Riders (33 page)

Two miles on, he was driving along a narrow country lane, brushing the buttercups and the elder flowers, when suddenly a dark blue Porsche hurtled round the corner and only just avoided a head-on collision by skidding onto the verge and nearly removing a wild rosebush.

The driver, a blond man wearing dark glasses, swore and hurtled on. There was no mistaking Rupert, but Jake didn’t recognize the brunette beside him. Maybe she was the reason Marion had rung him up.

“When you get there, mate, you’ll find the cupboard’s bare,” and he threw back his head and laughed. Revenge renewed his kicking and stamping.

“And you’d better be nice to me, boy,” he called back to the horse. “You’ve no idea how lucky you are not to go to that bastard.”

And all the way home, as the dead gnats peppered the windscreen, he kept laughing to himself, until at last, as the sun was setting, he saw the gleaming willows and red pink walls of the Mill House and felt as always that wave of joy at coming home. Christ, he was tired. Darklis was still on four-hourly feeds, so they weren’t getting much sleep. Tomorrow he had to get up early to drive up to a show in Yorkshire, and then the next week on to the Royal at Stoneleigh.

Tory came out to meet him, with Wolf bounding ahead.

“You got him? You must be exhausted.”

When they lowered the ramp, Revenge was cowering in the corner, shivering as though in a fever, despite the heat of the evening.

“Poor old boy, he must have had a bad time. But isn’t he beautiful?” said Tory.

As Jake went towards him, Revenge bared his teeth and darted at Jake like a cobra.

“He’s a bugger,” said Jake. “No one’s to go near him for the next day or so but me.”

Having tied him up securely, Jake rubbed him down, put on a sweat rug, watered and fed him. But the horse didn’t seem remotely interested in food and, once he was let loose, proceeded to pace round and round his box.

“Leave him,” said Jake. “He’ll settle down.”

Thank God for Tory, he thought as he went into the house.

Everything was tidy. The toys that had strewn the hall when he left that morning were now all put away. The only evidence of babies was a pile of fluffy nappies folded in the hall. A smell of shepherd’s pie drifted enticingly from the kitchen.

“How’s things been?”

“Fine really, except for Isa posting all the entry forms down the loo. Fortunately I’d typed them, rather than filling them in in ink, so they didn’t run. They’re drying off in the hot cupboard.”

“By the way,” she said, after she’d given him a glass of beer (they were still too poor to drink wine, except for special occasions), “Fen’s here.”

He looked up. “Run away from school?”

“Yes. She discovered Mummy’d sold the pony.”

He found Fen, still dressed in her school uniform, slumped sobbing on the bed.

“How could she do it? She forgets my birthday, then next day, she sells Marigold. She won’t even tell me where she’s gone.”

“Probably to a good home. We’ll find out,” said Jake, “and she
was
too small for you.”

“I know. I really have tried not to put on weight so I wasn’t too heavy, but she was the only thing I’d got. I loved her so much.”

Jake patted her shoulder. For a second she was crying so hard she couldn’t get the words out. Then she said, “I can’t stand school anymore. It’s a horseless, dogless desert, going on and on.” She reached out for Wolf, who’d climbed onto the bed, trying to lick her tears away. “And I can’t live with Mummy anymore. I hate her and I loathe him. Please don’t send me back.”

Jake was shocked by her appearance. Last time he’d seen her, a year ago, she’d been a little girl. Now she was a teenager with lank greasy hair, spots, and a pasty skin flecked with blackheads. Although she was terribly thin, he could see the first swell of breasts beneath the grass green school sweater.

“Please let me come and live with you,” she sobbed. “I won’t be a nuisance. I’ll babysit and I’ll get up early, and work at night and at the weekends.”

Jake stroked her hair. “I’ll talk to Tory. Come downstairs and have something to eat.”

“I can’t, truly. I’d be sick. Oh, Jake, I’m so sorry. You must be knackered, and to be faced with me after that drive. But I keep thinking of Marigold.” Her face crumpled again. “How lonely and bewildered she’ll be.”

“I’ll go and ring your mother,” said Jake.

“Fen’s here,” she heard him say on the downstairs telephone. “No, don’t talk to her tonight. She’s fast asleep; must have walked most of the way.”

Jake overslept next morning. Pulling on his clothes, he went downstairs to see how Revenge had survived the night. As he put on his shoes in the kitchen, he could hear Africa knocking her water bucket about and Sailor pawing the door and neighing, “Where’s my bloody breakfast.”

“All right, all right,” grumbled Jake, “I’m coming.”

Outside he froze with horror. Both halves of Revenge’s door were open. Isa, fascinated by the horses, had developed a dreadful habit of standing on a bucket and letting himself into the boxes. Heart hammering, Jake ran across the yard as fast as his limp would allow. Inside he found Fen, her arms round Revenge’s neck, feeding him carrots and kissing him on the nose.

“Good boy, good boy. You’ll love it here and you’re going to become a great and famous show jumper. Jake’ll see to that.”

“Fen,” said Jake, desperately trying to keep his voice steady, “come out of there.”

