Riders (32 page)

“Well, he’ll certainly hear you if you don’t keep your voice down; they’re in the next-door bedroom.”

Marion laughed. “I gave in my notice today anyway.”

“You going to leave?” asked Jake, unbuttoning her white shirt.

“I’ve given it in so often he probably didn’t believe me.”

Accustomed exclusively over the last five years to Tory’s bulk, Jake could hardly believe the slenderness of Marion’s thighs or the springy breasts which didn’t collapse under her armpits when she lay down. For a few minutes he stroked her body as wonderingly as if she were a £50,000 thoroughbred, and when he kissed her he was enchanted by the skill and enthusiasm of her response. They broke away. She smiled at him, touching a gold earring.

“Are you really a gypsy?”

“Half,” said Jake.

She ran her tongue along the lifeline of his hand. “I’m crossing your palm with saliva.”

It was a feeble joke but they both had to bury their faces in the pillow to muffle their laughter. Both got an extra buzz from knowing how angry Rupert would be if he could see them. Jake was small, thin, and not very handsome but his hands had a magical effect on Marion, soothing away all the tensions and frustrations she’d been bottling up since Rupert married Helen. Rupert’s lovemaking was aggressive, like a power drill—her Campbell-Black and Decker, she used to call him. She enjoyed it only because Rupert was so wildly attractive and she melted at his slightest touch. Jake was gentle, considerate, yet seemed by comparison extraordinarily detached.

In fact Jake was extremely attracted to Marion and very glad he was able to prevent himself coming too soon by working out a plan of action.

Afterwards, when they lay sated in each other’s arms, Marion said, “That was wonderful. Who would have thought it? You’re not looking for a groom, are you?”

“I couldn’t pay you as much as Rupert, and you’d distract me too much.”

“You totally ignored me all week.”

“That was deliberate. I hated you for being part of Rupert’s entourage and you’re so good-looking you irritated the hell out of me.”

“Prettier than Helen?”

“Much.” He knew that was the judgment that would win her over.

“I wish Rupert thought so, the bastard.”

“Is he faithful to her?”

“At the moment. I think he’s rather captivated by the idea of his own fidelity. It’s such a novelty. But they’ve hardly had a night apart since they’ve been married, and she sticks like a leech. Wait till she gets pregnant and can’t go everywhere with him. That’s when the trouble’s going to start. He can’t do without it.”

“Nor can I, by all events,” muttered Jake.

“Look,” he said, pushing her hair back from her forehead, “you’re fond of Macaulay, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I love him.”

“All you have to do is to let me know when Rupert’s selling him.”

“He’d never sell him on to you.”

“Perhaps not, but someone else could buy him for me.”

“He’s too strong for you. Rupert can only just hold him, and he’s a sod in the stable.”

“I don’t control horses by brute strength,” said Jake, “and my guess is that he won’t jump for Rupert anymore.”

“Have you got a nice wife?” asked Marion, hoping he’d make love to her again.

“Very,” said Jake.

“Rupe said you married her for money.”

“Doesn’t stop her being nice.”

“Don’t you feel guilty?”

“No,” said Jake. “This is my reward for a double clear.”

A
month later Jake Lovell drove through the warm June evening doing sums. Late the previous night, Marion had rung him from a call box to tip him off about a horse called Revenge.

“He’s a sod, but a brilliant one, and you’d better hurry. Rupert’s after him too.”

Wasting no time, Jake had driven all the way down to Surrey to look at the horse, and he liked what he saw. Jake was seldom cheated when buying a horse. His stint with the gypsies had stood him in good stead. They taught him that dealers often disguise lameness, deliberately laming the opposite leg by shoeing it wrong, that they put black marks on a horse’s teeth with hot wires so it’ll pass for a six-year-old, or even shove mustard up its rectum so the animal prances along with its tail up in a travesty of high spirits. They had also taught him never to be carried away by a horse’s looks.

He had to confess, however, that Revenge was the handsomest horse he’d ever seen, a showy red chestnut with a zigzag blaze, a mane and tail that looked as if they’d been dipped in peroxide, and an air of intense self-importance. He had been bought by a doting millionaire for his daughter, when she suddenly decided she wanted to take up show jumping. Revenge had turned out far too strong for her. Allowed to get away with murder, he had learnt to buck and spin at the same time, and tried to drag Jake off under some low-hanging oaks at the top of the field. On the other hand, he had jumped a line of large fences without effort, landing like a cat, and showing not only an ability to get himself out of trouble, but incredible powers of acceleration.

Jake ached all over where the horse had had him off three times, but he still wanted him. Unfortunately, George Masters, the dealer, wanted £5,000, which Jake hadn’t got. He’d just sold two of his best novices in order to put down the deposit on the indoor school. The balance on this would be due by the end of the summer.

