Jump. Part 62

'It's OK for f.u.c.k's sake,' lied Amber, her wrist aloft. She couldn't miss the ride of a lifetime.

By the time she got to Wincanton, her wrist was agony and very swollen. She didn't let on to Tommy or Rafiq, who would have stopped her riding. Instead she took four Nurofen and swore Awesome Wells to secrecy.

'Are you sure you're up to it? Bullydozer pulls double, no, quadruple,' warned a worried Awesome as he bound up her wrist with vet wrap behind the lorry. 'I must remember not to tell Bertie that new mare Marius sold him, which I've got to ride in the two forty-five, is f.u.c.king useless.'

So's my wrist, thought Amber.

Having weighed out, in return for Shade's magenta and orange silks, she handed over her saddle to Harvey-Holden. She was shocked by the venom in his twitching, sallow face, the quivering hands itching to throttle her, the acid sourness of his breath.

'It'll be the last time you wear these colours,' he hissed. 'What in h.e.l.l did you give Shade to get this ride? You may be OK on clapped-out donkeys. Bullydozer's in a different league. You just see how you f.u.c.k up,' and he was gone.

Jolted to the core, Amber managed to wriggle into her body protector and the silks, pulling the sleeves down over her vet wrap and wrist brace, before the valet helped her on with her breeches, boots and helmet. In the mirror her face was grey and sweating. Was she insane to carry on?

Then Rogue erupted into the weighing room in just dark blue underpants and leapt on to the scales.

'Traffic's so bad, I had to undress in the car and streak through the car park,' he told his grinning valet, who was waiting with his racing clothes.

In order to put on the transparent ladies' tights jockeys wear under their breeches, Rogue whipped off his dark blue underpants. Amber fled.

Entering the paddock in a haze of pain, she saw Bullydozer, a huge dark bay bucking bronco. Mich.e.l.le and Vakil stood on either side of him, hanging on to a lead rope attached to a vicious bit.

Mich.e.l.le, with Harvey-Holden's encouragement, had confined Bullydozer to his box for two days and stuffed him with oats. This had necessitated Vakil twice clouting him across the head with a spade before they could get a bridle on him earlier. Determined to win the turnout, Mich.e.l.le had also rubbed baby oil into his face, which made it shine but had also made his reins slippery.

Bullydozer was the biggest horse in the paddock and demonstrably the most b.l.o.o.d.y-minded and out of control.

'How's Wilkie, how's Chisolm?' the punters called out to Amber.

'Left them at home.'

Billowing black clouds promised rain any minute. There was Shade, looking much less attractive in a belted camel-hair coat and a fedora, and Olivia looking bleak, both talking to evil Killer, who was also wearing Shade's colours to ride the mighty Bafford Playboy.

Big bright bay Playboy, despite his frivolous name, had grown into a bully like Shade, his owner. In the yard at home and out in the field, other horses nervously deferred to him. On the race-course he was equally determined to a.s.sert his mastery, as was his jockey, Killer.

Killer wanted his revenge on Amber for getting him suspended for ten days at Cheltenham. Both he and Rogue were on one hundred and twenty-five winners apiece.

As Rogue sauntered into the paddock, the crowd nudged each other and smiled. History Painting's owners, Brigadier Parsons, his wife and two pretty daughters, surged forward adoringly to hear the master's words.

Beside them, Marius, as grim as the day, was deliberately ignoring his ex-wife and Amber.

'What are you planning, Rogue?' asked the Brigadier.

'To make all. A few will do the same, a few could pop out later. History Painting has won from the front and will do so again.' He whacked his boots with his whip.

'Enjoy your ride, hope it goes well, Rogue, come back safely,' exhorted the Brigadier's pretty ladies.

Oh shut up, thought Amber, as she nervously approached Harvey-Holden, who was, however, charm itself when he spoke to her in front of Shade and Olivia: 'Remember to hold Bully up for the first circuit at least. He's fast but he may not stay, so make a late run.'

Shade put a big leather-gloved hand on Amber's shoulder. He'd enjoyed their last ride and planned another.

'Good luck, Amber.'

Bullydozer won the turnout and, kept back to be photographed with Mich.e.l.le, was the last to leave the parade ring. Feeling Amber on his back, he went up and nearly tipped over, squealing with pain as Vakil swore and jerked on his mouth to bring him down.

'Have fun,' Mich.e.l.le whispered evilly to Amber. 'Nice change to have someone Olivia hates more than me.'

As she and Vakil unclipped their lead ropes, Bullydozer took off, thundering diagonally across the golf course in the middle of the track, down to the start.

'I got a birdie here once,' Awesome was saying, calling out, 'Are you OK, Amber?' as she hurtled past him, her good hand hauling helplessly on the reins.

