Riders (82 page)

If Rupert’s in L.A., thought Helen, that’ll give Jake and me a safe fortnight. She marveled at his quick-wittedness. She never dreamed he would use the excuse of coming to make peace. She was overwhelmed with gratitude that he had averted a scene. She wished she could remember his exact words before Rupert arrived, but she’d been in such a panic. When he said Rupert would have to find out sometime, did he mean that he was going to commit himself to her and leave Tory; or merely that, by the law of misfortune, Rupert would rumble them sooner or later? She felt sure he had meant the former. Watching his face, dark, intense, growing more shadowed as the sun slipped behind the beeches, yet suddenly illumined gold as a chink was found between the leaves, Helen could read only one emotion; passionate interest in what Rupert was saying. Bloody, bloody horses, she thought; will I ever get away from them?

Jake tried to leave after the second drink. He was already slightly tight and, on an empty stomach, might easily make some false move. He glanced at his watch and put his glass down: “I must go. Sorry to barge in on you like that. Good-bye, and thanks,” he added casually to Helen.

Rupert went to the door with him. A desire to show off overcoming natural antipathy, he said, “Like to see the yard?”

“Okay,” said Jake, “Just for two minutes.”

An hour later, Helen heard his car drive away and Rupert came through the front door.

“I’m starving. Shall I go and get a take-away?”

I want to be taken away, thought Helen in desolation. She had been so happy when Jake had turned up and now she had no idea when she’d see him again, particularly as he was going to Dublin first thing in the morning.

She couldn’t resist discussing him with Rupert.

“Wasn’t it amazing his coming here?”

“He was certainly impressed by the setup,” said Rupert, picking up his car keys. “Said he’d come to bury the hatchet; bury it in my cranium more likely. Don’t trust the bugger an inch. Suspect he came to have a gawp, as much as anything; to see if he could pick up a few tips. Asked me the way back to Warwickshire. Hadn’t a clue where he was. I told him the Sapperton way. He was so pissed, with any luck he’ll run into a wall. Do you want Chinese or Indian?”

The following Friday, Helen slumped in total despair at the breakfast table, two hands gaining warmth from a cup of black coffee. She had heard from Jake only once since he’d been in Dublin and that was only a two-minute call before someone interrupted him. He said he’d ring back and hadn’t. He’d obviously got cold feet.

“Letter for you, Mrs. C-B,” said Charlene, handing her a bulky envelope: “Postmarked Dublin. You’d better watch out it’s not a letter bomb.”

Helen was about to tell her not to be nosy, then she recognized Jake’s black spiky handwriting. Inside the envelope was folded a large, dark blue, silk spotted handkerchief.

“That’s lovely, Mrs. C-B,” said Charlene. “Navy goes with everything.”

Helen went white and upended the envelope. There was nothing else inside. The spotted handkerchief—Jake was telling her he wanted her for good.

“She seemed absolutely dazed,” Charlene told Dizzy afterwards.

Then Helen jumped to her feet, laughing.

“I’m going to Dublin,” she said. “I want to watch—er—my husband in the Aga Khan Cup.”

The Aga Khan Cup—a splendid trophy—is presented to the winning side in the Nations’ Cup at the Dublin Horse Show. All Dublin turns out to watch the event and every Irish child who’s ever ridden a horse dreams of being in the home team one day. For the British, it was their last chance to jump as a team before L.A. All the riders were edgy; which of the five would Malise drop? In the end it was Griselda, who pulled a groin muscle (“shafting some chambermaid,” said Rupert) but who would be perfectly recovered in time for L.A.

On the Thursday night the British team had been to one of those legendary horse-show balls. Unchaperoned by Malise (who was unwisely dining at the British Embassy) and enjoying the release from tension after being selected, they got impossibly drunk, particularly Jake, and all ended up swimming naked in the Liffey. Next day none of them was sufficiently recovered to work their horses.

Jake, who didn’t go to bed at all, spent the following morning trying to ring Helen from the press office. He had huge difficulty remembering and then dialing her number. A strange bleating tone continually greeted him. Dragging Wishbone to the telephone, he asked, “Is that the engaged or the out-of-order signal over here?”

