Riders

13

For the next few weeks Rupert laid siege to Helen, throwing her into total confusion. On the one hand he epitomized everything she disapproved of. He was flip — except about winning — spoilt, philistine, hedonistic, immoral, and very right-wing — eating South African oranges just to irritate her, and in the street, which her mother had drummed into her one must never do. The few dates they were able to snatch in between Rupert’s punishing show-jumping schedule and Helen’s job always ended in rows because she wouldn’t sleep with him.

On the other hand she had very much taken to heart Malise’s remarks about Rupert’s disturbed childhood and the possibility that he might be redeemed by a good marriage. Could she be the one to transform this wild boy into the greatest show jumper of his age? There was a strong element of reforming zeal in Helen’s character; she had a great urge to do good.

Princess Anne had also just announced her engagement to Mark Phillips and every girl in England was in love with the handsome captain, who looked so macho in his uniform and who, despite being pretty unforthcoming when interviewed on television, was obviously a genius with horses. Princess Anne looked blissfully happy. And when one considered Rupert was just as beautiful as Captain Phillips, and extremely articulate when interviewed about anything, did it matter, pondered Helen as she tossed and turned in her narrow bed in Regina House, reading A. E. Housman and Matthew Arnold, that she and Rupert couldn’t talk about Sartre and Henry James? He was young. He could learn. Malise said he was bright.

Anyway, all this fretting was academic because Rupert hadn’t mentioned marriage or said that he loved her. But he rang her from all over Europe and managed to snatch an evening, however embattled, with her about once a fortnight, and he had invited her to fly out to Lucerne for a big show at the beginning of June, so she had plenty of hope to sustain her.

Meanwhile the IRA were very active in London, exploding bombs; everyone was very jumpy, and her mother wrote her endless letters, saying that she need no longer stay in England a year, that things sounded very hazardous, and why didn’t she come home. Helen, who would have leapt at the chance all through the winter, wrote back saying she was fine and that she had a new beau.

Rupert sat with his feet up on the balcony of his hotel bedroom overlooking the Bois de Boulogne. After a class at the Paris show that ended at midnight the previous night, he was eating a late breakfast. Wearing nothing but a bath towel, his bare shoulders already turning dark brown, he was eating a croissant with apricot jam and trying to read War and Peace.

“I can’t understand this bloody book,” he yelled back into the room. “All the characters have three names.”

“So do you,” said Billy, coming out onto the balcony, dripping from the bath and also wrapped in a towel. He looked at the spine of the book. “It might help if you started with Volume One, not Volume Two.”

“Fucking hell,” said Rupert, throwing the book into the bosky depths of the Bois and endangering the lives of two squirrels, “that’s what comes of asking Marion to get out books from the library.”

“Why are you reading that junk anyway?”

Rupert poured himself another cup of coffee. “Helen says I’m a philistine.”

“She thinks you’re Jewish?” said Billy. “You don’t look it.”

“I thought it meant something to do with Sodom and Gomorrah until I looked it up,” said Rupert, “but it just means you’re pig ignorant, deficient in culture, and don’t read enough.”

“You read Horse and Hound,” said Billy indignantly, “and your horoscope and the racing results, and Dick Francis.”

“Or go to the the-ater, as she calls it.”

“I should think not after that rubbish she dragged us to the other night. Anyway, you went to a strip club in Hamburg last week. I’ve heard people call you a lot of things, but not stupid.”

He bent down to pick up his hairbrush which had dropped on the floor, and winced. “I don’t know what they put in those drinks last night but I feel like hell.”

“I feel like Helen,” said Rupert. “I spent all last night trying to ring her up. I got hold of the London directory, but I couldn’t find Vagina House anywhere.”

“Probably looked it up under ‘cunt,’ ” said Billy.

Rupert laughed. Then a look of determination came over his face. “I’ll show her. I’ll write her a really intellectual letter.” He got Helen’s last letter, all ten pages of it, out of his wallet. “I can hardly understand hers — it’s so full of long words.” He smoothed out the first page. “She hopes we take in the Comédie Française and the Louvre, and then says that just looking at me elevates her temperature. Christ, what have I landed myself with?”

“Don’t forget to put ‘Ms.’ on the envelope,” said Billy.

“Marion even got me a book of quotations,” said Rupert, extracting a couple of sheets of hotel writing paper from the leather folder in the chest of drawers. “Now, ought I to address her as Dear or Dearest?”

“You ‘darling’ her all the time when you’re with her.”

“Don’t want to compromise myself on paper.” Rupert picked up the quote book. “I’ll bloody outquote her. Let’s look up Helen.” He ran his fingers down the Index. “Helen, here we are, ‘I wish I knew where Helen lies,’ not with me, unfortunately. ‘Sweet Helen make me immortal with a kiss.’ That’s not going nearly far enough.”