Darklis, the new baby girl, was adorable, but she meant more work for Tory. Isa, jealous and playing up, needed extra attention, which meant Tory had less and less time for the horses. Tanya, the one groom, was hopelessly overworked. Jake desperately needed another groom, but to pay her he needed to go to more shows and win more money. To do that he needed another Grade A horse to fall back on when either Sailor or Africa were unfit. There’s a hole in your bank balance, dear Jake, he told himself.

So deep was he in thought on the way home that he suddenly realized he’d taken the wrong turn and was driving through Bilborough. There was Bilborough Hall, russet and mellow in the evening sun, scene of his first show on Africa. If he competed there now, as a member of the British show-jumping team, would he be invited to lunch up at the house with the nobs? There was Brook Farm Riding School. He felt a sick churning relief that he no longer worked for Mrs. Wilton. There was the village green, and the church and Molly Maxwell’s house.

Molly Carter she was now, the colonel’s lady. Diplomatic relations had been resumed between Molly and Tory after Isa was born, but they were still uneasy. Jake had never forgiven the colonel for firing his guns. Molly had never forgiven Jake for running off with her daughter and, even worse, making her happy.

Molly’s marriage to Colonel Carter had not been happy. He was hardly back from his honeymoon at that hotel in Brittany that served English food, before he realized what a bitch she was. Too old and too proud to split up, they were locked together in mutual enmity. The colonel’s retirement from the City had thrown them even more into one another’s company. Molly took refuge in endless bridge. The colonel tried to control Molly’s spending and dickered with the stock market. Fen had been shunted off to boarding school when she was eleven, and was discouraged from visiting Jake and Tory in the holidays because of Molly’s quite unfounded suspicions that Jake would probably seduce her.

Driving slowly past the house, Jake could see his mother-in-law playing bridge with three other harpies in the drawing room. The house had a burglar alarm now, and a yellow rose growing over the porch, and a swimming pool round the back, so the colonel could do his ten lengths every morning, like an old walrus.

Jake suddenly felt hungry. He hadn’t had any lunch and, with a hundred and fifty miles to drive home, he decided to drop into the next pub. Being early evening, he found it half-empty, but as he ordered a pint of beer and a pork pie, he heard a familiar bray of laughter. Not turning, he edged down the bar. There, in the mirror behind the bottles, he could see his stepfather-in-law, arched rather like a golden retriever over a brassy blonde, who certainly wasn’t his mother-in-law.

In amusement, Jake watched the colonel putting his hand over the blonde’s hand and lifting it with a clash of bracelets to his lips. Stupid old goat, he thought. Picking up his pint, he catfooted towards the table.

“Hello, Bernard,” he said softly.

Colonel Carter dropped the blonde like a wasp-filled pear and turned puce. Suddenly the ring on his paisley scarf seemed very tight.

“Hello, Jake,” he said with a great show of heartiness. “Long time no see. What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

“Looking for a horse.”

“You’ve been doing very well this year. Getting your name in the papers. Even saw you on the box the other night. Going to Crittleden, are you? Sailor still going strong?”

“Of course he is,” said the blonde. “He did well in Madrid, didn’t he? Double clear indeed, and Billy getting concussed, naughty boy. Macaulay was off form, though. I think that Rupert Campbell-Black’s dead cruel.”

Jake found himself gazing into the heavily blue-mascaraed eyes of the true show-jumping groupie. She was showing a lot of crinkly bosom in a shiny blue and white dress, her shoe straps were biting into her fat ankles, and she enveloped Jake in wafts of cheap scent, but her face was kinder than Molly’s.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Bernard?” she said.

“Well, as you obviously know, this is my son-in-law, Jake Lovell,” said the colonel even more heartily, “and this is Vivienne, a great friend of my late wife, Jennifer.”

Vivienne didn’t look as though she’d be the great friend of anybody’s wife, thought Jake.

“Aren’t you going to join us?” she said.

“All right, just for a minute, as long as Bernard doesn’t mind,” said Jake maliciously. “How’s Fen?”

“Not too good really,” said the colonel. “Very moody, never brushes her hair, fights a lot with Molly, litters her clothes around the place. Moll sold her pony last week.”

Then, seeing the expression on Jake’s face, he added defensively, “Wretched animal kept jumping out of the field. Had to go and collect it in the middle of the night.”

“Probably lonely. Does Fen know?”

“Not yet.”

“Break her heart,” said Jake.

“Poor little soul,” said Vivienne.

“How’s she getting on at school?”

The colonel shook his head. “Refuses to work. Just draws horses and gazes out of the window. Wrong place for her, really. They don’t have riding there. But Molly insisted.”

“Don’t know why people have kids, then send them away,” said Vivienne, enjoying her disapproval of Molly. Then, turning to Jake: “Pity she can’t live with you if she’s so horse mad.”

