Syndicate

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I was hardly daring to breathe, not wanting to move even an inch, but my heart was beating so fast I feared it would burst clean out of my chest.

Come on. Come on.

I didn’t so much say it as think it.

Come on. Hang on. You can do it.

The pounding in my chest increased both in rate and in intensity.

Epsom Downs. The first Saturday in June. The Derby.

‘Whatever happens, don’t be late. Our first guests will be arriving at seven, and you have to be here, dressed and ready. And please try to remain sober.’

My wife of twenty-five years, Georgina, was leaning over the banister at the top of the stairs.

I looked up at her. ‘Yes, dear.’

Whose crazy idea had it been for us to hold a party on Derby Day?

Mine probably, but nearly a year ago, when we’d booked the marquee and the caterers, I hadn’t been expecting to own the favourite for the race. And today was our actual silver wedding anniversary, so it had been an obvious choice.

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