Riders (12 page)

Maureen had glared at her all evening; Nigel had never turned up and Paul had somehow engineered that he drop her off at Regina House after dropping Maureen at her digs.

“I won’t come up for a coffee, Mo. I expect you’re tired,” he said.

Helen suspected that Maureen, standing in her furry coat like a disgruntled Pyrenean mountain dog, was no such thing. Outside Regina House Paul said, “May I kiss you, Ellen?” and lunged goatily. His beard tickled, he had B.O., and his breath smelled of curry. Helen lost her temper.

“You’re too sanctimonious for words, right. You had a glorious day playing cops and robbers and feeling smug to boot, and what’s more I’d like to report you to the RSPCA for being horrible to hounds.” Leaping out, she slammed the car door in his face.

Now she sat in her room feeling ashamed of herself and gazing at Harold Mountjoy’s photograph, which seemed to have lost all its appeal. She noticed the spoilt, slightly weak expression, the hair carefully combed forward to cover the lined forehead and crow’s-feet round the eyes.

“ ‘My only love sprang from my only hate,’ ” she whispered. She’d never see Rupert again. He obviously had millions of girls after him and, anyway, he was thoroughly spoilt. She looked at the primroses in the tooth mug with the ochre centers and pastel petals. She’d have to put him in her novel, then she could dream about him. Slowly she undressed, gazing at her body in the mirror. She’d never really studied it before, and yet he’d said it was beautiful. She found she’d put her nightdress on inside out; that was supposed to be lucky. She could do with some luck. She jumped at a sudden pounding on the door. It was the principal of the hostel in a camel hair dressing gown, hair in a net.

“Telephone,” she snapped. “Person says it’s an emergency. Can’t see how it can be.”

Helen sighed; it must be Nigel. Perhaps he’d been arrested and needed bailing out, or was grumbling because Paul had driven off without him. At least he couldn’t accuse her of getting off with Paul.

In the telephone booth someone had left a copy of Lorca. Helen picked up the receiver: “Hello.”

“May I speak to Helen Macaulay,” said a voice. She’d recognize that clipped, light drawl anywhere. Her palms went damp, her knees turned to jelly.

“This is she.”

“Well, this is the enemy speaking—Rupert Campbell-Black.”

“How did you get my number?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Is Nigel all right?”

“As right as he ever could be. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Going to church in the morning.”

In the background she could hear the sounds of music and revelry.

“Shut up, you maniacs,” yelled Rupert. “Look, I’ll take you to church, then I’ll give you lunch. I’ll pick you up at half-past ten.”

She liked the way he pronounced it: “H’pp’st’n.”

O
blivious to the continued grumbling of the head of the hostel, who was still hovering in the hall, Helen fled upstairs to her room and rushed to the mirror, just to reassure herself that she was still there and that such a thing could have happened.

“He called,” she whispered, “he really called.”

With all those girls chasing after him, he’d bothered to get her phone number from Nigel. Then she buried her face in the primroses, breathing in their faint sweet smell, before collapsing onto the bed.

She must pull herself together. Rupert was a terrible rake, who attracted females far too effortlessly, no doubt leaving a trail of destruction in his wake, like Macheath. And what about the dreadful sexist things he’d said to Maureen, and what about married Gabriella, with whom he’d vanished for two hours at the ball? Perhaps she shouldn’t go; her heart hadn’t mended after Harold Mountjoy; a second break would be far more difficult to repair. But the thought of not seeing him made her faint with horror. She felt quite out of control, swept along like a branch chucked into a raging torrent.

Besides, there was no way she could get in touch with him to say she had changed her mind; and would she ever be any good as a writer if she didn’t experience life?

It had been a very long day. If she didn’t want black circles under bug eyes the next morning, she ought to get some sleep, but instead she sat down at her typewriter and covered six pages of foolscap describing the day. These she slotted into a folder marked “England 1973.” Then she cleaned her teeth for two minutes, using dental floss between each tooth, and sank to her knees to say her prayers. A convinced conservationist who believed in husbanding nature’s resources, she was horrified, when she got to her feet, to see that she’d left the tap running.

She woke in wild excitement. But elation soon gave way to panic as clothes littered the normally tidy room.

On and off, and on and off went the gray angora dress, which went best with her hair, but might be too hot if they went to a crowded restaurant. On and off went the crocus yellow silk shirt which brought out the color of her eyes, but, worn with a gray suit, made her look too much like an efficient secretary. The rust suit was too autumnal, the steel blue wool dress was lovely, but she was perspiring so much with nerves she might have great embarrassing dark circles under the arms. Finally she settled for the kilt and matching beret and green velvet coat she had bought from the Scotch House, worn with a frilly white shirt.

