Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 have pushed him so early. Anyone could see he couldn’t sustain that level of speed for the whole mile. No wonder all the others caught up with him!’

      ‘With all due respect, sir,’ answered Finbar back, his head rising, ‘this horse has speed and stamina. It just wasn’t his day today.’

      ‘So everyone keeps telling me,’ he laughed out loud, taking a step towards Barry Broadbent threateningly. Slightly startled, Barry lurched back and lost his footing on the turf. He stumbled backwards, and Martin, Fierce Temper’s groom, ran forward, just catching Barry before he fell headlong.

      The old man drew a hand across his forehead and stared grimly at Oswald. ‘You may pay our yard training fees, but that doesn’t give you the right to behave like a spoilt child,’ he said, lifting his cane in the air to point at Oswald.

      Undeterred, Oswald swiped a hand at the wavering cane, knocking it from Barry’s hand.

      Suddenly Fierce Temper gave a loud snort and reared up on his hind legs, his hooves coming down just inches from Oswald’s head.

      ‘Damn you, man! Can’t you control him?’ he yelled at Finbar, who was struggling to stay in the saddle as the horse kicked out backwards, whinnying and rolling his eyes.

      At that moment, Jennifer and Philip Watchorn arrived, along with Venetia trotting along beside them in her high heels. ‘Come on now, stop all this,’ said Philip Watchorn, seeming to address the horse as much as the two men.

      Venetia went over to Fierce Temper and, with soft words and gentle hands, began to calm him down again. ‘You did wonderfully boy, didn’t you?’ she cooed, lovingly stroking his nose. ‘There are greater things to come for you, I’m sure.’ She looked up at Finbar and smiled at the jockey, who was just grateful to be in one piece.

      ‘Well, we’re not in the winner’s enclosure just yet,’ smiled Philip Watchorn, timidly putting out a hand to pat the gleaming rump of his horse, ‘but we soon will be, won’t we lad, eh Barry?’ He helped the old man to his feet and handed him his cane.

      ‘Now come on, everyone, let’s get this young man unsaddled. Then let’s all go for a glass of champagne. I think we deserve it.’

      ‘I still bloody can’t believe it,’ said Oswald once again as he settled back into the passenger seat of Philip Watchorn’s helicopter. They were preparing to go back to the heliport in Battersea. ‘I knew he’d get a race ban, that bloody jockey,’ he grumbled to himself.

      ‘Will you just stop it?’ laughed Jennifer Watchorn, patting him on the knee good-naturedly as she buckled his safety belt. ‘I think Fierce Temper is doing incredibly well, considering the majority of the horses belong to rich Arabs and come from the super-yards.’

      ‘That’s right,’ agreed Philip, ‘you know we weren’t getting into this particularly seriously. We’ve got one horse, not three hundred. We were supposed to be doing this for friendship, for the hobby, a bit of hospitality. Remember?’

      The helicopter blades chopped into life and whirled into the air, leaving Newmarket behind; a tiny black dot in the sky as it made its journey south towards London. Oswald’s mood began to calm as they passed over the green belts of Cambridgeshire and Bedfordshire towards the metropolis. Oswald was staying that night at his Cadogan Garden house rather than making the two-hour journey down to Huntsford. Epsom really is so much more convenient, he thought, shaking his head as he put his key into the royal-blue front door.

      He walked in and flung his jacket over a Chippendale chair and stalked into the kitchen, breathing a sigh of relief that Gretchen, the forgetful Ukrainian housekeeper, had remembered he was coming and had filled the fridge accordingly. He helped himself to some big chunks of granary bread and a thick slab of venison pâté and went to sit down in the drawing room with a bottle of claret.

      The house, which was only used four or five evenings a month, felt cold and unlived-in. A little bit chilly, he thought, stoking up the fire. He put on his sheepskin-lined slippers and reclined back on the mustard damask sofa to read that day’s Racing Post. That horse had better start earning some money, he thought, shaking his head slowly. Watchorn might not be in this seriously, Oswald mused, but he certainly was. OK, so he wasn’t the Aga bloody Khan with six hundred horses, but if the one he did have was a winner, he would be up there with the best.

      Even though the yard fees and training costs were split three ways, Oswald was still feeling the enormous financial burden of ‘just’ one world-class racehorse. It was about time they started winning some decent purses. He knew that Barry Broadbent did not like to field a runner without it having some hope of success. But sod that, he thought angrily, he would tell him to put Fierce Temper in for as many races as possible this season. After all, if you don’t shoot, you don’t score. So the bloody creature might be knackered by the end of the season, but a good run could make BWC Holdings upwards of half a million pounds.

      Oswald was just beginning to doze off, having downed the bottle of wine and polished off at least half a pound of the pâté. He was disturbed from his light slumber by the irritating ring of his mobile phone. He picked it up and heard a soft, almost muffled voice. Was that СКАЧАТЬ