“Sure,” said Wishbone soothingly, “ ’tis somewhere between the two.”

“Christ,” yelled Jake, then clutched his head as it nearly exploded with pain.

Half of him was desperate to talk to Helen and find out how she’d reacted to the blue spotted handkerchief he’d sent off to her the other day, when he was plastered. The other half was demented with panic at what he might have triggered off. None of the telephones seemed to work. Wishbone, who was talking to a man in a loud check suit, who seemed to know every horse in the show, bought Jake another drink.

“Drink is a terrible dirty ting,” he said happily, “but the only answer is to drink more of it.”

Jake looked at his watch and wondered if he’d ever totter as far as the ring.

“We’d better go and walk the course,” he urged Wishbone. “We’ll be very late.”

“Stop worrying,” said Wishbone. “We haven’t got a course yet.” He jerked his head towards the man in the loud check suit, who was busy buying yet another round. “He’s the course-builder.”

All in all the British put up a disgraceful performance. A green-faced tottering bunch, they staggered shakily from fence to fence, holding on to rather than checking the spreads, wincing in the blinding sunshine, to the intense glee of the merry Irish crowd, who had seen visiting teams sabotaged before.

Ivor fell off at the first and third fences, and then exceeded the time limit. Fen knocked every fence down. Rupert managed to get Rocky round with only twenty faults, his worst performance ever.

Jake, waiting to go in by the little white church, was well aware, as Hardy plunged underneath him, that the horse knew how fragile he felt.

“For Christ’s sake, get round,” said Malise, who was looking extremely tight-lipped, “or we’ll be eliminated from the competition altogether.”

Suddenly Jake looked up at the elite riders’ stand, which is known in Dublin as the Pocket. He felt his heart lurch, for there, smiling and radiant, was Helen. She was wearing a white suit, and her hair, which she’d been in too much of a hurry to wash, was tied back by a blue silk spotted handkerchief. His challenge had been taken up.

“Oh, good, Helen’s come after all,” said Malise, sounding very pleased and beetling off to the Pocket. “Good luck,” he called over his shoulder to Jake.

Concentration thrown to the winds, Jake rode into the ring. Somehow he managed to take off his hat to the judges and start cantering when the bell went, but that effort was too much for him. Hardy put in a terrific stop at the first fence and Jake went sailing through the air. The next moment Hardy had wriggled out of his bridle and was cavorting joyously round the ring until he’d exceeded the time limit.

Jake just sat on the ground, sobbing with helpless laughter. When he finally limped out of the ring Malise was looking like a thundercloud.

“There is absolutely nothing to laugh about.”

“You don’t think he’ll unselect us?” said Fen, in terror.

Jake shook his head, then winced. But all he could say to himself joyfully over and over again was, “She’s here and she’s wearing the handkerchief.”

The Irish won the Aga Khan Cup.

“There’s absolutely no point in talking to any of you,” said Malise furiously. “But I want everyone, grooms, wives, hangers-on included, to come to my room at nine o’clock tomorrow. If any of you don’t show up, you’re out.”

The only answer seemed to be to go on to another, even more riotous ball, where reaction inevitably set in.

“The hair of the dog is doing absolutely nothing to cure my hangover,” Fen grumbled to Ivor, as he trod on her toes round the dance floor. “Really, if Rupert doesn’t get his hand out of the back of that girl’s dress soon, he’ll be tickling the soles of her feet.”

The music came to an end.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Don’t,” said Ivor. “I’ll have no one to dance with.”

“Go and talk to Griselda,” said Fen, kissing him on the forehead. She couldn’t cope with the frenzied merriness. Nights like this made her longing for Dino worse than ever. She drifted rather unsteadily across the ballroom and out through one of the side doors, looking for Jake to say good night. A couple of Irishmen called out to her, trying to persuade her to come and dance, then decided not. There was something about Fen’s frozen face these days that kept men at a distance, the way Helen’s used to.

