Riders (88 page)

“He’s done it, the only clear,” shouted Malise, throwing his panama in the air. It fell and was trampled underfoot before he could even be bothered to retrieve it.

The crowd held their breath as everyone calculated. Jake glanced at the clock. He was just within the time. Even if the Nigerian went clear, he’d got the bronze. Dropping Hardy’s rein on his neck, he raised both hands to heaven in a double salute and rode out through the cheering channel of spectators, grinning from ear to ear.

“Fucking marvelous,” screamed Fen, tears pouring down her cheeks, as she hugged Malise, his wet face glistening too in the bright sun.

“This is the most amazing turnup for the books,” Dudley Diplock was gibbering from the commentary box. “No one ever thought Gyppo Jake would make it back to the big time. This is little short of a miracle.”

“Let’s go and congratulate him,” said Malise and Fen simultaneously, but Helen was too quick for either of them. Jumping over the row in front, she rushed out and down the steps and, red hair flying, she rushed to meet Jake.

“Oh darling, darling, darling,” she said, seizing his hand.

Jake looked down at her. Color in his face now, dazzlingly happy, handsome as never before, all efforts at impassivity gone.

“We did it,” he said incredulously. “We really did it,” and in the euphoria of winning, he bent down and kissed her, and she kissed him back, clinging on to him.

In the riders’ stand, trapped by the crowd, Fen’s eyes met those of Mrs. Macaulay.

“Your brother-in-law,” said Mrs. Macaulay accusingly.

“Yes,” said Fen, equally accusingly. “My sister’s husband.”

From the right she saw Rupert, white with rage descending on Jake and Helen. Fortunately, at that moment Sarah, in floods of joyful tears, and the rest of the British grooms swarmed round Jake and Hardy. Instantly they were joined by Wishbone and the American and German teams, who were all patting him on the back and showering him with congratulations. Count Guy arrived with a magnum of Krug.

From then on, everything was a daze. Jake was terribly glad to see Malise looking so happy, and Fen jumping up and down, and he was both pleased and sorry when he heard the poor Nigerian, the last to jump, had been unable to cope with the strain and had knocked up twenty faults, which meant Jake had the silver and Wishbone the bronze.

Everywhere he turned there were photographers and people reaching forward to pat Hardy.

“I can’t think why he isn’t biting everyone,” crowed Sarah. “Now he’s a medalist, he’s obviously turned over a new leaf.”

The jumps were cleared and the huge Clydesdales dragged on the winners’ podium. Together, Mary Jo, Jake, and Wishbone rode into the ring, followed by their three grooms. Sarah got a special cheer for her beauty and her red, white, and blue hair. Then the grooms took the horses as the riders mounted the podium. Jake found it difficult not to laugh as the girls carrying the boxes of rosettes, like flag-sellers, came out with their ludicrously stiff, wide-apart-
legged walk.

He bowed his head as the president’s wife hung the silver medal round his neck, touching it immediately, checking it was real. He thought his heart would burst with the wonder of the whole thing. Mary Jo was crying unashamedly as the three flags climbed up the flagpole and the band played the “Star-Spangled Banner.” Wishbone had no handkerchief, and had to blow his red-veined nose on his shirttail.

“Well done,” said Prince Philip, shaking them all by the hand, but particularly Jake. “Only clear round,” he added. “You must feel
very
proud.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Jake was so dazed with emotion, he was glad to get back to Hardy, who was so festooned with long-tailed rosettes he could hardly see through them. He wanted to stay with him afterwards but he was swept off to a press conference. By the time the reporters had finished with Mary Jo, Jake had consumed at least a bottle and a half of champagne.

“Pity you didn’t get a gold, Jake,” said the
Los Angeles Times.

“Frankly I’m bloody glad to have the silver. Being a gypsy, traditionally I cross people’s palms with it. It’s the right medal for me.” Everyone laughed.

“All the same,” he went on, looking at the forest of cameras and notebooks and tape recorders, “it’s a pity Dino Ferranti had to pull out, or Mary Jo and I might easily have been a rung lower.”

“Do you think there’s any reason you did so well?” asked the
Daily Telegraph.

“I had a good backup team,” said Jake, and proceeded to thank everyone from the family to Malise, to the nurses and doctors at the Motcliffe.

“What are your plans for the future?” asked the
New York Times.

“I’m going to ring my wife and then go and get plastered.”

Dudley fought his way through the huge crowd of fans waiting outside. “Congratulations, Jake. Brilliant, brilliant performance. We’ve kept a line open for you in the commentary box. We’d like to televise you breaking the news to Tory, if we may.”

