Riders

18

The general, in true Spanish tradition, was late. So the parade started without him. The Germans came first. The famous four, Hans, Manfred, Wolfgang, and Ludwig. Olympic gold medalists who had not lost a Nations’ Cup competition for two years, they had reason to be proud. They rode with a swagger on their equally famous horses: four beautiful Hanoverian geldings, with satin coats, elegant booted legs, arched necks, and chins apparently soldered to their breastbones. As they passed, their grooms gripped the fence and cheered. They were followed by the French, beautifully turned out with the lighter and less obedient horses, and then the Italians in their impeccably cut coats with the blue collars, riding with slapdash elegance, two of them smoking. Then there was a great earsplitting cheer, sending a great communal waft of garlic up from the crowd, as the Spanish team came in. Beautiful riders on beautiful, powerful horses, their manes flowing free, but somehow not coordinated like the Germans. The crowd, however, thought they were the greatest, and screams and shouts of “Magnifico” and “Olé” followed them all round the ring.

The British team came last. Rupert rode on the magnificent Belgravia, chestnut coat gleaming in the sunshine. Not having been ridden in at all (Marion hadn’t even had the time to walk him around), he was boisterous and uncontrollable, and the crowd, particularly the women, marveled how this handsome Englishman hardly moved in the saddle, as the horse bucked and violently shied beneath him. On his left was Humpty on Porky Boy, then Lavinia on the gray Snowstorm, whose coat was already turning blue with sweat, and then Sailor, shuffling along, looking on his last legs, as though he could hardly stagger as far as the grandstand. The crowd laughed, jeered, and pointed.

Jake gritted his teeth. He’d show them.

The wait that followed was interminable. The teams lined up in front of the grandstand and all, except Lavinia, removed their hats as each country’s National Anthem was played. The band knew their own National Anthem and, confident the Germans would win, had been practicing “Deutschland, Deutschland” all week, but when they got to Great Britain, they launched into the “Star-Spangled Banner,” which everyone thought very funny except the mustachioed bandmaster, who turned an even deeper shade of purple.

The horses meanwhile were going mad in the heat, except Sailor who stood half asleep, one back leg bent, hanging his head, twitching his flea-bitten coat against the flies, and occasionally flattening his ears at Belgravia, who was still barging around like a bee-stung bronco. Jake tried not to look at the jumps. All the women in the audience fanned themselves with their programs. Medallions, nestling in a thousand black hairy chests, glittered in the sunlight.

In the riders’ stand, next to the collecting ring, Helen comforted a disconsolate Billy. “You’d be mad to jump,” she said.

“Must say I’ve got the most awful headache. Jake’s horse looks like I feel,” said Billy.

As the teams came out of the ring, Sailor bringing up the rear, shuffling along, head hanging, Helen looked at Jake’s set face. She hadn’t seen him smile once since he’d arrived. The knight of the sorrowful countenance, she thought.

“He’s like Don Quixote,” she said to Billy, “and that poor beaten-down old horse looks like Rosinante.”

Billy wasn’t interested in literary allusions.

“What a bloody stupid thing to do,” he said. “Malise is livid.”

“Doesn’t look it,” said Helen, watching Malise, in dark glasses, with a gardenia in the buttonhole of his pale gray suit, completely calm as he went from one member of the team to another, steadying their nerves, encouraging them.

“Lavinia’s not wearing anything underneath that black coat,” sighed Billy.

As the British team filed into the riders’ stand, Malise gave Helen the jumping order on a clipboard so she could keep the score. The general still hadn’t arrived, but it was decided to start. The arena went very quiet as the white doors opened and the first French rider came in and took off his hat to the judges. As he went past the start, the clock started ticking. It was soon obvious, as he demolished jump after jump, sending poles and bricks flying, that this was a far from easy course. The Italian who came on second was also all over the place and notched up twenty-eight faults.

“Viva España!” screamed the crowd as the first Spanish rider came in. Although they had applauded the earlier riders politely, they cheered their own hero unrestrainedly.

“Doesn’t look very magnifico to me,” said Rupert, as the horse went head over heels at the rustic poles, crashed through the wall and the final double, losing his rider again, and having to be led out impossibly lame.

“I’ve seen enough,” said Humpty, running down the steps and out to the collecting ring to scramble onto Porky Boy as the first German rider rode leisurely into the ring. Hans Schmidt was the second best rider in the German team, but his dark brown horse didn’t like the course any more than the others and came out, most unusually, with twelve faults.