She wandered down a passage and into a dimly lit library, which was empty except for one couple. They were standing under a picture light, talking in that intense, still way of people who are totally absorbed in one another. They were about the same height. Fen’s blood ran cold. She must be seeing things.

The man was comforting the girl.

“Be patient, please, pet.”

“It was a crazy idea to come,” she said in a low voice. “I can’t bear not being able to be with you all the time or to go to bed without you tonight.”

The man was stroking her face now, drawing her close to him. “Sweetheart, just let me get Los Angeles over, and then we’ll make plans, I promise.”

“You really promise?”

“I promise. You know I love you. You’ve got the handkerchief.” He bent his head and kissed her.

Fen gave a whimper and fled. Forgetting her coat, she ran out of the building and through the streets, desperate to escape to her hotel room. Helen and Jake—it couldn’t be true. That explained why he’d been so different recently. Remote and unsociable one moment, then wildly and uncharacteristically manic the next, and terribly absentminded. He’d hardly have minded if she’d fed Desdemona caviar.

Fen had always hero-worshiped Jake and regarded his marriage to Tory as the one safe, good constant she could cling on to and perhaps one day emulate. Now her whole world seemed to be crumbling. What about Tory? What about Isa and Darklis? And more to the point, what the hell was Rupert going to do when he found out? Nothing short of murder.

E
veryone, albeit a little pale and shaking, was on parade for Malise’s meeting next morning. No one was asked to sit down. Malise, immaculate as usual, in an olive green tweed coat and cavalry club tie, glared at them as if they were a lot of schoolboys caught smoking behind the pavilion. Yesterday’s blaze of temper had given way to a cold anger.

“At least we can go to the Games knowing we haven’t peaked yet,” he said. “I have never seen such an appalling demonstration. You rode like a bunch of fairies. I doubt if any of you had more than an hour’s sleep beforehand. You’ve made complete idiots of the selection committee.”

“Three days in the glasshouse,” muttered Rupert.

“And you can shut up,” snapped Malise. “Your round, bearing in mind the horse you were riding, was the worst of the lot. They say a lousy dress rehearsal means a good first night, but this is ridiculous.”

Then he smiled slightly, and Fen suddenly thought what a fantastically attractive man he was for his age.

“Now,” he said, “if you can find somewhere comfortable to park yourselves, I’ll show you some clips from earlier Olympics.”

Refusing a seat, Jake lounged against the door so he could look at Helen, who was sitting in one of the chairs, with Dizzy perched on the arm. She was pale and heavy-eyed, with her red hair drawn off her face and tied at the nape of the neck by the blue spotted handkerchief. To Jake, she had never looked more beautiful. He felt simply flattened by love. He could hardly concentrate on the clips of straining javelin-throwers, and sprinters crashing through the tape, and muddy three-day-eventers, and Ann Moore getting her silver.

Malise switched off the video machine.

“I don’t think I need to tell you much else. If you do get a medal, particularly a gold, it will be the greatest moment of you life, make no mistake about that. And if you don’t get that medal because you were not quite good enough on the day, or because your horse wasn’t fit, or because your nerves got to you, that’s all well and good. But if you can look back afterwards and say, I failed because I drank too much, or didn’t train or stayed up too late or didn’t work my horse diligently enough, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

He might be echoing Jake, Helen said to herself.

He looked round at the five riders. “You’re probably the oldest Olympic squad we’ve ever fielded, except for Fen, which means we can offer a wealth of experience; but the heat may get to you. It also means this may well be your last chance of a crack at the Olympics.”

He turned to the grooms and to Helen and to Griselda’s rather mild father, who was sharing the arm of a chair with Ivor’s mother. “I’d like to say the same to the families and grooms and wives for the next month. Try to be totally unselfish. You will find the riders tricky, irascible, and demanding. As the competition gets nearer, this may take the form of increasing detachment as they try to distance themselves. This you must put up with. They need to keep calm, for in this way the horses will stay calm. Don’t make unnecessary demands. Wives and families, if they’re not coming to L.A., shouldn’t expect regular telephone calls. Times are cockeyed. Security will often make it difficult to get to a telephone.”

