Half an hour later I was on the road back home to Lambourn, leaving a bemused police officer and a posse of journalists behind me. The courts, or for that matter the front pages of the tabloids, were the last places I wanted to air my troubles. It wasn't the first time Edward had assaulted me, but it was certainly going to be the last. Now, looking back over the past few months, I still found it hard to believe that our marriage had deteriorated so dramatically. But there was no point pretending we could get back to normal after this.
Edward had never had a job since I'd known him, but always seemed to have plenty of ready cash, which he claimed was an inheritance from his grandfather. Then gradually the money seemed to be lasting for shorter and shorter periods as his gambling increased and he'd begun to drink heavily.
He refused to tell me how much he owed but the quantity of whisky he was putting away each night made me think that the situation was becoming serious. Luckily for us, I was now beginning to get some decent rides and had taken over paying all of the bills.
Then one night, he came home drunk and calling me all the names under the sun. We hadn't had an argument, so there was no reason for his bad temper and, at first, I thought it was just one of his stupid pranks and that a few of his mates would follow him in and begin laughing. But then suddenly he lashed out with his fist and caught me on the cheek, knocking me to the floor. I was terrified and tried to scramble to my feet but as I did so he walked over to me and kicked me twice in the stomach. As I dropped back to the floor, completely winded and gasping for air, he swore at me a few more times and went upstairs.
I'd had plenty of falls whilst I was riding and I thought I was pretty tough, but being beaten up by my own husband shocked me more than I thought possible.
As I got my breath back and pulled myself onto a chair, my legs turned to jelly and I began to tremble. I sat wondering what to do. My first instinct was to go upstairs, collect our little boy, Freddie, and leave. Go anywhere; I didn't know where, but just go. The only problem was where could I go with a child at eleven o'clock at night without everybody knowing what had happened?
My mother lived over sixty miles away, at Wincanton, and anyway she had enough worries of her own without me adding to them. Since I'd left home to become an apprentice jockey, after a brief period as a cub reporter, nothing had gone right for her. First of all, my father had run off with another woman and left her to manage the farm on her own, but that had probably been a blessing. He had treated her like a skivvy for years. Then her eldest sister had been paralysed in a car accident that had killed her husband. Mum insisted on nursing her at home herself even though it hadn't been easy for her, and although I had sent money home for her every week, I knew that she struggled to make ends meet. I was an only child and felt guilty that I hadn't given up my apprenticeship and gone home to help her, but I was just beginning to get a few rides. I'd also just started going out with Edward. He was tall and well built, with jet black hair brushed straight back and the darkest eyes I had ever seen. He was also very amusing and, so he was always boasting, very rich. His father was Sir Gerald Pryde, one of the most able High Court judges presently sitting on the Bench, and the man tipped to become the next Lord Chief Justice.
Edward and I had met at the annual Jockeys' Dance at Newbury. I'd gone with James Thackeray, an old friend and a journalist for the Sportsman newspaper. He had introduced me to Edward just after the meal had ended and we'd spent the rest of the evening together dancing and talking. We didn't make love that first night but it hadn't been through any lack of trying on Edward's part, or wanting on mine. It was just a matter of nice girls riot doing that sort of thing.
All of this happened on a Saturday evening and my 'niceness' lasted until about three o'clock the following afternoon, when, after having had a good lunch in a local pub, we spent the rest of the day in bed in Edward's cottage. From that moment on, we had been inseparable and were married six months later on Derby Day.
Unfortunately, Edward's parents disliked me intensely. It had been perfectly all right for him to go out and sleep with an apprentice jockey – even his mother accepted that her darling son would need to sow some wild oats – but to marry one and then father a child was beyond the pale. Still, at least we'd had a boy.
In the end, after that first assault, I decided to stay. I went upstairs and got into bed with Freddie but slept fitfully.
The following morning I crept out of bed and went to ride out for Ralph. My jaw was still sore, but it was a Tuesday and a work morning for the horses and I knew I would be needed.
When I returned Edward was already up. As I walked through the kitchen door, he rushed towards me holding something behind his back and I stood frozen in terror. As he brought his arm forward, I had never been so pleased to see a bunch of daffodils in my life. Edward put his arms around me, begging my forgiveness. But I would not be able to forget what he had done and knew things could never be the same between us again.
