Riders

40

There was a drinks’ party at the British Embassy that night, and for once the team weren’t under Malise’s ever-watchful eye. A complimentary ticket from the minister of the arts to hear Placido Domingo as Otello at the Teatro dell’Opera had been too much for him, but he’d had tough words with the team beforehand.

“This is the first Nations’ Cup in the series. If we win, it’ll be a colossal boost to morale. So there’s to be no heavy drinking and I want everyone in their rooms by midnight. You’ll be the only one completely sober,” he added to Billy, “so I’m relying on you to look after Fen and see she’s in her own bed and not Rupert’s by eleven o’clock.”

Billy shook his head. “If you honestly think Rupert’ll take any notice of me.”

Rupert arrived at the party in a new suit — pale blue and made for him by one of Italy’s leading couturiers, who normally only designed clothes for women, but who had succumbed because he rightly felt Rupert would be such a good advertisement for his product.

Anyone else would have looked a raving poofter, thought Billy, particularly wearing an amethyst-colored shirt and tie. But such was Rupert’s masculinity, and the enhanced blueness of his eyes, and the lean, broad-shouldered length of his body, that the result was sensational.

All the girls at the party were certainly falling over themselves to offer him smoked salmon and asparagus rolls and fill up his glass with champagne.

“They’re all convinced I’m an American tennis player,” he said, fighting his way through the crowd to Billy. “I’ve already been complimented three times on my back hand and my serve. The only thing I want to serve here,” he said, lowering his voice, “is Fenella Maxwell.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” snapped Billy.

“She wants it,” said Rupert softly. “She was like a mare in season last night. Besides I’ve a score to settle with Hopalong Chastity.”

“Poor sod’s in hospital with a smashed leg. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“William, he’s tried to kill me twice, once with a knife, once with Macaulay. I intend to get my own back.”

He glanced across the room to where Fen was talking to the Italian minister of the arts, who was about three times her age. She looked pale and tired.

“Look at her being letched over by that disgusting wop. I’ll just make her jealous by chatting up those two girls over there and I’ve got her on a plate.”

“Your conceit is unending. Christ, I wish I could have a drink.”

“Those two look as though they might have some dope at home. Come on.”

The girls were certainly very pretty — one blond, one redheaded.

“You must be tennis players,” giggled the redhead. “You look so incredibly healthy.”

“No,” said Rupert, unsmiling.

“What do you do then?”

“I ride horses,” said Rupert; then, after a pause, “extremely successfully.”

The conversation moved on to marriage.

“Billy is separated and gloriously available,” said Rupert. “I am married and ditto.”

“Doesn’t your wife mind?”

“No.”

“Does she work for a living?”

“No, nor does she smoke, drink, or fuck.”

The girls laughed uproariously. Billy turned away. Outside it was dusk. A stone nymph in an off-the-shoulder dress reclined in the long grass, set against a blackening yew tree. Fireflies flickered round a couple of orange trees in tubs. Water from a fountain tumbled down gray-green steps between banks of pale lilac geraniums.

I can’t bear it, he thought miserably, and toyed with the idea of asking Fen to come and have dinner with him alone. She didn’t look very happy, particularly now the blonde was obviously getting off with Rupert. She and her friend were secretaries at the embassy, the blonde was saying; they loved the life in Rome.

Her redhead friend joined Billy by the window.

“I’m sorry about your marriage,” she said. “I’m separated myself. No one who hasn’t been through it knows how awful it is.”

Billy mistook the brimming tears of self-pity in her eyes for pity of his own plight.

“When did you split up?” he asked.

“Six months ago,” she said, and she was off.

Fifteen minutes later they were interrupted by Driffield, looking like a thundercloud.

“Crippled lame,” he said in disgust. “Horse can’t put his foot down. Vet’s just had a look; thinks it’s an abscess.” He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “Where’s Malise?”

“Gone to the opera.”

“Bloody fairy.”

“My God,” said Griselda, joining them. “That means Fen will have to jump. That’s all we need.”

“She jumped bloody well this afternoon,” said Driffield.

“I’d better go and tell her,” said Billy. But, glancing across the room, he saw she’d disappeared. He tried the other rooms, fighting his way through the yelling crowd, then he tried the garden, hearing laughter from behind a rosebush.

“Fuck off,” said a voice as he peered around. Two elegant young men were locked in each other’s arms.

Fen’s coat wasn’t in the cloakroom. Yes, said the attendant, a girl in a pink dress and pink shoes had just left with the minister of the arts. He assumed she was his daughter.

“She isn’t,” said Billy bleakly.

“Lucky chap,” said the attendant.

Billy returned to Rupert and told him what had happened. Rupert, who’d already drunk a bottle and a half of champagne, shrugged his shoulders. “Oh well, she won’t come to any harm with him. He looked past it. Anyway these ’ere,” he jerked his head in the direction of the two secretaries, “look very accommodating. We’ll all have dinner, then go back to their place.”

“I don’t want to,” protested Billy. “I must find Fen.”

“She’ll go back to the hotel early,” said Rupert. “She heard Malise’s pep talk. She was as contrite as anything this morning.”

