Riders (36 page)

Not by a flicker of a muscle did Rupert betray how interested he was. “Your horse?”

“Jake was short of cash last June and desperate to buy Revenge in a hurry. Some other buyer was after him, so Bernard put up the money. I was livid at the time, but he seems rather a good investment. Won twice as much as he cost already. Jake is rather maddening, though.”

“Yes?”

Under Rupert’s blue gaze, Molly was becoming indiscreet.

“He could have won a lot more, but Jake keeps retiring the horse because he doesn’t want to push him. Feels he’s not ready to jump against the clock.”

“Rubbish,” said Rupert. “When a horse is as good as that you’ve got to press on.”

“Really?” said Molly. “Oh, do look, the Princess has arrived. I love her dress.”

Everyone stood up with the usual clattering of seats. The band played the National Anthem. Round followed round, but only Ludwig and Jake on Sailor jumped clear.

“Helen’s having a baby in March,” said Rupert, getting to his feet. “So we’re not going out much, but we must all have dinner sometime.”

“That would be lovely,” said Molly, giving him their telephone number. “Bernard usually goes to London on Wednesday morning to see his stockbrokers, but I’m always there.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Rupert pointedly.

Molly smirked to herself as he walked down the steps. She’d always thought Rupert was most attractive. Nice that she hadn’t lost her touch.

Six riders had to jump off. Jake took one look at the course. For an indoor arena with limited space it was enormous, ending up with an upright of five feet eight inches.

“I’m not jumping Revenge,” he said to Colonel Carter.

“Don’t be bloody silly, man. There’s £4,000 at stake.”

“I don’t care. It’s too much to ask an inexperienced horse. He jumped a beautiful round earlier. Let’s leave it at that.”

The colonel looked thunderous.

“Only tell how good he is if you have a go.”

“He’s had a tough week.”

Molly’s face was twitching. “I think you’re being very foolish, Jake. I’ve just been talking to Rupert Campbell-Black, Bernard, and he said he’d certainly jump Revenge against the clock.”

“All the more reason for me not to,” snapped Jake.

“Quite right,” said Fen crossly. “He’s a young horse; set him back months if he lost his confidence.”

“Really, Fenella,” said Molly, “no one asked your opinion.”

Rupert rode past on the way into the arena.

Stupid pratt, he thought, listening for a second to the splendid row.

“That
bloody
little man,” whispered Molly to Rupert, “he’s absolutely refusing to jump him.”

Rupert shrugged. “Well, you know what I feel.”

“He’ll be sixth anyway,” said Jake. “That’s £500. I said I’d train him my way. You’ll have to lump it.”

Rupert rattled everyone by setting a virtually unbeatable time of 29.3 seconds.

“Such a good rider,” said Molly to Colonel Carter and, lowering her voice, “You’ve no idea what sense he talked.”

No one could beat Rupert’s time. Ludwig was a second slower, Lavinia had a fence down, Humpty couldn’t catch him, nor could Hans Schmidt.

“I think that’s £4,000 in the bag,” said Rupert to Billy. “I might even take the girls to Annabel’s.”

Jake felt sick. Looking at the six jumps he wondered how the hell he could beat Rupert’s time. Then, when he came to the rustic poles, where everyone else had gone round the wall, he cut in from the other side, jumping the fence sideways as he turned. The crowd gave a shout and, suddenly aware of a knife-edge finish, bellowed him home. He cleared the last fence and looked at the clock. He’d done it. A fifth of a second faster than Rupert. He hugged Sailor, who gave three huge bucks, nearly unseating him. The crowd went mad.

“Well done, my friend,” said Ludwig, clouting Jake on the back. It was his biggest win yet. Everyone—except Rupert, Molly, and Colonel Carter—surged forward to congratulate him.

The arena was now pitted with holes like a beach after a hot bank holiday. Several women in fur capes and ball dresses carrying rosettes and the huge silver cup walked out, tiptoeing to avoid any droppings as the winners came in, Jake riding Sailor and leading Revenge. The Princess smiled and said she’d been following Sailor’s career and she was sorry she hadn’t got any Polos, and hadn’t Revenge jumped well? Jake felt very happy.