I told him it was time he found a job and pulled himself together, and for a little while he really did try. He didn't find a job as such, but at least he made an effort to help in the cottage, and cut out the drinking completely. Even Mrs Parsons, who came up from the village to look after Freddie for me while I was riding, commented on how much happier everything seemed.
Then one afternoon I came home from visiting my mother with Freddie and found Edward slouched in the chair with an empty bottle of whisky by his side. He immediately began shouting at me and Freddie clutched my skirt and began to cry. I told him not to worry and tried to send him upstairs, but he refused to go.
'You're going to help me out with my little problem,' Edward slurred, pointing his finger at me.
'It's not me you need, it's a doctor,' I replied, but he carried on. He saw my recent riding success as a way of getting 'out of bother' as he so delicately put it. 1 reminded him that jockeys gave notoriously bad tips and I was no exception but he just laughed and told me to wait and see.
I didn't have to wait long.
Three days later, just as I was getting dressed to go and ride out for Ralph, Edward called me over to his side of the bed. I was surprised to hear his voice as he usually slept to mid morning.
'I don't want you to win today,' he commanded.
'What are you on about?' I answered, trying to keep my voice down so as not to wake Freddie.
'I don't want you to win,' he repeated, grabbing my wrist.
'Thanks for your support, but if you don't mind, I do!' I tried without success to pull my arm free from his grip.
'Listen to me, you silly bitch.' Edward now sat up in bed, pulled me down towards him and started slapping me about the face.
'I want you to lose. Get it? Is that clear?'
His breath was foul with a mixture of alcohol and nicotine from the night before and his voice had taken on a menacing tone.
'This horse of Ralph's you're riding this afternoon at Worcester is going to be well backed but if you so much as look like winning I'll give you a hiding you'll never forget.'
He stopped hitting me and pushed me away. His eyes were wild with anger. Terrified of waking Freddie and afraid of being beaten further, I tried to reason with him.
'Don't be so stupid. If the stewards catch me and I lose my licence what the hell do you think we're going to live on?'
'Don't worry about the stewards. They're taken care of. It's about time you did your bit to help me out of my present difficulties.'
He grabbed me again and hauled me onto the bed. He no longer made any attempt to restrain his temper.
'You're going to do as I say. If Fainthearted wins today I'll not only give you a good hiding but I'll leave you and take the kid with me, and then apply for custody in the courts. After that, you'll have to leave the cottage. I don't somehow think that the word of a woman jockey, who spends every day at the races and leaves the upbringing of her child to a middle-aged cleaning woman from the village, would prevail over that of the son of a High Court judge when it comes to a decision about custody.'
Before I could reply, Freddie came in crying. As I picked him up and looked at him, I realised that for the moment I had no option.
I will never forget that afternoon at Worcester and the very first occasion in my life when I actually stopped a horse winning. Even then, it so nearly didn't go according to plan. Coming to the last and ignoring all my efforts to discourage him, Fainthearted was only a length behind the leader. To make matters worse, I was sitting with a double handful and I could have won almost without moving a muscle. Desperate measures were called for. I pushed him into the hurdle and really asked for a big one and then at the last moment deliberately changed my mind. He was completely confused and fell through the hurdle, breaking the top two bars and losing his balance with his back legs as he landed. I did nothing to help him and let the leader go as far away as I could before giving the impression to everyone in the stands that I was making a heroic effort to get back up to win. In fact we failed by a length.
Far from suspecting that I had been up to no good, Ralph was full of praise for the way I had managed to stay on board and comforted himself with the reflection that Fainthearted was nailed on next time out. The punters were less sympathetic. They had backed the horse down to 5-2 favourite and I had to listen to the usual cracks about how female jockeys ought to stick to the kitchen sink and bringing up children. If they had only known the real reason they had lost their money, they would have lynched me, woman or not.
