Riders (79 page)

He reached for her glass, making her take a big gulp, and then a second and a third.

“Come on, now, tell me all about it.” Then it all came pouring out—the humiliations, the taunts, Rupert’s always insisting on sex whenever he came home, despite the endless infidelities, then the clap and, finally, Samantha Freebody.

“That’s not all, is it?” said Jake. “What happened in Kenya?”

“How’d you know anything happened?” whispered Helen.

“Second sight. Come on. We can’t afford to have any secrets.”

He made her take another slug of gin.

“I can’t talk about it,” she whispered.

“Go on. It’ll help, I promise.”

So she told him, often crying so hard he couldn’t hear the words, about the foursome with Billy and Janey.

“Afterwards, Rupert made me feel as though I’d let him down, paid him the ultimate insult by not joining in. I couldn’t. I’m simply not made that way.”

Jake tipped her head back, swept the sodden hair away from her forehead, and dried the tears with his handkerchief.

She heaved a long sigh. “I’m so sorry to bore you.”

Jake held her tightly. “Poor baby, poor poor little baby. You did end up in the wrong yard, didn’t you?”

Her yellow dress had no zip, so Jake was able to slide it off over her head, before laying her back on the counterpane.

“Still got the pain?”

“A little.”

“I’ll bring you something for that next time. The gin’ll start working soon.”

Beneath the coffee-colored silk petticoat, he could feel her stomach muscles tightly knotted. But gently, as he stroked them with those magic hands that could calm the most frightened horse, she began to relax. She was so tired, after nights of not sleeping, that the singsong voice and the stroking hands and the gin were making her drowsy. Almost before she knew it, he had slid off her petticoat and unhooked her bra. Then he was kissing her mouth and, almost in spite of herself she was kissing him back, gently at first, then more and more fiercely, and still his hand continued to stroke her belly.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

“I’m so thin.”

“No, you’re perfect.”

After Tory’s bulk, he found Helen’s fragility incredibly erotic. For once he felt like a great hunk of man, all-powerful by comparison.

And she looked so unbelievably touching, with her damp cheeks and wide yellow eyes smudged with mascara, and her hair falling in a long red tangle over one shoulder. As he kissed her again, his hand slid downwards, caressing all the time, circling the pubic hair then sliding under the pants to find the clitoris, stroking it with the utmost delicacy. Helen tensed and then relaxed.

She’s not frigid, he thought in triumph. Slowly, slowly like a moth emerging from a chrysalis, she seemed to yield to him. Then she gave a deep sigh of contentment.

After a minute she opened her eyes and smiled.

“Frigid, eh?” he muttered into her hair.

“That was so lovely,” she gasped.

“Wasn’t it?” He grinned down at her, looking absurdly pleased with himself.

“But you haven’t had any sex at all,” she said, suddenly distressed.

“Doesn’t matter. I can wait till next time. It’ll be worth waiting for.”

The unselfishness, the insight, the kindness put the seal on her love for him.

“That was the most wonderful sex I’ve ever had,” she said.

“For me, too,” he said, kissing the hollows of her throat.

Three days later, he had her for the first time in a meadow on the edge of Bifield woods, near the old gypsy encampment, where his forefathers must often have taken his foremothers. A heavy shower of rain had flattened the grass for them and dispersed the regiments of insects, but it was still very hot. Their lovemaking was rapturous. They fitted together perfectly and despite anything he might say to the contrary to Helen, Jake experienced a feeling of pure triumph: that this was Rupert’s wife lying beneath him and reduced to a quivering jelly of ecstasy. Once again he had succeeded where Rupert had failed.

Meanwhile, in Rome, at almost the same time, Rupert Campbell-Black was experiencing an almost identical moment of triumph, as he lay on top of Amanda Hamilton for the first time. Rock Star had had a glorious double clear in the Nations’ Cup, making up for Fenella Maxwell’s indifferent form and clinching the victory for Great Britain. Today, Amanda was actually missing the final of the men’s doubles in order to play mixed singles with him. Full-breasted, narrow-hipped, long-legged, her body was superb for a woman of forty. Only a slight creping on thighs and breastbone betrayed her age. Her string of pearls was still round her neck. In out, in out, superbly in control, Rupert drove her towards orgasm.