“You may not,” said Jake. “One doesn’t often ring up one’s wife to say one’s got a silver. Some things should be done in private.”

Going into the commentary box, he slammed the door. “Can I put a person-to-person call through to Mrs. Lovell?” he said, picking up the telephone.

“Certainly, Mr. Lovell,” said the switchboard girl. “Congratulations.” He got through incredibly quickly.

“Oh Jakey, oh Jakey,” Tory was laughing and crying so much he could hardly hear her. “It’s so wonderful. You both were so wonderful. The whole village have been here watching it. They’ve drunk us out of house and home and now they’re having the most terrific party. We’re all so proud of you.”

“Hardy was your baby,” said Jake. “You sorted him out for me.”

“He jumped so brilliantly; and when he bowed; and the only clear too. Speak to the children.”

“How much did you win?” asked Isa.

“Can you take me to Disneyland?” said Darklis.

Jake asked if he could speak to Tory again. “I miss you,” he said. “D’you want to fly out for the team event?”

“Oh, I’d love to. Can we afford it?”

“I think so, now,” said Jake.

“Boyson just rang by the way,” said Tory. “He said you’d kept your side of the bargain, he’d be keeping his. Oh, listen, listen, can you hear?” she said in a choked voice. “They’re ringing the church bells, oh Jakey, it’s two o’clock in the morning. No one’s asleep. They’re cheering and dancing in the street, and the pub’s open, and they’re ringing the bells in your honor. Listen!”

Down the wires, Jake could hear the faint peal. He was so moved he couldn’t talk anymore. “I’ll ring tomorrow,” he said. “I love you.”

“I love you,” said Tory.

“Everything all right?” said Fen as he came out of the box, wiping his eyes.

He nodded. “Absolutely marvelous. They’re ringing the church bells.”

Perhaps it’ll be all right after all, thought Fen.

T
hey gave him a ride in a police car, sirens blaring, to get him back to the Olympic village.

“I’m sorry,” said Jake at the gates, feeling dazedly for his security chain. “I seem to have mislaid it.”

“All right, Mr. Lovell, we know who you are,” said the security guard. “Congratulations.”

The other British athletes were euphoric.

“Well done,” said Sebastian Coe and Daley Thompson, hammering him on the back.

The weight lifters hoisted him shoulder high and carried him around the village. Everyone bought him drinks. Jake looked in the mirror in the little room as he changed to go out to dinner. He found his security chain where he’d left it, around his neck, under his shirt.

“You are a superstar,” he said, jabbing his finger at his reflection, pleased that the two pointing fingers met every time, proving he wasn’t drunk. He wished he could go out quietly and celebrate with Sarah and Fen; he didn’t want the strain of behaving well. He wished Tory was here to share in the triumph, but he had never before known such personal happiness.

Determined not to betray his devastating disappointment, Rupert was in no mood for a victory celebration. He had wanted to leave show jumping in a blaze of glory, moving smoothly from the gold medalist’s podium into politics and, possibly, Amanda’s arms. Now, the months of training and abstinence had gone for nothing. And although Rocky had jumped like a pig with chilblains, and Rupert had beaten the hell out of him afterwards, a small voice inside told him it was not Rocky’s fault.

When he had got back from Las Vegas, with the torn-up pieces of Amanda’s letter in his pocket, he shouldn’t have stayed up half the night talking to people at Suzy’s dinner party. He was thirty-one, not eighteen anymore. Finally, letting himself into the bedroom at two in the morning and finding Helen breathing specially deeply, pretending to be asleep, Rupert—king of the catnappers—had been unable to sleep himself, lying awake and thinking about Amanda.

Now he was expected to go out and celebrate that little jerk’s freak silver. Malise had rocketed him after the competition.

“These things happen with horses and the less said about your cock-up today the better. Now we’ve got to go all out for the team gold. You’ve got six days to get Rocky together, and I want you on parade at half-past nine tonight.”

“What for?”

“To celebrate Jake’s silver.”

“I’ve got a previous engagement,” said Rupert coldly. “I’m taking Helen and her mother to Ma Maison.”

“That’s where we’re all going.”

“Cost a bomb,” snapped Rupert. “Hardly imagine the Olympic fund will stretch to that.”

“It’s already been paid for,” said Malise, not without a certain quiet pleasure which he afterwards regretted. “Garfield Boyson rang from England and guaranteed the bill in advance.”

Rupert’s face took on that curiously dead expression that boded trouble. Garfield Boyson had already approached Rupert; in fact he was the only sponsor Rupert would have been prepared to work with. If Boyson had picked up his bills for the next two years, he would have been able to slack off and only enter for the big prestigious competitions, gradually devoting more and more time to politics. And now Jake had pinched the sponsorship from under his nose.