As he walked out, ruefully shaking his blond head and muttering dummkopf, he was practically knocked sideways by Humpty bouncing into the ring. The merry Porky Boy, ears pricked and fighting for his head, his black tail swishing back and forth across his plump cobby quarters, bucketed towards the first fence. The crowd was amused by him and his rider, who rose so high out of the saddle over the bigger jumps that it seemed he would never come down again. But he got around with a very creditable twelve faults.

Now it was time for the second Frenchman to jump.

No one went clear, as round followed round and disaster followed disaster. Several horses overturned and were eliminated. A Spanish horse burst a blood vessel and had to be destroyed later in the day. Despite Rupert’s gloomy prognostications, Lavinia jumped well for only twelve faults, which meant the Germans and the English were level pegging on twenty-four faults at the end of the second round, with the other nations trailing well behind. The next German, Manfred, got eight faults, the best round so far. He was followed by Rupert, who did not jump well. Macaulay, like Belgravia, overoated and insufficiently ridden in, had been frightened in the collecting ring by three loudspeakers crackling fortissimo above his head. An enormously powerful horse, it took all Rupert’s strength to stop him running away in the ring. By some miracle they went clear until they got to the upright, where Macaulay, put wrong, hit it sharply.

For a second the pole bounced agonizingly in the cup, then fell. Unbalanced, and taking off too early, Macaulay also had a foot in the water. Rupert came out of the ring looking bootfaced.

He’s dying to beat the hell out of that horse, said Jake to himself. He watched Helen, beautiful in her yellow hat, biting her lip with disappointment as she entered eight faults by Rupert’s name. Jake didn’t want to be around when Rupert came back. He’d seen enough rounds anyway.

Riding around the collecting ring, he felt sicker and sicker, trying to remember the turns and the distances between the jumps. But his mind had suddenly gone completely blank, as if someone had pulled a lavatory chain, draining all the information out of his head, leaving an empty cistern.

He wished he could slip into the matadors’ church to pray. He listened to the deafening cheer as the last Spanish rider went in and groan follow groan as he demolished the course.

Now it was time for the mighty Ludwig von Schellenberg, the greatest rider in the world, to go into the ring and show everyone how to do it, which he did, jumping clear. But so carried away was he by the poetry and stylishness of his round that he notched up one and a half time faults.

He came out grinning and cursing. Now, as luck would have it, as Jake was due to jump, the last rider in Round One, the general chose to arrive and everything ground to a halt while two lines of soldiers with machine guns formed a guard of honor and the band played the Spanish National Anthem several times, and dignitaries were introduced with a lot of bowing and shaking of hands, and the general was settled in his seat.

“This is a bugger,” said Malise, after Jake had been kept waiting twenty minutes. “I’m very sorry. They’ll call you any minute. Just aim for a steady clear, take it easy, and ride at the center of the fence.”

Up in the riders’ stand Helen was doing sums.

“If the Germans count Ludwig’s, Manfred’s, and Hans’s rounds, and drop Wolfgang’s, that puts them on twenty-one and a half,” she said. “We’ve got Rupert on eight, Humpty on twelve, and Lavinia on twelve; that makes thirty-two.”

“We won’t get lower than that this half,” said Rupert. “Jake’s bound to be eliminated.”

Ludwig von Schellenberg came into the riders’ stand. “You look beautiful, Mees Helen, in that hat,” he said, clicking his heels as he kissed her hand.

“She’s a Mrs. not a Miss, you smarmy Kraut, and keep your hands off her,” said Rupert, but quite amiably. Ludwig was one of the few riders he liked and admired.

“Number Twenty-eight,” called the collecting ring steward.

Jake rode quietly into the ring. During the long wait he had counted Sailor’s plaits, found there were fifteen, his unlucky number, and had quickly undone them, so Sailor’s sparse mane crinkled unbecomingly like Harpo Marx’s hair.

As the horse shuffled in, flea-bitten, head hanging, Ludwig laughed and turned to Rupert: “Do you get your horses from zee knacker’s yard now?”

“May I be Franco with you?” said Rupert. “That is the ugliest horse anyone’s ever seen.”

Helen looked at Jake and repeated her remark about the knight of the sorrowful countenance to Malise, but Malise wasn’t listening either; he was praying.

The audience was losing interest. There hadn’t been enough clear rounds, the Germans were so far ahead it didn’t look as though anyone, and definitely not the Spaniards, would catch them up. The general was talking to his energy minister about oil prices. No one was paying much attention as Sailor cantered towards the first fence.

