Riders

31

Billy went abroad again. He was very loath to leave Janey when she was so depressed, and also miss the opportunity of sleeping with her in the middle of the month when she was at her most fertile. He was tempted to fly back for the night, but he simply couldn’t afford it. Janey promised him she’d try not to worry and would concentrate on her book.

Concentration was not easy. The tax man dropped in, so did the builders and the VAT bully boys, all wanting money. Janey explained that Billy was away and that she wasn’t entitled to sign checks unless he was here, but fear came in great waves. She hadn’t liked the way the VAT-man looked at her furniture. The days were so long, too. She got up early, which meant she was starving by midday, and started misery-eating. Having worked until six in the evening, she was shattered and ready to dive into a quadruple vodka. Evenings yawned ahead.

She went to see Helen and grumbled how bored she was. Helen suggested she did something for charity. Why didn’t she join the local Distressed Gentlefolk’s Committee? Janey went sharply into reverse, saying that that would be carrying coals to Newcastle, and she was bored only because she had so much work to do.

The third day after Billy left, Janey tried and failed to write a chapter on schoolboys. She didn’t know any schoolboys; all her brothers were older. She ought to go to Eton or Harrow or the local comprehensive and talk to some, but research took time and was invariably expensive.

She wrote down all the men she’d been to bed with, rather too many of them, hoping this might give her inspiration. It didn’t. Then she tore the list up in case Billy found it and was upset. The house looked awful. She went from room to room trying to find some free table space. She’d written in the bedroom and the kitchen and the drawing room and even the dining room, and left them all in a mess — everywhere except the future nursery. She was not going in there; it made her cry.

The garden looked so pretty, full of hollyhocks and roses, and honeysuckle hanging heavy on the warm June air. The lime trees were in yellow flower, filling the air with sweet heady scent. The lime tree bower my prison, she thought to herself. She looked again at her contract and trembled: 70,000 words, it said. She hadn’t really produced any of them, and her publisher kept ringing and saying he’d be only too happy to come down and discuss what she’d already done.

She wished she were in Athens with Billy. It was no good trying to work. She’d go out and weed the front garden and think about married men. But after she’d weeded up two snapdragons she decided she’d better just think about weeding. Perhaps her subconscious would start working overtime.

Mavis sat, aggrieved and shivering ostentatiously, behind her. Going outside meant walks, not weeding. Harold Evans came out and rolled in the catmint. Mavis gave halfhearted chase, and Harold shot up a tree, tail flushed out like a lavatory brush.

After half an hour, Janey peered in at the kitchen clock. Two minutes past six. Hooray, it was drinks time. She went in and poured herself some vodka. An inch up the glass, two inches? Oh well, it was mostly ice. She couldn’t be bothered with lemon, but splashed in some tonic.

God, what a wasted day. She tried to think about men in a two-career family. Not easy, really. She and Billy could do with a wife each to look after them. She looked round the kitchen and shuddered at the mess. She’d really clear up before Billy came home. She picked up the paper. There was a brilliant piece by one of her rivals, which depressed her even more. At least there was a Carry On film on television to cheer her up.

She heard the sound of voices, but it was only two farm laborers going past the gate, tired and red from the sun, returning home to supper and a pint of beer, perhaps, because they’d earned it. How lucky they were. The despair of another wasted day overwhelmed her.

After three vodkas, she was starving. She made a herb omelette with six eggs, throwing the eggshells into the cardboard box which she still hadn’t emptied. She meant to share the omelette, which turned into scrambled eggs, with Mavis, but Mavis didn’t like herbs, so Janey ended up eating the lot. The boring pan had stuck; she’d clean it late. She ran her hands through her hair. A snow of dandruff drifted down. She hadn’t washed it since Westerngate. God, she was going to seed. She bolted all the doors and, having poured herself another vodka, was just about to turn on the television when the doorbell rang. Who the hell would call at this hour of the night? It was bound to be some rapist out in the woods or, even worse, the bailiffs. She’d ignore it. Mavis was barking her head off and and the bell rang again. Terrified, she unbolted the door and opened it an inch on the chain.

