‘Chop their paws off. Same with the natives, they won’t do it again.’

Sylvie looked sickened. Freddie raised an eyebrow.

Carberry jerked his thumb in my direction. ‘Speaking of natives, don’t you think this one here could almost pass for one of them? He’s got the thick lips and the crafty eyes.’

‘Is that meant to be an insult?’ Sylvie said icily. She put her hand up to touch her thick, dark hair, and I wondered if anyone had ever made the same comparison with her.

Carberry leered at me. ‘I bet I know what happened. Grandfather probably fucked a slave-girl.’

I’d heard this sort of thing from boys at school, but never from an adult, and my ears burned in shock. I saw Carberry’s face crease up with laughter. Maia looked embarrassed.

Freddie put his hand firmly on my shoulder. ‘See you around, Carberry.’

There was a moment of silence. I could feel Freddie’s fingers gripping me hard.

‘Pompous Brits,’ Carberry said at last. He took Maia by the elbow and steered her away. She looked back at us and mouthed ‘sorry’ over her shoulder. I felt Freddie relax.

Sylvie swung around to face us, eyes black in anger.

‘I know, I know,’ Freddie said, although she hadn’t said anything. ‘I feel sorry for Bubbles.’ He took his hand off me, and I felt a surge of relief – Freddie was still my friend, he’d saved me from Carberry.

‘Are you alright, Theo?’ Sylvie asked.

‘Is he alright?’ Freddie said. ‘I had to physically restrain him, or he might have beaten Carberry to a pulp.’

I looked down and saw my body was shaking, and my hands were in fists. I hadn’t even realised.

The races started just after one pm, by which point my head was pounding from the gin and the closeness of the air. I’d no idea what excuse I could give my mother for staying out so long – that was a problem some other Theo would have to deal with. This Theo sat between Nicolas and Freddie in the grandstand, with Sylvie on Freddie’s other side. First up, Nicolas told me, was the divided pony handicaps. I could barely watch. The thundering of the horses’ hooves as they swept past made my headache a thousand times worse, and I closed my eyes so their blurred forms wouldn’t make me feel too sick. I desperately wanted some water, but no one had offered me any, and it seemed childish to ask.

Next was the jumps racing. Nicolas and Freddie argued good-naturedly over whether it was called steeplechasing or National Hunt racing. I dozed off in my seat, and woke even thirstier than before.

The feature race was the Jardin Lafitte Cup, a 1400m course. Wiley Scot was running.

‘What about a bet on him, Theo?’ Freddie asked. ‘A simple win-bet?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, still sleepy. ‘What are the other horses like?’