Challenge 5 – characters sitting down to eat together
The morning brought with it no repercussions from the late night activities. Western cursed heartily from the kitchen, bemoaning the limited breakfast options. The phone rang persistently, trainers looking to book Pete and enquire after his health. His health, battered as it was by nerves and lack of sleep, would see him back in the saddle – Jockey Club medical officer willing – within the week. Satisfied, the phone calls petered out. Western’s abuse did not.
‘For all its faults, The Golden Lion makes this place seem like the Black Hole of Calcutta,’ he complained, staring into the fridge as though will power alone would magically stock it.
‘There’s toast, cereals, eggs…’ Pete suggested.
‘Cornflakes! And what shall I put on them – this watered down excuse for milk…’ he picked up the small wax carton, the lack of weight a reasonable indication of its content, ‘…or some Lanson? It’ll have to be the bubbly, won’t it – seeing as how you haven’t even got enough milk for a decent cup of tea!’
‘Porridge,’ Pete offered, deliberately winding him up, ‘you make it with water.’
‘No, you make it with water. The rest of us use milk.’ He closed the door disdainfully. ‘Fuck, I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation! Who eats porridge anyway? Horses eat oats – we eat sausages and bacon and fried eggs.’ He delved back into the fridge and retrieved a couple of eggs and some tomatoes. ‘Have you even got a frying pan?’
‘That drawer, under the cooker.’
He bent down and found salvation. ‘Want some?’
‘I’d kill for some, but I’ll probably be riding Monday.’
Western gave him a sideways glance. ‘You would, as well – I’ve seen you in action. No one fucks with Pete Allen!’
The kitchen was soon filled with the aroma of frying bread, eggs and tomatoes.
‘Ever been to Istanbul for the Turkish Derby?’ Pete asked Western, sitting at the table with well-buttered toast; Monday still just far enough off.
‘Christ, yeah. It wouldn’t kill them to use a frying pan in the morning, either! Cucumber for breakfast! You lot would have been in your element.’
‘I won it, you know. I’ve ridden three Derby winners.’
‘Turkish, German and Italian?’
‘Turkish, Norwegian and Italian.’
‘Not exactly Epsom.’
‘No, not exactly. Life’s a bitch, eh?’
Western buttered a slice of bread, mopping up the remains on his breakfast plate. ‘Yours is. When exactly did you decide to flush it down the pan?’ He ate the bread, his stare fixed firmly on Pete. ‘Come on, the low-down, now – fast cars, fast women and a betting account, when did they hook you? Is it the price of fame and wealth?’
‘The price of fame and wealth!’ Pete laughed. ‘You sound like a tabloid headline. Are you scratching for a story?’
‘I’m always scratching for a story. And I’m interested. You really don’t seem like the flash bugger we always took you for.’
‘Cheers, mate. You’re every bit the fat gutter pressman we always took you for. Just less of a bastard.’
‘Can I quote you on that?!’
‘Quote me on anything you like!’
Western laughed and sat back, sipping a nearly-black tea distastefully. ‘I believed you, you know – the other evening at York when you protested your innocence. No one’s ever deliberately stopped a horse, even though we chase the myth every day of the week. It would be the scoop of the century. But why did your career nosedive and how come you’re topping the current most wanted?’
Pete smiled. ‘You see – that’s the journalist in you. You know it’s a myth but you still dig for that connection.’
‘Is there one?’
Pete shrugged. ‘I suppose so. If I hadn’t blown it in the big league I wouldn’t have needed to start gambling. And If I hadn’t started gambling I wouldn’t have got my name linked with bookies and players.’
‘Did you blow it by selling info’?’
‘Piss off, Westy! I didn’t blow it at all. It was your lot, and the TV crowd. Too young for the responsibility. Wouldn’t be a match for the top riders without the apprentice’s allowance. Too inexperienced for such a big retainer. The usual hysteria. If the Marchant horses had been firing on all cylinders, the headlines would have come to nothing; I’d have gone from Champion Apprentice to Champion Jockey in a single season. Every jockey who rides for Nick Marchant wins the Championship.’
‘Except you.’
Gala Day