Bullydozer was a hand bigger than History Painting. As Rogue reached out, catching the horse's reins to steady him as he pa.s.sed, Bullydozer nearly pulled him out of the saddle.

'Morning, Miss Lloyd-Foxe,' said Rogue, righting himself. Then, noticing how pale she was: 'What did you and Marius get up to at Stratford?'

'Much less than you,' spat Amber. 'Let go of my horse. Poor little Trix, how could you?'

Rogue was fazed only for a second.

'We were all hammered. You should have joined us.'

'Don't be so f.u.c.king stupid. Trixie's only fifteen, you've crucified her.'

'She didn't stay long. Bonny was sensational, she'd get an Oscar in one of Bolton's erotic fantasies.'

Amber had no strength to slap his mocking face.

'You're just a tart.'

They reached the start, the banter flying as the jockeys circled.

'I'm going to get two hundred winners by the end of March,' boasted Rogue, patting History Painting and undoing the bottom plaits of his mane.

'How d'you know?' asked Awesome admiringly.

'I've put ten grand on myself, does concentrate the mind.'

The starter looked at his watch: 'Who's going to make it?'

'I am,' said Killer, glaring round.

'I might not,' muttered Amber as Bullydozer leapt about. Amber daren't ride him down to look at the first fence in case he took off.

She caught Killer staring in her direction, pale squinting wolf eyes hidden by his goggles, thin lips curling in an evil smile. Amber tugged her silk sleeve down over her glove. The Nurofen was wearing off.

Up went the tapes, Bullydozer set off quick enough to win the Derby.

'Too f.u.c.king fast, I'm making it,' yelled a furious Killer, particularly when a totally out-of-control Bullydozer cut straight across him, barging into Playboy like a drunken dodgem car.

Killer didn't take prisoners of either s.e.x.

'Get off my line, you f.u.c.king c.u.n.t.'

Changing tactics, Rogue decided to cruise at the back on History Painting so he could once more feast his eyes on Amber's delectable bottom they must suspend hostilities. Seeing her tugging on Bullydozer's mouth, he felt a stab of fear. She was pulling one-sided, having no effect. Slowly, slowly Killer was edging her into the rail dividing the steeplechasing track from the hurdle track, which ran along beside it. They were out in the country, hidden by a clump of trees and a small building where the stable lads camped out. Any moment Killer was going to ram an elbow into Amber's ribs and hoist her over the rail: 'You're going hurdling, you b.i.t.c.h,' and Amber would have no strength in her right hand to tug Bullydozer back. To his horror, Rogue realized the wings of the next fence were hurtling towards her. She was going to crash into them.

Killer was drifting back to the right so no one could blame him. Amber had lost her balance, and her saddle hadn't Mich.e.l.le tightened the girths sufficiently? was slipping to the left.

Picking up his whip, Rogue thrust History Painting forward, forcing their way between Amber and Killer, reaching up because Bullydozer was so much bigger, grabbing Amber's wrist so she screamed in agony, tugging her upright, grabbing her reins with his other hand, holding her until she managed to right herself, as somehow, taking most of the brushwood with them, they survived the next fence.

'You stupid, stupid b.i.t.c.h, what have you done?' yelled Rogue, then glancing down he saw the wrist brace and vet wrap. 'Jesus.'

'Let me go, go on,' gasped Amber, whiter than the daytime moon, as they hurtled round the bend into the home straight.

Fortunately Bullydozer had realized the race was longer than the Derby and decided to pull himself up. So Rogue, mindful of his two hundred wins, beetled off, made one of his spectacular last-minute runs and mugged an enraged Killer and Playboy on the line.

Killer and an even angrier Harvey-Holden called for a stewards' inquiry. Amber had cut across Playboy and b.u.mped him several times. Without this he'd have been several more lengths ahead and Rogue would never have caught him.

'Neither Marius nor Shade will ever put you up again,' gloated Harvey-Holden. He didn't want to make too much fuss in case Rogue reported Killer for intimidating Amber.

Amber sorted things by fainting in the middle of the inquiry and the strapped-up wrist was discovered.

'I'm so sorry,' she stammered when she came round, 'I had a fall on the gallops this morning. I thought it was OK to ride. I was wrong, I couldn't hold him up, he barged into Playboy.'

An X-ray revealed a broken wrist and broken thumb.

The stewards agreed there wasn't much point suspending her. According to the course doctor, the wrist would have to be pinned and she wouldn't be riding for at least three months anyway, so they put it down to unintentional interference.

