Riders

26

Billy found himself very nervous about telling Helen he was getting married. Rupert had been no problem. In fact Rupert and Janey both experienced passionate relief that they enormously liked but didn’t fancy one another; they were too alike, perhaps. And Rupert, having set up the sponsorship which enabled Billy to marry Janey and start his own yard, felt he had masterminded the whole affair, which mitigated any jealousy.

Nothing would happen in a hurry, anyway. Billy would have to find somewhere to live and, although it might be difficult to go on being partners if Billy were a professional, Rupert was sure they could work something out. Although it would be a struggle financially, Rupert wasn’t prepared to turn professional until he’d had another stab at a gold medal in Los Angeles in four years’ time.

Helen, however, was shattered when she heard the news. Without Billy the precarious balance of their marriage would surely be destroyed. He was so sweet to Marcus and he could always jolly Rupert out of a bad mood by making him laugh. Nor did the two women really take to each other. After Billy and Rupert returned from their American trip, Billy brought Janey down for the weekend. Both girls were set back on their heels by the glamour of the other. Janey never expected Helen to be that beautiful. Helen didn’t expect Janey to be that sexy. Janey had never worn a bra and her clothes were always a little too tight, because she kept falling by the wayside on her diets, and her shirts and dresses were always done up a button too low. Helen’s were always buttoned up to the neck. After six years in Fleet Street, Janey was virtually unshockable and, during dinner on the Friday she arrived, kept both Rupert and Billy in stitches, providing wildly inaccurate lowdown on the sex lives of leading public figures.

Helen had taken great trouble to cook a superb dinner: crab pancakes in cheese sauce, gigot of lamb, and the most perfect quince sorbet. It was a good technique if one wanted to establish a reputation as a brilliant cook, reflected Janey, to serve very small helpings as Helen did, so everyone wanted seconds. Janey, not having eaten all day, was starving, and had thirds of everything, praising Helen like mad. Everyone drank a lot. Janey got happily tight.

How nice, thought Rupert, to find a woman with such an appetite. He’d never admired Lavinia; she was a drip. Janey was fun and tough. She would be good for Billy.

Between Helen and Janey there was also professional jealousy. Janey asked Helen about her novel. Helen said it was coming on very very slowly.

“I’m an academic, you see, and I’m not prepared to put up with anything second-rate.”

“Why don’t you try journalism?” asked Janey.

Helen said she didn’t really feel she could bring herself to do anything like that. She’d never read the Post, but she’d heard it was very sensational.

Janey registered the snub and said that, in her experience, writers who were any good, wrote.

“I’ve got a book coming out in the spring,” she said. “A collection of interviews. I just got the piece I did on you in at the end, darling,” she added to Billy.

She and Billy were so in love, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Helen wistfully tried to remember the time when she and Rupert were like that. The attempt at a second honeymoon after the Olympics had not lasted very long.

Marcus was brought down and admired and fed. How can such good-looking parents produce such a hideous baby? thought Janey. But realizing it would endear her to Helen, she asked if she could give Marcus his bottle.

“Billy tells me you’re getting a nanny.”

“Well, a girl,” said Helen. “It’ll mean I can spend more time with Rupert.” She must try to like this self-confident, sexy creature. “I’m so pleased you’re getting married to Billy,” she said when they were alone. “He’s so darling, but he’s kind of vulnerable, too. You will look after him, won’t you?”

“Strange — Rupert said the same thing,” said Janey. “I actually hope he’s going to look after me.”

Everyone else thought Janey was marvelous; the dogs, the grooms, Marcus, Miss Hawkins, Mrs. Bodkin, for whom Janey left a fiver. There was a bad moment, however, when Janey was changing for dinner on Saturday night and couldn’t be bothered to go down the passage to the loo. Instead, she got a chair and was crouching over the basin having a pee, when Helen walked in to turn down the beds. Helen was shocked rigid and even more annoyed that Rupert thought it was very funny. Janey, sensitive as radar, realized Helen didn’t approve of her.

“She’s a bit lined-skirt-and-petticoat, or half-slip, as she’d call it, isn’t she?” she said to Billy. “I bet she makes love in long rubber gloves.”

Billy laughed, but he refused to bitch about Helen.

“We really must look for a house very soon,” said Janey.

Rupert persuaded Helen to give a party at Penscombe for Billy and Janey. As she’d done up the house so beautifully, he said, it would be nice for everyone to see it, and they hadn’t had a party since their marriage. She wouldn’t have to do any work. They’d get in caterers, and as the drawing room wasn’t big enough for dancing, they’d hire a marquee. The party would be held in the middle of December just before the Olympia Christmas show, so all the foreign riders would be in the country.

There were frightful arguments over the guest list; all the show-jumping fraternity had to be asked.

“But not Malise Gordon or Colonel Roxborough. I don’t want any grown-ups,” said Rupert.

