Mount! (46 page)

‘Marcus, Rupert’s son, has got a lovely boyfriend. Do you think …’ then went crimson as Jan took her hand, caressing the inside of her wrist with his fingers.

‘I’m feeling less gay by the day, mam.’

The other diners, many of whom had seen pictures of Rupert and Gala’s clinch after the King George, were utterly riveted.

‘You must bring your children over for a long visit,’ said Taggie.

‘I don’t think Mr Campbell-Black would like that very much.’

Any more than Rupert liked getting home from Windsor to find his wife out to dinner with Jan. Particularly when he then
picked up a call from Helen to thank Taggie for the weekend; predictably, she told him about Jan’s massive bid for dinner with Taggie.

‘The vicar was so delighted. It’s so nice too, for Taggie to have someone her own age who can talk about something other than horses.’

If his father-in-law hadn’t been there, Rupert would have been tempted to sweep Gala out to dinner. Instead he worked himself up into a fury with Taggie, who had refused to come to the King George for the most important race of Quickly’s life, but could find time to go out on the toot with Jan. But when she came home, she looked so bloody gorgeous, he couldn’t resist taking her to bed instead.

As a result, he liked Jan even less, and clocking that Jan didn’t like Bao, deliberately cultivated the boy, taking him shooting on August the twelfth, where Bao shot everything out of the sky.

Meanwhile, Cupid continued to fire arrows at Penscombe. Taggie couldn’t sleep the night following the dinner at Calcot Manor. Rupert was away again and she couldn’t stop wondering if Jan would have kissed her on the way home, if he hadn’t seen the Green Galloper parked in the field. Suddenly she heard Old Eddie’s bell, and leaping out of bed in her short pink nightgown, met Jan on the landing just in pyjama bottoms. As they rushed to attend to Eddie, Taggie noticed Jan’s sleek brown shoulders only flawed by a scar from a crocodile bite.

Eddie then grumbled that he’d been looking everywhere for a VD called
Horny Housewives
.

You’ve got one here, thought appalled yet amused Taggie.

As she and Jan tucked Eddie back in bed, their hands brushed, and as Jan’s crept upwards to stroke her face, Taggie couldn’t stop herself kissing his fingers.

‘When am I going home?’ asked Eddie, putting a hand on Taggie’s breast.

‘You are home, sir,’ said Jan, removing it.

‘Lovely girl, give me a kiss.’

Pecking him on the forehead, Taggie stumbled back to bed, past the nude of Rupert on the landing. A moment later, Jan knocked on the door.

‘I know you’re married, but I want to tell you you’re the sweetest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.’

‘Oh gosh, thank you, but we truly mustn’t,’ stammered Taggie, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed when Jan smiled regretfully, said OK and went back to his room. Out of the window she could see a fox, silver in the moonlight, wolfing the badgers’ food.

A week later, getting out of the bath, she discovered a peacock butterfly fluttering dangerously near a light bulb and managed to cup it in her hands. Unable to dress or cover herself up, she ran downstairs to release it out of the front door. ‘There, darling.’

Returning, she went slap into a laughing Jan, holding out her white dressing gown.

‘I w-w-was just setting it free.’

‘If I were a butterfly, mam,’ Jan whispered, ‘I’d rather stay in your room than be turfed out into the cold.’

September approached. The willows were already streaked with yellow. The sun shone golden instead of silver, particularly in the early mornings, and the moon grew larger. Rupert’s ailing chestnut avenue was turning a warm brown, his beechwoods tinged with orange. The constellation Pegasus reared out of the east as Quickly, coached by Gav, was rearing out of the starting stalls. All Rupert’s horses in fact were flying.

Ahead lay the gilded highway of the richest races: the St Leger, the Arc, the Champion Stakes at Ascot, the Melbourne Cup, Breeders’ Cup in America, on to Japan and Hong Kong, leading to Dubai and the World Cup in March – opportunity knocking for Love Rat’s children, chasing each other down the corridors of the world with a real chance at last to topple Roberto’s Revenge.

The St Leger, oldest and longest of the classics, held at Doncaster, drew near. Although the Triple Crown had eluded Quickly, Rupert was hell bent on emulating Rupert Black and Third Leopard and nailing the race.

Dora, back from a summer in France, where Paris was still filming
Le Rouge et Le Noir
, was intoxicated by a wonderful PR opportunity. She promptly concocted a press release, reproducing Stubbs’ portrait of the divinely handsome Rupert Black alongside equally glamorous photographs of Rupert and Young Eddie. She then pointed out that 230 years ago, Rupert’s
ancestor had triumphed in the Leger with mighty Third Leopard, who became Leading Sire for years afterwards. Now it was Master Quickly’s chance to repeat history, and carry Rupert Black’s descendants to victory.

