Riders (75 page)

I can’t bear it, thought Helen. I wanted a nice civilized evening discussing
Crime and Punishment
with the professor and all anyone can talk about is sex. They were all philistines. Earlier in the week she’d lent Janey her precious copy of
A Hero of Our Time,
and Janey had dropped it in the bath. Rupert was talking to Janey in an undertone. Frantically she tried to lip read what they were saying.

Billy, sensing her distress, patted her arm. “Everything’s under control.”

The Mountleys left around midnight, when everyone was still sitting round the table. The professor was very reluctant to go, but Mrs. Mountley had recently become a grandmother and felt things were definitely getting out of hand.

Helen, having seen them off, stood on the balcony breathing in the heady smell of warm earth, frangipani, dust, and burning charcoal. Beyond the garden she could see the gleaming eyes of waiting animals. But the animals inside the house frightened her much more. Determined to break the spell, she went back into the dining room.

“Don’t know about you, but I’m absolutely exhausted.”

Rupert looked up, a long cigar clamped between his white teeth.

“Let’s have another drink,” he said, getting up and filling everyone’s glasses with brandy, “and then let’s go to bed,” he paused, “together.”

Helen laughed nervously. “Together?”

“Sure—why not?”

Janey got up, her eyes glittering. “Do we use your bedroom or ours.”

“I’d prefer a home fixture,” said Rupert. “And besides, our bed is bigger.”

He strolled over to Janey and began to kiss her. Frozen with horror, Helen watched him take her pink breast out of the white shirt and gently stroke it, then he undid the zip of her trousers. Helen shot a panic-stricken look at Billy, only to see him watching with fascinated pleasure.

Janey ran laughing into the bedroom. Giving a view halloo, Billy followed her. Rupert turned to Helen, holding out his hand.

“Come on, darling, or you’ll miss the first act.”

Helen looked at him aghast. “We can’t! what about the servants?”

“I sent them home hours ago.” He grabbed her arm.

At the bedroom door she balked. Billy, already undressed, was sitting on the bed drinking brandy, watching Janey and wearing Helen’s sun hat. He was roaring with excited laughter and had a huge erection. Janey was standing in front of the mirror, tossing her hair back, spraying Helen’s most expensive scent over her boobs, and jiggling them so they caught the light. Helen turned to bolt, but Rupert’s viselike grip on her arm tightened.

“No you don’t. Don’t be a fucking spoilsport. We might finally find out what turns you on.” Shoving her towards the bed, he turned the key and pocketed it. Turning to Billy, he added, “It’s harder than getting Snakepit into the lorry.”

Billy took off the sun hat and turned to Helen.

“Come on, lovie, it’ll be fun. No one’s going to eat you.”

“Everyone’s going to eat her,” said Rupert and, pulling down Helen’s panties and lifting her dress and her pink silk petticoat, he kissed her bush. As she wriggled frantically away, his hand clamped down on her bottom.

Across the room her eyes met Janey’s, which were mocking and slightly contemptuous.

“Come and help me undress her,” Rupert said to Janey.

As he peeled off the black dress and the petticoat, Janey undid the pink bra.

“Lovely underwear,” she said. “Did you get it at Janet Reger?”

Helen covered her pitifully small breasts with one hand, clasping the other over her bush.

“I can’t, I can’t,” she pleaded to Rupert in panic. “I truly can’t.”

“Don’t be so bloody wet,” he hissed. “Do you want to make me look a complete idiot. Here she is, all yours,” he added and, scooping her up, dropped her on the bed between Janey and Billy. The fastest trouser-dropper in the business, next minute he was on the bed beside Janey.

From then on it was a heaving anthill of legs and arms. Helen lay beneath Rupert, her eyes glazed, her hair coming down, as responsive as a corpse, aware that Rupert was fondling Janey’s breasts at the same time. Janey, determined to put on a virtuoso performance, climbed on top of Billy, bucking like a bronco, arching her back in pleasure, writhing and wriggling against Rupert’s hands.

Then they changed over and, despite shutting her eyes, Helen knew Billy was inside her. He was much solider and heavier, yet gentler than Rupert.

“I’m not hurting you, am I, angel?” he breathed in her ear, running his hands over her body. “You’re so beautiful. Please enjoy it.”

Helen didn’t respond, lying rigid with horror, her teeth clenched, eyes closed. Billy, her dear, dear friend. How could he do this to her? But Billy was watching Janey bucking on top of Rupert. God, she looked wonderful! He was so proud of her!

“I’m coming,” cried Rupert suddenly, his face contorting.

“So am I,” said Janey, screaming and threshing.