Jake, who’d been thinking the same thing, was biding his time. Fen was only thirteen, but was already showing distinct promise. If he could get her under his wing, he could mold her the way he wanted to, and she’d be very useful helping with the horses. They might even be able to avoid getting a second groom.

“What d’you like to drink?” he asked.

“My round really,” said the colonel, not getting up.

“I’d like a gin and Cinzano, Jake, with lots of ice, thanks,” said Vivienne, seizing the opportunity, used to the colonel’s meanness.

“If you twist my arm, I’ll have a whisky and soda,” said the colonel, who’d been drinking a half-pint before.

“Attractive, isn’t he?” Jake heard Vivienne say as he went to the bar.

“Shame about the little girl. Ought to go and live with them.”

“Molly worries about what her friends think,” mumbled the colonel. “Likes to appear the devoted mother.”

“On the other hand,” said Vivienne slyly, “Fen’ll soon be old enough to be competition. Won’t be much fun when Molly’s menopause clashes with Fen’s adolescence.”

The colonel didn’t think so either.

“Tell us about this horse,” said Vivienne, when Jake returned with the drinks.

“He’s called Revenge,” said Jake, “and he’s got acceleration like a Ferrari, and Christ he can jump, but he’s got a very bad temper and has learnt some bad habits.”

“How much do they want?” asked the colonel.

“Five thousand. I’m just wondering how the hell to raise it.”

He looked speculatively at the colonel and then at Vivienne.

“That’s awfully cheap,” said Vivienne: “Three good wins and you’ll get your money back.”

The colonel suddenly felt heady. His masculinity had been badly dented by Molly; she was always accusing him of being an old woman about money. He’d show her. It was time the lion roared.

“I’ll buy it for you, Jake,” he said. “Fun to have a flutter.”

Vivienne clapped her fat hands together with more jangling.

“Oh, what a good idea. You can split the prize money.”

Jake didn’t react, determined not to betray his excitement. “Horse’ll take a bit of sorting out; not going to hurry him; probably won’t see any return for your money for a year or so.”

“Go on, Bernard, it’ll give you an interest. You’ve always wanted to own racehorses.”

“What’ll we tell Molly?” asked Jake flatly. “She wasn’t ecstatic last time a member of her family bought me a horse in a pub.”

“That I bumped into you,” said the colonel, “decided to help you out.”

For a quarter of an hour they discussed technicalities. Rupert might well go higher. If so they’d scrap the whole idea.

Jake looked at his watch. It had Donald Duck on the face, and had been a birthday present to Isa that Tory had thought the child was too young for.

“Ought to get back; Tory’s keeping supper.”

“Bye-bye, Jake. Can I have your autograph?” said Vivienne.

“Nice lady,” said Jake, as the colonel walked him out to the car.

“Old friend,” mumbled the colonel.

“Friend of Molly’s, too?” asked Jake.

“Needn’t mention her to Molly, need we?”

“I never met her,” said Jake. “You saw me going into the pub and you stopped to say hello and we had a drink together.”

“Good man,” said the colonel, patting Jake rather gingerly on the shoulders. “Always felt sorry about that Tory business. Worried about Fen too. You’d be doing her a kindness.”

Jake fingered the colonel’s check in his pocket.

“I’ll think about it.”

Jake waited until morning to ring up Masters. He didn’t wish to appear too keen. He offered £4,000.

“You must be joking,” said Masters. “Anyway Rupert Campbell-Black’s coming to look at him at eleven. He was the first one after the horse, so I ought to let him have a butcher’s.”

“The butcher’s is where that horse will end up if you don’t curb its nasty vicious habits soon,” said Jake. “Four grand is my offer and I’m not topping it. If Rupert offers more, let him have it. I’m going to see another horse over Cheltenham way this afternoon and I want to know if I’ve got the spare cash to buy it, so I’d be grateful if you’d let me know what Rupert says one way or the other.”

“I’ll ring you the moment I hear,” said Masters placatingly. “Don’t rush into that other deal too quickly.”

Jake then had to spend the morning biting his nails. It was all nerve, allowing the elastic to go slack so the other person started pulling on it. When Masters rang back, he made Tory say he was out and would ring back, which he didn’t. Then Masters rang again.

“That shit Campbell-Black never turned up, never bothered to ring. The horse is yours if you want it.”

“Four thou,” said Jake.

“Four thousand five hundred.”

“Four two-fifty.”

“Done.”

“I’ll come and collect him now.”

It was another hot wearying drive and it took three stable lads, George Masters, and Jake all their persuasive power and a lot of bad language to get Revenge into the lorry, by which time the horse was drenched with sweat. As Jake drove away he could hear him stamping and kicking in rage, and wondered if he’d been mad to buy him.