“Are you going to buy Con O’Hara’s chestnut?” asked Billy, who was trying to cut the nails on his right hand.

“Not for the price he’s asking. It’s got a terrible stop. ‘Helen thy beauty is to me.’ That sounds more promising.” He flipped over the pages to find the reference. “ ‘Helen thy beauty is to me…Hyacinth hair.’ Hyacinths are pink and blue, not hair-colored. Christ, these poets get away with murder.”

“Why don’t you just say you’re missing her?” asked Billy reasonably.

“That’s what she wants to hear. If I could only bed her, I could forget about her.”

“Sensible girl,” said Billy, “Knows if she gives in she’ll lose you. Hardly blame her. You haven’t exactly got a reputation for fidelity.”

“I have,” said Rupert, outraged. “I was faithful to Bianca for at least two months.”

“While having Marion on the side.”

“Grooms don’t count. They simply exist for the recreation of the rider. Helen’s not even my type if you analyze her feature by feature. Her clothes are terrible. Like all American women, she always wears trousers, or pants, as she so delightfully calls them, two sizes too big.”

“Methinks the laddy does protest too much. Why don’t you pack her in?”

“I’m buggered if I’ll give up so easily. I’ve never not got anyone I really wanted.”

“What about that nun in Rome?” said Billy, who was lighting a cigarette.

“Nuns don’t count.”

“Like grooms, I suppose.”

“ ‘Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss,’ ” read Rupert. “ ‘Her lips suck forth my soul. Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.’ ”

“That’s a bit strong,” said Billy. “Who wrote that?”

“Chap called Marlowe. Anyway it’s not my soul I want her to suck.”

Billy started to laugh and choked on his cigarette.

Rupert looked at him beadily. “Honestly, William, I don’t know why you don’t empty the entire packet of cigarettes onto a plate and eat them with a knife and fork. You ought to cut down.” He returned to the quote book. “This bit’s better: ‘Thou art fairer than the evening air, clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.’ That’s very pretty. Reminds me of Penscombe on a clear night.” He wrote it down in his flamboyant royal blue scrawl, practically taking up half the page.

“That’ll wow her. Anyway, I should be able to pull her in Lucerne. She’s coming out for a whole week.”

“D’you know what I think?” said Billy.

“Not until you tell me.”

“Unlike most of the girls you’ve run around with, Helen’s serious. She’s absolutely crazy about you, genuinely in love, and she won’t sleep with you not because she wants to trap you, but because she believes it’s wrong. She’s a middle-class American girl and they’re very, very respectable.”

“You reckon she’s crazy about me?”

“I reckon. Christ, Rupe, you’re actually blushing.”

Rupert soon recovered.

“What are we going to do this evening?” he asked.

“Go to bed early and no booze, according to Malise. We’ve got a Nations’ Cup tomorrow.”

“Sod that,” said Rupert, putting his letter into an envelope. “There’s a stunning girl who’s come out from The Tatler to cover the — er — social side of show jumping. I would not mind covering her. I thought we could show her Paris.”

“Sure,” sighed Billy, “and she’s brought a dog of a female photographer with her, and guess who’ll end up with her? I wish to Christ Malise would pick Lavinia for Lucerne.”

“Not while he’s imposing all this Kraut discipline and trying to keep his squad pure, he won’t,” said Rupert. He looked at his watch. “We’ve got three hours.”

“I’m going to give The Bull a workout.”

“Tracey can do that. Let’s go and spend an hour at the Louvre.”

After a couple of good classes in which they were both placed, Rupert and Billy felt like celebrating. Pretending to go to bed dutifully at eleven o’clock, they waited half an hour, then crept out down the back stairs, aided by a chambermaid. It was unfortunate that Malise, getting up very early to explore Paris, caught Rupert coming out of the Tatler girl’s bedroom.

In the Nations’ Cup later in the day Rupert jumped appallingly and had over twenty faults in each round. In the evening Malise called him to his room and gave him the worst dressing-down of his life. Rupert was irresponsible, insubordinate, undisciplined, a disruptive influence on the team, and a disgrace to his country.

“And what’s more,” thundered Malise, “I’m not having you back in the team until you’ve learnt to behave yourself.”

Helen sat in the London Library checking the quotations in a manuscript on Disraeli before sending it to press. Goodness, authors are inaccurate! This one got everything wrong: changing words, leaving out huge chunks, paraphrasing long paragraphs to suit his argument. All the same, she was glad to be out of the office. Nigel, having recently discovered she was going out with Rupert, made her life a misery, saying awful things about him all the time. In the middle of a heatwave, the London Library was one of the coolest places in the West End. Helen was always inspired, too, by the air of cloistered quiet and erudition. Those rows and rows of wonderful books, and the photographs of famous writers on the stairs: T. S. Eliot, Harold Nicolson, Rudyard Kipling. One day, if she persevered with her novel, she might join them.