“Who’s that?” she said, peering through the gap. Next moment she was assailed by Paco Rabanne.

“It’s me, Kevin.”

She could see his medallion catching the light.

“Come in,’ she said weakly. “I thought you were the VAT-man or a rapist. Probably both, knowing my luck.”

Relief that he was neither gave way to panic. Which was the least sordid room to take him into?

“I’m working,’ she said, plumping for the drawing room. “I’m afraid I only tidy up before Billy comes home.”

“So I see,’ said Kevin.

The drawing room faced north and was cold. There were dead flowers, the skeleton of a three-month-old fire, coffee cups, and dog and cat plates. Janey shivered.

“Let’s try the kitchen.”

Kevin followed her, wrinkling his nose. He looked quite amazing in a black velvet suit, a white silk shirt slashed to the navel, three medallions, and his blond hair newly washed.

“You look different,” she said.

“I’ve shaved off my mustache.”

“That’s right,” muttered Janey fuzzily. “It’s right that a goalpost mustache should come down in the summer.”

“I’ve just left your husband in Athens this morning. I had to attend a function in this area. Thought I’d look in.”

“How is he?” said Janey, her face brightening.

“Bit choked. Moggie Meal Al seems to have lost his confidence since he hit the wing at Westerngate. Moggie Meal Dick keeps four-faulting.”

“Which one’s he?”

Kevin frowned. The frown deepened as he saw the mess of cups and dirty milk bottles, the sink full of dishes.

“I’ve been working so hard,” Janey explained again.

Kevin looked pointedly at the half-full glass, still with unmelted ice cubes.

“What would you like to drink?” she said.

“A dry white wine, please.”

“Well, be a duck and get it from the cellar. I must go to the loo.”

Upstairs she looked at herself in despair. Her hair looked like a mop, her face was red, her eyes tiny from drinking and lack of makeup. Old trousers and a shrunk T-shirt made her bum and boobs look huge. Scraping a flannel under her armpits, spraying her crotch with scent, she slapped on some liquid foundation and failed to pull a comb through her tangled mane. She went to the typewriter and wrote: “Men shouldn’t drop in,” with one finger.

Downstairs, Kevin, up from the cellar, was holding a bottle and looking bootfaced. “I gather you don’t like our wedding gift.”

Janey went white. “Oh, no, no, no! We just put it there because, er, Billy’s mother came to dinner and she had a poodle which, er, died, and we thought she’d be upset.” She shrugged helplessly. It had been worth a try.

Then there was the hassle of finding a corkscrew and a clean glass, and then a basin that wasn’t full of dirty dishes to wash it in.

“There’s a basin in the downstairs loo,” said Janey. Then, worried she might have forgotten to pull the chain, she seized the glass and rushed off. But it was all right. She had.

“Why d’you buy Whiskas instead of Moggie Meal?” said Kevin, looking at another of Harold’s plates, which was gathering flies.

“I’m sorry, Kev. I know I’m a lousy wife, but I’d just learnt the names of Billy’s horses when you changed them all, and the village shop’s run out of Moggie Meal. I get so bombed when I’m writing and I haven’t eaten all day.”

Kev raised an eyebrow at the remains of scrambled egg in the pan.

“How’s the book going?”

“All right. I’m up to ‘Married Men.’ ”

“Based on Billy?”

“Billy’s too nice. Most married men I know are like babies — into everyone.”

She wondered if he used hot tongs as well as a blow dryer, and had got that butterscotch smooth tan out of a bottle. He was in good shape though, his flat stomach emphasized by the big Gucci belt.

She was dying to get herself another drink, but he was only a quarter way down his. Kevin didn’t drink much; it made his accent slip. She felt mesmerized by his flashing gold cuff links and medallions.