“Oh, we must have Malise,” protested Helen. “He’s so civilized.”

“He wasn’t very civilized when Ivor Braine took the wrong course in the Nations’ Cup last week. If he comes, he’ll start telling me to go to bed early because I’ve got a class next year.”

“You ought to ask him,” said Billy. “He’d be awfully hurt.”

“Oh, all right, but I’m not asking Jake Lovell. His fat wife wouldn’t get through the door.”

By the time they’d included Janey’s Fleet Street friends, and most of the celebrities she had interviewed, who knew Rupert and Billy anyway, as well as all Rupert’s smart friends, the numbers were up to three hundred. Rupert flipped through the final selection.

“I’ve slept with practically every woman on this list. Gives me a feeling of déjà vu,” he said to Billy.

“You haven’t slept with Hilary.”

“She’s not coming!”

“Bloody is. According to Mrs. B., she’s been round a lot recently.”

Rupert, furious, stormed off to find Helen.

“Either that woman doesn’t come to the party or I don’t.”

“All your friends are coming,” said Helen. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t have one of mine.”

“She’ll bring that disgusting baby, and start whipping out a triangular tit in the middle of the party.”

“Hilary is not just a good painter, she’s a highly intelligent, concerned human being.”

“Crap,” said Rupert. “All right, I’ll ask all the grooms then.”

“You can’t,” said Helen aghast. “They can never hold their drink.”

A week before the party, while Rupert and Billy were in Amsterdam, the au pair, Marie-Claire, slipped on the yellow stone steps in the hall and landed painfully on her coccyx. The next day Hilary slipped carrying Kate but managed to keep her balance. Helen suddenly decided to carpet the hall and the stairs a pale avocado green, to match the pale pink and green peony wallpaper. The carpet men worked overtime, the dogs sat in a martyred row on the tintacked underfelt, and everything was finished and tidied away by the eve of the party, when Rupert and Billy were due home.

Helen had just got Marcus to sleep when they arrived and woke him up with all the din of barking, neighing, shouting, and the banging down of lorry ramps. Why the hell did they make so much noise? She had to spend a quarter of an hour soothing and rocking Marcus back to sleep, and went downstairs to the kitchen just as Rupert was coming in through the back door. There was snow in his hair.

“Hello, darling,” he said, kissing her. “You all right? I see the marquee’s up. Everyone’s coming: the Germans, the French team, the Italians, all the Irish — it’s a complete sellout.”

“Go and get a drink. There’s a surprise for you in the hall,” said Helen.

Rupert went out — there was a long pause. The new carpet was so soft, Helen didn’t hear him come back. His face was expressionless.

“Do you like it?”

“I didn’t know Marcus could be that sick,” said Rupert. “That carpet is exactly the same color as regurgitated Heinz pea and bacon dinner. What the fuck have you done?”

Helen bridled. “It’s called pistachio.”

“Pissed-tachio after everyone’s spilt red wine over it tomorrow night,” said Rupert.

“The steps were a death trap,” snapped Helen.

“Pity your friend Hilary didn’t fall down them more often. That’s Cotswold stone you’ve just covered up!”

“Those steps were dangerous. Marcus’ll be walking in a few months.”

“He’ll walk right out of the house when he sees that carpet.”

“Well, everyone thinks it’s very pretty.” Helen’s voice was rising. “Mrs. Bodkin, Marie-Claire.”

“That’s only because you pay them. Who else? Thrillary, I suppose. Expect it’s her idea: matches her complexion.”

* * *

It was, in fact, a great party. Rupert and Billy mixed a champagne cocktail to start off with, which, with one and a half hours solid drinking before dinner, got everyone plastered. Janey, looking sensational in see-through black, was such a hit with all the foreign riders that Billy put her on a leading rein and, screaming with laughter, towed her around after him. Their happiness was totally infectious. Even Driffield couldn’t find anything to grumble about.

Only Helen, in priceless ivy green silk, a boat-shaped neckline showing off her slender white shoulders, seemed tense. She was not a natural hostess and she was only too aware of all the Biancas and Granias and Gabriellas of Rupert’s past. Nor could she bear to see drink rings spreading like Olympic symbols on her furniture, and cigarette ash and wine stains on her new carpet.

Rupert tried to persuade her to enjoy herself. But once dinner was over, he felt he could relax his duties as host. People knew where they could get a drink. From then on, he was seen coming off the dance floor with one beauty after another.

Hilary arrived late. Armed with a carrycot, she marched down the hall, sending international show jumpers flying, and up the stairs.

“Straight up to my wife’s bedroom,” said Rupert sourly.

Next moment Helen went past with a baby’s bottle.

“Is that for Hilary?”

“Marcus is crying.”

“You should have sent him to Mrs. Bodkin. Where the hell’s Marie-Claire?”