It was now three months since that race and in the meantime my relationship with Edward had deteriorated even further. For the first time in years he had become interested in how I spent my day, cross-examining me in detail about whom I had seen and what I had done. Sometimes I felt he already knew the answers and was just trying to catch me out. One thing was clear. This sudden curiosity was not born of any desire to make our marriage work, as he took endless pleasure in ridiculing my friends and belittling my performances in the saddle. I had become a caged bird – to be played with and taunted with no chance of escape.
As I drove down the tricky Hungerford Hill into Lambourn my elation at winning the Gold Cup had given way to a profound sense of foreboding. However I viewed the future for Freddie and myself, it was shrouded in gloom. Edward was not going to forgive this afternoon's betrayal. Since that Worcester race he had made no secret of the fact that I now had to do what he ordered and each night before I had a fancied mount I went to sleep dreaming that I would wake up to be given the instruction not to try. In fact it had only happened on one other occasion, and I had duly caused the nominated horse to fall in a novice chase at Fontwell.
Little had I suspected that he had been saving up for the Gold Cup, the one race that every jockey dreams of winning. I could hardly believe my ears when he had casually mentioned the subject the night before as I turned off the light beside the bed. I had begged him not to make me do it, offering to cheat as often as he wanted in the future, but he just shook his head and laughed.
'I'm sorry, old girl, it's no good. You see, this is the big one, when I solve all my financial problems at a stroke. A touch of genius, I'd call it.'
'But why the Gold Cup?' I asked despairingly. 'I can't see how it makes any difference to you when I throw a race.'
'You wouldn't, would you? Think of all those greedy sods who'll be backing Cartwheel, believing he's going to win, and only you, me and one or two friends of mine knowing that it's the one certainty in the race that won't finish.'
'Who are these so-called friends? They're bookmakers, aren't they? I get it. They can afford to offer generous odds on Cartwheel if they know he's bound to lose. It's a licence to print money. I won't do it.'
If I didn't lose, he said, the game was up. He would expose me and take Freddie away. When I countered by saying that he would also be exposed, he roared with laughter.
'You're bloody naive, aren't you? There's nothing to link me to your dishonesty, but plenty to nail you. I took the precaution of paying a thousand pounds cash into your post office account after both Fontwell and Worcester. When, acting out of public duty, I tell my friends at the Jockey Club about the money, and they then take another look at the patrol films of those races, you can wave goodbye to your licence and that darling son of yours. Freddie!' he called out.
'Shh! What the hell do you want to wake him up for?' I asked angrily.
'So you can look at him for the last time. I'm sure my mother will be delighted to let us stay with them pending the court proceedings.'
'You're mad. He's your son as well, you know. Don't you love him too?'
'I suppose so, but to be honest I love myself a great deal more.'
I arrived home from Cheltenham at about six-thirty, to find Freddie still finishing his tea. He was so excited to see me that I put aside my fears and threw myself into playing games with him for the next hour. We were building a space station with his Lego set when the phone rang. It was a man's voice on the line, one I didn't recognise, flat and very matter-of-fact. He asked for Edward Pryde.
'I'm sorry, he's not back from Cheltenham. Can I give him a message?'
There was no response at the other end.
'Hello? Is anyone there? Who is this?' I wasn't in the mood for an obscene phone call or a practical joke.
'My name's not important. You must be Mrs Pryde. I thought you rode a very gutsy race today. A great shame, though, about the result. Could you just tell your husband there are one or two very upset people around who'd like a word with him?'
The line went dead. The vultures were beginning to gather.
The proposed carcass did not arrive home until the early hours of the morning. After putting Freddie to bed I had been inundated with phone calls from friends congratulating me on my victory and journalists trying to obtain further information on the attack in the paddock after the race. I just blamed it all on a disgruntled punter, which in one way of looking at it was true, and said that as far as I was concerned the incident was closed.
I had been in bed for well over two hours, going over the race in my mind again and again to stop me thinking about the confrontation ahead, when I heard the sound of Edward's Jaguar pulling up outside. Through the crack in the curtains I saw the headlights go out. My heartbeat began to quicken as the key turned in the lock of the front door. He usually poured himself a nightcap before coming to bed and I listened for the sound of his footsteps as he walked to the dining-room where the whisky was kept. Only this time there was silence, save for the tick of the alarm clock beside the bed. Edward was down there all right, but where and what he was doing I had no idea. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the door, opening it gently, just a little. The light was on in the kitchen and I could hear the kettle puffing as it boiled. Presumably he was making himself a cup of coffee to sober himself up. I went back to bed and waited.