Back in the collecting ring the yuletide spirit was relentlessly reasserting itself. Two Welsh cobs were being harnessed to a sleigh which was being loaded up with Christmas trees by a man in a red coat. Helen’s old admirer, Monica Carlton, in a tricorn hat and a frockcoat, was putting on a false mustache.

The band played “All the Nice Girls Love a Sailor,” as Sailor cantered the lap of honor under the spotlight, as proud as a butler with the family silver. Jake went deliberately slowly, knowing that Rupert would have difficulty holding Belgravia.

“For Christ’s sake, get a move on,” snarled Rupert, cannoning into him.

It’s all very well, thought the colonel darkly, Jake gets £4,000 plus £250 out of that. I get a measly £250.

Rupert came out of the ring, looking at his watch. Tiffany Bathgate would be at the flat in half an hour; he’d better step on it. Then he glanced across the collecting ring and his blood froze, for, picking her way towards him, very pale but unspeakably beautiful, a fur coat hiding any trace of pregnancy, was Helen. As usual, she made everyone else look commonplace. Rupert was off Belgravia in a second, handing him to Marion, taking Helen in his arms.

“Darling, I’m so sorry. It was all my fault,” she said.

“No, it was mine,” said Rupert, holding her against him, his brain racing.

Looking down, he saw how the fox fur coat set off the red hair and the huge eyes that were already filling with tears.

“I missed you so much,” she said, “I nearly went to the apartment and waited for you as a surprise.”

Rupert felt dizzy with horror. That would have been a fine welcome for Tiffany Bathgate and Dopey.

“What would you like to do?” said Rupert, his ingenuity working overtime. “There’s a party, if you’re not too tired, then we could have some supper.”

Anything to keep her away from the flat until the coast was clear.

“I’m a bit tired, but I don’t want to be a party pooper.”

“I’ll just go and see what Billy’s plans are,” said Rupert. “Have a word with Malise. And here’s Humpty and Ivor. I won’t be a second.”

“Hello, stranger,” said Humpty, kissing her. And as they all gathered round to welcome her, she suddenly realized how nice they were and how wrong she’d been to build them up as obsessed, insensitive monsters.

Rupert went over to Billy, who had just bought himself a treble whisky from the bar.

“Helen’s arrived.”

“I saw. Fine mess you’ve got yourself into. I don’t know why you’re looking so cheerful.”

“I love my wife,” said Rupert blandly. “Look, you must go and wait at the flat and divert those schoolgirls. Take them out to dinner, explain that Helen’s turned up.”

“Why the fuck should I? I
must
talk to Lavinia.”

“The party’ll go on for hours. She’ll be much more receptive after a few drinks. Look, I’ll pay. But I promised Tiffany a night out (and in) so be a love and give them a whirl, and tell Tiffany to keep herself on ice for the next time.”

Billy looked mutinous.

“You don’t want to ruin my marriage,” pleaded Rupert. “You can’t upset Helen at this stage. She oughtn’t to be under any stress with the baby coming.”

Billy sighed. “Okay, I’ll intercept them, then take them straight back to wherever they are staying and come on to the party.”

Billy was knocked sideways by the smell of warm scented flesh, newly washed hair, and radiantly expectant youth. The two girls were bitterly disappointed, and also well below the age of consent. Tiffany slipped up later by saying she would be doing her “O” levels in two years’ time. In the end, Billy was too kind to dump them. He gave them a slap-up dinner with lots of champagne, most of which he drank himself, and when he saw Tiffany dolefully looking at her gold watch, said,

“It wasn’t an excuse, honest. Helen really did turn up.”

“You will give him my phone number, won’t you?” she said.

Back at Olympia, lights had been turned out in the stables. Horses dozed in their loose boxes. An egalitarian Christmas drunk was running up and down, pinching hay out of Belgravia’s hay net and distributing it among horses that hadn’t got any.

The party was soon well under way. This year Humpty was acting as host; everyone turned up at his caravan with bottles. Predictably, Driffield arrived with a bottle of Airwick.