“She disappeared into the shrubbery with one of the French team two hours ago and hasn’t been seen since,” snapped Helen. “I told you the drink was too strong.”

Upstairs, Helen collected Marcus and went into the bedroom, where she found Hilary combing her hair.

“Oh, you look beautiful,” she gasped.

Hilary had been to the hairdresser’s and had her dark hair set in wild snaky curls round her face. She had rouged her cheekbones and kohled her eyes and was wearing a red and black gypsy dress with a flounced skirt and hooped earrings.

“I never dreamed you could look so wonderful,” Helen said in genuine amazement.

“I wanted to prove to your bloody husband I wasn’t a complete frump,” said Hilary. “I’ve even shaved under my armpits.” She held up her arms, showing not a trace of stubble. “And I absolutely hate myself.”

“Well, I sure appreciate you,” said Helen.

Hilary, drenching herself in Helen’s Miss Dior, said, “How’s it going? Sounds wild enough.”

“I’m not great at parties.”

“Rupert shouldn’t subject you to them. What did he say about the carpet?”

“He hated it.”

Why did the conversation always return to Rupert? wondered Helen.

The excitement had stepped up when they went downstairs. Ludwig was blowing a hunting horn. Billy, plastered and blissful, was necking on the sofa with Janey, Mavis curled up beside them, looking resigned.

“Come and dance, Helen,” said Humpty Hamilton, who was wearing one of Rupert’s tweed caps back to front.

“You haven’t met Hilary, have you?” said Helen.

At that moment Rupert came off the dance floor with a ruffled blonde.

“Evening,” he said to Hilary without any warmth.

“Doesn’t Hilly look lovely?” said Helen.

Rupert looked her up and down. “Rather like one of Jake Lovell’s relations.”

Next moment a very drunken Hans staggered up and bore Helen off to dance. “What a beautiful place you have ’ere, Mees Helen. What a beautiful woman you are,” he sighed. “Lucky Rupert.”

In front of them, in the crepuscular gloom, she could see Count Guy, wrapped like a wet towel round Marie-Claire. So it was that member of the French team, she thought, wondering if she ought to stop them.

“Poor Laveenia.” Hans shook his head. “I bet she weesh she marry Billee now. But what a beauty he’s got heemself. What a beautiful girl.”

“Yes, she’s very nice.”

“Did you know Ludwig’s geeving Billee a horse as a vedding present? A very good one: Mandryka.”

Count Guy’s arm was up to his elbow down Marie-Claire’s dress. Really, she couldn’t be a very suitable person to look after Marcus, thought Helen. Over in the corner, she saw Hilary dancing with Malise. They were talking intently. That was good; they’d get on together.

The party ground on. The local MFH, trying to find his way home, drove over the ha-ha. Podge was sick in the flower bed. Helen was dancing with Billy, his hair all over the place.

“It’s a wonderful party, Angel. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. You’ve made Janey so welcome, she can’t get over it. I say, there’s Hilary doing the tango with Ludwig. She’s looking really very sexy this evening, and you know I’m not her greatest fan.”

Billy went back to Janey. As an excuse to escape from the party for a second, Helen decided to check if Marcus was okay. There were wine stains all over her beautiful carpet. Why couldn’t they all go, so she could get the place straight again? In the hall Rupert was talking to Hans and a couple of Italians. When he’d drunk too much, he seldom betrayed it, but his eyes tended to glitter. Now they were like sapphires under a burglar’s flashlight.

“Where are you going?” he said, not turning around.

“Just to check Marcus.”

“If he doesn’t shut up, I’ll come upstairs and ram a cricket stump up his arse.”

Quivering with rage, Helen fled upstairs. How could Rupert say terrible things like that, just to get a laugh, when Marcus was so darling? Despite the din, he was still fast asleep.

Whoops and yells from downstairs made her rush out onto the landing. Hanging over the stairs, she heard Rupert saying to a rather pale Podge, “Go on darling, go and get him.”

“Mrs. C-B won’t like it.”

“She’ll have to lump it.”

Podge opened the front door. Helen could see a flurry of snowflakes and she was gone.

“You can’t, Rupert,” said Janey, half laughing. “Don’t be a sod, not on Helen’s new carpet. It’s taken quite enough punishment as it is.”

Helen went back and turned off Marcus’s light. What could they be talking about? She powdered her nose and combed her hair. Oh God, she was tired. If only she could go to bed and read Mansfield Park. Then she heard more cheers and a commotion downstairs. For a minute she thought she must be dreaming, for there was Revenge in the hall, and Rupert was jumping onto his back, riding into the drawing room to colossal cheers and screams of laughter. Blazing with fury, she ran down the stairs.

“What the hell are you doing?” she screamed. Over the laughter, no one heard.

“Twenty-five pounds you can’t jump that sofa,” said Count Guy.

