonathon’s investment, not undermine it,’ she snarled.
‘Oh, I realize that,’ he said, almost laughing. ‘And I shall do whatever is best for Jonathon. You can be sure of that.’
After a generous lunch and numerous bottles of champagne, Philip and Nicholas left the marquee to wander over to watch the parade. Grudgingly, Oswald went along to join them, unable to keep from watching the beautifully groomed Fierce Temper trot around the ring. He was a magnificent horse, his muscles rippling under a shining chestnut coat. He looked alert and impatient, pawing the ground and tossing his head. Finbar sat regally in the saddle in the amber and red silks of BWC Holdings, patting Fierce Temper’s neck and whispering in his ear. Oswald couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride. It was his horse. Finally he was going to get a taste of the sport of kings from the owners’ enclosure.
‘Hey, Oswald old man,’ said Nicholas, breaking the spell, ‘you know I don’t study the form. What do you really reckon Fierce Temper’s chances are this afternoon?’
Oswald began stroking his chin in a superior manner, enjoying the knowledge he had over his friend.
‘That’s the one we’ve got to watch: Warhorse.’ He pointed at an enormous ebony colt dancing nervously sideways, his flanks already darkened with sweat. ‘He’s big, powerful, and he’s damned fast. And look at the jockey. Tiny fellow, but he controls him with an iron fist. And I reckon Eastern Promise is going to be pretty useful too,’ he said, nodding at a wiry grey. ‘Belongs to another bloody Arab, of course. These so called sheikhs are taking over racing, just throwing all their oil money at the turf.’
Nicholas Charlesworth slapped Oswald on the back. ‘Don’t say the Arabs are bad for the sport, old boy. Look at all the Dubai races: enormous purses! Don’t say you wouldn’t like a piece of that action!’
‘Vulgar. That’s what I call that Arab circuit, and I’m not letting Fierce Temper anywhere near them.’
Fierce Temper trotted gracefully around the paddock, swishing his finely groomed tail and nodding his nose up and down in a confident fashion. Satisfied, Oswald began to amble back to the marquee in preparation for the big race. The racecourse rumbled with excitable murmurs as the thousands of fans, owners, trainers and gamblers waited for the race to begin.
Finding himself a place at the rail, Oswald pulled out his binoculars and waited for the flag. Suddenly the stalls burst open and the runners shot off down the Rowley Mile. Fierce Temper had been drawn in Gate Six on the faster side of the ground, and Oswald craned his neck, anxious to see Fierce Temper’s position. The thunderous noise of hooves pounding on the turf was drowned as Philip’s marquee exploded into a frenzy of excitement: Fierce Temper had edged into the lead.
‘Come on! Come on!’ screamed Venetia, jumping up and down in her delicate Roger Vivier stilettos, waving her crossed fingers around in the air. Philip Watchorn was going slightly red in the face, while Barry Broadbent stood silently, his mouth in a grim, determined line as he watched the action.
‘Get a move on, get a move on!’ growled Oswald, still peering through his binoculars, his eyebrows furrowed into a jagged crease. There were five horses now in a tightly grouped pack, including Fierce Temper, Warhorse and Eastern Promise. With a sinking feeling, Oswald trained his binoculars on Warhorse and saw the powerful ebony racehorse start edging towards the front with only three furlongs to go. The crowd roared as Warhorse and Eastern Promise moved a length clear of the pack. Oswald saw Finbar raise his whip and give his mount another swipe and then another. Oswald flashed a glance at Barry Broadbent who was staring silently out at the course. ‘There’s no point whipping him so much,’ snarled Oswald.
As the seconds ebbed away, and the outcome of the race looked more and more clear, the buoyant and excitable mood began to leave the marquee. Finbar urged his mount for one last effort, bending down over the horse’s neck in one last big push to catch up. But it was no good, Warhorse was now three lengths ahead and two horses were passing Fierce Temper as they approached the post. And then it was over.
Oswald flung his binoculars down onto a mock-gilt chair. ‘Jesus Christ! Fifth?’ he shouted. ‘Not even a place!’ he spat over at Barry Broadbent.
‘Oh, but that was fast!’ said Barry, shaking his head slowly. ‘That was a great horse having a brilliant race.’
‘Forget Warhorse!’ shouted Oswald. ‘What about Fierce Temper? I told you! I told you you’d cock it up with your bloody tactics!’
Philip Watchorn walked over and put an arm around his friend’s shoulders. ‘Come on, Oswald, fifth place in a classic isn’t too bad. It’s more than we’d have dreamt of twelve months ago.’ Watchorn turned to the trainer for support. ‘He’s still young, eh Barry? Still has lots to learn, I should think?’
‘I know I’m pleased,’ said Broadbent.
‘Well, you would be!’ snarled Oswald, rounding on him. ‘We’re not paying you thousands in trainer’s fees to make worse decisions than I can!’ shouted Oswald, taking a long swig of Moët.
Barry Broadbent turned and walked out of the marquee, but Oswald stomped after him.
‘You promised us results, Broadbent, but then again,’ he laughed cruelly, ‘I was warned that you were past your prime.’
Barry Broadbent stopped and turned to Oswald, his face taut. ‘You know as well as I do that our horse is getting better and better all the time,’ he said, struggling to be as professional as possible. ‘Twelve months ago he wouldn’t even have been entered in a Group Three race. And now he’s coming in barely a length behind Warhorse! I tell you, we will have a Group One winner by the end of the season.’
‘I have every faith in my horse,’ said Oswald, his voice still raised, so that people were turning around to watch. ‘But I’m not so sure I have such faith in you. You’re not dealing with an idiot here, so don’t treat me like one. What was all that whipping? Was he trying to kill the horse?’
‘You need to trust me about my jockeys,’ said Barry, going a little pink in the cheeks. ‘Temper is a lively, intelligent horse and not an easy one to handle.’
‘Don’t give me excuses,’ hissed Oswald, ‘I am the owner. You’re only the trainer, remember that!’ he added through clenched teeth, pointing a stubby finger at Barry.
Broadbent just shook his head and walked over to where Finbar was still sitting on Fierce Temper, his chin down towards his chest. ‘Sorry, boss,’ he said in a small voice. ‘It just wasn’t our day today.’
‘Too sodding right it wasn’t!’ said Oswald. ‘You shouldn’t