She might be faking, thought Billy, but it’s a lovely performance, and next moment he’d shot into Helen. Looking down, he saw two tears welling out of her closed eyes and coursing down her cheeks.

“Don’t cry, angel. Please don’t cry.”

More tears welled.

Oh Christ, he thought. We shouldn’t have forced her. He rolled off, gathering her against him. Rupert gave Janey a long, long kiss, then eased out of her and said in an undertone, “See if you can get Helen going.”

“Move over,” Janey said to Billy, pushing him to the left of the bed. “Our turn now.” She trailed her fingertips up Helen’s thighs. Helen gave a moan of terror, shrinking away from Janey, eyes darting frantically for a way of escape. But, like bookends, Rupert and Billy blocked her exit.

“No, no, no,” she sobbed, as Janey’s insistent fingers started burrowing inside her, as she felt Janey’s breasts flopping on her stomach and Janey’s tongue on her breasts.

“Jesus,” Billy muttered to himself. “I’ll be off again in a minute.”

“Please don’t be frightened, Helen,” whispered Janey, as she caressed and stroked. “We’re all having such a good time, we want you to enjoy it too.”

I can’t go on forever, thought Janey, five minutes later. No wonder Rupert complains she’s frigid. She needs twenty-four hours’ defrosting. Rupert, bored with a spectator role, crawled down the bed and entered the slippery warmth of Janey from behind, so he could watch Helen. She looked like a martyr at the stake. Putting his hand around, he found that, despite Janey’s ministrations, she was as dry as a marathon runner’s throat.

She’s useless, he thought.

Suddenly, with Rupert behind Janey, Helen saw a way of escape. Shoving Janey to the left, she wriggled away from her and, before any of them had realized it, had jumped off the bed and stumbled across the room. In Rupert’s pocket she found the key.

“Come here,” he snarled.

For once she was in luck. In his excitement, Rupert hadn’t locked the door properly. Crying hysterically, she managed to slip out, slam the door, and turn the key, just as he crashed against it. She longed to run away into the night, but on the terrace the moon had gone in and everywhere was as black as ink. She heard the dry cough of a leopard and decided to settle for the third bedroom. There were no sheets on the bed. Huddled under the counterpane, gazing unseeingly at the bookcase, she shuddered until dawn. If her sleeping pills hadn’t been in the bathroom cupboard, which could only be reached by going through the bedroom, she would have taken the lot. Any minute she expected an enraged Rupert to appear and drag her back to the torture chamber.

But the others were enjoying themselves.

“The grown-up has gone to bed now,” said Janey.

“All hands on dick,” said Rupert, filling up the glasses.

Playing games of their own, they carried on till morning.

R
inging home next day, Helen discovered that Marcus was in bed with tonsillitis and a temperature of 103. She was so riddled with guilt that she felt so relieved there was a really good excuse to fly straight home by herself.

In recent months the tonsillitis attacks had been getting closer together. The antibiotics were having less effect and Marcus was looking so waiflike that Helen accepted James Benson’s recommendation that he should have his tonsils out at once.

“They’re as big as billiard balls. Marcus’ll be much better shot of them. It won’t cure the asthma, but all the illnesses he’s having as a result of the infected tonsils are pulling him down. There’s a very good man at the Motcliffe in Oxford. He’ll only be in hospital for four or five days.”

“Can I go in with him?”

“I honestly don’t recommend it. You’ve been under a lot of strain recently.” Privately Benson thought he’d never seen her look so wretched. “Leave him with experts who see this operation fifty times a week.”

“You’re saying I’m no good as a mother,” said Helen, beginning to shake.

“No, no,” said Benson reassuringly. “I’m saying you’re too good.”

“It’s certainly been a stressful year. D’you think that’s making his asthma worse?”

Benson shrugged. “Probably. Children are like radars; Marcus must realize how unhappy Rupert’s making you.”

Thank God we didn’t take the kids to Kenya, thought Helen, with a shudder.

“Rupert wouldn’t want me to go in with him.”

“Well, don’t. By all means visit him during the day, but go home and get a good night’s sleep every night.”

The night before Marcus was due to have his tonsils out, at the beginning of March, Helen and Rupert went to a big ball in London to raise funds for the Tory Party. It was the sort of invitation that Rupert would normally have refused; but, surprisingly, he was rather a fan of Mrs. Thatcher, the new prime minister, and felt she needed every bit of help if the Tories were to stay in power.

“You wouldn’t be able to afford to have Marcus’s tonsils out privately if the Socialists brought in a wealth tax.”