At dinner, the girls got sillier and sillier, and Billy’s despair deeper. Back at their flat he went to the bathroom to have a pee. The spilt talcum powder, the chaos of makeup, the tights and pants dripping over the bath, the trailing plant gasping for water, and the half-drunk gin and tonic reminded him poignantly of Janey. He longed to go back to the hotel. The redhead was pretty, but it was obvious she would much rather be in bed with Rupert. “Your friend’s a one, isn’t he?”

On the walls of her room were posters of Robert Redford and Sylvester Stallone. The bed was very narrow.

“I don’t usually do this on the first night,” she said, slipping out of her pale yellow dress with a slither of silk. Her body wasn’t as good stripped; her breasts drooped like half-filled beanbags.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Billy said later, looking down at his flaccid, lifeless cock.

“Don’t you find me attractive?” said the girl petulantly.

“It’s because you’re so beautiful you’ve completely overwhelmed me,” lied Billy. “And I’ve got a big class tomorrow, which never helps.”

With his hands and his tongue he had given her pleasure, but, rejected by her husband, she needed confirmation that men still found her irresistible. Billy could feel her being “frightfully understanding,” but he could imagine the whispering round the embassy tomorrow.

“My dear, he couldn’t get it up at all. No wonder his wife walked out.”

By a quarter to twelve Rupert was ready to go home too.

“We’d love tickets for tomorrow,” said the blonde as they left. “You will ring, won’t you?”

“I nearly couldn’t perform,” said Rupert in the taxi. “She just lay back stark naked on the bed and said, ‘Come on Campbell-Black, let’s see if you’re as good as they all say you are.’ Must be hell to be impotent.”

“I hope to God Fen’s back,” said Billy.

But to his horror her key, Number Eighty-eight, was still hanging at the reception desk.

“Jesus,” said Rupert, “there’s Malise getting out of a cab. Go and tell him about Driffield. I’ll get the key and whizz up and wait in her room. You join me when the coast’s clear.”

“Good opera?” Billy asked Malise.

“Magical,” said Malise. “I cried nonstop through the last act.”

He didn’t even seem to notice that the hall clock said half-past twelve.

“First Edition’s unfit,” said Billy. “Vet says it’s an abscess.”

“Hell,” said Malise. “Fen’ll have to jump. Does she know?”

“We didn’t tell her,” said Billy, “in case we raised her hopes and you wanted Driff to jump Anaconda.”

Malise shook his head. “Macaulay’s the better bet. You saw Fen safely into bed, did you?”

Billy nodded, blushing slightly. “Must be asleep by now.”

“Good man. I’ll tell her in the morning.”

With a growing sense of outrage, Billy and Rupert sat in Fen’s room, Rupert drinking weak brandies from Fen’s untouched duty-free bottle, Billy drinking one disgusting cup of black coffee from the sachets after another.

At three-thirty, they heard a commotion outside.

“J’ai perdu mon clef, key, you know; what St. Peter, the one with the kissed foot, had in abundance,” said a shrill voice, “so if you’d be so very kind as to let me into my room.”

In a flash Rupert was at the door, where he found Fen and a sleepy-looking maid in a dressing gown.

“Grazie,” he said to the maid, and pulled Fen inside. “What the bloody hell have you got to say for yourself?”

Fen’s hair was tousled, her brown skin flushed. Her eyes glittered, red-irised, and out of focus. She was wearing an exquisite, gray silk shirt which just covered her groin, and carrying her pink dress.

She gave a low bow.

“Buona notte, senors; or should it be buon giorno, I forget. I sheem — hic — to have got myself into the wrong room.” She backed towards the door.

“Come here,” hissed Rupert. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Do you really want to know? I’ve been having fun. When in Rome, get done by the Romans.” She opened the door into the passage, swinging on the handle.

Rupert caught her by the scruff of the neck, frog-marched her back into the room, and sat her down on the bed. Then, locking the door, he pocketed the key.

“Now, come on. Out with it.”

Fen looked at them owlishly. “I’ve been out with the minister of the arts, such charm and such finesse. He said I was a work of art myself and he bought me thish lovely shirt from Pucci.”

She stood up, pirouetted round, and collapsed onto the bed again.

“And I regret to tell you I lost my virginity. And it’s no point going to look for it at the Loshed Property Offish; it’s gone for good. One should be in the hands of an eckshpert the first time, don’t you think? ‘I jumped seven foot two this afternoon, so it’s but a tiny leap into your ancient four-poster, Mr. Minister,’ I said.”

Billy felt a great sadness.

“You little slut,” said Rupert slowly. “You just picked him up and went to bed for a sixty-thousand-lire shirt.”

“Better than nothing, which I’d have got from you lot. Anyway,” said Fen, suddenly furious. “If I’m a slut, what the hell d’you think you are, going to parties, picking up awful typists, and all those horrible things you said about Helen? How can you behave like that when you’ve got a beautiful wife and lovely children? You’re the most immoral man I’ve ever met.”

There was banging on the next-door wall. Someone shouted in German.

“Oh, shut up,” said Fen, banging back again.

