‘Green dress, green shoes, Kimberley’s mum’s hat.’ Maddy gave a beatific smile. ‘Exactly what I was wearing before.’

‘And this?’ Frank flicked at the pink and grey corsage. ‘Gypsies don’t sell flowers in the Pedersen colours, Mad. So, who, exactly, does this belong to?’

Maddy bit her lip. ‘Drew gave it to me. Isn’t it pretty?’

Fran narrowed her eyes. ‘You mean, you and Drew were cavorting – here?’

‘Well, not cavorting as such. We just fell off someone’s Rolls-Royce and –’

‘And missed the Coronation Cup. The two of you managed to miss an entire race.’

‘Who won?’

‘Michael Hills,’ Fran hissed. ‘Luke and Richard were nowhere. I needed you.’

‘I’m here now.’ Maddy squeezed Fran as close as their hats allowed. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh, sod it. I’m being selfish,’ Fran sniffed. ‘Did you and Drew have a nice time?’

‘Lovely, thanks.’

Fran surveyed her quizzically. ‘Maddy, are you and Drew …?’

‘No, of course not.’ Maddy smiled.

‘You lucky bitch,’ Fran breathed. ‘And?’

‘Amazing. Magical. Out of this world – and if you mention it to anyone, I’ll throttle you.’

‘As if,’ Fran said, wondering who she could tell first.

The Derby parade had started, the nineteen runners and riders stalking down the course in front of the Grandstand in race card and alphabetical order. Luke on Jefferson Jet was therefore some way ahead of Richard on Saratoga Sun, but in Mitchell D’Arcy’s apricot and black colours, the only thing that distinguished them was their different caps.

Suzy must be bursting with pride, and probably frantic with nerves, Maddy thought. And what Diana was going through was anyone’s guess. Both Richard and Luke, however, looked cool and imperturbable. So far so good. At least with that many horses between them and an audience of thousands, they could hardly start brawling. Clutching Fran’s trembling fingers, she settled down to watch the race.

‘They’re off!’

The cry hung in the air alone for an infinite moment, instantly followed by a feral roar from across the downs that lifted the hairs on the back of Maddy’s neck. The noise was incredible as the horses streamed forward.

‘I can’t look.’ Fran squeezed her nails into Maddy’s hand. ‘Tell me when it’s over.’

Maddy focused on the two apricot and black riders somewhere in the middle of the field, watching them on the screen as they flowed away in the distance. They must have already covered the first half mile and were cresting the hill. Maddy could hear nothing above the tidal wave of screamed encouragement.

‘They’re at Tattenham Corner,’ she yelled in Fran’s ear. ‘For Christ’s sake, look!’

‘Can’t,’ Fran muttered, shivering. ‘Who’s winning?’

‘No one. Well, they’re all bunched up. The lead keeps changing – oh!’

‘What?’ Fran was practically drawing blood.

‘They’re racing neck and neck now, and there’s two of the Arab’s horses up there too …’