Being a great writer, however, didn’t seem nearly as important at the moment as seeing Rupert again. She hadn’t heard from him for a fortnight, not a telephone call nor a letter. Next Monday she was supposed to be flying out to Lucerne to spend a week with him, and it was already Wednesday. She’d asked for the week off and she knew how Nigel would sneer if she suddenly announced she wouldn’t be going after all. And if he did ring, and she did go, wasn’t she compromising herself? Would she be able to hold him off in all that heady Swiss air? God, life was difficult. A bluebottle was bashing abortively against the windowpane. At a nearby desk a horrible old man, sweating in a check wool suit, with eyebrows as big as mustaches, was leering at her. Suddenly she hated academics, beastly goaty things with inflated ideas of their own sex appeal, like Nigel and Paul, and even Harold Mountjoy. She wanted to get out and live her life; she was trapped like that bluebottle.

“Have you any books on copulation?” said a voice.

“I’m afraid I don’t work here,” said Helen. Then she started violently, for there, tanned and gloriously unacademic, stood Rupert.

Her next thought was how unfair it was that he should have caught her with two-day-old hair, a shiny face, and no makeup. The next moment she was in his arms.

“Angel,” he said, kissing her, “did you get my letter?”

“No, I left before the post this morning.”

“Sssh,” said the man with mustache eyebrows disapprovingly. “People are trying to work.”

“Are you coming out for a drink?” said Rupert, only slightly lowering his voice.

“I’d just love it. I’ve got one more quote to check. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”

“I’ll wander round,” said Rupert.

Helen found the quotation, and was surreptitiously combing her hair and powdering her nose behind a pillar when she heard a loud and unmistakable voice saying: “Hello, is that Ladbroke’s’? My account number’s 8KY85982. I want a tenner each way on Brass Monkey in the two o’clock at Kempton, and twenty each way on Bob Martin in the two-thirty. He’s been scratched, has he? Change it to Sam the Spy then, but only a tenner each way.”

Crimson with embarrassment, Helen longed to disappear into one of the card index drawers. How dare Rupert disturb such a hallowed seat of learning?

“Funny places you work in,” he said, as they went out into the sunshine. “I bet Nige feels at home in there. Come on, let’s go to the Ritz.”

They sat in the downstairs bar, Helen drinking Buck’s Fizz, Rupert drinking whisky.

“Don’t go and get tarted up,” he said, as she was about to rush off to the powder room. “I like you without makeup sometimes. Reminds me of what you might look like in the mornings.” He ran the back of his fingers down her cheek. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I’ve missed you. How was Paris?”

“Not brilliant.”

“I read the papers. Belgravia was off form.”

“Something like that. I bought you a present. They’re all the rage in Paris.”

It was an ivory silk shirt that tied under the bust, leaving a bare midriff.

“Oh, it’s just gorgeous,” said Helen. “I’ll just never take it off.”

“Hm, we’ll see about that.”

“Such beautiful workmanship,” said Helen, examining it in ecstasy. “It’ll be marvelous for Lucerne. I’ve bought so many clothes. I do hope the weather’s nice.”

Rupert’s fingers drummed on the bar. He beckoned for the barman to fill up his glass.

“There isn’t going to be any Lucerne.”

“Why ever not?” Helen was quite unable to hide her disappointment.

“I’ve been dropped,” said Rupert bleakly.

“For a couple of bad rounds in a Nations’ Cup? That’s insane. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Well, it was actually. Malise told us to go to bed early. I never sleep before a Nations’ Cup, so I took Billy out on the tiles. We got more smashed than we meant to. Next day, every double was a quadruple.”

“Oh, Rupert,” wailed Helen, “how could you when you were jumping for Great Britain? Surely you could have gone to bed early one night? And to involve Billy. Malise must have been so disappointed.”

Rupert had expected sympathy, not reproach bordering on disapproval.

“Poor Malise, who’s he going to put in your place?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

Helen could see he was mad, but could not stop herself saying, “I’m just so disappointed. I so wanted to go to Lucerne.”

“We’ll go some other time. Look, I’m off to the Royal Plymouth tomorrow morning. It’s an agricultural and flower show with only a couple of big show-jumping classes a day, so I shan’t be overoccupied. Why don’t you take the rest of the week off and come too?”

Helen was sorely tempted.

“When were you thinking of leaving?”

“Now. I want to avoid the rush hour and I’ve got a lot to catch up on tonight after three weeks away.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got an editorial meeting at three o’clock, and I’ve got to get this manuscript off to the press by Friday. I was planning to have everything clear before Lucerne.”