Then, what about makeup? She knew you shouldn’t wear much for church, but too much for God would be too little for Rupert. Really, it was very hard dressing for both, like having God and the Devil to dinner. Perfume was wrong for church, too Delilah-ish, so she settled for pouring half a bottle of cologne over herself instead. Much against her principles, she’d taken one of the tranquilizers she’d been given when she split up with Harold Mountjoy. It was having no effect at all. When she found herself rubbing deodorant into her cheeks and moisturizer under her arms, she realized she was really over the top.

She was ready by ten-fifteen, waiting in the dark polished hall. Various dowdy lady academics were milling around, getting ready for outings to museums or galleries. If only one of them would tell her she looked nice; but lady academics don’t notice such trivialities.

She took a surreptitious glance in the full-length mirror and suddenly decided that she looked ludicrous in the matching tartan beret and kilt, just like an air hostess. Racing upstairs, she changed back into the gray angora dress. Oh God, there was lipstick on it. She covered the mark with a pearl brooch, which looked ridiculous just above her left nipple. Her newly washed hair was all over the place from so much dressing and undressing. She rammed it down with a gray velvet hairband.

She couldn’t stop shaking. It was now twenty-five to eleven. At first the minutes crawled by, then they started to gallop. He couldn’t be coming; it was ten-fifty. Perhaps she’d heard him wrong, but she was sure he’d said half-past ten. She tried to read a long analysis of the Watergate crisis in the
Sunday Times,
but the words kept blurring, so she gave up and gazed at some horrible shocking pink hyacinths that were twitching outside in the cold wind.

Perhaps, in her state of cardiac arrest, she’d given him the wrong directions to Regina House, saying left when she meant right. It was two minutes to eleven; she musn’t cry, it would make her mascara run, but what did it matter when he obviously wasn’t coming anyway? It was just some diabolical plot to raise her hopes and then dump on her from a great height because she was part of the saboteurs.

The club secretary had just pinned the lunchtime menu on the board and several of the inmates surged forward, trying not to look too eager, watering at the mouth at the prospect of roast beef and treacle pudding to liven up their uneventful lives. In utter despair, fighting back the tears, Helen turned to stumble upstairs, but just as the hall grandfather clock struck eleven the front door pushed open and Rubert walked in, coming towards her with that lovely loping athlete’s stride. Unlike most people, he didn’t automatically lower his voice when he entered an institution.

“Darling, darling, I’m desperately sorry. I had to look at a horse in Newbury on the way up; the traffic was frightful,” he lied. “Are you all right? Did you think I wasn’t coming?”

He walked up to her and, taking her hand, kissed her on the cheek.

Helen gazed up at him, unable to get a word out. Overnight, she’d changed him, in his red coat, into some kind of devil, and here he was turning up, looking just the sort of preppy young man of whom her parents would approve. The severity of the impeccably cut dark suit, striped shirt, and blue tie only served to set off the dazzling good looks. A shaft of pale sunlight coming through the window gilded the smooth blond hair. It was as though a light had been turned on in the dark hall. Even the dingy academics gathered around the notice board changed the object of the salivating, gazing at him unashamedly.

“You want to go to church, don’t you?”

Helen nodded, still speechless.

“Well, it’s not too late. We’ll probably miss the B-film and the ads, but get in for the big picture,” he said, putting his arm through hers.

“I’ve never been to Hammersmith before,” he said, opening the car door for her.

“It’s a fascinating ethnic cross section,” said Helen earnestly.

In the back of the Porsche, sitting muddily on a huge pile of unopened letters, newspapers, and old copies of
Horse and Hound,
sat a grinning black labrador.

“This is Badger,” said Rupert. “He’s the only being in the world who thinks I can do no wrong.”

Badger thumped his thick black tail joyfully, scattering the letters, and, leaning forward, gave Helen a great slobbery kiss.

“Don’t preempt me, Badger,” said Rupert, driving off so fast that the dog nearly fell off the backseat.

“Badger insisted on coming today,” Rupert went on, “to see if you were as pretty as I said you were.”

Embarrassed, Helen said, “Don’t you ever open your mail?”

“Not if I can help it. It’s always people wanting my money or my life.”

He drove her at great speed to the Guards’ Chapel. Immediately they’d crept into a back pew, Helen sank to her knees. Rupert, sitting sideways to accommodate his long legs, noticed she really prayed, eyes shut, lips moving. Confessing in advance the sins she’s going to commit later this afternoon, he thought dryly. While she was kneeling, he examined the freckled hands with their slender wrists and colorless nail polish, the small beaky nose, the very clean ears, the lipstick drawn not quite to the edges to disguise a large mouth, the frightful Alice band holding back the gorgeous, dark red hair—it was the color of drenched fox rather than bracken. Wondering if she had a ginger bush, he felt the stirrings of lust. He’d tank her up at lunchtime and take her back to his mother’s house. As she sat up, he noticed the perfect ankles, slightly freckled beneath the pale tights.

“Nice scent,” he whispered.

For a second she looked at him, her huge wide-apart yellow eyes flecked like a conference pear, then smiled shyly.