“Don’t you get frightened when you’re here alone?” he asked.

“I’ve got a panic button wired up to Rupert’s house, and a burglar alarm, but since Harold kept setting it off I gave up using it.”

“You were pretty scared when I arrived.”

“I thought you were the bailiffs. Please don’t come home, Bill Bailiff,” she giggled lamely.

Kevin got up and walked round the kitchen. “This place is a tip and you look frightful. I’d never allow Enid to let herself and our place go like this.”

Janey felt livid.

She got up and poured another drink, but nothing came out. “It helps if you unscrew the top of the bottle,” said Kevin.

“Do you honestly think,” Janey went on furiously, “that if you walked into Solzhenitsyn’s house, he’d be dusting or putting cups in dishwashers or making chutney? You bet there’s a Mrs. Solzhenitsyn playing the Volga boatman to calm his nerves and bringing in the samovar and caviar butties every ten minutes, and typing his manuscript, as well as keeping his house clean. Christ!”

“Enid looks after me.”

“You bet she does! Because you’re so jolly rich she doesn’t have to work. She doesn’t have a money problem in the world, any more than Helen does. So they can spend all day washing their hair and waxing their legs and thinking about paintwork and getting your underpants whiter than ever.”

“My mother went out to work, and she cleaned the kitchen floor every day.”

“So what?” snapped Janey. “She wasn’t a writer. Writers think about writing all the time, not cleaning tickets, and if they’re worried about money all the time, they can’t write.”

“It’d be better,” said Kevin, “if, instead of writing rubbish about the opposite sex which makes you restless, you scrapped that book and spent more time looking after Billy. He looked like a tramp in Athens, breeches held together with safety pins, pink shirts, dinner suit covered in stains, holes in his shoes.” He picked up a pile of envelopes, flipping through them. “These envelopes should have been posted weeks ago. You’re a slut,” he went on, turning to face her, “and you’re overweight. If you were my wife, I’d send you straight off to a health farm.”

“Ridiculously bloody expensive,” said Janey, blushing scarlet. “I’d rather buy a padlock for the fridge. I am trying to write a book.”

“You drink too much. So does Billy. It’s impairing his judgment. If he’s not careful, he won’t be selected for the World Championships.”

“I expect he’s fed up with being hassled by you.”

“That’s not the way you should talk to your husband’s sponsor,” said Kevin, getting to his feet and putting down his half-finished drink. “Well, I’m off.”

Janey was shaken. She was so used to rows with Billy ending up in bed that she couldn’t cope with the progression of this one.

“Aren’t you going to finish your drink?”

“No, thanks. Get some sleep, and when you’re sober we’ll do some straight talking.”

“It’s hardly been crooked talking this evening,” said Janey sulkily, following him unsteadily to the door. In the doorway he turned, shoving his fist against her stomach, just a second before she hastily pulled it in.

“God, that zip’s taken some punishment! I’ll come back on Thursday and take you out to dinner,” he said.

It was all Billy’s fault, thought Janey, as she shaved her legs three days later, for telling Kev to drop in on her. Beastly jumped-up creep. The bath looked as though a sheep had been sheared. Not a follicle of superfluous hair was left on her body. Her bush had started to grow again like a badly plucked chicken, so she’d even shaved that too. She hadn’t had anything except three grapefruit and two bottles of Perrier since she’d last seen Kevin. She’d cleaned the house and washed her hair and painted her nails and rubbed body lotion in all over, even into the back of her neck. She couldn’t tell Billy about Kev because he hadn’t rung, which boded ill too. He always rang if he won.