'You've been very stupid,' the Stipendiary Steward, who was a friend of her father's, told her sternly. 'If it doesn't heal right, you have only yourself to blame. And I hope you'll be suitably grateful to Rogue, who saved your life or at least your riding career. He not only pulled you straight but managed to pull up your horse one of the most spectacularly brave pieces of-'

'The horse was tired. He pulled himself up,' said Amber sulkily.

'Don't be so ungrateful,' snapped the Stipe.

97.

Amber spent a week in Larkminster hospital and in a lot of pain after an operation to set and pin her wrist and thumb. But the pain in her heart was worse. No matter how many flowers and cards poured in from friends and from the public 'Please get well soon, Mrs Wilkinson needs you' she kept thinking of how she had put her life on hold, determined to make it as a jockey, and if she were off for at least four months, as the doctors now forecast, everyone would forget her. She was suicidal.

Marius, though delighted History Painting had won the Edward Thring Cup, was not going to forgive her for riding for Harvey-Holden. Nor was Shade: 'How dare you ride with a broken wrist, making me look a prat.'

'Special' Donaldson had cancelled lunch, and who was now going to ride Mrs Wilkinson?

No matter how much Tommy and Rafiq and her sweet father, Billy, tried to rea.s.sure her this was just a blip in her career, Amber sank into despair.

Matters weren't helped by Rogue all over the papers and television winning Ride of the Week for his gallant rescue, or when Amber's unprincipled, scoop-crazy mother, Janey, interviewed Rogue for the Daily Mail Daily Mail. THE BRAVE S SIR G GALAHAD WHO SAVED MY A AMBER'S LIFE was accompanied by s.e.xy photographs of Rogue, stripped to the waist, flaunting his six-pack, highlighted brown hair tousled, kingfisher-blue eyes flashing. was accompanied by s.e.xy photographs of Rogue, stripped to the waist, flaunting his six-pack, highlighted brown hair tousled, kingfisher-blue eyes flashing.

Having just clocked his one hundred and thirtieth winner, Rogue was quoted as saying: 'One should always be ready to help young and inexperienced riders.'

'Sir Gala-had everyone in sight,' howled Amber when she read the piece, 'how dare he call me young and inexperienced ...'

She wasn't even mollified when Rogue sent her two dozen red roses.

On the Sat.u.r.day after the accident, she was visited at midday by an old schoolfriend. Milly Walton was looking so urban chic and ravishingly little girlish, in a pale pink smock and brown leggings. Perching on Amber's bed, reading her cards and eating her grapes, Milly tried to divert her with London gossip about all their mutual friends and the parties Amber had been missing, which she might now have time to go to.

As Amber was still looking wintry and bored, Milly tried to interest her with the information that she had a new boyfriend a jockey.

'You're mad,' snapped Amber. 'For a start, jockeys are useless in bed. They're only interested in coming as fast as they can.'

'This one is fantastic,' protested Milly.

'Can't be a jockey then.'

'He is. He's called Dare Catswood.'

'Dare's an amateur,' said Amber scornfully. 'Amateurs are different, they have to work harder for a ride.'

Milly giggled. 'Well, I think he's hot.'

'Jockeys get thoroughly spoilt.' Amber was on a roll now. 'Once they've got a licence everyone wants to hop on them, like a bus in the rush hour.'

'You have have changed,' sighed Milly. 'At school you were crazy about Rogue Rogers, had pictures of him all over your study ...' changed,' sighed Milly. 'At school you were crazy about Rogue Rogers, had pictures of him all over your study ...'

'Rogue lives up to his name, he's really like a bus in the rush hour, just comes more often and in more lanes. Even the roses he gave me got brewer's droop in twenty-four hours. He's the worst of the lot.'

In mid-rant, Amber suddenly clocked that Milly wasn't laughing any more, just looking horrified and deeply embarra.s.sed.

As she swung round, Amber's heart failed, for standing in the doorway was Rogue. Beneath the peak of his blue baseball cap, on which was printed the words 'Italian Stallion', his eyes were shadowed and tired, his laughing face unutterably bleak.

'R-rogue,' stammered Amber, 'what are you doing here?'

'On my way to Chepstow, thought you might like these.'

He threw a huge bunch of freesias on the bed, followed by Richard Dunwoody's autobiography.

'On second thoughts, not,' he took back the book, 'you don't seem to like jockeys.'

'She was only joking,' stammered Milly. 'I know she's a huge fan really, so am I. She always took the p.i.s.s out of everyone when we were at school.'

'Perhaps she should go back there and learn some manners.'

'Rogue, I'm sorry,' wailed Amber, but Rogue had turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him.

Amber cried for the first time since she broke her wrist, howling even louder when Milly discovered a little card inside the freesias, 'Darling Amber, I'm so sorry, please come back soon. All my love Rogue,' in Rogue's handwriting.

She was utterly inconsolable.