They went very grandly to the ball with several ministers and their wives. Helen found the evening a nightmare. Hollow-eyed, thinner than ever, her black ball dress had had to be taken in yet again. She knew she was being a damper on the evening, but all she could think about was Marcus in his white hospital bed and the surgeon’s knife going into his little throat in the morning. All around her, every table seemed filled with ravishing, chattering women flirting with bland smooth-haired men. At the same table a be-diamonded brunette with a roving eye, who’d already had a long amorous dance with Rupert, was surreptitiously holding hands with one Tory minister and, at the same time, making animated conversation to his wife.

The whole world’s at it, thought Helen, in despair.

There was Rupert coming off the dance floor, looking around for fresh talent. Goodness, he was going up to Amanda Hamilton, the much-admired wife of the minister for foreign affairs. Now she was smiling up at him and he was taking her onto the floor. She must be forty, but very attractive in a determined sort of way—driving her husband Rollo on from success to success, knowing everyone, rigidly governed by the social calendar.

Rupert had actually met Amanda Hamilton before, at a party last June, and had promptly asked her out to lunch.

“No, I can’t,” she had replied in her shrill, piercing voice. “Next week’s Ascot.”

“The week after then.”

“No, that’s tennis.”

Rupert was slightly taken aback, until she explained that Wimbledon went on for a fortnight and she had to be in her seat on the center court by two o’clock every day.

After that, she explained patiently, there would be a trip to America with Rollo, then Goodwood, and then Scotland.

Now, holding her in his arms in the twilight gloom, as the band played “This Guy’s in Love with You,” Rupert admired her rounded, magnolia-white shoulders. A side door suddenly opened to admit a couple to the dance floor, and Amanda Hamilton’s Scotch-mist-soft complexion was briefly illuminated. She didn’t duck her head, for her unwrinkled, untroubled beauty had no need of dimmer light.

“How was Wimbledon?” asked Rupert.

“Very exciting. He’s spoilt, that American who nearly won, but my goodness he can play tennis. I rather admire that kind of drive. It seems odd that no one minds painters or musicians or actors having tantrums, but tennis players, who are, after all, kind of artists, are expected to behave themselves. He’s rather like you, in fact. You’ve had a bad press recently, haven’t you?”

“You noticed?” said Rupert.

“Fighting with judges, frolicking with starlets, beating up your horses.”

Rupert shrugged.

“D’you beat your wife, too? Is that why she looks so miserable?”

Rupert glanced at Helen, who was still sitting frozen, gazing into space.

“What do you think?” he said.

“She looks as though the dentist is filling her back teeth, having forgotten to give her an injection.”

Rupert grinned.

“I don’t think it’s funny. Why are you consistently so foul to her when she’s so beautiful?”

“She’s given me up for Lent.”

“Don’t blame her, with you running after everything in skirts—or trousers—these days. Girls don’t seem to wear skirts anymore.”

“You seem to have been taking a great interest in my career.” His hand was beginning to rotate very gently on her back.

“It amazes me that someone with such dazzling qualities should be quite happy about presenting such an appalling image to the outside world.”

“I know what my friends think. Other people don’t matter.”

Amanda Hamilton shook her head so the pearl combs gleamed in her dark hair.

“One day you might get bored with riding horses and want to try your hand at something more serious.”

“Like taking you to Paris.”

“Rollo was saying the other day that one felt rather insulted if Rupert C-B
hadn’t
been to bed with one’s wife.”

Rupert tightened his grip, his hand moving upwards until he encountered bare flesh.

“I’d hate to insult Rollo,” he said softly.

“He could do you a lot of good. Have you ever thought of going into politics?”

“No.”

“You’d be very good. You’ve got the looks, the force of personality, the magnetism, the wit.”

Rupert laughed. “But not the intellect. My wife says I’m a dolt.”

“You’ve got common sense, and I’ve heard you’re a very good after-dinner speaker.”

“I speak much better during dinner—and to one person, preferably you. When are you going to dine with me?”

“We’re off to Gstaad tomorrow. Oh, listen, the music’s stopped.” She clapped vaguely and turned towards her table.

Rupert grabbed her arm. “Wait. It’ll start up again in a second.”

“No,” said Amanda, with gentle firmness. “We’ve danced quite long enough. Go back and look after your poor little wife. You must both come and dine with us when Rollo gets back from Moscow next month.”

“No, thank you. I’ve got absolutely no desire to get better acquainted with your husband.”

Amanda smiled and patted his cheek.

“Think about politics as a career. I mean it seriously.”

Rupert stared at her unsmilingly.

“Seriously,”
he emphasized the word, “I’m only interested in getting a gold at the moment.”

Two days later, Jake Lovell walked down the long corridors of the Motcliffe Hospital to say hello to the matron and in the hope of catching a glimpse of the angelic Sister Wutherspoon. By some stupid Freudian misreading of the diary, or perhaps because he was so anxious to get the go-ahead to ride again, he had arrived for his appointment with Mr. Buchannan five hours early. Mr. Buchannan was operating, said the secretary, and couldn’t possibly see him before four o’clock.