“I thought you weren’t going to drink until after the team event,” said Helen as Rupert, hair still wet from the shower, but already dressed in a gray striped shirt and white trousers, poured himself four fingers of whisky.

“Hasn’t done me much good so far,” said Rupert, adding a splash of water from the washbasin. “Need something to get me through what’s obviously going to be a fucking awful evening.”

Helen tried very hard to curb her elation. Rupert had told her Boyson was footing the bill this evening, which meant Jake must have got the sponsorship, which in turn must mean he could now afford to leave Tory and marry her.

“It should be fun,” she said. “I’ve never been to Ma Maison. Mother’s dying to meet all the team, and I know Malise will enjoy Mother.”

“Should do,” said Rupert. “He got enough practice driving tanks in the war.”

Helen had her back to Rupert, but her slender right arm was crooked over her back, wrestling with the zip of her dress, which was catching in her hair.

“Let me.” Moving towards her, Rupert pushed the newly washed hair aside and pulled the narrow gold zip up to the nape of the neck. He looked at her reflection in the mirror, breathing in the waves of Femme from her warm, newly bathed, hopelessly excited body. She was wearing a dress of dark gold silk, high-necked, long-sleeved, falling to the ankles, and clinging caressingly to every inch of her body. Her hair, long at the back, was drawn up at the sides by two gold combs. For a second, his long fingers clamped her waist, then they shifted up towards her breasts. He realized that, totally untypically, she wasn’t wearing a bra or even a petticoat. Feeling her tense and draw away, he tightened his grip.

“Haven’t seen that dress. When d’you get it?”

“Ages ago—not for a special occasion—I just liked it.”

“I’m sure—you look great in it—almost too great.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said defensively. “Ma Maison’s always crammed with movie stars and you’re always accusing me of looking too straight.”

“Not this time I’m not.” Rupert glanced at his watch. “In fact if we miss predinner drinks, we’ve got time to…” He began to pull down the zip.

“No,” gasped Helen, shrinking away from him, almost falling over the dressing table, knocking bottles on the floor in her desperate haste to get away.

“I’m all made up and ready,” she said, trying to make a joke of it, “and I promised Mother we’d meet at nine-thirty. We can’t leave her stranded at the restaurant.”

“How’s she getting there?” said Rupert. “On her broomstick?”

Ma Maison, thanks to Boyson’s munificence, had pushed out the boat. On the British team table there were silver plates, silver goblets for the never-ending bottles of Krug, white roses and lilies, surrounded by silver leaves, in the silver bowl at the center of the table, with two silver horses on either side rearing up from the silver, satin table cloth.

Jake was given a hero’s welcome when he arrived. It took him ages to get across the restaurant as people pumped his hand and wanted to touch his silver medal, glinting in the candlelight. A group of English actors who’d witnessed his victory that afternoon in Arcadia were now happily getting plastered, insisting that he sit down and have a drink.

“Who were those people?” he asked Fen, when he finally reached the British team table.

“Michael Caine, Susan George, Roger Moore, to name three,” said Fen.

“Oh. I thought they seemed familiar.”

At that moment a beautiful girl came up and, tapping Rupert on the shoulder, handed him a menu and a pen. “Would you very much mind?” She gave him a dazzling smile.

“Not at all,” said Rupert, picking up the pen.

“Asking Jake Lovell if I could possibly have his autograph?”

Jake was already very tight, cocooned in euphoria, acknowledging the accolades with one part of his mind, but with the other back in the ring, jumping every fence, feeling great waves of love for that tricky, brilliant horse who’d finally confounded the critics and come up with the goods.

Fen on the other hand wondered how much longer she could keep going. She’d been up since four, supporting Jake all the way, yet still praying Dino might turn up. Now, looking at Helen shining with happiness, aware that both Rupert and Jake were steadily getting drunk, she was filled with a feeling of terrible doom.

“Can I sit next to you and can we go to Disneyland tomorrow?” asked Ivor.

At that moment Suzy and Albie Erikson arrived to make up the party.

“Darling,” said Suzy, kissing Jake on the mouth, “you were just sensational. You’ve got no excuse to resist my advances now.”

Fen shot a glance at Helen. She was looking at Suzy with pure hatred.

“We’ve just had an earthquake warning,” said Albie cheerfully.

It’s going to start right here at this table, thought Fen.

The waiter poured out more champagne. “To Jake,” said Malise. Everyone except Jake and Rupert raised their silver goblets.

