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so intently, she wondered if it had slipped back, revealing her bad eye. She knew it when the woman said, ‘You have had an accident, perhaps?’
    ‘I tripped getting out of my automobile.’
    ‘And you were in Paris recently?’
    ‘I . . . um . . . not that recently.’
    ‘Because your hat comes from La Passerinette, in boulevard de la Madeleine.’
    Cora felt the ground shift. How did the woman know? ‘Boulevard . . . as you say. I don’t always wear my own hats.’
    ‘Why not? Surely, at the Epsom races, a good milliner wears her own designs.’
    ‘No.’ Cora dug for a credible reason. ‘I’m here incognito. That’s why I’m not in the members’ enclosure. Ladies are always wanting the hat off my head.’ Only she said ‘’at off my ’ead’. An egg, a bloody egg.
    ‘If you are well known, I will have heard of you. What is your name?’
    She could have said Cora Masson. But ‘Cora’ had always felt like a charwoman’s name and ‘Masson’ was marred by her dad’s knuckles and his drunken breath. A swift glance at the runners’ board showed her Le Grand Duc at odds of 100 to nine. When he wanted to impress the butcher or the coalman, her father had his bills sent to ‘Jacques Masson de Lirac’, claiming descent from some ancient French dukedom. If he could pretend, so could she. ‘My name is Coralie de Lirac.’ ‘Coralie’ had been her mother’s pet name for her.
    ‘You have a card?’ the woman asked.
    ‘A race card?’
    ‘Business card. I am curious about this La Passerinette hat. I have – I had – one very similar and would like to know if somebody is copying it.’
    Anticipating questions she couldn’t answer, Cora improvised, ‘I dropped my cards when I fell out my motor-car but tell me your address and I’ll send you one in the post.’ The anticipated snub finally arrived.
    ‘One presents cards only to social equals. Dietrich,’ the woman touched her companion’s arm, ‘I am very bored now. Take me away.’
    Donal chose that moment to return, clutching jars of ginger beer and two paper parcels reeking of fried onion.
    ‘Extra mustard, Cora!’ he shouted, over the heads of the crowd. ‘By the way, some geezer in the queue reckoned the Kentucky horse is a banker.’ Reading her crushed expression, he stared hard at the departing man in immaculate morning dress, the lady in her silver fur, and blared, ‘Ruddy hell, they didn’t try to pickpocket you, did they?’
    Cora took a long swig of ginger beer. Its sweet gassiness made her feel empty and sick at the same time. Too long since breakfast. Donal pointed at the runners’ board. ‘Perifox. He’s the one.’ When she sniffed, he said, ‘He’s an American champ, goes like a bullet.’
    ‘If he’s come over on an Atlantic liner, he’ll be wanting a lie-down. Epsom’s a rogue’s course. Any horse can win if it’s ridden well and has a bit of luck. I’m backing Mid-day Sun.’
    Dropping fried onion in shock, Donal listed all the reasons why she was idiotic, ending with ‘ And he’s owned by a woman. Women don’t win classic races.’
    ‘She isn’t running, is she? She’s not riding either. She just owns him.’
    Donal’s face closed. ‘Women don’t own Derby winners.’
    ‘Says who?’
    ‘Everyone.’ He cast his head from side to side, searching for a reason. ‘Women can’t buy the best horses – they never have enough money. And men won’t sell them good horses because women pick horses like they pick hats. They want the chestnuts and the greys or the ones they feel sorry for. It’s a man’s game. Men ride, men train, men win.’
    That sounded like life in a nutshell, but Cora flicked a speck of mustard into Donal’s face. ‘Times are changing.’ I could be a supervisor at Pettrew & Lofthouse, on two hundred pounds a year . And a woman could be leading the winner into the ring in half an hour’s time. Anything can happen. She belched delicately behind her hand, the ginger beer doing its