“And I’ve screwed up your little jaunt. Well, I’m sorry.” He certainly didn’t sound it. Helen warmed to her subject.

“And I do have some sort of responsibility towards my colleagues, unlike you. To go and get drunk before a Nations’ Cup is just infantile. And Malise said you could be the finest rider in Britain if you took it a bit more seriously.”

“Did he indeed?” said Rupert, dangerously quiet. Draining his glass and getting a tenner out of his notecase, he handed it to the barman. “Well, it’s no bloody business of yours or his to discuss me.”

He got to his feet. Helen realized she’d gone too far.

“Malise and I only want what’s best for you,” she stammered.

“Sweet of you both,” said Rupert. “Have a nice meeting. It’s high time you took up with Nige again. You two really suit each other.”

And he was gone.

Rupert returned to Penscombe at eight o’clock the following morning, just as Marion and Tracey were loading up the lorry for the four-hour drive down to Plymouth. He looked terrible and proceeded to complain bitterly about everything in the yard; then went inside to have a bath and emerged twenty minutes later looking very pale but quite under control.

“What’s up with him?” said Tracey.

“Had a tiff with the flame-haired virgin, I should think,” said Marion.

Her suspicions were confirmed when Rupert started to quibble about the order in which the horses were being loaded.

“Who are you putting next to The Bull?”

“Macaulay. I thought it would settle him.”

“Don’t call him that. I’m not having him named after that bitch anymore. He can go back to being Satan. Suits him much better.”

With Billy driving, Rupert slept most of the way down to Plymouth. The showground was half a mile outside the town. It was a glorious day. Dazzling white little clouds scampered as gaily across a butcher blue sky as boats with colored sails danced on the sparkling aquamarine ocean. The horses, clattering down the ramp, sniffed the salty air appreciatively. Once in the caravan which Marion had driven down, Rupert poured himself a large measure of whisky.

“Tears before sunset,” said Marion to Tracey.

On their way to the secretary’s tent to declare, Billy was telling Rupert about Ivor Braine’s latest ineptitude.

“He was popping out to the shops, and I asked him to get me a packet of Rothman’s. I said, ‘If you can’t get Rothman’s, get me anything,’ and he comes back with a bloody pork pie.”

Billy suddenly realized he had lost his audience. Glancing round, he noticed that very still, watchful, predatory expression on Rupert’s face, like a leopard who’s just sighted a plump impala. Following Rupert’s gaze, he saw a suntanned blonde in a pale pink sleeveless dress. Probably in her midthirties, she was laying out green baize on a table.

“Gorgeous,” murmured Rupert.

“Married,” said Billy.

“Good,” said Rupert. “I’m fed up with born-again virgins.”

The blonde looked up. She was really very pretty, Billy decided.

Rupert smiled at her. She smiled back, half-puzzled, assuming, because his face was so familiar, that they’d met before. On the way back from declaring, they found her lugging a huge challenge cup out from the car. Other cups were already lined up on the table.

“Let me,” said Rupert, sprinting forward and seizing the cup.

“Oh,” she jumped, “how very kind. Oh, it’s you.” Suddenly, as she realized who Rupert was, she blushed crimson. “I expect you’ll win it later.”

“Hope so,” said Rupert, setting it on the green baize. Then he looked at the inscription. “This one’s actually for lightweight hunters. I’m certainly a hunter,” he shot her an appraising glance, “when the prey’s attractive enough. But not that lightweight.”

She seemed to think this was very funny. It was nice to have someone who laughed at his jokes.

“Shouldn’t your husband be helping you unload this stuff?” He handed her another cup.

“He’s away in Madrid. Some trouble over an order. He had to fly out this morning.”

Better and better, thought Rupert, running his eye over the outline of her round, tight buttocks, as she peered into the back of the car.

“Blast,” she said. “I picked a big bunch of sweetpeas for the table. I must have left them in the porch.”

“They might have slipped under the front seat,” said Rupert, affording himself another good view.

“No.” She emerged, flushed and ruffled. “Oh, dear, and I was going to tie them up with ribbon, as a bouquet for the mayoress.”

“I’ll drive back and pick them up for you.”

“You can’t. It’s awfully sweet of you, but it’s twenty miles.”

Rupert patted her arm. “Leave it with me. I’ll find you a bouquet.”

He went back to the caravan and had another couple of stiff whiskies and then went on the prowl. He peered into the horticultural tent; it was dark and cool, and smelled like a greenhouse, the huge flower arrangements making a rainbow blaze of color. Up at the far end he could see a group of judges poring over some marrows, handling them like vast Indian clubs.

It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for: a deeply scented bunch of huge, dark crimson roses, with a red first-prize card, and a championship card beside them. Without anyone noticing, he seized the roses and slid out of the tent. No one was about except a large woman in a porkpie hat giving her two Rotweillers a run.