‘What a story,’ she crowed to Taggie who was making moussaka in the kitchen for another descending horde of grandchildren. ‘And Channel Four are interested in making a feature film. Paris can play both Ruperts
and
Young Eddie; he’s the only actor handsome enough.’

‘Have you run this past Rupert?’ asked Taggie in alarm.

‘He’ll love it – you know how privately knocked out he was when Alastair Down described him as one of the greatest riders of all time. Now he can prove he’s as good a trainer as Rupert Black.’

‘Fuck!’ exploded Jan, who never swore, but had cut himself chopping aubergines.

‘I hope the Stubbs doesn’t get stolen,’ sighed Taggie.

Publicity opportunities grew even better for Dora. On the first day of the Leger’s meeting, a Legends charity race was held in which stars of the past would compete not only to win but to see who could raise the most money for charity. The competitors were chiefly ex-flat and jump jockeys, but Rupert was such a crowd puller, the organizers begged him to take part.

Learning Isa Lovell was entered, Rupert’s competitive streak was aroused. In a weak moment – after all, Billy had died of cancer – he agreed to take part. Instantly he regretted it, as the fundraisers weighed in, led by Etta’s perfectly dreadful son Martin who, unannounced, barged into his office.

‘Congrats on riding in the Legends race, Rupe! What charity are you supporting?’ shouted Martin over the furiously barking dogs.

‘Cancer,’ snarled Rupert. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Cancer’s excellent, perfect for your image. Just give me the names of all the wealthy folk you know. I’ll message them for sponsorship, and they can follow you on your dedicated website, which’ll be even better for your image.’

‘Get out,’ howled Rupert. ‘
Out!
’

Next moment, Weatherbys
Stallion Book
flew through the air, far faster than any of the stallions it featured, missing Martin’s left ear by inches.

‘The other jockeys will be raising hundreds of thousands.’ Martin stood his ground.

‘I’ll write a cheque then. GET OUT.’

‘Ouch,’ screamed Martin, as Cuthbert bit his ankle.

Rupert turned on a giggling Dora. ‘It’s not funny. If I’m approached by another crone waving a bucket I’ll kick her teeth in.’

‘Kick the bucket, kick the bucket.’ Dora was reading Clover’s notes. ‘The money raised will go to Jack Berry House, which is run by the Injured Jockeys Fund and – lovely typo – the Northern Raving College. Didn’t know they did much raving. Jemmy said the girl students were very much kept from the boys.’

A worse problem for Rupert was that a hard finish needs a very fit man. By jogging and giving up alcohol and not snacking on cheese or chocolate, he managed to lose ten pounds, making him leaner and meaner. But with travelling to sales and race meetings all over the world, it was difficult to exercise on a plane.

One baking evening in late August, he flew back to Penscombe in time for evening stables. Having caught a glimpse of Taggie and Jan in the kitchen, he whisked off round the yard and stud checking every horse, then dropped into the office to see the latest emails.

‘God, you look tired,’ said Geraldine. ‘Have a drink.’

‘Fresh drinking whisky should always be available,’ sighed Rupert. ‘I must stay off it until after this bloody race. Where are the dogs?’

‘Gala waited for it to get cooler, then she walked them.’

In the kitchen he found Young Eddie, who was not riding tomorrow, tucking into a bottle of red and talking to Taggie and Jan, who was marinating steak for a barbecue.

‘I’m going for a jog before dinner,’ Rupert told them.

‘Why don’t you play tennis with Jan?’ asked Eddie. ‘In this
heat, you’d burn off much more fat than pounding round the valley.’

Rupert, whose brilliant eye and timing had made him a great showjumper and crack shot, had also been an effortless tennis player. It would be quite nice to annihilate the smug bastard.

‘I thought he was cooking my father’s dinner.’

‘We’ve got time,’ said Jan. ‘Your dad’s happy enjoying Fiona Bruce for the next hour.’

‘Please rest, darling,’ said Taggie in alarm. ‘You must be so jet-lagged, and far too tired to play tennis.’

‘Meaning I’m not up to it.’

‘No, no.’

‘I’m game if you are,’ said Jan. ‘I’ve started up the barbecue. The steak’ll only take a few minutes.’

‘OK, just a couple of sets.’

‘I’ll come and umpire,’ said Eddie, gathering up his bottle of red.