It must have been a good ten minutes before he came up the stairs, taking each step deliberately as if he was afraid of falling over. I thought of getting up and pushing him back down again in the hope he'd break his neck. Death by misadventure they would call it. I just didn't have the courage. He came to a halt outside the door and paused for what seemed an eternity. I could bear it no longer.
'Edward. Is that you?' I asked pointlessly.
He responded by throwing open the door and hurling a pan of boiling water towards me in the bed.
I was lucky he was so drunk. Most of the water hit the wall behind, although some splashed on my shoulder and neck and part of my forehead. I screamed in pain and rushed past him into the bathroom and locked the door. Heart pounding, I listened to see if Freddie had woken up but fortunately there was no sound from him. For the next ten minutes I stood under a cold shower cooling off my shoulder and wondering what I should do next. I decided my only option was to sit on the floor and wait there until Edward had fallen asleep.
About half an hour later, I could make out the sound of snoring. I tiptoed into the spare room, took his shotgun from under the bed and loaded it with two cartridges from the ammunition belt he kept above the wardrobe. I then returned to the bedroom and sat down in the rocking chair beside the window and watched him. If he woke up and threatened me or Freddie I was going to blow him away.
It seemed unlikely to happen. He was out to the world. He lay there in front of me on his back, still in his checked racing suit, his mouth open, occasionally muttering incomprehensible half sentences punctuated by the odd tobacco-inspired cough. It was strange, almost unbelievable, to think that once upon a time I had thought him beautiful and wanted no more than to caress his soft skin and run my fingers through his thick dark curly hair. All I could see now, as I rocked back and forth, was a countenance ravaged by greed and deceit, rounded off by a lascivious mouth, which was about as sensual as an adder's tongue. And I just wished I had enough courage to pull the trigger and shoot him dead.
Despite my attempts to stay awake, I dozed off to a barrage of disjointed dreams and woke up at seven with the loaded shotgun balanced precariously across my knees. Edward was still lying comatose on the bed and at least that meant I could avoid any further scene for a few hours. I certainly didn't delude myself that the boiling water would be his final gesture of frustration and anger. Luckily, I had agreed to school some horses over at Wantage and three quarters of an hour later, after dressing Freddie and leaving him with Mrs Parsons in the village, I arrived at Tom Radcliffe's yard. It was, as usual, bustling with activity and Tom himself was waiting to greet me.
'Hail the conquering hero!' he shouted. 'We were worried that now you've ridden the winner of the Gold Cup you might consider schooling a couple of novice chasers beneath your dignity.'
I grinned. 'Well, I must admit I was tempted to go back to sleep after the butler served me breakfast in bed, but then I thought I'd better help out a poor struggling trainer.'
Tom grinned and hugged me and as he did so I almost burst into tears. He was big and slightly overweight but as strong as an ox, and after what Edward had done I suddenly needed to feel safe.
In fact, Tom was anything but struggling. In the five years he had held a licence he had sent out a continual stream of winners and was now one of the top trainers in the country. What's more, he had achieved his success without the backing of rich parents or social connections.
He'd had a few rides as an apprentice jockey but by his own admission was never very good and had soon given up. It was then he was offered a job as travelling head lad to Ron Cox, who trained over a hundred horses on the flat in Newmarket, and Tom had never looked back. He'd been blessed with a gift for understanding horses and knew exactly what distances and going they preferred but, more importantly, he could tell to the minute when they were right.
In no time at all he had made quite a lot of money by backing Cox's horses and word of his success soon spread around the small world of the racing industry. He then found that he no longer had to risk his own money. Punters were actually putting money on for him in return for information. In his first flat season Tom had won or earned over £15,000 from betting, but his success was beginning to cause friction between himself and his boss. Word was going around that if you wanted to know how one of the horses from Ron Cox's was likely to run, you asked Tom and not the trainer.