Suddenly her face contorted with concentration, then she gave a cry of ecstasy.

“At last.”

“My darling,” said Rupert, smiling tenderly.

“I’ve suddenly worked it out,” said Amanda. “It was
your
cousin, Charlie Cameron, who was married to Rollo’s niece-in-law, Antonia Armitage. Before she was married to him, she was Antonia Luard.”

If it had been any other woman, Rupert would have hit her.

F
or the first four weeks Helen and Jake enjoyed an unnatural freedom. Rupert and Fen were traveling abroad with the British team, following the same route from Rome, Fontainebleau, Paris to Lucerne along which, the previous year, Fen had cavorted so joyously with Billy. Now Fen did no cavorting. She went to bed early, listened with both ears to Malise’s advice, worked her horses diligently, but still showed an alarming lack of form. Each day she grew more panicky that she wouldn’t be selected for L.A. and would never see Dino again. That was her sole ambition.

In England, however, Jake was on sensational form. Macaulay, blissful to have his master on his back again, was jumping superbly. Hardy, recovered from the operation and still erratic and cantankerous, had some brilliant days. Wherever Jake went, he annihilated the competition. But he was still nagged by the worry that the selectors had forgotten him because he’d been off the circuit so long. How much more would he have to achieve before they began to sit up and take notice?

Almost, but not entirely, taking the edge off his anxiety was his obsession with Helen. Traveling the British circuit, he was away from home three or four nights a week. Sarah was abroad with Fen. Hannah, Jake’s new young groom, had a convenient crush on one of the Irish riders, spending most nights sleeping under haycocks or in the back of the Irish boy’s lorry. Helen, with a Volvo at her disposal, whizzed up numerous motorways and spent as many nights as possible with Jake, stretched out in his lorry or on a duvet in the back of the Volvo. Sometimes they went to hotels. Often, despite Jake’s reluctance, Helen paid. If she had the money, why not? From the moment she committed herself to Jake she felt absolutely no guilt about being unfaithful to Rupert or spending his money.

She did feel guilty about neglecting the children, but she was so happy whenever she returned, radiant and talkative, and so loaded down with guilt presents, even choc drops for Badger, that everyone flourished. Helen, being an emotional tyro, was blissfully unaware that everyone in the household knew someone was up and were having bets on who he was.

On the twenty-eighth of May Jake returned to the Mill House, having spent three days at the Great Cheshire show, where he had won every big class by day and spent his nights making love to Helen. In three days’ time, which was also the first day of the Lucerne show, the Olympic committee would announce ten short-listed riders from whom the final five would be selected in mid-July. Jake arrived home absolutely shattered. His mended leg ached badly, but that was probably due more to an excess of sex than to show jumping. As he climbed out of the lorry, the sun was setting. Tory ran out of the house to welcome him. With her bulk and her round shining face, she seemed, after Helen’s slenderness, like a Matrioska doll that has suddenly gone two sizes up. He hoped her elation might be due to the news that he’d been selected, but it was purely because she was so thrilled to see him. He was so tired, he kept giving the wrong answers to her questions. As he went into the kitchen, the children surged forward in their pajamas to welcome him, hugging and kissing him, bombarding him with questions about the trip. Realizing he couldn’t cope with the din, Tory sent them off to watch television. Jake poured himself a drink.

“How did Fen do in the Nations’ Cup?”

Tory had prayed he wouldn’t ask. She didn’t want him upset so soon after he’d got home.

“They dropped both her rounds.”

“Shit. What happened?”

“She was in floods when she rang. I don’t think it was anything Desdemona did wrong. Fen said it was her fault. She’ll probably ring you after the Grand Prix.”

Jake dropped a couple of ice cubes in his whisky and went out into the yard, watching the horses being put to bed. Macaulay, having rolled and wolfed his dinner, was already dragging up the straw, preparing to lie down. Hardy was still restless. It always took him a long time to settle back, even into his own box. As Jake progressed down the line, each horse came to the half-door to welcome him. Tonight, for once, they didn’t cheer him up. Why hadn’t he heard from Malise?

