Riders (81 page)

Tearing downstairs, she rang Charlene. She could hear tumultuous party noises in the background.

“Bring the children back at once. Someone’s come to photograph them.”

“I can’t in the middle of tea, and then there’s the conjuror and Tom and Jerry.”

“Well, bring them back as soon as possible.”

They were nearly out of Earl Gray and the only biscuits were shaped like animals and topped with different colored icing. All the cups were in the dishwasher, which wasn’t turned on. She’d have to have a word with Charlene; things were getting awfully slack.

She was just drying the cups when Miss Crabtree wandered into the kitchen.

“It’s rather hot out there, so I thought I’d come and help you. They’re so lovely and cool, these old houses.”

Any moment, thought Helen in panic, Jake would come down the backstairs into the kitchen, and where the hell had Miss Taylor gone?

“How old are your children?”

Helen dragged her mind back.

“Um—four and two.”

“What a lovely age.”

“They’ll be back soon. They’ve gone to a party. I thought we could talk in peace first.”

“I hope you don’t mind. Miss Taylor’s gone upstairs to find a toilet.”

Helen gave a whimper of horror. “Oh dear. I hope there’s a clean towel up there.” She was just rushing out of one kitchen door when she heard steps on the backstairs.

“Why don’t you go and sit in the drawing room,” she pleaded to Miss Crabtree. “It’s awfully cool in there. I’ll bring the tea in.”

“It might help if you put some tea in the pot,” said Miss Crabtree with a jolly laugh, not budging an inch.

Tripping over Action Man and an ancient teddy bear, placed on the stair to be taken up to the nursery, Jake fell into the kitchen. To Helen’s amazement, he was carrying a bucket and a J-cloth. She gazed at him despairingly.

“All right, Mrs. C-B,” he said, putting on a strong cockney accent. “I’ve finished. I’ve done all the upstairs winders, even that little blighter on the top landing. Fort I’d swing to my death.”

“Oh-oh,” Helen mouthed ineffectually. “Oh, how much is that?”

Jake scratched his head. “Fifteen pounds,” he said. “There’s a lot of winders.”

Helen got a fiver and a tenner out of the housekeeping pot.

“Here you are. Thank you so much.”

Miss Crabtree, who’d taken matters into her own hands, had made the tea.

“Would you like a cup?” she added to Jake. “Cleaning windows is an awfully thirsty business, although…” her voice trailed off. He didn’t seem to have cleaned the downstairs windows at all.

“No, thanks,” said Jake. “I’ll be off.”

“There are quite a few smears here,” said Miss Crabtree bossily.

“Only did the top two floors,” said Jake. “I leave the bottom to Mrs. Bodkin. When do you want me again? In a monf’s time?”

Helen nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“Well, cheerio, then.” Jake nodded to Miss Crabtree.

“I’ll see you out,” mumbled Helen.

Quite helpless with laughter, they collapsed outside the back door.

“I’d no idea you were such a good actor,” she said, as he shoved the money back into the pocket of her dress.

Jake kissed her again. “I’ll ring you after the class is finished tonight.”

In the kitchen Miss Crabtree was joined by Miss Taylor.

“What a lovely house. Where’s our hostess?”

“Saying good-bye to the window cleaner. They’re awfully unclass conscious, aren’t they, the Americans? I mean she’s just as charming to him as she is to us.”

A
s the day of the last Olympic trial at Crittleden approached, Jake grew more and more nervous. Hardy’s off days were fewer and Fen had had some good wins on Desdemona. But equally Griselda Hubbard had hit amazing form, and two young short-listed riders, Ralph Naylor and Fiona McFadden, had both jumped brilliantly under pressure at Aachen and several newspapers were agitating for their inclusion in the team. Rupert and Ivor Braine had been so consistent all year, so they were virtually certain of a place.

Fen was terribly down because Joanna Battie had written a bitchy piece headlined: “Fen—resting on her Laurel,” pointing out that she hadn’t had a decent win on Laurel since the previous year at Wembley, and that Desdemona was too small for an Olympic course. Knowing how desperate Fen was to go, Jake felt almost more apprehensive for her than for himself.

Rupert, on the other hand, was irritated because Helen refused to make up her mind whether or not she was going to Los Angeles. She used as an excuse the Los Angeles smog being bad for Marcus’s asthma, but in reality she wanted to see if Jake were selected. If he wasn’t, she’d stay behind. Rupert, who was trying to persuade Amanda Hamilton to fly out for a few days, wanted a decision one way or the other.

The course for the final trial was unnecessarily huge. There were a number of very unhappy rounds before Jake came in. Griselda was on twelve, Ivor eight. Fen had one stop, because she’d come in too fast, and two elements of the combination down. Everyone was grumbling that the combination was unjumpable. Then Jake rode in and proved them wrong by going clear. Thus encouraged, Rupert, Wishbone, and Ludwig went clear. But in the final jump-off, Jake really set Hardy on fire on the long run-up to the last fence to score the fastest time.

“Well done,” said Fen, desperately trying to be enthusiastic. “You must be picked after that.”