The situation came to a head the following spring in the first big flat race of the season, the Lincoln Handicap at Doncaster. Ron had entered a four-year-old bay colt called Tuneful, which Tom had been riding out at home throughout the winter. He could tell that the horse had grown much stronger during the off-season and had been backing it through his punters since early February, when the horse had begun to work well at home. Tom calculated that he would win the best part of £100,000 if Tuneful did the business, but then two days before the race, Ron declared that the horse wouldn't run because he didn't think that it was fit enough. They had had a stand-up row in the middle of the yard and Tom had taken the liberty of telephoning the horse's owner and offering to refund his entry fee and all of his travelling costs if the horse didn't win. That had been enough to persuade the owner and the horse had duly taken his chance and won in a photo-finish from another Newmarket-trained horse.
Tom didn't wait to be given the sack. He handed his notice in and with his winnings moved to Wantage and set up as a trainer on his own. He knew that he couldn't afford to buy the type of horses needed to compete successfully on the flat, and for that reason had concentrated on the National Hunt game. He'd begun with twelve horses, owned mostly by his original band of punters, but now trained over seventy horses owned by some of the most respected people in the country.
Tom stood for everything Edward most resented, although perversely, it was Edward who had been one of the first to recognise his ability. And at a time when he had been flush with money, he had been one of the initial owners to send Tom a horse. The horse had been a novice hurdler called Without Prejudice and had won his first three races by a distance. It looked as though he might one day be good enough to run in the Champion Hurdle, and Edward was offered a lot of money for him, but after much debating Tom had persuaded Edward to keep the horse. It was sod's law that on his very next run the horse had broken down and Edward had, of course, blamed Tom. Poor Tom. He had understandably felt guilty about what had happened and had waived six months' unpaid training fees, but Edward had still remained convinced that somehow he'd been cheated. Thereafter, he'd devoted himself to bad-mouthing Tom around the racecourse, happily to no avail, and Tom had continued to give me rides.
'Hey, what's this?' Tom had noticed the marks on my neck. 'I read about the cut to your lip, but how did this happen?' He eyed me suspiciously as if he already knew the answer.
'It's nothing. A silly accident last night when I was frying some chips,' I lied clumsily.
'Frying chips? Who are you kidding? I know you don't have a weight problem and that rosy complexion hasn't come from eating greasy food. You never eat chips and you know it.'
'They were for Edward.'
'What? Do you mean that he didn't even have the decency to take you out to dinner to celebrate? Typical. Or perhaps he had nothing to celebrate. I saw him in the Mandarin bar immediately after your victory and he didn't look best pleased. Sick more like. That husband of yours couldn't back the winner of a walk-over and there's a rumour going round that he really is in bother this time. That kind of talk doesn't do you much good either.'
'What do you mean?'
'Gambling debts breed crooked jockeys.'
I looked at him and wondered whether he knew more than he was letting on. I decided to change the subject. 'Where are these horses I'm meant to be schooling?' I turned to walk towards the boxes and as I did so Tom grabbed hold of my arm.
'Hey, Victoria, not so fast.' He pointed again at my neck. 'He did that, didn't he? Don't answer then. And all this stuff in the papers about a disgruntled punter attacking you. That was him as well, wasn't it? I'm beginning to think this has gone on long enough. If I get my hands on that bastard I'm…'
The tears began to well up in my eyes.
'Please, Tom, don't. I can't stand any more trouble at the moment. If anyone is going to have the pleasure of killing Edward, I want it to be me.'
I turned round to see Tom's head lad, Jamie Brown, standing there with a riding helmet in his hand. I had no idea how long he had been listening and frankly, in my present mood, I really didn't care.
After an hour's schooling, I was desperate for something to eat and readily accepted Tom's invitation to breakfast. He'd had a couple of steady girlfriends but had so far managed to escape marriage, largely due to a middle-aged Scots dragon called Mrs Drummond. It was rumoured that she terrified everybody in the yard, including even the head lad, and she had certainly succeeded in driving away a number of girls who fancied turning Tom's stables into a love nest. Because I was married, and happily so far as she was concerned, Mrs Drummond always gave me a warm welcome. That my grandmother also came from Inverness was an additional factor in my favour.