Back at the caravan he put the roses in a pint mug.

“Where did you get those?” demanded Billy, who was pulling on his breeches.

“Never you mind.”

“Inconstant Spry,” said Billy, as Rupert arranged them, then poured himself another whisky.

“You better lay off that stuff,” warned Billy. “And don’t get carried away. We’ve got a class in three-quarters of an hour.”

“Here you are,” Rupert said to the pretty blonde.

“Oh, they’re lovely,” she said. “Ena Harkness, I think, and they smell out of this world. You didn’t go and buy them?”

Rupert smirked noncommittally.

“You did, and you’ve even beaten the stems so they won’t wilt. I’ve got some ribbon in the glove compartment. I’ll hide them in the shade for the moment. I must repay you. Come and have a drink after you’ve finished your class. My name’s Laura Bridges, by the way.”

Rumor raced round the collecting ring as the riders warmed up their horses.

“I hear Rupert’s been dropped,” Driffield said to Billy with some satisfaction.

“Is it twue Malise caught him in bed with a weporter from The Tatler?” giggled Lavinia. “He is awful.”

“For Christ’s sake, don’t say anything to Rupe,” said Billy. “He’s not in the sunniest of moods.”

“What about that gorgeous redhead?” said Humpty. “I wouldn’t mind having a crack at her myself.”

“Nor would I,” said Driffield, “but I gather she doesn’t put out.”

“Shut up,” said Billy. “Here he comes.”

As Rupert cantered up on Macaulay, scattering onlookers, Humpty said, “That horse is new.”

“Where d’you get him?” sneered Driffield. “At a pig fair?”

Everyone laughed, but the smiles were wiped off their faces halfway through the class when Rupert came in and jumped clear. He had reached that pitch of drunkenness when he rode brilliantly, total lack of inhibition giving an edge to his timing. He also made the discovery that Macaulay loved crowds. Used to the adulation of being a troop horse through the streets of London, he really caught fire and become a different animal once he got into the ring and heard applause.

“If you’re going to be that good, perhaps it’s unfair to call you Satan again,” Rupert said as he rode out, patting the horse delightedly.

Over the crowd he could see that the mayoress had arrived and, surrounded by officials, was progressing towards Laura Bridges’s green baize table, no doubt to receive her bouquet. Vaulting off Macaulay, he handed him to Marion and ran off to have a look.

Mr. Harold Maynard, horticultural king of Plymouth, had won the rose championship at the Royal Show for the past five years. Going into the tent, confident he had swept the board for the sixth year, he was thunderstruck to find his prize exhibit missing. He was about to report the loss to the show secretary and get it paged over the loudspeaker, when he suddenly saw his lovingly tended Ena Harkness roses, now done up with a scarlet bow, being handed over to the mayoress by a curtseying Brownie.

“What very choice blooms,” said the mayoress, who prided herself on being good with kiddies. “I’ve never seen roses so lovely.”

With a bellow of rage, Mr. Maynard pushed through the crowd and seized the roses.

“How dare you steal my Ena Harkness?” he shouted.

The mayoress swelled. “They’ve just been presented to me by this young lady.”

“And where did you get them from?” Mr. Maynard turned furiously to the quailing Brownie.

“Mrs. Bridges gave them to me,” she whispered.

“And who may she be?” roared Mr. Maynard, brandishing the roses like a policeman’s truncheon.

“I’m me,” said Laura Bridges, “and don’t shout at that poor child.”

Rupert arrived to find Laura Bridges, Harold Maynard, a number of Harold’s horticultural chums from the allotments, several show officials, and the lady mayoress in the middle of a full-dress row. The Brownie was bawling her head off.

“What’s up?” he said.

“This lady’s stolen my Ena Harkness,” bellowed Mr. Maynard, glaring furiously at Laura Bridges.

Next minute, Rupert had grabbed him by his coat collar. “Don’t you speak to her like that, you revolting little shit. She did not steal them, and you bloody well apologize.”

“Those are my roses, and don’t use foul language. I’m calling the police,” yelled Mr. Maynard.

“You are bloody not,” said Rupert and, picking Mr. Maynard up, he hurled him backwards into the nearby horticultural and produce tent. A second later four of Mr. Maynard’s chums from the allotments had landed on Rupert. Shaking them off, he dove into the tent after Mr. Maynard, picking up a lemon meringue pie and smashing it in his red roaring face. Turning, Rupert started pelting Mr. Maynard’s cronies, who were trying to storm the tent in pursuit, with iced cakes. Next minute a Bakewell tart flew over their heads and hit the mayoress slap in the face. Just as the allotment contingent were advancing on Rupert, menacingly brandishing huge marrows, reinforcements arrived in the form of Billy, Humpty, Ivor Braine, and Driffield, who, picking up everything they could find, hurled them at Mr. Maynard’s chums. Carrots, turnips, cabbages, rhubarb pies, and fairy cakes flew through the air.