He went into the tackroom.

“Supper,” called Tory from the kitchen door.

“Won’t be a minute,” Jake called back. Next moment he’d picked up the tackroom telephone. As he waited for Helen to answer he noticed the peeling paint on the door. If Charlene answered, he would put the telephone down.

“Helen, it’s Jake.”

“Darling.” It was worth the risk to hear the ecstasy in her voice. “Where are you?”

“At home. I can’t talk. I just want you to know I miss you like hell.”

Suddenly he saw Tory appearing in the doorway. “I’ll call you tomorrow, bye.”

“Darling,” said Tory, “I could have made that call for you.”

“Think I left my wallet in Humpty’s lorry. I had a drink with him at lunchtime.”

“Your wallet’s in the kitchen, silly,” said Tory. “You
must
be tired. It’s so sweet you’ve got that photograph of me from the color supplement tucked inside it. It’s an awful picture. I look so fat. D’you really miss me when you’re away?”

“ ’Course I do.”

The photograph in fact was part of a feature on show-jumping wives that had just appeared in the
Sunday Times
color magazine. On one side of the page were two photographs: one of Tory looking fat, pink, and eager, nailing up rosettes in the kitchen, the other of Janey Lloyd-Foxe, managing to look absurdly sexy in a maternity smock. The other side of the page was devoted entirely to a photograph of Helen on the terrace at Penscombe, gazing wistfully down the valley, looking unbelievably beautiful. It was taken before she met Jake and was the reason he had sloped up to the newsagent to scrounge another copy.

In the kitchen, Jake thanked God that Hannah, Isa, and Darklis were having dinner with them. The children, allowed to stay because it was Sunday tomorrow, were arguing who was going to sit next to him.

“You can both sit next to Daddy,” said Tory, putting a long loaf of garlic bread on the table.

Darklis had painted a picture at school which she showed proudly to Jake.

“It’s you and Macaulay at Los Angeles, Daddy.”

Both he and Macaulay were standing on the rostrum wearing gold medals with balloons coming out of their mouths saying “God save the Queen.”

“I think you’re being a bit premature, but thank you,” said Jake.

As Tory served out beef cooked in beer and the children both helped themselves to too much mashed potato, and Hannah brandished the rosettes they’d won this week, which tomorrow would be nailed to the corkboard, Jake wondered if the last month with Helen had been all a dream.

Suddenly the telephone rang. For a mad moment of panic he thought it might be Helen ringing back. It was Malise, calling from Lucerne.

After two minutes, Tory put Jake’s dinner in the oven. After ten minutes, Tory gave the rest of the beef out in second helpings, knowing Jake wouldn’t want any more.

“Yes,” he said, his back hunched over the telephone, with a curious stillness. “Yes, I see, okay. Yes.”

“We’re going to need another bottle,” said Hannah.

“I don’t know if we’ve got one,” said Tory. “What for?”

“To celebrate, or to cheer ourselves up.”

At last Jake came off the telephone. He looked like a thundercloud. Then he smiled and put his arms round Tory.

“Fen was third in the Grand Prix.”

“Oh, thank goodness for that,” said Tory.

There was a long pause. They all waited. “And I’ve been short-listed for L.A. He wants me to fly out to Lucerne with Hardy and Macaulay tomorrow.”

Tory woke up at four in the morning and, reaching out for Jake, found the bed empty. He was in the study. Cigarettes were piling up in the ashtray. Outside, it was already light, blackbirds were bustling importantly across the lawn, like clerics in a cathedral close.

“Darling, what
are
you doing?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Too excited?”

He shook his head ruefully. “Too much to think about.”

He’d waited so long for that telephone call, despairing that it would ever come. Now it had and he ought to be overjoyed, but all he could think was that he wouldn’t see Helen for at least a fortnight. The prospect appalled him.

By morning, he had the whole thing in perspective and was quite matter-of-fact when he rang her. Helen sounded absolutely shattered and made no attempt to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

“I’m thrilled for you, darling, but we won’t be able to have that week in Yorkshire. I can’t bear it.”

“I’ll only be away ten days.”