Tilting at windmills, thought Helen, filled with compassion.

“Never get over it,” said Rupert.

But suddenly this extraordinarily ugly animal shook himself like an old music hall actor who realizes he’s got a capacity crowd, gave a snort of pleasure, and took hold of the bit.

“Christ, look at that,” said Humpty Hamilton as Sailor cleared the first fence.

“And that,” said Billy as he cleared the second.

“And that,” said Malise, resisting a temptation to crow, as he cleared the third.

“And that,” said Helen.

“Jesus, he can really jump,” said Billy. “Look at the way he tucks up his feet.”

The crowd, bored by Spain’s poor performance, suddenly diverted by this extraordinary horse, laughed at first then started to clap and cheer.

“He’s going to get time faults if he’s not careful,” said Mrs. Greenslade, as Jake checked Sailor before the combination, but, pop, pop, pop, over he went.

“Christ,” said Humpty. “That horse must have some good blood in him.”

“Who is zees horse, Malise?” said Ludwig. “It is not permitted, I think, to jump mules. I shall lodge an objection.”

Sailor was over the water. Now there was just the double left.

As he turned sharply to make up time, the sun shone straight into Jake’s eyes, dazzling and blinding him. He had to leave it all to Sailor. The British team held its breath as the horse came trundling down, carefully positioned himself, and cleared both parts beautifully. As he shambled out of the ring to deafening cheers, some people in the riders’ stand could have sworn he winked his walleye. Jake, his face blank, leaned forward, pulling Sailor’s ears, running his hand repeatedly up and down the horse’s curly mane.

“Beginner’s luck,” said Rupert.

“That horse isn’t a beginner,” said Billy. “He looks like an oldage pensioner.”

“He’s got half a time fault,” said Helen, putting C for Clear by Jake’s name. “That puts us in the lead.”

In the collecting ring, Sailor philosophically accepted the ecstatic embraces of Bridie and Tracey, but was more interested in getting his three Polos reward from Jake, who in his turn was trying to hide his elation. Having automatically checked Sailor’s legs for any swelling or tenderness, he loosened his girths and put on his fly sheet.

“Well done,” said Malise. “It’s hard to believe that horse hadn’t walked the course himself.”

And as Humpty, Billy, Lavinia, and both her parents surged round Jake to offer their congratulations, Malise added, “Delighted he’s come good. Completely justified your faith in him. Get Tracey to walk him round in the shade and keep him quiet, and come and have a Coke or something.”

But Jake couldn’t bear to leave Sailor. Using a bucket of water brought by Tracey, he sponged the horse’s head, throat, and neck and between his back legs to cool him down. Putting a hand over Sailor’s eyes, he sprayed his head and ears with fly spray and as it wasn’t wise for the horse to take in quantities of water, he washed his mouth with a sponge to refresh him.

“Belgravia’d have your hand off if you did that,” said Marion, who was walking a sweating Macaulay round the paddock. “He jumped well,” she added, nodding at Sailor.

Was this the first round in peace talks? thought Jake, Marion, one of the Iron Curtain satellites, temporarily making diplomatic overtures towards the West.

“Thanks,” he said.

The second half of the competition was much tougher. The delays had got to the horses and frayed the riders’ nerves. The heat was stifling, the flies even worse. Sipping an ice cold Pepsi in the competitors’ stand, Jake tried to keep calm.

“It’s the first time for ages the Germans haven’t been in the lead after the first half,” said Mrs. Greenslade. “But they’re tremendously good at coming from behind.”

“Sounds fun,” said Rupert, glancing at Helen, who went pink.

The Germans, in fact, came back fighting. Humpty jumped well, but could only manage eight faults. Lavinia had four, to her parents’ ecstasy.

“Bloody boo sucks to you, Wupert,” she said as she came out of the ring.

But the first two Germans had only four faults each.

Then Manfred came in and got only eight faults.

“Rupert’s got to go clear,” said Billy, looking at Helen’s marks and counting on his fingers. “God, I wish I’d taken O level math.”

Down in the collecting ring, Malise told Rupert the same thing: “Macaulay’s a big brave horse. He can do it, if you keep calm and put him right.”

But Rupert was still raging with Jake and Malise, and with Lavinia for being so smug about getting four faults.

Macaulay was a big, brave horse, but he’d suffered when Rupert was angry before, and he sensed Rupert was angry now and it unsettled him. Putting him over an unnecessarily high practice fence, Rupert had banged his fetlocks badly. Macaulay was a brave horse, but he didn’t like being pushed around.