‘Watch it, he’s bloody good,’ warned Gav as Rupert set out.

The tennis court lay to the left of the house, reached by a gravel path bordered by white buddleia, covered in peacock butterflies enjoying the last of the sun. After evening stables, the lads usually played rounders or football before drifting down to the Dog and Trumpet. This evening, however, word had gone around of more fascinating diversions, and a crowd bringing glasses was gathering on the grassy bank above the court.

Eddie, three drinks up on an empty stomach, perched glass in hand on a high chair, was regaling them with Wimbledon chatter. Rupert rolled up in a dark-blue polo shirt and an old pair of denim shorts, which he had to belt because of his ten-pound weight loss, and threw a net of green balls down on the court. Next moment, Jan ran down the path, flexing his shoulders, brandishing four rackets and a big fluffy towel to a chorus of wolf whistles. Very Wimbledon in very short white shorts showing off long tanned legs, a white Federer bandeau holding down his conker-brown hair, he was in superb shape and twenty years younger than Rupert.

As Jan picked up a green ball and unleashed an Exocet down
the court, it was plain he was good enough to play for Port Elizabeth if not South Africa.

The sun had retreated behind the beeches and was gilding the fields across the valley; the bank was covered in gaping stable staff. By the time Jan, five games up, had floored Rupert with ace after ace and sizzling returns of serve that sent Rupert racing all over the court, it was hard in the half-light to see the ball.

‘Fifteen love,’ giggled Eddie, as Rupert’s ball shot into the bushes.

Jan to serve, irritatingly bouncing the ball over and over again, chucking it miles in the air, and as he reached up to hit it, pulling his white T-shirt out of his shorts to show even more bronzed flesh.

‘Wow,’ cried Lou-easy. ‘Come to Federer, leave him for deaderer.’

‘Thirty love,’ said Eddie, taking another slug of wine.

Deliverance was at hand as Gala returned from walking the dogs, and the entire pack surged over the court, throwing themselves on their master in noisy ecstasy.

‘Dogs stopped play,’ shouted Eddie. Everyone roared with laughter, except Jan.

‘Get them off the court,’ said Gav, scenting trouble.

Gala had hardly complied before Jan unleashed another scorcher, whereupon Banquo rushed in and seized the ball before Rupert got to it.

‘Ball-ee,’ cheered the audience. ‘You could get a job as a ball boy any day.’

Next moment, Cuthbert had found the ball Rupert had hit into the bushes and rushed back, dropping it at Rupert’s feet. Whereupon Jan lost it and fired an ace straight at Cuthbert, who squealed with pain as its force knocked him sideways.

‘What the fuck did you do that for?’ yelled Rupert. Dropping his racket, he gathered up Cuthbert. ‘There, poor little boy, come to Daddy.’

‘I thought we were playing singles, not doubles,’ snapped Jan, who had totally abandoned his deferential manner.

‘Come on, Cuthbert. I’ll take him,’ cried Gala, grabbing him from Rupert.

Returning to the baseline, Jan unleashed another rocket, then moved to the right-hand side and, after unleashing yet another, went towards Eddie’s chair to change ends. Rupert, however, didn’t shift. ‘That was out.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Jan had picked up a towel to wipe off non-existent sweat unlike the dripping Rupert.

‘It was out.’

For a second the two men glared at each other.

‘I think it was on the line,’ giggled Eddie. ‘You should have gone to Specsavers, Grandpa. First set and macho to Jan.’

The second set was turning into just as embarrassing a rout when Safety Car, who’d been plied with red wine by spectators, catching sight of his beloved master, trotted on the court to more screams of laughter, nudging Rupert in delight before having a long pee on the service line.

‘Piss stopped play,’ shouted Eddie, nearly falling off his chair.

Another service, hit into the trees by Rupert, was retrieved by Banquo who, returning it in the middle of a rally, dropped it at Rupert’s feet.

Jan lost it. ‘Are we playing tennis?’ he yelled.

‘Jan, Jan,’ cried a voice.

It was Old Eddie, pushed in a wheelchair by Taggie, who’d been to see the foals. Now, taking a look at Jan and Rupert’s furiously set faces, picking up the tension, she called with rare firmness, ‘Eddie wants his supper, Jan.’

Old Eddie, catching sight of lots of female legs usually hidden by breeches, decided he didn’t, and he’d rather watch some tennis.

‘He’s hungry,’ insisted Taggie. ‘I’ve lit the barbecue, and Valent rang from Beijing. He wants you to ring him soonest, Rupert.’