Jake shook his head. He was horribly afraid it wouldn’t be good enough. They wanted dependability at the Olympics. The selectors locked themselves away. The riders waited and waited for the promised announcement. After an hour biting their nails, Jake and Fen, who were jumping at Stoneleigh early the following morning, decided to push off. If they were selected they’d hear soon enough. If they weren’t it didn’t matter anyway.

The jams were terrible. They seemed to get caught up in all the holiday traffic. Nobody talked very much. After an hour’s delay on the M4 they decided to cut across country. Bored with tapes, Sarah turned on the lorry radio.

Fen looked miserably out at the great rolling cornfields, deepened to red gold by the rain. When would she ever see Dino again. When would she ever be happy? Idly she listened to the eight o’clock news. Mrs. Thatcher, the prime minister, would be spending a few days up at Balmoral, staying with the Queen during the summer recess. The Russians had launched another satellite. The unemployed had risen by 20,000 as a result of school leavers.

“The Olympic show-jumping committee tonight announced their team for Los Angeles,” said the announcer.

Everyone stiffened. Fen grabbed Sarah’s hand, crossing her fingers on the other. “Oh, please, please God.”

“The five riders and their horses include: Rupert Campbell-Black and Rock Star, Griselda Hubbard and Mr. Punch,” Sarah gave a groan. “Ivor Braine and John.” The announcer rustled his notes, “Jake Lovell and Hardy and Fenella Maxwell and Desdemona.”

Giving a whoop of joy, Jake nearly drove off the road.

The car behind them was trying to overtake and hooted furiously.

Speechless, Sarah and Fen hugged each other, then Sarah hugged Jake. Then they all started shouting at the tops of their voices and bellowing: “California, here we come.”

Jake drove to the next village where they found an off-license and bought a bottle of wine.

“Have one on the house,” said the landlord, putting another bottle in the carrier bag. “I’ve just heard it on the radio. Congratulations.”

They pulled up on the edge of a field and drank the Muscadet out of mugs, allowing the horses to graze, and watching the sun set.

“Here’s to you,” said Sarah. “I’m so proud of you both.”

Next moment Fen had stumbled to her feet and was hugging Desdemona.

Jake saw that her shoulders were shaking. He put an arm round her. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m just so happy.”

“There’s no need to cry then.”

“I’m going to see Dino again.” Half-laughing, half-crying, she rubbed away the tears, streaking her face with grimy hands. “I expect he’s got a million other girlfriends by now, but at least I’ll get the chance to say I’m sorry.”

“Missed him that much, have you?”

Fen nodded. “There’s never a moment when I’m not missing him. But you wouldn’t understand that, never having been in love.”

After the team announcement Malise wrote to all the five riders, confirming their selection. They would be expected to jump together once more as a team at the Dublin Horse Show, the first week in August, then rest their Olympic horses until they flew them out to Los Angeles at the end of the month.

Leaving Rocky at home to rest, Rupert flew the rest of his Grade A horses over to France for the Deauville and Dinard shows, and was due home on Monday night. He had been deeply scathing of the rest of the Olympic team.

“A schoolgirl, a cretin, a rip-roaring dyke, and a crippled gypsy. I’ll have to carry the lot of them,” he told Amanda Hamilton.

Nor was he particularly pleased when Helen decided that she would be coming to Los Angeles after all.

Helen sat on the terrace, drinking white wine, breathing in the night-scented stock, and reading George Herbert in the fading light:

Who indeed? She had never believed, after Kenya, that she would ever be happy again, that she would be totally wiped out by love for Jake, that the only person she wanted to be in the world was the second Mrs. Lovell. Not that Jake was showing any inclination to make her so. She knew that he loved her, except in her frequent moments of panic, and with that, until after Los Angeles, she would have to be content.

As Rupert was not due back from Dinard until the next day, and Charlene and the children were away for the night, Jake said he might pop in—but only might—she mustn’t expect him. On the eve of departure for Dublin, he was frantically busy loading the lorry. Rupert, taking the easy way, was flying over and letting the grooms do the driving.

Helen hadn’t done anything except wash her hair and have a bath earlier. She’d learnt superstition from Jake. If she tarted herself up, he wouldn’t make it. Watching a half-moon sailing like a moth up the drained blue sky, she gave a cry of joy, for there, clearly visible, moving along the top road towards Penscombe above the honey-colored stone wall, was Jake’s car.

Rushing upstairs to the bedroom, she cleaned her teeth, splashed on cologne and, tugging off her panties, leapt into the bath. Holding up the skirt of the yellow dress, she’d worn the night he’d first made love to her, and which she knew he liked, she hastily showered between her legs, shivering with excitement as the hard jet of water flattened her bush and seeped into her vagina.

Leaving two dusty footprints in the bath, she leapt out and combed her hair. Since Jake had told her he liked her just as much without makeup, she felt secure enough not to bother with that all the time, either. Stretching voluptuously, she went to the window, and then stiffened with horror, for there, as usual coming too fast along the road and only five minutes behind Jake, was Rupert’s blue Porsche.