“To Hardy,” said Jake, half-draining his goblet. Then, looking across at Helen, his eyes not quite focusing, he raised it to her, blew her a kiss, and drained the rest.

Help, thought Fen. “Do you think the course’ll be as difficult on Sunday,” she asked Rupert, frantic to distract his attention. Glancing around, he saw how wan she looked.

“You okay, duckie?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry about Rocky today. You must be heartbroken.”

Rupert shrugged. “D’you know who I miss most of all?”

“Billy,” said Fen. “I miss him, too.”

Ma Maison came up with a special menu which Fen had patiently to explain to Ivor.

“Clear soup, that’s for Jake’s clear round, then Coquille St. Jake à la champagne—that’s scallops, then Gâteau Hardy. For God’s sake, stop gazing at Goldie Hawn, Ivor.”

As dinner progressed Rupert’s anger channeled into anti-American asides to irritate both Helen and her mother. “The Olympics have become a shambles,” he was saying, “a laboratory war between East and West. The Americans have better drugs, better computers to detect minor faults, better shrinks to psych out the athletes. The whole spirit of amateurism has gone.”

Mrs. Macaulay, who was discussing property prices with Albie, swelled like a bullfrog. Helen, toying with a piece of coquille, managed to engineer Malise on to the subject of Jake. “Naturally I’m disappointed Rupe didn’t get a medal, but if anyone deserved one, it was Jake.”

Malise nodded. “It’s a fairy tale, really, after that terrible fall.”

“You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”

Malise smiled deprecatingly. “He’s tricky and cussed, but you have to admire his integrity. Of course, he’s fantastically lucky in his home backup.”

“Isn’t Tory kind of dull?”

“God no,” said Malise sharply. “She keeps him calm. I must say I never expected him to get a silver. I thought he’d crack.”

“But he didn’t. He managed without her,” said Helen, kneading her bread into pellets in her agitation.

“She’s carried him through the last ten years,” said Malise gently.

A diversion had been created on the other side of the table. Joan Collins had arrived and was being embraced by Rupert.

“Helen, my dear.” Malise lowered his voice, “I’ve known you long enough to give you a piece of advice. Don’t play with fire—particularly Olympic fire. Cool it—until after the Games.”

Helen blushed furiously. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” said Malise gravely. “I’ve got enough headaches keeping this lot together, without you rocking the boat.”

Joan Collins, svelte in black lace, was progressing down the table. “Hi, Jake. We haven’t met, but what a round! I was stuck in the studio, but we suspended shooting to watch the second half. All the Brits went wild.”

She turned to Helen. “Darling, how are you?” Then her eyes lit on the gold dress. “You meanie. I had my eyes on that. Saw it at Giorgio’s yesterday. Then I found out the price. You’re lucky to have a rich husband to pick up the bills. Let me know if you ever get tired of him.”

Helen went very still.

“I think she already has,” said Rupert. He looked across at Helen, his fingers drumming on the table. “Oh, this old thing,” he said softly.

“Oh, shut up,” said Fen. “It does suit her.”

Suzy, who’d been flirting outrageously with Jake, got up to go to the loo. Mrs. Macaulay immediately took her place. Jake found himself getting the fifth degree. Her big red face seemed to have an extra pair of eyes in the middle of her forehead. Really, he must be extraordinarily drunk. As Mrs. Macaulay questioned him about Tory, the children, the yard, and the horses, it became plain to her that, despite the fact that Jake was obviously four parts cut and kept calling her Mrs. Campbell-Black, his marriage was a good deal happier than Helen’s was to that monster who was still bad-mouthing America.

“The television coverage is utterly one-sided,” said Rupert. “American viewers are totally unaware of any foreign competition.”

Helen turned to Malise helplessly. “Don’t you find L.A. fascinating?” she said. “It’s such an eclectic mixture of the functional and the bizarre.”

“Don’t talk crap,” snapped Rupert. Malise frowned. Mrs. Macaulay went purple. “That’s no way to address a lady.”

“What makes you think she’s a lady?” drawled Rupert. “Certainly not her parentage.”

Mrs. Macaulay rose to her feet. “I’ll not stay here to be insulted.”

“Why don’t you leave then?” said Rupert.

Only Malise’s blandishments, Helen’s pleadings, and the arrival of the Gâteau Hardy, a splendid ice cream cake in the shape of a gray horse, induced her to stay.

Rupert returned to attacking the American team. “They’re all robots, Mary Jo’s a robot, Carol Kennedy’s a robot, Dino Ferranti…”

“He is not,” yelled Fen.

“Fancy him, do you? So does my dear wife. She is dear, too. At least you earn your keep. She’s a parasite.”