‘We’re getting there.’

‘You want to try that Bruce O’Neill filly in race six. Long odds, but you never know, you might end up with something. Say four-hundred-and-fifty dollars or thereabouts.’

‘I can pick my own horses.’

‘Four-hundred-and-fifty dollars would be a tidy little sum to win. Come in handy for paying off outstanding debts, wouldn’t it?’

‘If anyone owes anyone else that much, I’m sure they’ll settle eventually,’ Angie said. ‘They always do, don’t they?’

‘But they never took so long about it before. Still, you know me, I’m easy going. I’ll even give out more credit if it’s needed, if people want to pop around this evening and pay something off their accounts. After they’ve delivered their little chums back to the sandbox.’

Angie took out her mirror and applied lipstick, adjusted the veil on her hat, and although she looked composed enough, like any girl tidying herself after lunch, Seymour saw that her hands were shaking a little.

‘I won’t be dropping in this evening or any other time,’ she said. ‘I don’t need to. I’ve got my act together now, going really well, you ask anyone.’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘This time’s different. Jas and me, we’re making a real go of it.’

‘From what I heard, young James won’t be around for the next couple of years, will he?’

‘Look, I haven’t got time to sit around talking to you,’ Angie said coldly. ‘I made it clear enough last time. Some people are pretty dense about messages. I won’t be dropping in, but you don’t have to get in a stew about…I’ll send it to you through Rick or Gayle or someone, okay?’

She stood up and the man remained seated, tapping his white fingers lazily on the table top, smiling up at her. Seymour was suddenly filled with animosity so powerful it catapulted him to his feet and around to Angie’s side. He took her hand and tugged her away. The man seemed to have no claim to be part of the sparkling blue and gold day. He was like a mismatched piece of jigsaw puzzle that didn’t belong with the clean animal smell of horses, the turf like a stretch of sea water enclosed by white rails, the sun gilding the passing women in their charming summer clothes.

‘Don’t forget, Debbie,’ the man spoke softly after them. ‘I don’t like my books being out of order.’