We sat down to an enormous helping of bacon and eggs and Tom tried hard to make me laugh by reading out loud from the morning's edition of the Sportsman. Staring out from the front page was a picture of yours truly, grinning in her racing silks, and beside it the banner headline proclaimed: 'PRYDE'S VICTORY COMES BEFORE A FALL'
'What a dreadful pun!' said Tom. 'I can't believe they actually pay someone to write this rubbish.'
'It's probably one of James Thackeray's. He loves that kind of thing.'
Tom chuckled. 'That clown! The only literary thing about him is his surname. Listen to this piece of purple prose:
"Yet again the Blue Riband of racing produced a sensational climax to the festival meeting. Under an inspired, if not always elegant, ride from dashing professional Victoria Pryde, Cartwheel put his nose in front on the line to rob Irish hotpot, Pride of Limerick, of victory. But the drama didn't end there. No sooner were they past the post and disappointed Irish punters heading for the bar, than a stewards' inquiry was announced. Thousands of anxious racegoers held their breath and their betting slips for what seemed an eternity as the stewards, led by Brigadier-General Allsopp, decided whether Pryde should keep the race and earn herself a place in the history books as the first woman to ride the winner of the Gold Cup. Irish maestro Eamon Brennan, rider of Pride of Limerick, was confident that the placings would be reversed, claiming that Victoria's inability to keep a straight line had cost his mount the Cup. The stewards thought otherwise, and all those who snapped up the generous 5-1 on offer on Cartwheel were soon celebrating their good judgment. Unfortunately for Victoria, her joy was short-lived. Returning to change after being interviewed on television, she was struck to the ground by an unidentified man and, as a result, left the course nursing a cut lip. The police are investigating the assault, which they believe to have been committed by a disgruntled punter."
'Disgruntled punter!' Tom put the paper down and snorted. 'On that basis, there must be at least two million suspects. I'm surprised to see that Cartwheel started as long as 5-1.'
'I suppose it must have been because of all that money on Pride of Limerick. You know how the Irish pile in when their blood's up.'
Tom nodded. 'I suppose so, but even then you don't tend to find the bookies being that much more generous about the opposition. Sometimes I think we're in the wrong business. Let's see what the betting report says.' He turned to one of the inside pages of the paper, which always carried a short summary of the betting on every race. 'Here, look at this. "One of the features of yesterday's race was the generous odds laid on Cartwheel. One rails bookmaker is rumoured to have laid the horse to lose over a quarter of a million pounds." There's one person, then, who doesn't have you as his pin-up.'
I smiled nervously and wondered whether there could be any connection between that unnamed bookmaker, my less than happy husband and the previous night's phone call. It was a subject that for the moment I wanted to put out of my mind.
I had been booked to ride a novice chaser for Ralph Elgar that afternoon at Lingfield and with the heavy overnight rain there was a chance he had decided not to risk him. I asked Tom if I could give Ralph a ring and find out what was going on.
He waved me to the phone: 'It's all yours. Tell him you've decided to spend the day with a real trainer.'
Ralph answered almost before the tone had rung out. 'Victoria?' he boomed. 'Thank God! Where the hell are you? I've been trying to get hold of you all morning. Your husband claimed to have no idea where you were and gave me an earful for waking him up so early.'
'I'm sorry. I'm down at Tom Radcliffe's, doing a bit of schooling.'
'It's Edward you should be schooling, in some manners.'
I chose to ignore the jibe. 'Is Lingfield still on?' I asked.
'The racing is, but Mainbrace isn't running. I've checked with the Clerk of the Course and as the going's so heavy we're allowed to withdraw without incurring a penalty. I've discussed it with the owner and she's not prepared to take the chance. That means you've got a day off and if you want my advice, and you're going to get it anyway, you won't spend it with that rascal Radcliffe.'
'Don't be so cruel. He's very nice really. In fact, I'm going off any minute to see a friend in London.'
'London? That's the last place you'd catch me spending a free day. Ah well, it takes all sorts. Make sure you look after yourself: you know you're my favourite girl jockey!'
