.

couldn’t have been worse: the day after her husband’s funeral. Her world, once so calm, ordered and simple, was shifting beneath her feet like sand.

      Venetia couldn’t spend a second at rest or her head would become a hive of guilt, doubt and pain. It wasn’t the grief that was unbearable, it was the betrayal. Had her husband really burnt to death? Was he really having an affair with another man – her own designer? Was it all her fault, some twisted retribution for her own infidelity with Jack? And Jack: she couldn’t allow him to creep into her thoughts. Not now.

      As the show approached, Venetia’s legendary poise vanished. Her skin was sallow and dull, her hair untidy and her clothes creased. She was running on empty, and only the thought of bad reviews for the collection kept her going. Model castings, the fittings, all the frantic preparations for the debut collection were conducted in a fog of numbness and desperate energy. She couldn’t let herself fail at this, not when she had made a mess of everything else.

      In the event, the tent at London Fashion Week was packed. Diego’s death was the best possible publicity for the show. The fashion rumour mill went into overdrive about how he died, and Venetia felt a fool. Brix Sanderson scotched much of the scandal, telling everyone that Jonathon and Diego had been together to discuss business. If the truth had got out, that the two men had been meeting for sex, Brix knew that Venetia would completely retreat from the world – and she was not going to let that happen to her friend.

      At the start of the catwalk, Flower Productions’ elaborate waterfall effect had been replaced by a huge black-and-white portrait of Diego. Venetia simply nodded when she had seen it, managing to swallow the bile she had felt rising in her throat. But, as the show’s production manager had pointed out, they needed impact. And it worked. Half the people in the front row were crying as the models stalked the catwalk in the beautiful selection of clothes. The show got a standing ovation.

      Backstage, Venetia couldn’t move for the number of people piling towards her to offer their words of both condolence and congratulations. Miranda Seymour shuffled backstage in a fitted grey cashmere jacket with a huge silver fox fur collar and kissed her twice on the cheek. ‘If you can continue that vision, you’re ready for New York next season. Call me,’ she added, and disappeared.

      Front of house, Oswald held court on the front row, basking in the attention and clear delight of the fashion royalty, whom he didn’t really understand but wanted to. Behind the scenes, hiding behind a huge rack of clothes, Venetia listened to the laughter, the applause and the sounds of delight. She’d never felt more desperate.

       34

      ‘To Fierce Temper!’ said Philip Watchorn, raising yet another flute of 1975 Dom Pérignon. Sitting in the presidential suite of the Hôtel de Crillon, six other men, all flushed pink from the effects of all-day drinking, tipped their glasses towards him. Fierce Temper’s trainer, Barry Broadbent, unaccustomed to such luxury, sat back and drained all the liquid in his glass in one large gulp. Reclining back on the silk chaise longue like some feudal lord, jockey Finbar O’Connor, looking too small to hold such copious amounts of alcohol, nodded contentedly at the scene while Philip and Nicholas Charlesworth chatted happily, congratulating each other on a splendid day. Only Oswald seemed more sober, surveying the scene from the doorway, stroking his glass thoughtfully as he reflected on the events of the weekend.

      It had indeed been quite a day. He still couldn’t believe that his horse had won the premier flat-racing prize in Europe. Not long ago he had been calling the Arab thoroughbred a donkey. Maybe he had been a little hard on Barry Broadbent after the fifth place at the Newbury Races back in April. Damn, that seemed so long ago! Six months later Fierce Temper had won the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe at Longchamp. That made three Group One wins in a row, two runners-up positions and almost a million pounds in prize money. What a season!

      The thrill of seeing Fierce Temper’s long neck pass the finishing post in first place today had been like the kick of a drug. The only black spot was the malevolent little presence of Declan O’Connor, Finbar’s brother and ‘agent’, who had been tagging along all day. Evil-faced little pikey, he thought, watching him sit protectively on the chaise loungue next to Finbar, drinking all their champagne. He had hardly spoken all day, except to talk obliquely about ‘bonuses’ for Finbar. When Oswald had pointed out that BWC Holdings more than generously compensated their jockey, he had smiled his twisted smile. ‘Just looking after my little brother,’ he’d said.

      Just looking after my little brother. It was the sly, loaded way he’d said it. And there was something very familiar about his voice. He’d heard it before somewhere. Oswald’s brain made a slow connection: could it have been the voice that had threatened him on the phone on the day of the Two Thousand Guineas? Could that have been Declan? But why would that foul little man care about him? He shook off his suspicions as Nicholas Charlesworth tapped his glass to call the men to order on the other side of the room. ‘What we need now, gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘is to get out of this hotel and enjoy Paris. Dinner is booked at the George V and then I know a marvellous little club in the sixth, which will stay open for us as long as we want. The car is right outside to take us, so get your coats, chaps!’

      A strong sense of déjà vu coursed through Oswald’s body. It was just like the sixties again. Here they were, all powerful, successful men with the prospect of more power and success just in front of them for the taking. Back then Oswald would have been the first one to join the group touring the clubs of Mayfair or Paris, but not tonight. He picked up his camel jacket, slipping his arm into the red silk lining. ‘I’m afraid it’s all been a little too exciting for me tonight, gentlemen. If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to retire. It’s been a long weekend.’

      ‘What’s got into you?’ said Philip, clapping his friend on the shoulder in a chummy manner, ‘Still, if you are going to be a killjoy, make sure you are up and ready in the morning. The car is coming for us at eight o’clock. Be ready, eh?’

      Oswald offered a small smile to his friends, backed out of the door, and walked down the corridors until he reached his suite on the floor below. After several bad-tempered attempts to force his credit-card key into the door, Oswald finally managed to open it and strode in without turning on the light. His suite was small, but the views were spectacular across the Place de la Concorde. He felt surrounded by darkness; the blank shape of the unlit room behind him with the whole of night-time Paris in front of him, only peppered by saffron streetlights blurred in a damp autumnal Parisian drizzle.

      Standing high above the cityscape he felt like the master of some black universe. A thin smile cracked his lips. He was still feeling high on the rush of winning and, although the alcohol had furred his instincts, the future suddenly seemed clear. They were sitting on a gold mine. That fool Watchorn could spout on about the ‘sport of kings’ all he liked – and yes, there had been a definite thrill in seeing Fierce Temper scoop one of racing’s top prizes. But racing wasn’t about the race any more; it was about the marketing. He’d learnt that from the Huntsford Musical Evening debacle and he wouldn’t make the mistake again. The real profits these days lay in the making and marketing of prize stallions for stud. The great yards around the world had been doing it for years: champion horses, horses like Fierce Temper, could charge fifty, a hundred thousand pounds a time to sire a mare. They stood to earn stud fees that would run into millions, making the purses they had won this season look like pocket money.

      The almost sexual thrill of expectation coursing through Oswald’s body was delicious. He couldn’t rely on his daughters to maintain the Balcon legacy in the appropriate manner; he knew it was going to be down to him and how shrewdly he played the game. He looked out greedily onto the city below. In the streetlights he could just make out Nicholas Charlesworth, Finbar and Declan disappearing into a Bentley for their frivolous night on the town. They all thought they were so clever, but of course it was Oswald who had all the big ideas around here. And he was having one now. An idea popped into his head that made his body twitch and made him feel sick with anticipation. Yes, it was good. This was going to work. And this was going to be his year.