Rupert jumped clear until he came to the seventh fence, a huge oxer, then he turned Macaulay too sharply, put him at the fence wrong, pulling him up a stride too early. Despite a huge and heroic jump, Macaulay couldn’t make it and had the pole down. This unsettled him for the combination. Fighting for his head, he almost ran away with Rupert and had all three elements down, then put a foot in the water, finishing up with twenty faults.

The British team groaned. This was the round they’d have to drop. It would be too much to expect Jake to repeat his brilliant first round. They had been so near beating the Germans; now victory was slipping away like a sock in a gum boot. Rupert rode straight out of the ring, ignoring the cries of bad luck spoken in five different languages, straight past Marion, out of the collecting ring, and back to the stables.

Ludwig came in, stepped on it, and, as expected, went clear without a time fault. It was all up to Jake. If he went clear, they would win by half a time fault. The volatile crowd were disappointed not to have a Spanish win, but they admired the courage of this gypsy boy and his hideous horse, and adopted him as their own. “Magnifico,” they cried half in irony as he came into the ring.

“We’re bloody well going to do it,” whispered Jake into Sailor’s ear as he leaned forward and shortened his reins. Sailor gave three bucks to show he hadn’t fallen asleep and the crowd roared their appreciation.

Off Sailor went towards the first fence, and Billy, despite a blinding headache, felt that rare surge of pleasure which transcends any kind of jealousy when a new star is born.

“You’re right,” he said to Malise. “He’s brilliant.”

Malise, unable to speak because he felt so nervous and choked with emotion, merely nodded.

Suddenly Billy felt someone tugging his sleeve. It was Marion. One look at her horror-stricken face and he followed her down the steps.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s Rupert. He’s killing Macaulay.”

“Where is he?”

“Back at the stables in the box. He’s bolted the door.”

As Billy sprinted the three hundred yards back to the stables, he was aware of a huge cheer that seemed to raise the sky. Jake must have gone clear.

Marion ran beside him, sobbing.

“The bastard, the bastard. It was his fault.”

“Go and saddle up Belgravia quickly. Rupert’ll have to ride him in the parade.”

The white hot stone of the stables seemed to burn Billy’s eyes. For a second he felt dizzy and thought he was going to faint. Then he heard the terrified screaming of a horse, and the sickening thud of a whip on flesh. He streaked across the yard. Both the half-doors of Macaulay’s box were shut.

“Rupert, let me in.”

“Fuck off.”

“Bloody well let me in,” shouted Billy, pushing his huge shoulders against the door.

“Mind your own fucking business.”

Billy stepped back and ran at the bottom half-door. It began to give. Then he hurled his shoulders at it, nearly taking his head off as it caved in. For a second, after the dazzling sunlight, he couldn’t see a thing. Then he gave a flying leap and landed on Rupert, winding him and rolling him on the ground.

“Fucking horse,” gasped Rupert. “Give me that whip or I’ll use it on you.”

“You bloody won’t.” Billy scrambled to his feet.

Macaulay was a pitiful sight. Cowering in the corner, the lather turned red with blood, he had weals all down his shoulder, and one across his face just above the nostrils which were extended and as red as a poppy. His eyes were rolling in terror, his veins swollen, his sides heaving.

“You poor bastard,” said Billy, going up to him. The horse cringed away in terror. “It’s all right,” he said, catching his bridle. “It’s all over.” Rupert got to his feet, his face murderous. “Give me that whip, I haven’t finished.”

“You put him at it wrong,” said Billy quietly. “You were a stride off; no horse could have jumped that fence. It’s all right, boy.” He stroked Macaulay’s trembling neck. “It’s all right. You stupid bugger,” he added over his shoulder, “you could be prosecuted for this.”

“I’ll deal with my horses as I choose,” snarled Rupert. He was about to make a dive for the whip when they heard a clattering of hooves outside. It was Marion with Belgravia.

“Go on,” said Billy. “Don’t you realize we’ve won? Jake went clear.”

“So what?”

“You’ve got to go and collect the cup. You won it too, you know. You only got eight faults in the first round. Go on, Belgravia’s waiting.”

“I’m not going.”

“Stop behaving like a teenager,” said Billy, echoing Malise. “Do you want everyone saying you’re a stinking loser?”

For a second he thought Rupert was going to take a slug at him. Instead he ducked out of the half-door and vaulted onto Belgravia’s back.

“Here’s your hat,” called Billy after him.

Marion took it and handed it up to Rupert.

