The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous (84 page)

    'I don't see at all,' said Tabitha, flaring up. 'You never approve of the men I like.' Then, as Rupert stormed out, 'Is he worse than Ashley?'

    'Much worse,' sighed Dizzy. 'I'll tell you about it.'

    'Bastard, bastard, bastard.' Eyes narrowed to slits, Rupert paced up and down the bedroom, neat whisky in one hand, cigar in the other.

    Helpless in the face of such volcanic fury, Taggie lay on the faded patchwork counterpane of the huge Jacobean four-poster in which Rupert had made love for so many years to his beautiful first wife.

    'Pridie'll win it with two legs tied together,' she stammered. 'A new jockey won't make any difference. You're the best trainer in the world. No-one's heard of Isaac Lovell over here.'

    Rupert got hopelessly uptight on the eve of big races. It affected the whole yard. He had hardly ever been nervous when he was show-jumping because he was so confident of his own riding, but now he could only mount the best jockeys on the best horses and pray. It was the one time when he had to be kept really calm.

    'It all happened such a long time ago,' muttered Taggie. 'You're the most utterly g-gorgeous, glamorous, faint-making m-m-man in the world. Jake Lovell's a littlesquit, so's Rannaldini. I'll probably trip over both of them in the paddock.'

    Taggie never bitched about anyone. Rupert looked down at her in amazement, as she stood up, and putting her hands on both sides of his rigidly clenched face, pulled his mouth down to meet hers. 'Kiss me. I love you so, so much.'

    'Oh, Tag,' groaned Rupert, burying his face in her thick dark hair. 'Thank God for you. You're absolutely right. It's all in the past. Jake did me such a good turn. I'm such a boring old reactionary, and I'm so against divorce, I'd probably still be miserably unhappy with Helen if he hadn't walked off with her, and never married you and been so divinely happy. It just destroys me because he beat me in the Olympics and sex, if you know what I mean. But if I lost the war, I won the peace.' Pulling her down on the bed beside him, he reached inside his jacket pocket.

    'I've got something for you.' He handed her two open-ended first-class tickets to Bogota. 'We're going baby-hunting.' Then, when Taggie looked up in incredulous hope, 'The nuns have accepted our application. If we fly out to Colombia and stay there for six weeks, really convincing them we're serious about wanting a baby, they'll find us one.'

    Taggie couldn't speak. Like the moon's reflection in a lake ruffled by a wakeful carp, her pale face suddenly disintegrated. Rupert could feel her tears as she covered his face with kisses.

    'Oh, I love you. A real baby. I can't believe it. Oh, d'you think they'll like us enough?'

    'They'll like you. I'll have to behave myself.' And give them a fat cheque, thought Rupert.

    'I wonder if it'll be a he or a she, blond or black hair, oh, Rupert.'

    'It'll certainly be black market,' said Rupert, 'Our little black-market baby.'

    'And six weeks together, what bliss! But I hope you won't be too bored,' she added anxiously. 'What'll you

    do?'

    'I can think of one thing.' Rupert slowly unbuttoned her harebell-blue cardigan and unhooked her bra, so, like cream boiling over, her wonderful breasts spilled out. Putting his lips to one nipple he sucked gently. Just is desperate for her attention and love as any baby, he

    thought wryly.

    'I'm terribly sweaty and unwashed,' mumbled Taggie, is he pushed up her scarlet skirt, and burrowed under the dark purple tights and skimpy knickers.

    Rejoicing that he could get her that wet so quickly after five years of marriage, finding it always as exciting as pulling a groom in the back of a loose box for the first time, Rupert moved his fingers upwards as Taggie's hands fumbled with his zip.

    Naked, white-skinned, utterly gorgeous, her dark hair tickling his belly she kissed him everywhere, her tongue as delicate and subtle as a lurcher's.

    'Oh, my angel.' Wriggling down, he slid inside her, hearing her gasp of joy, as he warmed her with his body and constantly moving hands. 'Oh, Rupert, Rupert, Rupert.'

    'Rupert, Rupert, Rupert!' Taggie's voice had suddenly got deeper, and was accompanied, he realized, by someone hammering on the door, and then good

    God opening

    it.

