Bloodline

Why did we always seem to fight these days? When we were kids, we had been so close that we didn’t even need to speak to know what the other was thinking. But recently our twin-intuition had waned and faded away, at least in my direction. I wondered if she could still read my mind. If so, she probably wouldn’t like it.

The waitress reappeared to collect our plates.

‘Dessert?’ she asked.

‘Just coffee,’ Clare said. ‘Black.’

‘Same for me, please.’

The waitress went away and we sat there once more in awkward silence.

‘Good win on Scusami,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ Clare replied, keeping her eyes on the table.

‘Do you think he’ll win the Guineas?’

‘I doubt it. That Peter Williams colt, Reading Glass, he’ll take a lot of beating. But Scusi’s good, and it would be nice to be the first lady jockey to win a Classic.’ She looked upwards wistfully. ‘One year, anyway.’

‘But you’ll ride him?’

‘Maybe,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘That’ll be up to Geoff.’ Scusami was trained by Geoffrey Grubb in Newmarket.

The coffee arrived.

‘Shame about Bangkok Flyer,’ I said.

Clare sat in silence and looked down at her cup.

‘Don’t you think?’ I prompted.

‘I’d forgotten you were commentating.’

‘You don’t deny it, then?’ I asked.

More silence.

‘Why, Clare?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘How can it be complicated?’ I asked incredulously. ‘You fixed the bloody race.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, looking up quickly. ‘I didn’t fix it, I just didn’t win it.’

‘Don’t split hairs with me,’ I said sharply.

‘Ooh! Look at you, getting on your high horse.’

‘Be serious.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because it’s a serious matter,’ I said. ‘You could lose your licence, and your livelihood.’

‘Only if I get caught.’

‘I caught you.’

‘Yeah, but what are you going to do about it?’

I sat and watched her. I could tell that she already knew the answer.

‘Nothing. But someone else will be bound to notice if you do it again.’

‘No one has done so far.’

I looked at her in disbelief.

‘Are you saying this wasn’t the first time you’ve done this?’

She smiled at me. ‘Of course not.’

‘Clare!’

The couple on a table nearby both looked over at us. I lowered my voice but not my anger.

‘Are you telling me that you regularly don’t win races you should?’

‘I wouldn’t say regularly,’ she said. ‘But I have done.’

‘How often?’

She pursed her lips.

‘Three or four times, maybe five.’

‘But why?’

‘I told you. It’s complicated.’

I didn’t know what to say. She was so matter-of-fact about it all. If the British Horseracing Authority knew she had ‘stopped’ horses three, four or five times they would probably have taken away her licence for good and banned her from all racecourses for life.

And she didn’t seem bothered.

‘Well, don’t ever do it again,’ I said in my most domineering tone.

‘And what will you do about it if I do?’ She was mocking me.

‘Clare, please. Don’t do this. Don’t you understand. I love you and I don’t want to see you destroy all that you’ve built up.’

I glanced around to make sure no one was listening.

‘Don’t be so patronizing,’ Clare said.

I sat there stunned.

‘I’ve had to claw my way up in this business,’ she said with feeling, leaning forward across the table. ‘No one gives you an inch. Lady jockey — ha! Don’t make me laugh. Half of those in racing think we’re no bloody good and should leave it all to the men, while the other half are a bunch of dirty old men who fantasize about us wearing tight breeches with whips in our hands. I’ve had to bow and scrape to them all, and to sweat blood to get where I am today, and now, at last, it’s me who’s in control of them.’

‘Is that it, then?’ I asked. ‘Is this all about control?’

‘You bet. Control over the bloody trainers, and the owners.’

Control, I thought, could be a powerful force. What was that old adage? — Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Absolute power and unbridled control over others had led to the Nazis, and a world war had been needed to wrest the control from their dead fingers. Control over others was a dangerous concept.

‘I thought I knew you,’ I said slowly. ‘But I don’t.’

‘I’ve changed,’ she said, ‘and I’ve been hardened. I’ve had to climb the slippery pole while others kicked me in the teeth. Success didn’t just fall into my lap by chance.’

We both knew what she meant.

I had been in the right place at the right time.

It was now eight years since that day at Fontwell Park races when the paddock presenter for RacingTV had been taken seriously ill with a heart attack just before he was due to go on air. The back-up presenter, the much respected wife of an up-and-coming young trainer, turned out to be the main presenter’s mistress and she had insisted on going with him to hospital in the ambulance.

I was only there as a guest to watch because I’d carelessly put my hand up at a charity auction to spend a day with the RacingTV team. But I found myself putting up my hand again and volunteering to stand in.

‘Do you know the horses?’ the agitated producer had demanded while pulling out clumps of his already-thinning hair.

‘Yes,’ I’d replied.