What Women Want, Women of a Dangerous Age: 2-Book Collection. Fanny Blake

      ‘Bea!’ Mark looked across the table at her. ‘Tell me you’re not putting your money on that nag, Heavenly Joker. Look at it on the screen. Fit for the knacker’s yard, for God’s sake.’

      ‘Bollocks, Chapman,’ Bea’s neighbour and now racing adviser intervened. ‘That is a horse in its prime. Take no notice, Bea. Your money’s safe.’

      Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Tom getting up from his seat and turning their way. He’d obviously decided how he was going to deal with the situation.

      ‘Well, I may put on a second bet just to cover myself,’ she announced. ‘Come on, Mark. Let’s go down to the paddock and watch the race from the floor.’

      ‘The floor? I thought you didn’t know anything about racing.’

      ‘I don’t. I just overheard someone else saying it.’ She grinned at him, all the time aware that Tom was threading his way towards them. The tinkling laugh sounded from somewhere behind him. Suddenly intrigued to find out what his game-plan could possibly be, she slowed down her rush to the exit.

      ‘Hey, Mark. Good to see you.’ Tom’s overweening confidence had evidently returned, with a decision to brazen out a potentially awkward situation by establishing the upper hand.

      ‘Tom. This is Bea, a friend.’

      ‘How do you do?’

      Bea took his proffered hand, giving it as strong a shake as she dared. She looked him in the eye, hoping to see him flinch. Nothing. Then came inspiration. ‘How extra -ordinary,’ she murmured. ‘I could have sworn you were someone else.’

      ‘Really?’ He looked amused.

      ‘Yes, you’re a dead ringer for someone I once knew called Tony Castle. It’s quite a relief that you’re not, actually.’ The combination of new-found confidence and champagne gave her a sudden feeling of recklessness. By his expression, she could see he was completely thrown by her line of attack.

      Mark turned to her. ‘Why?’ he asked. He hadn’t noticed that his colleague’s smile had slipped a fraction. But Bea had. She had also seen Tom’s eyes narrow as if he was working out what she might possibly say next. Suddenly he seemed less confident.

      ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must just get to the Tote before the next race.’ Tom tried to slip by them but Bea stepped to the side to block his route. This was going better than she could have imagined. She put a hand on his arm to detain him as she leaned forward, taking them both into her confidence. ‘You wouldn’t believe it but this guy Tony was seeing a friend of mine. Then, one day, he stood her up. Wouldn’t return her calls, nothing. Then she discovered that he’d only given her the . . .’ She mouthed the word silently. ‘Sorry, you don’t want to know about that.’ She looked at her audience. Mark seemed bemused that she was telling the story at all while Tom was staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost. That would teach him to leave fake contact details with the agency. He’d obviously understood exactly what she was saying. ‘She never saw him again, so she had no way of telling him because he’d given her a wrong number. So it was good riddance, really, but bad luck for the next woman in his life.’ The tinkling laughter rippled down the table again. ‘What a bastard.’ She squeezed his arm. Hard. ‘Funny, Tom. You could almost be his twin.’

      ‘That’s bad.’ Mark looked decidedly relieved that the story was over without any more intimate detail. Tom gave a weak shrug as he struggled to maintain his composure. He slipped a finger between his throat and the collar of his thinly pin-striped primrose yellow shirt, moving it back and forth as if giving himself more room to breathe.

      ‘Isn’t it? But it’s true.’ Bea smiled, triumphant. ‘So you can see why I’m relieved Tom isn’t him, after all. I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself saying something to him and embarrassing everyone else. So, we must put our bets on the next race.’ She dropped her arm from his and stood aside so he could get to the door. ‘After you.’

      They followed Tom out but turned the opposite way so they could take the stairs to the outside. Bea’s heart was singing.

      ‘What on earth was that about?’ Mark asked.

      ‘What?’ All innocence. So what if Mark thought she’d behaved oddly? The important thing was that Tom had got the message. And she was sure he had.

      ‘That story. Tom looked rather uncomfortable.’

      ‘Did he? I’m sorry. It’s just that the whole business with my friend makes me so cross, I didn’t think. I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.’

      ‘Not at all.’ He laughed. ‘It would take more than that. Here, hold my hand so we don’t get separated in the scrum.’

      They stood at the paddock, watching the owners and trainers chatting by their horses, waiting for the jockeys to be legged up into their saddles. Led round by the stable-lads, the horses jinked as the wind caught them under their tails, ears flicking back and forth, heads tossing, nostrils flaring, sweat flecking their necks. A handsome chestnut that looked in peak condition, its conker-coloured coat shining, its stride full of purpose, immediately caught Bea’s eye. She ran her eye down the race card. Blade Runner, trained by Ali Newsome with Jo Michaels up and sporting the owner’s emerald and blue silks. ‘That’s the one for me. Number twelve.’