“What the hell’s going on?” Humpty asked Billy. “We’ve got to jump off in a few minutes.”

The next minute a vast Black Forest gateau, hurled by Mr. Maynard and meant for Rupert, hit Humpty in the middle of his forehead. Roaring like a little bull, rubbing cream out of his eyes, Humpty jumped on Mr. Maynard, hammering him with his fists. Driffield, behind the safety of a long white table, was lobbing sponge cakes into the mêlée, stopping to take a bite from time to time. Three of the allotment chums had Billy on the ground now and were belaboring him with parsnips.

“Stop it, you wotten cowards,” screamed Lavinia Greenslade. “Thwee against one isn’t fair.” And, having kicked them all in the bum, she picked up a chair and bashed it over their heads.

Suddenly there was the wail of police cars.

“We better beat it,” said Humpty reluctantly.

“Come on,” said Driffield, stuffing pieces of shortcake into his pockets and running towards the tent opening. But they were too late, for the next minute the tent had filled with policemen. Slowly show jumpers and horticulturalists picked themselves off the floor.

“Now, who started this fight?” said the sergeant, getting out a notebook. “Morning, Mr. Lloyd-Foxe, morning, Mr. Hamilton.”

For a minute no one said anything. Then, from the corner, pulling himself up by the trestle table, Rupert staggered to his feet.

“I did, officer,” he said, weaving towards them. “But he provoked me,” and picking up the last prize-winning fruit cake, he flung it at Mr. Maynard. Unfortunately it missed, knocking off a policeman’s helmet.

“Book him,” said the sergeant.

“You can’t,” said Humpty in tones of outrage, wiping chocolate icing out of his hair. “He’s got to jump-off.”

A noisy argument ensued, only ended by the police threatening to book all the show jumpers.

“You can’t do that,” said the show secretary in horror. “The public have come specially to see them. They’ve got two more big classes after the jump-off.”

“Well, I’m booking him,” said the sergeant, slapping handcuffs on Rupert. “Never heard such abusive language in my life.”

On the way out, Laura Bridges stopped him.

“I’m so sorry. It was all my fault.”

Rupert grinned. “Don’t give it a thought, sweetheart.”

“I’ll get you out of there,” promised Billy. “Not now,” said Humpty. “Bail him out after the classes.”

In the early evening Billy and Laura Bridges, who’d pulled every string in the book, arrived at the police station. The police agreed to let Rupert go as long as he appeared in court first thing tomorrow. They found him sobering up in the cells and playing poker with a couple of constables who happened to be show-jumping fans. The story had made the late editions of the evening papers and the showground and the front of the station were swarming with press. Rupert was smuggled out of the back door.

Despite the heat, he was shivering like a rain-soaked puppy. He looked terrible.

“Better come home with me,” said Laura. “Keep the press out of your hair and at least give you a decent night’s sleep.”

Billy, who wanted to see Lavinia, went back to the showground.

In the car, Rupert lay back and shut his eyes.

“How d’you feel?”

“Bit of a headache. Don’t know if it’s hangover or flying marrows.”

“Presumably you did take those roses from the tent?”

“Yes.”

She patted his knee. “It was very sweet of you.”

“Can I go and have a bath?” he said when he got to her house. “Just to wash the rainbow cake out of my hair.”

Downstairs, changed into a sweater and jeans brought by Billy, he found her in the kitchen. She had changed, too, into a long pale blue cotton dress with a halter neck, which showed off her beautiful brown shoulders.

“When did you last have something to eat?” she asked.

“I don’t remember.”

She gave him a glass of ice cold milk. “Do you good,” and got a large piece of steak out of the larder.

“You can put this on your eye if you like, or I can grill it for you.”

Rupert decided he was very hungry.

“Two newspapers rang for you while you were in the bath,” she said, as she switched on the grill. “I said you’d gone to stay with friends in Exeter.”

Rupert went up to her, dropping a kiss on the bare shoulder.

“What a very, very nice lady you are.”

They ate outside in the dusk, hardly talking, but allowing the silence to be companionable. Afterwards Rupert wandered into the drawing room and examined the photograph of the man on the desk.

“Your husband?”

She nodded. “My Charlie.”

“Good-looking bloke. You happy with him?”

“Very.”

She also had three children. The last had just gone to prep school. “I love them, but you’ve no idea the bliss, after thirteen years of marriage, of having the house to ourselves.”

She was swinging gently on the hammock seat. Every time she came forward her blond hair gleamed in the light from the window. Rupert longed to sit down beside her, but thought the swaying back and forth might make him sick.