Oh, well, she’d be a good wife, and nice to Billy’s sponsor and at least Kev would be useful for her chapter on arrivistes. Janey detested Kevin Coley, but she cleaned the bedroom most thoroughly of all, putting roses on one bedside table and the Moggie Meal Sponsored Book of Pedigree Cats beneath the Bible on the other. She felt much thinner but her nerves were jangling from so many slimming pills. Nothing was going to happen tonight, she kept telling herself, but she hadn’t felt so jumpy since she’d gone to Wembley for her first date with Billy. Kev hadn’t said what time he was coming. Probably he had high tea and would arrive at five.

He turned up at eight. When she answered the door he said, “Sorry, must have come to the wrong house,” and turned back down the path.

“Kevin, have you been drinking?”

He turned, grinning. “Is it really you? You look quite different from the lady I saw three days ago.” He stared at her for a minute. “Wow,” he said, sliding a hand round her waist. “You look delightful, quite the old Janey.”

For a second he fingered the spare tires above her straining white trousers. “You could lose another stone and a half without missing it, but you’re on the way and the place smells fresher too.”

No one, reflected Janey, would be able to smell anything except Paco Rabanne.

“I’m only coming out with you to research my chapter on married men,” she said.

He had a buff-colored Mercedes. Frank Sinatra’s “Songs for Swinging Lovers” was belting out of the tape deck. Christ, he must be old to like that kind of music, thought Janey. That brushed-forward hair must cover a multitude of lines. The village boys, idly chatting and guffawing in the evening sun, stared as they passed. That’ll reach Mrs. Bodkin and probably Helen, by tomorrow, thought Janey.

“Lovely properties,” remarked Kev as they drove along, “lovely old Cotswold places.”

He was wearing a white suit and a black shirt and a heavy jet medallion. You’d get a black eye if he kept it on in bed, Janey was appalled to find herself thinking. Interesting that he’d made such an effort for her. Beyond seeing that his suits were reasonably well cut in the first place, Billy didn’t think about clothes. He was without vanity; that was one of the things she loved about him.

Kev took her to a very expensive restaurant in Cheltenham. The menus had no prices and, although he showed off and was very rude to waiters, snapping his fingers, complaining the wine wasn’t cold enough, and sending food back on principle, they treated him with undeniable deference.

“How do you keep so fit?” she asked, looking at his waistline.

“I exercise a lot. Enid and I have joined the country club. You have to be elected. I play a round of golf whenever feasible. I jog on weekends. I exercise with weights in the morning.”

Janey giggled. “Do you swing Enid above your head?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Kevin coldly.

For the first course Janey lapsed and had huge sticks of asparagus dripping in melted butter.

“Naughty,” chided Kevin. “At least three hundred calories.”

“I don’t care,” said Janey, lasciviously taking an asparagus head in her mouth. “I’ll go back to grapefruit tomorrow.”

Kevin had melon and left the maraschino cherries, followed by steak, well done, with runner beans and a green salad. Janey noticed he left the spring onions. She felt a great weariness, probably because she hadn’t had enough to drink. She was fed up with talking about product attributes and growth potential. Then suddenly when she thought the evening was beyond redemption, he ordered another bottle of Sancerre, and some of his cronies came over, plainly impressed by Janey.

“I’m taking care of her while Billy’s abroad,” said Kev, and winked.

Suddenly Janey was enjoying herself. There was nothing like the high that went with the possible beginning to an affair. Kev kept looking at her, holding her eyes a second longer than necessary, as if he was caressing her. He was so tough, and positive, and knew exactly where he was going.

“D’you want to go somewhere and dance?” he said, as he signed the bill.

She shook her head, ashamed of the hopeless desire that was sweeping over her. As they left the restaurant, she swayed and he caught her arm.

“Sorry, Kev. Don’t ask a girl to drink and diet.”

It had been a clear hot day, followed by a dewy short night. They’d been haymaking. The fields had that mingled honey scent of mown grass and drying manure. As they drove home she said, “You’ll be the first man since Billy.”

“So I should hope.”

“It’ll be like losing one’s virginity all over again.”