“You’re a bastard,” she hissed. “I’m giving in my notice.”

Mr. and Mrs. Greenslade, Malise, and all the grooms were cheering like schoolboys as the British team rode into the ring. Even Helen, now over the disappointment of Rupert’s twenty faults, was jumping up and down and waving her yellow hat in the air. Sailor, the hero of the afternoon, walked on the outside, walleye looking suspiciously at the crowd but accepting the deluge of cushions, flowers, and handkerchiefs that descended around him with equanimity. Jake managed to catch two pink carnations and threaded them into Sailor’s browband.

As they lined up in front of the general’s box, a cushion flew through the air, and Rupert had to duck to avoid it. Jake turned to him. “Rather reminds me of pillow fights in the dormitory of St. Augustine’s,” he said softly.

Rupert gave him a look of pure loathing which would have withered most people, but Jake was beyond withering.

“They were also very keen at St. Augustine’s on people being good losers,” he said, and laughed in Rupert’s face.

The British team stood in front, with the other teams fanned out behind them. Jake choked back the tears as the Union Jack rose in a series of jerks up the flagpole, and the National Anthem was played for the second time that afternoon, very badly and this time in a minor key.

“God jolly well ought to save our Queen fwom foweign bands,” said Lavinia.

Afterwards, they had to walk rather apprehensively between an avenue of machine guns and meet the very distinguished general, who, despite his great age and the punishing heat, rose to his feet and congratulated them in perfect English. Rupert he appeared to know already, and inquired after his beautiful mother. But before Rupert could reply, a second commotion that afternoon was created by Sailor, who, dragging the unfortunate official who was trying to hold him, refused to be separated from Jake and, undeterred by the armed guard, followed his master halfway up the stairs.

Fortunately the general had a sense of humor and allowed two of his minions to help him down the stairs to pat Sailor on the nose. Jake smiled. The general smiled, Sailor nudged the general in the pocket as though checking if he were armed too, and the photographers went wild.

“Sailor among soldiers,” said the headlines next morning and the press went wild because it was the first time anyone had beaten the Germans for two years. The Germans, who were all very sporting, came up and shook Jake by the hand.

“I think we will have to pull the stocking up, no?” said Hans.

“Are you thinking of selling that horse?” said Ludwig.

As they finally galloped round the ring, rosettes streaming, sashes across their left shoulders, Jake clutched a solid silver bear, the symbol of Madrid, his prize as leading rider.

“I don’t care what you say,” said Humpty, swelling his chest at each cheer, “that horse must have some good blood somewhere.”

“I must telephone Tory,” said Jake as they rode out of the ring. “God, I hate those telephones.”

“Mummy’ll do it for you,” said Lavinia.

“She speaks Spanish.” Billy was waiting for them.

“Well done,” he said to Jake. “Good thing I got a concussion. I’d never have pulled off a double clear.”

That night at dinner they went over every fence in every round and the Nations’ Cup was filled and drunk out of again and again. And everyone, even Billy, who’d deadened his headache with four aspirin, was relieved that Rupert and Helen excused themselves from the celebration on the very genuine excuse that the general had asked them to dinner.

Much later, not entirely sober, Jake went down to the stables to check on his horses. Earlier he’d added salt and electrolytes to Sailor’s feed to make him drink because he’d been very dehydrated after sweating so much in the afternoon. Now he found his water bucket was empty, and kicked over. Jake filled it up again. Rather laboriously he repoulticed Sailor’s legs to take away the aches brought on by such strenuous jumping.

Then he went and looked at his darling Africa, walking her up and down. Her leg was better; she’d be okay for the Grand Prix tomorrow. He couldn’t resist going into the tackroom and shining his flashlight on the red rosette he’d won earlier, rubbing its shiny ribbon along his face, kissing the hard cardboard center.

Maudlin idiot, he told himself, but he was still walking on air.

As he came out he saw a light in Rupert’s box. Creeping towards it, he looked over the half-door and found Marion redressing Macaulay’s weals. Jake winced in distaste. His shoulder looked as though someone had been playing noughts and crosses with a knife.

Macaulay saw him first and cowered into the corner. Marion swung round, instinctively pulling the rug over the damage.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Looking at my horses. I suppose that’s Rupert’s work?”

For a second Marion hesitated between discretion and outrage. Outrage won. “Of course it was, the bastard.” She peeled back the rug and went on applying cream to the wounds.

“I’ve got some better stuff for that,” said Jake. Returning to his trunk in the tackroom, he got out a jar of ointment, which had turned liquid in the heat.