    'Rupert, I'm really sorry to bother you. Oh, Christ!' Lysander clapped his hands over his eyes. 'I mean really sorry, but I think Arthur's been nobbled. He keeps yawning and he hasn't eaten his last feed,'

    'I'll nobble you, you little fucker,' howled Rupert, scooping up a shoe from the carpet and hurling it in Lysander's direction. 'Get out, get out. Arthur's exhausted because you keep waking him up to see if he's OK, and he's not hungry because the entire Press have been stuffing

    him with Polos.' In the end, chivvied by Taggie, Rupert tugged on apair of jeans and ran barefoot across the parched lawn to the yard. In his box, he found Arthur lying flat out, waving a huge foot in the air, snoring loudly, one eye open. Seeing his tormentor, however, he lumbered up and hid behind Tiny shivering with terror in the corner, his newly washed coat, and particularly his mane, once more stained with green.

    'Oh dear,' Lysander blushed. 'He's made a lightning recovery. I do think,' he went on hastily, 'Arthur ought to have a security guard tomorrow. Pridie's got a guard and closed-circuit television in his box, and The Prince of Darkness'll have all Rannaldini's hoods around him.'

    'He's got Tiny,' said Rupert, avoiding the Shetland's darting teeth and deciding not to blow his top. 'Now will you please stop wasting my time.'

    'I'm sorry.' Lysander hung his head. 'I gather all this Isaac Lovell business has upset you. Bloody unfair. Can't make head nor tail of it myself. Who is Isaac Lovell anyway?'

    'His father ran off with my first wife.'

    'Bastard!'

    'Like you want to run off with Kitty Rannaldini,' said Rupert, bolting the half-door.

    'Not at all,' said Lysander indignantly. 'Rannaldini's an utter shit, and a bully who beats up horses and women and never stops humiliating poor darling Kitty by screwing around. You were never like that.'

    'Hum, your faith in me is touching. You didn't know me in the old days.'

    'Old days is old days.' Lysander blushed again. 'I used to be a bit of a stud myself in the past. But I want you to know you and Taggie have really restored my faith in marriage as an institution.'

    'Ta very much,' said Rupert. 'I had better go back and -er

    institute

    it. What are you going to do with yourself this evening?'

    'Watch the video of last year's Rutminster again, and then play poker with Danny and Dizzy. We're teaching Tab.'

    'She'll beat you all,' said Rupert. 'But I want you in bed early.'

    Lysander slept fitfully and woke at a quarter-past three. In twelve hours exactly, if by some miracle he got to ride, they'd be lining up at the start. In twelve hours, ten minutes, it would all be over. And after tomorrow, would Rupert kick him out? Despite his misery over Kitty, he'd been happier living at Penscombe than anywhere else. Desperate for some sign of rain, he opened the window, and was mocked by a million stars. The lawn was lit by daffodils and a clump of white cherry trees already in bloom, it had been so mild.

    The constellation of Leo the Lion was romping off to his lair in the west. But any moment Lysander expected his great shaggy face to appear back over the top of Rupert's beechwood to bite the Great Bear in the bum. Longing as never before for Kitty's arms, he collapsed into an armchair.

    He must have drifted off again, for the next minute he was galloping up Rupert's track, and Arthur was going gloriously, and he could hear, far more menacing than Rannaldini's tympani, the thunder of hoofs behind him. But no-one was going to catch Arthur. The stands were rising to cheer him.

    'Go on, go on, go on,' yelled Lysander.

    'Lysander, Lysander, wake up! It's tipping down.' It was a few seconds before he realized Tabitha was shaking him, and the thunder of hoofs was torrential rain, machine-gunning the roof.

    Leaning out of the window into Niagara, he could see the downpour flattening the daffodils, stripping the white cherries, flooding the gutters, sluicing the valley.

    'Yippee, yippee, Arthur's in with a chance.' Lysander let out a great Tarzan howl, hugging Tab until she screamed for mercy and Jack began yapping with excitement.'When you come back to earth,' announced Tab, 'the tooth fairy's been.'

    Under Lysander's pillow, still in its polythene wrapping, lay a vast blue rug, braided with emerald green and with the initials RC-B which always brought bookmakers out in a cold sweat, embroidered in the corner.