“Ever get bored with each other sexually?”

She shook her head.

Reaching down, he took her hands, pulling her to her feet. She felt so honey soft and nicely fleshed. His hand crept round to the back of her neck where the halter was knotted.

“I’m not sure you should,” she said. “After that fight you can’t be feeling very well.”

“I know the one thing that’d make me better.”

Slowly he unknotted the halter, allowing her dress to slither to the ground. Underneath she was quite naked. On her warm golden breasts there were delicate blue lines. She had full thighs, and round curving hips. In a few years her body would collapse like a peony. Now it was superb. And, knowing it, she gazed back at him without embarrassment.

Rupert pulled her towards him.

“I want to give you the best time in the world,” he murmured. “Tell me what turns you on.”

At three o’clock in the morning the telephone rang.

Laura stretched out an arm.

“Charlie, darling, where are you?” she asked with simulated sleepiness. “Oh, that’s lovely. You can get a flight to Plymouth. I’ll come and meet you. What an hour! You must be exhausted. Yes, I’ve been fine. The show was a great success. Love you, darling, all news when I see you. Bye.”

“Where is he?” asked Rupert.

“Madrid. He’ll be back in three hours. He’s got his own plane.”

Rupert laughed. “Good thing he didn’t parachute in unexpectedly.”

“I’ll drive you back to the showground on the way.”

Rupert snuggled up against her splendid breasts. “Come on, we don’t want to waste any time.”

It was another beautiful day. An innocent cerulean sky hung over the deep green fountain of the oak trees. As they left the house dawn was just breaking. Rupert breathed in a smell of dust, roses, and approaching rain.

“Laura,” he said, as they reached the outskirts of Plymouth, “I was at a pretty low ebb when I met you yesterday. You’ve been very good to me. Feel I ought to write Charlie a thank-you letter.”

“Have you got a steady girlfriend?” she asked. “Apart from the multitudes, I mean.”

“We’ve just packed it in.”

“Why?”

“She’s too serious-minded, and she won’t sleep with me.”

Laura braked at the lights. “Must be crazy. You’re the eighth wonder of the world.”

“I am when I’m with you.” He put his hand between her legs, pressing gently. “That must have been one of the most glorious fucks I’ve ever had. If I wasn’t absolutely knackered, I’d drag you back to the caravan for another go. D’you ever get away to London, or Gloucestershire?” he asked, as she drew up at the showground.

“Sometimes, usually with Charlie.”

“There’ll be next year’s show.”

“Charlie’ll probably be here next time.”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her.

“We’ll get together again sometime. I won’t forget you in a hurry.”

Laura watched him walking across the dew-laden grass, with that lovely athlete’s lope, red coat slung over his shoulder. As he turned and waved, she thought it was a very good thing Charlie was coming back. The boy was quite irresistible. Underneath the macho exterior, he was very vulnerable. I could straighten him out, she thought wistfully.

Rupert headed for the stables. He couldn’t ever remember having been so tired in his life. Due in court at nine, he must get a couple of hours’ sleep beforehand. He hoped the press weren’t going to make too much of a meal of it. He might even get suspended for a year. Malise would be charmed.

No one was about yet. Belgravia and Mayfair were lying down. Macaulay, however, who missed life at the barracks, welcomed any interruption and stuck his head out, nudging Rupert for Polos.

“From what I can remember,” Rupert told him, “you jumped bloody well yesterday. Over the next few months you and I are going to raise two hooves to Malise Gordon, until he can’t afford not to have us back in the team. We’d better think up a new name for you; perhaps we ought to call you Bridges.”

But as he walked wearily towards the caravan, remembering the day he had bought Macaulay, he felt kneed in the groin with longing for Helen. It must be tiredness that made it hurt so much. His resistance was weakened. Bloody hell, there was a light on in the caravan. Billy must have gone to bed drunk. He found the key behind the left front wheel, where it was always left. He let himself in cautiously. Billy might be shacked up with Lavinia.

For a minute he thought he was hallucinating. For there, lying in the double bed, apparently naked, dark blue duvet over her breasts, lay Helen. There were huge circles under her eyes, and she’d obviously been crying. She looked waiflike and terrified. Not a muscle flickered in Rupert’s face. For a few seconds he gazed at her.

“How did you get in here?” he said coldly.

Then, as the tears began to roll down her cheeks, he crossed the caravan, taking her in his arms. After Laura’s opulent curves she felt as frail as a child.

“Sweetheart, it’s all right.”

“I’m so desperately sorry,” she sobbed. “I know you g-got drunk, and into that dreadful fight, because I was real mean to you the day before yesterday.”

“You weren’t.”

“I was, too. You were down because you’d been dropped, and all I did was come on sanctimonious and blame you. I should have been supportive and kind. You’re right; I am a prude. I don’t love Harold at all. I love you and and it’s stupid to pretend I don’t.”

