The Year of the Woman by Jonathan Gash

numbers trying to tell her something? Perhaps that she ought really to try her hand at blackjack, or even go back to roulette on the second floating casino in Macao? The problem was enough money. If HC wasn’t so wretched a provider she’d have enough money to work a proper gambling system.
    Worse, she just knew that her favourite friend KwanChoi Wah, who’d recently adopted the lucky western name Betty, had won again. She’d doubled her stake, bringing odds of 11-8 against and making it by a neck. If HC wasn’t spineless he’d have his friends (were
any
left?) creep in at midnight and slash the hamstrings of the horses that had lost his wife serious money. She knew two wives whose husbands had exacted that revenge for their loving wives. The priceless thoroughbreds had suffered, serve them right. What was thealternative, she seethed,
reward
failure?
    “Madam.” A Eurasian man was standing nearby. He raised his panama. A young, pleasant man, not one of your race-course louts without tie or jacket.
    “Yes?” she said uncertainly.
    “May I stand nearby, while I select my next bet? I can see you will bring a gentleman superb luck!” He sighed. “I need it badly!”
    His Cantonese was perfect. She gave a sideways glance to see if her friend KwanChoi, the successful Betty, was watching. The newcomer’s manners were impeccable, his clothes expensive, his hands manicured. He wore a diamond tiepin. His shoes looked English handmade. How could a man so rich need luck? HC’s wife wondered if he had crossed some fortune god today, and decided she ought to keep her distance.
    “My luck has not been good today,” she confessed.
    She had an alexandrite stone – English sailors favoured them to prevent drowning, and of course it worked, for weren’t they born for the sea? Would her luck be offended because her own cheap blue topaz stone wasn’t costly enough?
    Worry about that later, after this charming man had gone.
    “Impossible! Beauty brings its own good fortune!”
    He must be ten years younger than she. She was flattered . Betty KwanChoi was looking back from the winnings window.
    He stood closer to mark his card.
    He touched his hat to her in thanks and headed for the bet window. She felt slightly breathless. Perhaps he was a good omen? From the way he held his pen itcouldn’t have been farther down the call-over than second , third at the lowest.
    “Who on earth …?” KwanChoi asked, returning.
    “Hello, Betty. Nobody you need know!”
    “Come on, Linda. Is he local? New? What’s his name?”
    “What do you fancy for the next?” she asked innocently .
    Linda had already decided to put everything she had left on the second down, hoping it was the same horse on which the handsome young man had probably placed his.
    And lost it all. The animal came second-last. Betty, the bitch, crowing, got another place, third, paying 9-5. The end of a miserable day.
    All the way home she blamed HC. See what happened when you didn’t have enough money to gamble properly ! You lost time after time. A few dollars here, a few there, pinching and scraping for the next hundred to put on an each-way, was betting like some worried little housewife.
    It was shaming. HC kept her short of decent gambling money.
    And all the time KwanChoi Wah, Betty, the smarmy winner with her genuine branded clothes and accessories , crowed and collected her winnings. You had to lay out money in gambling to win. Every gambler knew that. It was common sense.
    This was the tenth consecutive time she had been to the races and lost. All down to HC, too damned mean to see the obvious. Lay decent money
out
to bring decent money in. She needed enough money to winhandsomely.
    The young man had been so courteous. She’d glimpsed him, not letting him see her looking of course, at the winners’ window to collect a sickeningly large wad of notes.
    He must have laid a
sizeable
bet. He had
won
.
    She had placed
trivial
money. She had
lost
.
    There was only