“Done,” said Rupert and the next moment he’d cleared it, narrowly missing the chandelier.

“Rupert!” screamed Helen. “What are you doing on that horse?”

Everyone suddenly went quiet.

“No party’s complete without Revenge,” said Rupert, and popped him back over the sofa.

“Get him out of here,” she screamed hysterically. “Out, out, out!”

“All right,” said Rupert, but as Revenge came into the hall, unnerved no doubt by the occasion, he crapped extensively, which was greeted by howls of mirth.

“I think he’s trying to say he doesn’t like your new carpet,” said Rupert. Helen gave a scream of horror and fled upstairs, throwing herself down on her bed, sobbing her heart out. How could he do this to her, how could he, how could he?

Malise met Hilary at the bottom of the stairs. They had already had a long discussion about the Campbell-Black marriage and knew whose side they were on.

“Go to her,” said Malise. “At once. I’ll see someone clears up this mess.”

Hilary found Helen a sodden heap on the bed. “I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it. Why does he humiliate me like that?”

“I don’t know, dear.” Hilary stroked her hair. “He’s a monster, as I keep telling you. You’re exhausted. Take a couple of pills and go to sleep. I’ll help you get undressed.”

Just as she had got a still sobbing Helen out of her clothes and was fetching her nightgown from under the pillow, Rupert walked in.

“Get out,” he said to Hilary. “I might have guessed you’d be here.”

“I’ve just given your wife a couple of sleeping pills. Now leave her alone.”

“She can’t go to sleep. She’s the hostess.”

“You stop being a hostess after something like that. How could you do that to her? You’re the most uncaring man I’ve ever met.”

“It was a joke and for a bet,” said Rupert tonelessly. “All the mess has been cleared up. There’s not a mark on the carpet. Now get out.”

“Please stay,” sobbed Helen.

“I’m not leaving till you fall asleep, dear,” said Hilary.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” exploded Rupert, storming out of the room.

Helen, surprisingly, was so exhausted she fell asleep almost immediately. Hilary stayed a few minutes, folding up her clothes and tidying the room and her own appearance. Switching off the light, she quietly closed the door, then, moving down the landing, checked first Marcus and then Kate. Out on the landing she found Rupert, waiting with a glass in his hand. His hatred was almost palpable.

“They’re all asleep, no thanks to you,” she said.

Downstairs they could hear a tantivy. The band was playing the “Post Horn gallop.” Rupert stooped to pat Badger, who was trembling. He hated rows and was rising like a souffleé out of one of the Jack Russells’ baskets.

“Why do you drool over that dog and neglect Helen? What’s she ever done to you?”

Rupert stood up. “She was perfectly happy before you came along and started breast-feeding her this feminist crap.”

“That’s not true. She was nearly dying when I first met her, and you weren’t even there.”

“I happened to be trapped in one of the worst blizzards of the winter; not much I could do about it.”

“You grumble that she has no friends, and then when she finds one, you insult her. You always treat me as if I don’t exist.”

“Perhaps you don’t. I detest women that come on like Super-girl, and you detest me,” he said coming towards her, breathing in the hot feral sweat of her body, “because your pratt of a husband couldn’t even satisfy a hamster.”

“Don’t you dare say anything against Crispin!” screamed Hilary.

“You have to go round poisoning other people’s marriages,” Rupert went on. “Well, bloody well stay away from Helen.”

“She needs a few allies.”

“Not like you, she doesn’t.” He was taunting her now. “I know what your game is. You liked undressing her, didn’t you? She’s beautiful, isn’t she? And you’ve been running after her as fast as your unshaven legs can carry you, you bloody dyke. Well, she won’t enjoy it, she’s not very keen on that sort of thing.”

Next minute Hilary had slapped him very hard across the face. Without a thought, Rupert hit her back, even harder. She burst into tears and, somehow, a second later she was in his arms and he was kissing her, forcing her mouth open. Frantically she struggled, flailing her fists against his back, so much broader and more muscled than Crispin’s. Suddenly she relaxed, mouth separating, and was kissing him back even more fiercely.

“I hate you,” she sobbed.

“You don’t. You want me like hell. You’ve wanted me ever since you saw me at Gloucester Hospital. That’s why you’ve been smarming over Helen all this time.”

“You’re a brute.”

“Of course.” He took her hair and yanked her head back so he could kiss her again. Fingers splayed on her back, his thumbs caressed her shaven armpits. “That’s a great improvement,” he said softly. “It was getting so long, you could have plaited it.”

He drew back the landing curtain. The snow was three inches thick on the window ledge and still coming down.

“We mustn’t,” she said, pulling away from him. “It’s so unsupportive.”

“Not nearly as unsupportive as you’re going to be,” he whispered evilly. “I’m going hunting tomorrow. Get rid of Crispin after lunch. He can take Germaine tobogganing for an hour or so.”