The day had already been full of omens. It had snowed heavily since lunchtime the previous day and he and Tory had had to dig out the car that morning. Two magpies had crossed his path as he was leaving Warwickshire. An odd number of traffic lights had been green on his way through Oxford. He’d taken fifty-one strides from the car park to the front door. There were eleven people in the lift. His horoscope said the aspects for Venus were good and this was a make-or-break day. He hoped to hell it wasn’t the latter. He’d had enough of breaks. He vowed that if Johnnie Buchannan told him he could ride again, he’d make the Olympic team. The individual event on September eighth was exactly six months away.

The nurses on the ward greeted him like a long-lost brother.

“My, we
are
walking well. You’ll be beating Seb Coe in the eight hundred meters at this rate.”

It was very warm in the hospital. Outside, the snow was still falling thickly, blurring the outlines of the trees, laying a clean sheet over the lawn. Orange streetlights glowed out of the gathering whiteness. Feeling totally blanketed against reality, Jake asked after Sister Wutherspoon.

“She’s having two days’ leave,” said Joan, Sister Wutherspoon’s spotty, fat friend, “but she was absolutely furious to miss you. She left you her number in case you felt like ringing her at home,” she added, excited at the prospect of matchmaking.

Jake pocketed the number. He had five hours to kill. He might as well ask her out to lunch. On the way to the telephone he passed by some of the private rooms and heard an unearthly animal screaming like a rabbit caught in a snare. The screams increased, growing more terrible.

Anxious to disassociate himself, Jake walked on. Rounding the corner, he was sent flying by what seemed like a huge bear jumping out of a room at him.

“What the fuck?” he snapped.

Then he realized it was a woman in a huge blond fur coat, tears streaming down her face. She looked half crazy with terror.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I don’t know what to do. Marcus. Such terrible screaming. Something must have gone wrong.”

Jake realized it was Helen Campbell-Black.

“Where is he?” he said over the screaming.

“In there. He’s just had his tonsils out. They said not to visit till later, but I wanted to be here when he came back from the theater.”

Jake took her arm. “Let’s go and see him.”

Marcus was still screaming. He was as pale as his pillow; his white nightgown, like a shroud, was splattered with blood. Jake stroked the child’s red hair gently.

“He’ll go to sleep soon.”

“Can’t they give him something to stop the pain?”

“He’ll just have had a huge shot of morphine. Every time he swallows, it must be like an axe on his head.”

Gradually the screams subsided into great wracking sobs, until finally Marcus fell into an uneasy whimpering sleep.

“He’ll be okay now,” said Jake, straightening the sheet.

“Are you sure? W-why did he scream so much?”

“They have to wake them up immediately after the operation to make sure everything’s all right. We went through the same thing with Darklis and Isa. They were both perfectly okay when they came around later. Darklis was as cheerful as anything, eating ice cream and raspberry jelly by the evening. When she woke up, she asked, ‘When am I going to have my tonsils out?’ ”

Helen looked at him stunned, as though only half-listening to what he was saying.

“W-why it’s Jake, isn’t it? Jake Lovell?” she said slowly. “I didn’t recognize you.”

“You weren’t exactly in a recognizing mood.”

Suddenly she jumped out of her skin at the sound of more screaming coming down the corridor.

“Don’t worry,” he said soothingly. “It’s only another child coming back from the operating theater. They all sound like that.”

Woken, Marcus started crying again. Helen rushed to his side. “Oh, please don’t, angel.”

In a few seconds he’d fallen back to sleep again. They waited for quarter of an hour. Every noise seemed magnified a thousand times—a car horn outside, a nurse laughing in the passage, even the snow piling up on the window ledge outside, but Marcus didn’t wake. Jake looked at his watch: “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“I can’t leave him.”

“Yes, you can. I’ll have a word with my friend, Joanie. If he makes a squeak they’ll ring us at the pub and you can rush back.”

Outside, the snow was still falling—heavy flakes like goose feathers, bowing down the privets in the hospital garden, settling on the collar of Helen’s fur coat, forming points on the toes of her tan leather boots, clogging up her eyelashes. Jake walked slowly. It was treacherous underfoot. He couldn’t afford to fall over, today of all days. They had only got as far as the car park when she broke down again.

“I can’t go. I’m sorry.”

He led her to his Land Rover, sitting her down on a noseband and a copy of
Riding
magazine. Snow curtained all the windows. All Jake could do was say, “There, there,” gently, almost absent-mindedly, patting her shoulder.