Malise looked over to Jake.

“I’m sorry Tory’s not here,” he said with a smile, “but she’s the one person I know who doesn’t need to hear any of this. She’s always given you exemplary backup.”

Helen bit her lip. She felt an agonizing stab of jealousy. She must try not to hassle Jake.

“All right, that’s all,” said Malise briskly, “except I want to come home with two golds.”

Having redeemed himself and his country by winning the Grand Prix on Saturday night, Rupert flew Rocky direct to Los Angeles the following day, which would give them both nearly a month to get used to the climate.

A fortnight later, he flew back to England on the excuse of having his Olympic uniform fitted and sorting out business matters, but in reality to see Amanda Hamilton. He was meeting her at her house in Kensington. This he regarded as a major breakthrough and also that he’d been able to drag her down from Scotland in the middle of August, when she should be making shooting lunches for Rollo and entertaining his cabinet colleagues.

As he drove past pavements pastel with tourists and looked at the expanse of female leg and the briefness of skirts and shorts, Rupert reflected how strange it was that his sexual energies had become almost entirely concentrated on Amanda. The fact that she often didn’t bother to dress up or wash her hair or put on makeup when she saw him only increased his interest. As did the fact that she was always busy with her children or her committees or Rollo’s career and had very little spare time for him. He’d had to fight every inch of the way. Used to girls who were only too available, who were always bathed and scented and dolled up to the nth degree and quivering with anticipation, Rupert found her an amazing novelty. They knew all the same people and were governed by the same rules. She was also the first woman he couldn’t bully.

The house in Rutland Gate was burglar-alarmed up to the eyeballs. Amanda’s excuse to Rollo had been Great Aunt Augusta’s eightieth birthday party, which had taken place at lunchtime. Amanda would spend the night in London and fly north next morning.

It was always a good idea, she explained to Rollo, to pop in on the servants unexpectedly and keep them on their toes.

The servants, a Filipino couple, who’d left a member of the Royal family because there had been too many riding boots to clean, were very put out at Mrs. Hamilton’s arrival. They’d planned to have a party in the basement that night, but were slightly appeased when Amanda told them to carry on and that she wouldn’t be needing dinner.

After dining in Barnes, which was safe, according to Amanda, because “one never saw anyone one knew in the suburbs,” and which didn’t take long because Rupert wasn’t drinking, they crept into the house unnoticed. Downstairs, the party was in full swing.

“Will Rollo have me for breaking and entering?” said Rupert, removing his tie.

Amanda didn’t laugh. “You know he can’t afford any scandal,” she said, putting her diamond earrings in her jewel case. “Is Helen flying back to L.A. with you next week?”

“Yes,” said Rupert. “I think she must have been to some marriage guidance counselor, who’s told her to take an interest in my career.”

“Good,” said Amanda, feeling the earth of the plants by the window.

“Why do servants never understand about watering?”

“Why ‘good’?” snapped Rupert from inside his shirt.

“You don’t want a messy divorce at the moment. You’ll go down much better with the party if you have a beautiful and adoring wife.”

“I go down brilliantly anyway,” said Rupert, leaping on her.

“It does seem rather awful doing it in Rollo’s bed.”

“Not nearly as awful as not doing it.”

Afterwards, she lay in Rupert’s arms thinking but not telling him how lovely it was to have a whole night together. Against her better judgment she was becoming increasingly fond of him. Rupert was spoilt and perfectly disgraceful, but he made her laugh and then of course he was terribly attractive.

“If you get a gold, will you retire?”

“Nail my whip to the wall, you mean? I might. I can’t go on riding horses forever.”

“What are you going to do about Helen? I really do mean it. You don’t want a divorce if you’re going into politics.”

“As long as I can have the dogs and Tab and the house, I wouldn’t mind. Helen can have Marcus and the first editions and the Van Dyck.”