“But that’s an eternity and then Rupert’ll be back for the Royal and the Royal International. Can I see you this afternoon?”

“It’s a bit tricky.” He sounded detached, as though he was already in Lucerne. “I’ve got a hell of a lot to do. We’re desperately short-staffed anyway, with Fen and Sarah abroad and all the papers to get in order.”

Being superstitious, he hadn’t brought anything up to date in case he wasn’t selected.

“I’ll ring you later,” he said.

Jake didn’t get a moment to ring until seven o’clock. Everyone was in the yard or in the kitchen, so in the end he was reduced to pretending he needed some cigarettes from the pub. Then the pub call box was out of order, so he had to use the one in the High Street to the fascination of all the locals. Helen was in a frightful state.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been frantic. I figured something must have happened.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been hellishly busy.”

“Am I going to see you this evening?”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll come over to you.”

“I haven’t had a night at home for days. I’ve got a hell of a lot still to do. We’re leaving first thing.”

Next moment he jumped out of his skin as a neighbor tapped on the window, wanting to congratulate Jake on being short-listed.

“What are you doing in a call box, anyway?” he asked.

“Ours is out of order,” said Jake.

“Come and use ours then.”

“I’ve nearly finished,” Jake banged the door shut. “Darling, I’m sorry, someone banged on the window. Look, I’ll ring you as soon as I get to Lucerne.”

“I can take a hint,” said Helen in a tight voice. “You’ve only got time for your bloody horses.”

“Don’t be such a bitch.”

“I thought you were different,” sobbed Helen, “but you’re behaving just like Rupert.”

“Hardly surprising, if you carry on like this.”

But she slammed down the telephone.

The locals drinking outside the pub were highly diverted to see Jake come out of the telephone box, wander up the street away from his own car, nearly get run over crossing the street, then wander back into the telephone box again.

Jake was very restless at dinner, snapping at the children, hardly eating anything.

“You all right?” asked Tory, as she cleared away.

“I’m sorry.” Jake put an apologetic hand on her back. “It’s just nerves, I guess.”

“And tiredness,” said Tory, throwing the remains of his ham and baked potatoes into the muck bucket. “You’re jolly well going to bed early.”

“I will, I promise, but I met Hugh Massey in the street. He says he’s got a video of last year’s show at Lucerne. He promised to show it to me.”

“Don’t be long,” she said.

Pretending to collect his car keys, Jake went upstairs. Darklis caught him in the bathroom.

“Why are you cleaning your teeth, Daddy?”

“Because I got a bit of ham stuck,” lied Jake.

In disgust Darklis gazed at her face in the bathroom mirror.

“I don’t think anyone will marry me when I grow up.”

“I’ll marry you, sweetheart,” said Jake, dropping a kiss on her head.

“You’ve already got a woman,” said Darklis gloomily.

I’ve got two, thought Jake wryly.

Helen was waiting in the car park of the Goat and Boots, three miles away. She got into his car and they drove half a mile into the country and turned off the road. Helen fell into his arms.

“I’m so sorry, I’m desperately sorry. Please don’t ever let me behave like that again. I just couldn’t bear the thought of your going away.”

“Hush, pet, hush.” Gradually he calmed her.

“Now,” he said, “I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen. We’ve got to face the fact that I’m going to be horrendously busy for the next two months. For one thing, we desperately need the cash. Fen’s been off form and she needs sorting out. I’ve still got a long way to go with Hardy. I’ve got to kill myself to get a place in that team. To be selfish, if I’m not selected I don’t want to reproach myself for the rest of my life for having blown it because I didn’t work hard enough. I’m not a natural, like your husband. Ever since I’ve been in show jumping it’s been one hell of a struggle to keep going. Fen, the children, the grooms, and most of all Tory, have had to make colossal sacrifices. After that last fall I’ve crawled back from the gates of hell. But only because they made it possible. I owe it to them all to get to L.A. and I want to go.” His voice softened, and he put up his hand to stroke her cheek, which was wet with tears. “Until I met you, I thought I wanted it more than anything else. Allow me three and a half months until the Games are over. There, that’s the longest speech I’ve ever made.”