    'Daddy had it made up specially. Any of the normal rugs look like saddle blankets on Arthur.' Then, as Lysander buried the balls of his thumbs in his eyes, 'It's OK, Daddy really likes you, Lysander.'

    Few would have thought it later in the morning, as Rupert shouted at everyone in the yard. Danny was throwing up in the loo. Even Bluey was silent and preoccupied during the gallops, on which Rupert had insisted, to give an air of normality to the day. Only Arthur was unmoved, as he breakfasted on carrots, oats and a handful of dandelions newly picked by Taggie.

    'Have you got Arthur's passport and your medical card?'

    Lysander was packing his bag, putting in pain killers because his shoulder was still giving him hell, and his own beautiful colours, which he'd chosen himself: white sleeves, black-and-white body and brown cap, because they were the same colours as Jack. He was wearing his Donald Duck jersey, which Taggie had finally dragged off his back yesterday and hand washed.

    The morning seemed endless, but at last the lorry containing Penscombe Pride, Arthur, Tiny and three younger horses splashed down the drive, splitting the pack of Press outside the gates with their Barbours over their cameras.

    'Charlie's going to do a runner,' said Tabitha, as they passed Penscombe's betting shop. 'Everyone's put so much money on Pridie, and on Arthur for a place, his odds have shortened from 200 to 100-1, and you should sec the champagne they've got on ice for a mega piss-up this evening at The Goat and Boots.'

    'I'm going to be sick again.' Hanging out of the window, Danny came back inside absolutely drenched. 'If it rains any more it's going to be too wet for Pridie.' Water was pouring in a tidal wave down the High

    Street.

    'Ouch,' grumbled Lysander, as he bit his cheek instead of his chewing gum. 'I'm injured before I get to the

    course.' He felt even worse as he read the horoscopes in the

    Sun.

    'Arthur's going to have a good day for shopping.' 'I hope that isn't a misprint for stopping,' said Tab.

    The ancient town of Rutminster, with its splendid cathedral and russet Queen Anne close, lay in a bowl of hills covered in thick, rain-drenched woodland. In a sensible marriage of secular and ecclesiastical, the racecourse was only divided from the cathedral water meadows by the River Fleet, which was rising steadily as Rupert and Lysander walked the course.

    Despite the relentless downpour and the lurking fog, it was very mild and the ground was already filling up. Helicopters were constantly landing and the bookies were doing excellent business under their coloured umbrellas. Lysander never dreamt the fences would be so huge. Not for nothing was the Rutminster called the Grand National of the South.

    Down by the start Rupert turned up the collar of his Barbour: 'You must push Arthur on. No-one misses the beat. You've got a very short run up to the first fence. If you're not at the front at this stage, you can get boxed in or squeezed out.

    'From then on your best bet is to hunt Arthur round in the middle, letting the leaders exhaust themselves trying to pass Pridie. This is a sod,' he went on, as they stopped at five foot of closely stacked birch and gorse with a huge ditch on the other side. 'If you hit it below six inches, Arthur'll turn over. If he drops his legs in the water, it'll slow him up. Meet it right, and you won't know he's jumped it.'

    'I wish Arthur were walking the course,' sighed Lysander. 'He's got a better memory than me.'

    'Give him a breather here,' said Rupert as they climbed a steep hill to a fence Lysander could hardly see over, 'and you must stand back at this one. It's known as The Ambush because there's a terrific drop on the other side. Yummy Yuppy unshipped his jockey here last year. He tried to pop over on a short stride and bellied into it. Piss off,' he snapped as two men approached with a camera.

    'Could you take a picture of us beside this fence?' said the first in a strong Irish accent.

    'No, we can't.' As Lysander reached out for the camera, Rupert hustled him on. 'Concentrate, for Christ's sake.'

    They had reached the top of the course now and three-quarters of a mile away could see the stands and the cathedral spire soaring above its scaffolding.

    'If a favourite moves up here, you can hear a great cheer from the crowd. It's quite eerie.'

    'And I've got to go round twice,' said Lysander in a hollow voice as they squelched down to the bottom of the