Next minute she heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel and the dogs barking and tore downstairs. Opening the door she collapsed gibbering into Jake’s arms.

“What’s the matter?”

“Rupert’s just behind you. I’ve seen him on the road. What can we do?”

“Nothing,” said Jake, his brain racing. “Go and wash that scent off. We have to brazen it out. Pretend I just dropped in.”

“Better come out onto the terrace,” said Helen. “It’s getting dark out there and he won’t be able to see how much we’re blushing.”

Jake followed her out, running his finger down her spine.

“Anyway, if he finds out, he finds out. He’s got to know sometime,” he said. Helen went very still. Turning around, she looked straight into Jake’s eyes. “Has he?” she whispered.

Jake gazed back at her steadily, no shiftiness in his eyes now.

“Yes,” he said. “You know he has to, sooner or later. It’d just be easier after L.A.”

Helen moved towards him. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes, I think I always have. I just haven’t said it.”

He only had time to hold her briefly before there was a second crunch on the gravel and more barking.

“I can’t face him,” said Helen, in sudden panic.

“I’ll sort him out. Just get me a drink—Scotch; a quadruple, and as soon as possible.”

Helen fled to the kitchen, her bare feet making no sound on the carpet.

Bang. Rupert slammed the front door behind him. He was not in a good mood. He’d specially come back to spend the night in London with Amanda and, after two admittedly splendid hours, she’d pushed off to Sussex, saying she had to drive her daughter to some dance.

“Helen,” he shouted, “Tab, I’m home. Where the hell is everyone?”

Jake waited on the terrace.

“Helen,” Rupert shouted again, more irritably.

“She’s in the kitchen,” said Jake.

“Who’s that?” Rupert came out onto the terrace, then stopped in his tracks, looking at Jake with slit eyes. His hair was bleached by the French sun, and he was wearing a blue T-shirt, with “I Love L.A.” in red letters across the front. Inspiration suddenly came to Jake.

“Beautiful place you’ve got here,” he said. “I’d only seen it from the road.”

“There are perfectly good gates at the bottom of the drive. I’m sure you don’t need me to show you the way to them,” said Rupert coldly.

“I dropped in,” said Jake, “on the off-chance you might be back. I got a letter from Malise this week. I decided, as we’ve both been selected and I want the team gold as much as you do, we’d stand a better chance if we buried the hatchet, at least temporarily.”

He held out his hand.

Rupert, for once at a loss for words, looked down at the hand, which was completely steady. He thought of his own humiliation in the World Championship. He thought of Fen defying him at the Crittleden strike. He thought of Jake in the dormitory at St. Augustine’s, a terrified little boy, cringing away from the lighted matches. Now, here he was waving white flags and offering peace initiatives.

The hand was still there. Briefly Rupert took it.

“All right. I don’t trust you a fucking inch, Gyppo, but for the sake of the team gold we’ll suspend hostilities till after the Games. Then,” he added, smiling, “I’ll smash the hell out of you! We’d better have a drink. Helen,” he yelled.

“Yes,” said Helen faintly.

“She was getting some ice,” said Jake. “Probably hovering to see if I was to be allowed a drink.”

“You were lucky to catch me. I wasn’t planning to come back tonight at all. What d’you want?”

“Scotch, please.”

At that moment Helen came through the door, clutching a tray with one already poured glass of whisky, the whisky decanter, a second empty glass, and the ice bucket. She looked at them both with terrified eyes, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, not knowing which way to bolt.

“Hi,” said Rupert. “We’ve decided not to kill each other. You’ve met Helen before, haven’t you?”

As Jake took his glass from Helen to stop the frantic rattling, he wondered for a second if Rupert was speaking ironically. Then decided that such was his egotism and contempt for Jake that he couldn’t possibly envisage anything between him and Helen. All the same it was a good thing there was
only
Helen’s glass, half-full, on the terrace wall.

Jake took a huge gulp of whisky and nearly choked. Christ, it was strong, and thank God for that.

Rupert poured two fingers into his own glass.

“I’m giving up after Dublin,” he said. “I want a stone off before the Games.”

“I can’t afford to lose it,” said Jake. “How was Dinard?”

“Bloody good.”

“And Rocky?”

“Bloody good, too. I keep thinking he’s going to jump off the top of the world. I’m scared he’s going to peak too early.”

In a daze, Helen poured herself another glass of wine. I cannot believe this, she said to herself. Here are two men, who I know detest each other beyond anything, talking not just politely but with enjoyment. Not by a flicker of an eyelid did Jake betray any nerves or the slightest interest in her, but continued to discuss the team, their weaknesses, the strength of the opposition at the Games, and which riders they had to watch. He asked Rupert’s advice about the L.A. climate, and possible breathing and fitness problems. After Dublin, Rupert explained, he was flying Rocky straight out to L.A. to give them both time to get adjusted to the climate. This would certainly give him the edge over the other British riders, who wouldn’t be leaving until a fortnight later.