“Thought you needed it, Humpty,” said Driffield, splashing whisky into his glass. “Place smells like a wrestler’s armpit.”

Heavy drinking stepped up the high jinks. For his officious behavior during the week, the collecting ring steward was dumped in the water trough. Later, a pretty waitress from the Olympia Bar, well primed by the rest of the British and German teams, asked Humpty if she could actually meet Porky Boy. She’d heard he liked Maltesers and she’d specially bought some. Only too happy to show off his favorite asset, a blushing Humpty led her off to Porky Boy’s box, followed at a safe distance by the other riders. The waitress looked into the box first.

“Oh dear,” she said, turning to Humpty, “he seems to have shrunk.”

Rushing forward to defend his beloved, Humpty discovered to his horror that instead of Porky Boy, one of the gray Shetland ponies that had pulled Snow White’s wedding coach was calmly guzzling Porky Boy’s hay. For a second Humpty was speechless.

“Dear me,” said Rupert, looking over the half-door, “poor old Porky. You haven’t put him in the washing machine, have you? I’m sure his label said Hand Wash.”

“You have been geeving heem too streect a diet, my friend,” said Ludwig. “ ’E ’as faded away.”

“Perhaps Porky’s been using Pond’s Vanishing Cweam,” said Lavinia.

Everyone screamed with laughter.

Humpty exploded. “Who’s stolen Porky Boy?” he bellowed. “Someone’s stolen my horse. Don’t you all laugh at me. I’m going to call the police.”

He was just dialing 999 in the nearest telephone box when suddenly Porky Boy emerged from behind a bank of wilting poinsettias, looking very put out at being deprived of his supper, and proceeded to rush back to Humpty straight through the stand of some enraged British Field Sports ladies, who were putting green rubber trousers into cardboard boxes.

Humpty then jumped on Porky Boy and chased Rupert, Ludwig, and Hans round the stands and into the arena. Ivor Braine was happily getting drunk with Wishbone, the sandy-haired Irishman.

“Get it down, lad, it’ll do thee good,” Ivor was saying, as he filled up the Irishman’s glass.

Dudley Diplock was grumbling to Malise about the fact that they no longer televised the presentation of the prizes.

“It’s what the public likes to see.”

But Malise wasn’t listening. He was looking at Helen Campbell-Black, who was being pinned against a pile of straw bales by Monica Carlton, who was still wearing her mustache and tricorn hat.

“Excuse me,” said Malise, and went over to rescue her.

“Oh, shove off, Malise,” said Monica. “I get little enough chance to talk to this exquisite creature.”

“So do I,” said Malise. She looks ill, he thought, and supposed it was the tired last months of pregnancy.

Fortunately Monica soon got sidetracked by the pretty waitress.

“Are you okay?” Malise asked Helen, slightly lowering his voice.

“Fine,” she said brightly.

“I like to take a fatherly interest in the wives of my team,” he said, in what he knew was an unnaturally hearty voice.

“I wish Rupert would take a fatherly interest in our baby,” said Helen bitterly.

“It’s probably jealousy,” said Malise, “and apprehension. He sees the looming challenge to his own identity and privacy. I know I felt the same, but I became positively doting once they arrived.”

“I sure hope so,” sighed Helen.

They watched Lavinia and Count Guy, arm in arm, working their way through the crowd towards them.

“Like Lavinia’s new barnet?” asked Monica Carlton, twirling her mustache. “Pity she’s chucking herself away on that frog.”

“I didn’t know,” said Helen, startled. “Is it serious?”

“I think so,” said Malise.

“Oh, poor Billy,” said Helen in distress. “I don’t think Lavinia would have been quite right for him, but then I don’t think anyone would be special enough for Billy.”

“Might just be the making of him,” said Malise. “He’s too soft, too protected by your husband, drinks too much, too.”

“We’re just going,” Lavinia said to Helen, adding fondly, “Guy doesn’t like parties over here because he hates not being able to talk Fwench, but I just wanted to intwoduce him.”

“Ah, la belle Hélène,” said the handsome count softly.

He took Helen’s hand, pressed it to his lips, then gazed into her eyes.