Christ, she’s adorable, he said to himself.

He had deliberately not picked up a hymn book on the way in so he could share hers. As their hands touched she jumped as if burnt, then, realizing she was overreacting, tried to relax.

“Forty days and forty nights, tempted and yet undefiled,” sang Rupert loudly and quite out of tune.

During the sermon, Helen found her thoughts straying as she glanced at the crimson and gold banners topped with little gold lions with crowns on their heads, and breathed in the scent of a nearby arrangement of white lilac and narcissi. Among the congregation were several grayhound men in dark suits, with lean, carved features and very straight backs, accompanied by conservatively dressed women with good enough cheekbones to get away with turbans or hats with no hair showing. The altar was draped with purple for Lent. Helen was horrified to find herself wondering whether a dress in that color would suit her. She must concentrate.

Rupert had no such intentions. After staring at the priest for a few minutes with half-closed eyes, he extracted a paint chart out of his pocket and studied the colors, finally marking a Prussian blue square with a cross. Then he produced yesterday’s evening paper and, folding it up into a small square, started to read the racing results.

“Hooray,” he whispered, “I’ve won £50—it’ll pay for a lunch.”

Helen tried to ignore him and stared stonily in front of her. But as the sermon droned on a loud snore suddenly rent the air. Rupert had fallen asleep and the next moment his head had flopped onto her shoulder. Several of the grayhound men, and a woman in a red turban like piped fish paste, glanced around in disapproval. Helen nudged Rupert sharply in the ribs. He woke up with a start, glanced round in bewilderment, and then grinned at her totally without contrition. The smile suddenly softening the arrogant deadpan features and creasing up the long blue eyes, reduced her to complete panic. Harold Mountjoy had never affected her like this.

She was relieved when the organ galloped through the last hymn and they surged out into the sunshine. Rupert nodded to several of the congregation, but didn’t stop to talk until one of the grayhound men called out to him.

Rupert stopped, said, “Hello, Tommy,” and introduced Helen.

After the inevitable brisk swapping of mutual acquaintances, Tommy said, “You’ve been doing very well; meant to come and buy you a drink at Olympia. Look,” he added, lowering his voice, “there’s a horse that might interest you at the barracks. Bought him in Ireland just before Christmas—make a top-class puissance horse.”

“Can I come and look at him after lunch?”

“About four.”

Helen wondered if she were included in the invitation and was shocked by her relief when Rupert said, “We’ll be there.”

Before lunch he insisted on taking Badger for a walk in the park. It was a perfect spring day. Thickening crimson buds fretted a love-in-the-mist blue sky. The banks were draped with crocuses of the same Lenten purple as the altar cloth. A host of golden daffodils, retarded by the bitter winter, had just reached their prime and nodded their pale heads in approval. Helen longed to dawdle. But there was no chance of wandering lonely as a cloud. Rupert, with his brisk military walk, set off at a cracking pace. Helen, her high heels pegged by the soft grass, was soon panting to keep up.

“Did you buy the horse you looked at this morning?” she asked.

“It was a retired racehorse,” said Rupert. “After flattening four fences it suddenly decided to stage a comeback and carted me halfway to London. Couldn’t stop the bugger and I’m pretty strong.”

“What happened?”

“Fortunately the London-Newbury express thundered straight across our bows, the horse decided he wasn’t ready to be strawberry jam and skidded to a halt. Must say I was shit-scared.”

Brought up that no gentleman swears in front of a lady, Helen wished he would not use such bad language.

“I’m starving,” he said. “Let’s go and have some lunch.”

“Will it be very smart?” asked Helen.

“Not until we get there,” said Rupert.

The restaurant, despite being sandbagged up to the gutters against IRA bomb attacks, was extremely smart inside with cane chairs and tables, a black and white check floor, and a forest of glossy tropical plants, emphasizing the jungle atmosphere. From the kitchen came a heady waft of garlic and herbs and from the dining room the same swooping my dear-punctuated roar of a successful drinks’ party.

The head waiter rushed forward.

“Meester Campbell-Black,” he said reproachfully. “You deedn’t book.”

“I never book,” said Rupert.

“But I ’ave no tables.”

“I’m sure you can find us one, nice and private. We don’t want people bothering us.”

“And you cannot bring dogs in ’ere. The health inspectors, they will shoot me.”

“Badger’s different,” said Rupert. “He’s a guide dog for the blind drunk. Now, buck up, Luigi, don’t keep us waiting.”

Sure enough, within half a minute, Luigi beckoned. It was quite an experience walking through a restaurant with Rupert and Badger. Every head turned, necks cricked, nudges were exchanged, as people looked first at him, then at Helen, trying to work out who she was, if anyone. The restaurant seemed to be packed with beautiful people, the girls all wearing fashionable flared trousers down to the ground with never a boot showing, their red nails tapping on their slim thighs, smoothing back their streaked hair and calling, “Hi, Rupe” as he passed.