Kevin put a perfectly manicured hand on her thigh. The diamond in the center of the thick gold ring on his third finger glittered in the moonlight.

“I’ve wanted you since the first night we met, but you’ve always been so bloody superior.”

“Not a lady like Helen?”

“You’re a snob. She’d never have sneered and put me down the way you have.”

“I’m sorry. I suppose I hated Billy being dependent on someone else.”

He removed one of the two bracelets on her right wrist and threw it on her lap. “And don’t jangle.”

“You jangle enough,” she said.

When they got back to the cottage, Mavis followed her around like a disapproving duenna. Kevin went to have a pee. Janey went into the kitchen. It was so hot, she opened the fridge and, getting a piece of ice out of the tray, ran it over her tits to make the nipples stand up. Then she poured herself a huge drink to steady her nerves. The next minute Kev walked in and took it from her and poured it down the sink. “You don’t need that sort of booster anymore,” he said.

I hate him, she said to herself. He’s everything that darling Billy isn’t.

Mavis, who’d done sterling service as a hot water bottle all winter, was outraged when Kevin tried to shut her out of the bedroom.

“She always comes in,” protested Janey.

“Not anymore, she doesn’t,” said Kevin, booting her with his foot.

“You would get on well with Helen,” sighed Janey.

“I don’t approve of pets in bedrooms. Ouch!” howled Kev as Mavis bit him sharply on the ankle.

It took all Janey’s self-control not to giggle. There was no plaster in the house, but finally Kev, stripped off except for one of Billy’s handkerchiefs tightly bound round his ankle, climbed into bed.

“I hope your alarm clock works,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting in Bristol at nine-thirty.”

Janey looked at him through half-closed eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to send me back because I’m not at room temperature?”

She put her hand on his cock, which was inching upwards, and was about to add that in terms of growth potential he was not bad himself, but she didn’t think he’d be amused. He made no comment about her shaved bush until afterwards.

“You do that?”

“No, Billy does.”

“Relationship still very much alive, then?”

“Yes,” said Janey.

It was very nice to be made love to by someone so scented and powdered and tasting of Gold Spot (which Janey was less keen on), but all the perfumes of Arabia couldn’t conceal the feral whiff of the jungle killer. Beneath his trappings, Kev was a wide boy, a thug as ruthless as Rupert.

She was ashamed of betraying Billy by sleeping with Kev in their bed. On the other hand, it was bliss not to have to get up and go home dribbling afterwards. Kev had only brought a slimline briefcase with him. Inside was a clean shirt, a toothbrush and toothpaste in a case, and a disposable razor. He’s everything that Billy’s not, thought Janey once again. Perhaps that’s why I fancy him and that’s what I really need.

Billy rang up next day. Things weren’t thrilling. He was missing her. He’d be back on Sunday.

“Did Kev ring you? Good. Mandryka got a third yesterday, but The Bull’s a bit stale. I’m going to rest him next week before the World Championship. How’s the book going?”

“Fine,” said Janey, who hadn’t touched it. She felt guilty but safer. Kev wouldn’t let her starve.

“By the way, where were you last night?” asked Billy.

Janey’s mind galloped. “I had dinner with Helen.”

“That’s nice.”

Putting down the telephone, she rang Helen and suggested they had supper at the local bistro. Before she went out she was fortified by a telephone call from Kev. She’d been waiting all day, wondering if he’d ring. She found she couldn’t eat anything, so pushed her food around her plate.

“You’re not pregnant, are you?” asked Helen.

“No, no. I was so disgustingly fat, I took the opportunity of Billy’s being away to go on a diet. Now my stomach seems to have shrunk, thank God.”

“Don’t talk to me about reducing,” sighed Helen. “Rupert’s given up liquor until after the World Championship. He’s lost ten pounds and he looks great but, golly, it makes him mean.”

For once, Helen unbent a bit. Rupert had bought her a gym tunic and wanted her to dress up as a schoolgirl.