She looked up at him with an angelic smile. “He’s so sweet. Can I ride him later?”

Revenge glared at Jake, raised a threatening front hoof, and then darted his big white teeth in the direction of Jake’s arm.

“Stop it,” said Fen firmly, taking his head collar and giving it a shake. “That’s bad manners. You don’t bite your master.”

Revenge debated the matter for a minute, rolling his eyes and looking bootfaced.

“No,” said Fen, even more firmly, “you’re just showing off. You’re an old softy, really.”

Revenge, deciding that perhaps he was, butted Fen in the pockets in search of more carrots.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“Revenge.”

Fen grinned. “Revenge is sweet, he really is.”

At that moment Jake decided to keep her.

“If you’re so taken by him, you’d better feed him and skip him out.”

“What’s he been eating?” said Fen.

“Stable boys, mostly,” said Jake, “but I think we’ll try and wean him off that habit.”

Rupert drove home in a blazing temper. He’d tried everything to make Masters tear up the check, but when the man insisted he’d given the buyer a receipt, and refused to name him, Rupert lost his temper and an undignified shouting match ensued.

On the way home Rupert took it out on Sarah, the brunette he’d met at a show earlier in the week. He’d been furious with himself for bedding her that morning. He’d been on the way home from a dinner in London and had rung Helen to say he’d be late home, as he was making a detour to Surrey to look at a horse. The detour had also taken in Sarah’s flat. He hadn’t enjoyed screwing her at all and he’d fallen asleep afterwards, which made him impossibly late for his appointment with Masters. He’d taken a stupid risk, too. Masters might easily have rung home and Helen smelled a rat and been hurt unnecessarily. He didn’t feel particularly guilty about being unfaithful, but enraged that, through his stupid dalliance, he’d lost a really good horse. He’d have to get his spies out and track Revenge down. By the time he had chewed up a few more people, he might go even cheaper. Since Madrid, Macaulay had been a write-off, losing all his form and confidence. He’d have to go too, he thought, as he dropped Sarah off.

“When’ll I see you again?” she called after him anxiously.

But Rupert had driven off without a word. Even the sight of Penscombe in the height of its summer beauty didn’t soothe him. Helen’s clothes, her endless schemes for the garden—a lilac walk here, a little heated swimming pool there, a seventeenth-century stone nymph there—cost a fortune. Billy worked hard, but he cost a fortune, too, always buying other people drinks and feeding Mavis chicken. The whole shooting match is dependent on me, Rupert thought sulkily. I’ve got to win and win to support it.

He drove straight around to the stables, where he found Billy working one of the novices in a nearby field. He admired Billy’s patience, but why was he resting The Bull and Kitchener this week and not at a show, winning money?

Billy pulled up and rode towards him, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“Did you get him?”

“Already sold on.”

“Shit, that was bad luck. Who got him?”

“Wouldn’t say.”

“Might have been more trouble than he was worth. This is going to be a very good horse, by the way.”

“Good. It’s about time he started paying his way.”

He found Marion in the tackroom, cleaning a saddle. She didn’t look up. Still sulking, thought Rupert. For a second he admired the unsupported breasts in the tight blue T-shirt, and the succulent thighs in the denim skirt, which was only just buttoned up enough to hold it up.

“Didn’t get him,” he said. “He was sold on.”

“Who to?” Marion bent over the pommel, so Rupert couldn’t see how much she was blushing.

“Masters wouldn’t say.”

“Just as well. I quite like having two arms and legs.”

“Particularly when they’re such sexy legs.”

She looked up: “Wasn’t aware you’d noticed them recently.”

“I always notice them.”

“How was Sarah?” It was an inspired guess, but it hit home.

Rupert didn’t flicker, then, unable to resist a joke, added, “Rather like Coventry Cathedral—ravishing from the outside, but very disappointing once you got inside.”

Marion started to giggle. “You are frightful.”

He went up behind her, stroking the back of her neck. She leant against him, furious with herself for feeling faint with longing.

“Rupert, darling,” called a voice.

“In here,” said Rupert, moving away from Marion to examine the diet charts.

It was Helen, also in navy blue, in a dress which must have cost fifty times more than my skirt and T-shirt, thought Marion. Helen was looking rather pale, her newly washed hair falling to her shoulders, subtly smelling of Miss Dior, her blue high heels catching in the ridges of the floor.

She’s as out of place here as a tiger lily in a cabbage patch, thought Marion.

“Darling, how did you get on?”

“I’m coming in,” said Rupert. “I’m filthy. You can bring me a drink in the bath.”

He was reading
Horse and Hound
in a foot of hot, scented water when she walked in. Funny, he reflected, how even after two years she averted her eyes.

“Nice dress.”

“It can go back if you don’t like it.”

“I do. You can take it off in a minute.”

“Here’s your drink,” she said hastily, hoping to distract him.

Rupert took a deep gulp and went on reading Audax on the Derby.

“Why don’t you come and soap my cock?”

Helen blushed. “Billy’ll be in in a minute.”

“So what? Not in here, he won’t. Come on.”