“Will you promise to think seriously about politics after L.A.?” urged Amanda. “The PM was very charmed by you. If Sir William goes to the Common Market there should be a safe seat in Gloucestershire in the autumn. You can’t play around forever. An aging playboy is a pathetic sight,” she went on, lying back on the pillow. “Gradually he starts drifting down to girls who are less pretty, and instead of making them on the first night it takes three nights, or they decide after one night they don’t like him. You’re thirty-one now.”

“And you think that’s going to be my fate?” said Rupert, coldly.

Amanda Hamilton looked at the beautiful, depraved face and the marvelously lean, muscular, suntanned body, and her face softened.

“No, not for a long time, but I don’t think an unhappy marriage, coupled with an intellectually undemanding career, are doing you any good.”

Rupert took her face between his hands. “I suppose you’d never think of divorcing Rollo? You and I’d be marvelous together.”

Amanda blushed. “I’m far too old for you and there’s Rollo’s career and anyway we’ve got four children to educate. They’ll probably all go on to a university.”

“I’ll educate your children,” said Rupert. He glanced at the silver-framed photograph on the mantelpiece of Amanda’s eldest daughter, Georgina, and was about to say he wouldn’t mind teaching her the facts of life at all, then thought better of it. Amanda didn’t like those kinds of jokes.

By now, Rupert wanted her again and, getting out of bed, prowled the room looking for novelty. He could take her sitting in that pink, buttonback chair, then his eye lit on the huge mirror over the mantelpiece.

“What are you doing?” asked Amanda. “That looking glass is seventeenth century. It was a wedding present from Rollo’s grandmother. Been in his family for years.”

“I want to see us,” said Rupert, gasping under the huge weight of the mirror. He balanced it on the padded arms of the chair, which he’d pulled alongside the bed.

“Can you see yourself now?” he asked Amanda.

“Not a thing.”

“I’ll tip it forward a bit.” Rupert piled up pale blue and lilac silk cushions behind the mirror.

“For God’s sake, be careful,” said Amanda, but she was diverted by what she saw.

The old glass was very flattering and gave a dusky warmth to her body and a golden glow to her face. She liked the way her breasts fell and the lovely curve of her waist into her hips.

“Christ, that’s marvelous,” said Rupert, getting onto the bed behind her. He was so dark tanned it was almost like going to bed with a black man. Fascinated, she watched his long fingers stroking her belly, then sliding into the dark bush.

“Look how beautiful you are,” he said softly, spreading back the butterfly wings of her labia. Next moment he had lifted her buttocks and driven his cock into the warm, sticky cave of her vagina.

Amanda gasped.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

Now he was lifting her right leg, holding back the inside of her thigh so she could see the long length of his cock driving into her. It was like an express train going into a tunnel.

Madly excited, Amanda bucked back against him, feeling his fingers stroking her faster and faster.

“Come on, darling, come on.”

As they both came they were aware of a mighty crash. Amanda gave a shriek as, lurching forward, the mirror hit the wooden handles of the chair and crashed to the ground in a thousand pieces.

“Now see what you’ve done,” she said furiously. “Rollo will murder me.”

Next minute she heard voices. Drunken, excited Filipinos were storming up the stairs.

“Move the chair back and get into the bathroom,” snapped Amanda, sliding into her nightie.

“All right, Conceptione,” Rupert heard her saying. “I’m afraid the mirror fell off the wall—the string must have rotted.” Hastily, she shoved Rupert’s glass of Coke behind a cachepot. “Bring me a Hoover. No, I’ll clear it up. I’m fine. You go back to your party.”

Three minutes later Rupert heard the noise of the Hoover. Still pushing it around the floor, Amanda opened the door to the bathroom. “You can come out now.”

Rupert could tell she was absolutely livid.

“I’ll pay for it,” he said.

“The money doesn’t matter,” she wailed. “Think of the seven years’ bad luck. Think of Georgie’s O levels and the next election.”

Rupert looked out through the lift-gate bars on the window at the yellowing grass of Kensington Gardens.

What about my gold? he thought broodingly.

As soon as Jake returned from Dublin, Olympic panic set in. The telephone never stopped ringing with officials, press, horsiana manufacturers, and potential sponsors, who’d heard he and Fen might go professional after the Games.