“What’s that?” said Marion suspiciously.

“An ancient Romany recipe,” said Jake, opening the jar. “Steady boy, I’m going to make you better.” Gently he began to rub the ointment into the weals.

Macaulay trembled and flinched but did not move away; he seemed to understand that Jake was trying to help him.

“He’d never let Rupert do that,” said Marion.

“Who stopped him?”

“Billy did.”

“Malise know?”

“No, and with Rupert’s luck he won’t find out. Macaulay’ll be in his box tomorrow. Rupert’s riding Belgravia in the Grand Prix, and Mayfair in the class before. The day after, we’re flying back to England first thing. He’s a lovely horse, but Rupert’s ruined him. He’ll sell him on now. Can’t bear to be faced with anything that makes him feel guilty. Helen’ll go mad. Macaulay’s the only horse she’s interested in, because he named him after her.”

Having treated the last cut, Jake patted the horse. Then, perhaps because he was more than a little drunk, he said, “Leave him to rest; come and have a drink.”

Marion looked at Jake’s expressionless face. He was like one of those birthday cards left blank so you could write your own message. “All right,” she said. “I’m sorry I nicked your breeches.”

“That’s okay. I knew Rupert put you up to it.”

“He’s really got it in for you.”

“Makes two of us. I’ve really got it in for him.”

They never got to the bar.

“Rupert would really fire me if he could see me now,” said Marion.

“Well, he’ll certainly hear you if you don’t keep your voice down; they’re in the next-door bedroom.”

Marion laughed. “I gave in my notice today anyway.”

“You going to leave?” asked Jake, unbuttoning her white shirt.

“I’ve given it in so often he probably didn’t believe me.”

Accustomed exclusively over the last five years to Tory’s bulk, Jake could hardly believe the slenderness of Marion’s thighs or the springy breasts which didn’t collapse under her armpits when she lay down. For a few minutes he stroked her body as wonderingly as if she were a £50,000 thoroughbred, and when he kissed her he was enchanted by the skill and enthusiasm of her response. They broke away. She smiled at him, touching a gold earring.

“Are you really a gypsy?”

“Half,” said Jake.

She ran her tongue along the lifeline of his hand. “I’m crossing your palm with saliva.”

It was a feeble joke but they both had to bury their faces in the pillow to muffle their laughter. Both got an extra buzz from knowing how angry Rupert would be if he could see them. Jake was small, thin, and not very handsome but his hands had a magical effect on Marion, soothing away all the tensions and frustrations she’d been bottling up since Rupert married Helen. Rupert’s lovemaking was aggressive, like a power drill — her Campbell-Black and Decker, she used to call him. She enjoyed it only because Rupert was so wildly attractive and she melted at his slightest touch. Jake was gentle, considerate, yet seemed by comparison extraordinarily detached.

In fact Jake was extremely attracted to Marion and very glad he was able to prevent himself coming too soon by working out a plan of action.

Afterwards, when they lay sated in each other’s arms, Marion said, “That was wonderful. Who would have thought it? You’re not looking for a groom, are you?”

“I couldn’t pay you as much as Rupert, and you’d distract me too much.”

“You totally ignored me all week.”

“That was deliberate. I hated you for being part of Rupert’s entourage and you’re so good-looking you irritated the hell out of me.”

“Prettier than Helen?”

“Much.” He knew that was the judgment that would win her over.

“I wish Rupert thought so, the bastard.”

“Is he faithful to her?”

“At the moment. I think he’s rather captivated by the idea of his own fidelity. It’s such a novelty. But they’ve hardly had a night apart since they’ve been married, and she sticks like a leech. Wait till she gets pregnant and can’t go everywhere with him. That’s when the trouble’s going to start. He can’t do without it.”

“Nor can I, by all events,” muttered Jake.

“Look,” he said, pushing her hair back from her forehead, “you’re fond of Macaulay, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I love him.”

“All you have to do is to let me know when Rupert’s selling him.”

“He’d never sell him on to you.”

“Perhaps not, but someone else could buy him for me.”

“He’s too strong for you. Rupert can only just hold him, and he’s a sod in the stable.”

“I don’t control horses by brute strength,” said Jake, “and my guess is that he won’t jump for Rupert anymore.”

“Have you got a nice wife?” asked Marion, hoping he’d make love to her again.

“Very,” said Jake.

“Rupe said you married her for money.”

“Doesn’t stop her being nice.”

“Don’t you feel guilty?”

“No,” said Jake. “This is my reward for a double clear.”