'I know, and I'm also your only girl jockey!'
I put the phone down and smiled at Tom. 'Good old Ralph. I owe him so much.'
'Dirty beast. I reckon he's got a soft spot for you.'
'Who, Ralph? Don't be ridiculous! He's twice my age.'
'When's that ever stopped anybody? By the way, who's this friend you're going to see in London? Is he anyone I know?'
'That'd be telling. But for your information, it's a she.'
I drove to Didcot station and took the next train to town. An hour and a half later, I was sitting in the lounge of the Waldorf Hotel in the Aldwych having coffee with Amy Frost, an up and coming solicitor and old school friend. Even though she had been against my marrying Edward and studiously avoided his company ever since, Amy had remained loyal and supportive to me and if anybody could help me now it was going to be she. I told her the whole story, beginning with the Worcester race and ending with the previous night's attack with the boiling water. She listened impassively, even making the occasional note on a jotting pad perched on her shapely crossed legs.
'So there it is,' I concluded. 'My husband's a vicious and egotistical lunatic who is knee-deep in debt and it seems I can't leave him without losing custody of my child. Is he really right when he says the courts would prefer him to look after Freddie rather than me?'
Amy picked up her coffee. 'It's not quite as simple as that. I suppose you've seen the announcement in this morning's papers?'
'No, why? I read the Sportsman on the train and planned how I could do away with my husband without being caught. Weedkiller ought to do the trick.'
'I'll treat that as a joke. It's your beloved father-in-law. He's just been appointed Lord Chief Justice, probably the most important legal job in the land.'
'Is that as bad as it sounds?'
'From your point of view, it couldn't be much worse. I can't somehow see the Lord Pryde, as he will now be called, sitting back and watching his son lose custody of the heir to the family name.'
'Nor can I. I can just picture Lady Pryde turning up in court to say what a decent loving chap her son has always been, forced to stay at home and care for Freddie while I gallivant about the country riding racehorses.'
'Hold on, Victoria, it's not that hopeless. There is some justice in this world. However impressive Edward's pedigree, it'll end up being your word against his and if you can show him to be an outright scoundrel you'll win custody even if his father's the Pope, if you know what I mean.'
'Isn't that a bit of a problem – and I'm not referring to the Pope! I'd have to come clean on all this horse fixing business and surely the courts aren't going to be that attracted to a self-confessed crooked jockey?'
Amy looked genuinely worried. 'I'm afraid you could be right. What's more, if that found its way to the Jockey Club you'd lose your licence and in the present climate might even end up on a conspiracy to defraud charge. I'm sorry I'm not being very helpful.'
'It's not your fault. I didn't expect any miracle solution. What about divorce? Would my position be any different?'
'It could be if you were the complaining party. These days, though, they go in for the consent approach, trying not to talk about blame.'
'There's no way Edward would ever consent. What about unreasonable behaviour?'
'You mean other than the race fixing? You'll have to keep a record from now on every time he hits you and any other disagreeable piece of conduct. Do you still sleep together?'
'He insists on it. Sexual relations, as they say, are virtually non-existent although he hates the idea of anybody else touching me.'
'And have they?'
'Do I have to answer that one?'
She gave me a quizzical look and continued. 'Well, tell me when you feel ready. You see, the courts aren't too keen to find irretrievable breakdown when the husband and wife are still cohabiting. They do sometimes, but it's pretty unusual.'
'So in a nutshell, my position is hopeless.'
'You make me feel terrible. I'm sorry, I just wish you had told me about this earlier. I could see you weren't happy but I didn't want to pry or do the "I told you so" bit.'
'You're the last person I can blame. To be honest, it's an even bigger mess than it seems. Do you mind if I keep in touch? It helps so much, being able to tell someone.'
'You must tell me,' said Amy firmly. 'And something may just turn up.'
'And I thought an optimistic lawyer was a contradiction in terms! Aren't you meant to be back at work? You said something about a meeting at twelve-thirty.'
Amy glanced at her watch and rose to leave. I kissed her, paid the bill and hurried back by taxi to Paddington. All I wanted to do now was see my little boy.