She was crying really hard now. Rupert got out his handkerchief, then not able to remember whether he’d used it to clean up Laura Bridges, shoved it hastily away and grabbed a handful of Kleenex from the box on the side.

“You can make love with me whenever you want to,” she said.

“Only if you want to,” he said gently.

“I do,” her lip trembled, “more than anything else in the world. I’m just so scared of losing you.”

Rupert tightened his grip on her. “You’re not going to.”

“I want you so much now,” she pleaded.

Christ, Rupert said to himself, I come home smelling like an old dog fox, and I’m so pooped I can’t do a thing.

He took her hands. “I respect you far too much to force you,” he said gravely.

“You don’t have to be kind. I really want it.”

“It wouldn’t be right.” Then he had a brainwave. “Why don’t we get married?”

“Married?” she whispered incredulously.

“Why not? It’s different.”

“Are you sure you’re not still…”

“Drunk? Not at all, I haven’t had a drop since yesterday lunchtime.” He pulled off his boots, then collapsed into bed beside her.

Then, removing his signet ring, he slid it onto her wedding ring finger. “That’ll have to do, ’til I get you an engagement ring.”

She gazed at it, speechless, turning it over and over.

“You really mean it?”

“Really.” He lay back and laughed. “I was so mad at you yesterday morning, I even changed Macaulay’s name. Now you’ll be changing yours, perhaps I’d better call him Campbell-Black. Christ, you’re beautiful. I can fall asleep for the rest of my life counting freckles.”

Next minute he was fast asleep.

He was woken by Helen an hour before the court case.

“My God,” he said, startled. Then, seeing his signet ring on her finger, he gradually brought the last few days’ events into focus.

“Rupert,” she said, frantically twisting the ring around and around, “when you came in this morning you asked me to marry you. But honestly, I’ll understand if you’ve decided against it.”

“Darling.” As he pulled her into his arms he could smell toothpaste and clean-scented flesh. She must have been up for hours. “Of course I meant it. There’s only one obstacle.”

“What’s that?” she said, going pale.

“I don’t remember you accepting.”

Helen flung her arms round his neck, kissing him fiercely. “Oh, yes, please. I promise I’ll be supportive. I’ll learn about horses and be a real help in your career.”

Rupert looked alarmed. “You don’t have to go that far. I must go and have a pee.”

When he came back her arms closed round him like a vise. He pushed her away. “Wait. I want to look at you first.”

She was so so shy, hanging her head, as he admired the slender arms, the tapering waist, the jutting hip bones. Very gently he stroked the little snow white breasts.

“They’re beautiful,” he murmured.

“Too small,” she muttered. “I wish I had a wonderful forty-inch bust, the kind like pillows you could fall asleep on.”

“Nanny always claimed it was much better for one’s back to sleep without pillows,” said Rupert. Then, realizing it was not the time for jokes, he kissed each chestnut nipple, waiting for them to stiffen under his tongue.

With a colossal feeling of triumph he pushed her back onto the bed and began to move downwards, kissing her ribs, then her belly.

“No,” she gasped, grabbing his head.

Firmly he removed her hands. “Shut up. You’re mine now, to do exactly what I like with.”

Feeling her quivering frantically with desire, he progressed down to the ginger bush. Then, suddenly, he encountered a sticky, lacquered mass, like a hedgehog.

“What the bloody hell?” he yelled. “Are you trying to poison me?”

“It’s only vaginal deodorant,” stammered Helen.

“It is bloody not, sweetheart, you’ve used hair lacquer by mistake.”

Picking her up screaming, he carried her into the shower and held her under until he washed it off, then threw her dripping onto the bed.

“Now, let’s get one thing straight. I like the taste of you. And I don’t want it diluted by any damned deodorants. I’m going to wipe out that New England puritanism if it kills me.”

In court he got off with a hefty fine. His lawyer, used to Rupert’s scrapes, had traveled down overnight. Mr. Campbell-Black, he said, had had a row with his girlfriend the day before, which had upset him so much he’d proceeded to get drunk. Now the row was made up and he and his girlfriend were planning to get married. His client was very sorry. It wouldn’t happen again. The press were so captivated by the news that they concentrated on the engagement rather than on the fight.

Later, between classes, Rupert bumped into Laura, who introduced her husband, Charlie. Conversation was very amicable. As Charlie moved on to talk to some friends, Laura said in a low voice: “I’m so glad you’re getting married to her.”

Rupert grinned. “Will you sleep with me again as a wedding present?”

Laura looked reproving. “Your new wife wouldn’t like that very much.”

“Ah,” said Rupert lightly, “she’ll have to take me as she finds me, if she can find me.”