“But I can’t. I’ve got knobbly knees and I’m terrified he’s going to start fancying the real thing.”

Janey, remembering Billy’s tales about Tiffany Bathgate, rather thought Rupert already had.

“I wish Billy’d occasionally look at another woman,” she said idly. “It’d be such fun getting him back.”

Janey was doing no work on her book but the house looked absolutely marvelous. Although women deny it, they very seldom have a new man in their lives without idly thinking what he’d be like to marry. Janey Coley sounded perfectly dreadful; it really wouldn’t do.

On Saturday morning, Janey steamed open their bank statement, was appalled at what she saw, hastily stuck it up again, and went out and bought a pair of white dungarees, a white canvas skirt, and two striped T-shirts. The weather was so lovely, she lay in the sun. She could always tell Billy she’d been typing in the garden.

Kev came and screwed her on Saturday afternoon. Both of them were sober and the pleasure was even more intense. Janey’d lost eight pounds and was beginning to feel beautiful again. Afterwards they lay in each other’s arms.

“Did Billy ring you?” asked Kevin.

“Yes, not much joy. Sometimes I wish he wasn’t such a good loser.”

“He’s a loser,” said Kevin brutally. “Let’s make no bones about it.”

“How are we all going to cope at Les Rivaux? Billy’s so sweet, he won’t suspect anything, but I’m not so sure about Enid.”

Suddenly she was startled out of her wits by the doorbell. It was a member of the Tory Party, canvassing for a by-election.

“I’m just changing to go out,” Janey called out of the window, “but you can rely on my vote.”

“Got to get that bloody man Callaghan out somehow,” said Kevin.

Next time the bell went Kev had to unplug himself. Janey staggered to the window. This time it was the Labor Party.

“No, you don’t need to convince me; you can rely on my vote,” she said.

“That’s done it,” said Kev, getting up. “I’ve got to go anyway.” Janey was appalled at how miserable she felt. They had a bath together.

“Too small, really,” said Kev as he dried himself. “You ought to come in my Jacuzzi at Sunningdale. You will, one day.”

Feeling happier, Janey put on her new white overalls, which just covered her boobs, and nothing else. Her newly washed hair divided over her brown shoulders. As she made the bed, she instinctively removed hairs, looking for Kevidence, she told herself with a giggle. She persuaded him to have a drink before he went. They were in the drawing room when they heard a step outside. Janey went to the window. “Expect it’s the Liberal Party. Oh my God, it’s Billy.”

“It’s all right,” said Kev calmly. “Billy told me you were depressed and to drop in to cheer you up. I just happened to be in the area.”

Janey patted her hair frantically in the mirror.

“Do I look as though I’ve just got out of bed?” she asked.

Kev laughed. “You always do anyway.”

Billy was absolutely thrilled to see them both. He’d always been worried that they got on so badly and this would certainly make things easier. He looked awful: thoroughly tired out, his hair a tangled mess, eyes bloodshot. He smelt of curry and drink. He needs some Gold Spot, thought Janey.

“How did the last days go?” asked Kevin.

“Bloody awful. The competition’s so hot because everyone’s over for the World Championship. You’re lucky if you get in the money at all. Here’s some Arpège for you, sweetheart.” He also put down a bottle of duty-free whisky.

“Your wife’s been on a diet,” said Kev. “Doesn’t she look great?”

“Sensational,” said Billy. “So does the house.” He looked around. “Really lovely. You must have worked hard. I’m filthy. I must go and have a bath and change.”

“Have a drink first,” said Janey, sloshing three fingers of whisky into a glass. She was nervous Kev might have left some of his jewelry in the bedroom. Billy accepted it gratefully; anything to postpone the opening of the brown envelopes and his bank statement. They discussed the World Championships — he would either jump Mandryka or The Bull.

“The Bull — I mean Moggie Meal Al — is a bit stale. I’m going to rest him for the next fortnight.”