Her eyes lit on the brandy. “I want another drink.”

Billy got to his feet. “You’ve had enough,” he said flatly. “Come on, get to bed. I’ll help you undress.”

Fen swayed away from him. “No, no, I can’t be undressed twice in an evening.” Then she swayed back towards him.

“Darling Will-yum, don’t look so sad. True love will suddenly come to you as it hash to me.” She stood on tiptoe trying to kiss him, but the effort was too much for her. She collapsed back on the bed and passed out.

“It’s not funny,” said Rupert.

“I know it isn’t,” said Billy.

“What the hell are you doing?” said Rupert, as Billy started unbuttoning the shirt.

“Shame if she puked over her Pucci,” said Billy.

“Lovely body,” said Rupert. “Reminds me of Saville Minor. I suppose we can’t take advantage?”

“No, we can’t,” said Billy, tucking her into bed.

Through nightmares of pain and torture — was someone acupuncturing her brain with red hot pokers? — Fen could hear bells. They must be ambulance bells, taking her to hospital to die.

But it was the telephone. She reached out, dropped it, and picked it up.

“Morning, Fen, sorry to wake you,” said a brisk voice. “Have you had a good night?”

“Yes,” she croaked.

“Congratulations, anyway, on your first cap. Driffield’s out. You’ll be jumping today.”

“I what?” stammered Fen in horror.

“Makes you speechless, does it?” Malise laughed. “See you down at the stables in about an hour. Then we can put Macaulay over a few practice fences.”

Fen put the telephone down and groaned. She got up, rushed to the loo, and was sick.

“Why doesn’t someone turn down those bloody bells?” she croaked. “They can’t be Christians to make a din like that.”

Her breeches, which she’d taken to the launderette the previous day, were still hanging over the balcony. She winced with pain as she opened the shutters. The sunlight hit her like a boxing glove. She staggered back to the bed and, picking up the telephone, dialed Billy’s number.

“Billy, it’s Fen — I think. Get me an ambulance.”

He laughed. “Is it that bad?”

“I’ve never known pain like it.”

“I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”

He found her white and shuddering. “Here lies one whose name is writ in Krug,” she moaned. “Take me to the nearest pharmacy and tell me the Italian for Alka-Seltzer. I’ve got to jump, Billy. More likely, to jump over that balcony.”

“Drink this. It’s disgusting, but it should help.” He handed her some Fernet Branca in a toothmug.

“Ugh, it is disgusting. I’m going to throw up.”

“No, you’re not. Keep your head up, take deep breaths.”

“Do you think there’s any hope of the arena party going on strike?” said Fen.

Billy looked at the bruises on her thighs, wondering if they were the result of amorous pinches from the minister of arts. Fen seemed to read his thoughts and blushed. “I got them falling off Macaulay.”

She was not helped by a sudden heatwave hitting Rome. As she tottered the course beside Billy three hours later, the temperature was in the nineties. The sun seemed to be beating down only on her head. There was no shade. The colored poles danced before her eyes.

“Where did you go last night, Fen?” said Griselda bullyingly, as they examined a vast wall.

“I don’t remember the name, but I had shellfish,” said Fen faintly.

“Hum,” said Griselda in disbelief.

“This course is designed to make riders think every inch of the way,” said Malise, as they examined the huge water jump floating with water lilies, known as the bidet. “It’s going to take very accurate jumping. The stile’s only four and a half strides before the combination. Macaulay’ll probably do it in four, Fen. Are you feeling all right?”

“Fine,” said Fen, clinging onto the wing of the fence. “It’s just the heat.”

Poor kid, suffers from nerves as badly as Jake, thought Malise, looking at her green face.

Eight teams came out for the Nations’ Cup. Fen, after the previous day’s triumph, got a rousing cheer as she rode in the parade, flanked by Rupert and Billy.

The playing of each National Anthem seemed to go on forever.

“It’s you, not our gracious Queen, that needs saving today,” said Rupert out of the corner of his mouth.

Great Britain’s fortunes were varied. Rupert jumped an effortless clear which brought more rousing cheers — even from the most partisan crowd in Europe.

Waiting, pouring with sweat, teeth chattering, wondering whether to be sick again, Fen felt too ill even to be pleased that Griselda had nearly fallen off at the bidet and had notched up twelve faults. She came out furiously tugging Mr. Punch’s head from side to side.

Britain was in third place when Fen went in.

“Go for a steady clear,” said Malise. “I’d like to drop Griselda’s round.”

Fen felt like a Christian after the Roman emperor had made that terrible thumbs-down sign of death. Alone in the ring, under those towering stands which had just become a sea of faces, she could feel the lions stealthily padding towards her.

Macaulay, who always felt a great responsibility for the rider on his back, understood that Fen needed help. Watching his earnest white face appearing over each jump, Billy realized he was taking Fen around. He was about to take five strides after the stile, then changed to four, bouncing easily over the combination, but causing Fen to lose a stirrup. Slowing fractionally so she could find it again, he rounded the corner. For a minute Fen looked perplexed, then she turned him sharp right towards the huge yellow wall. A million times afterwards she relived that moment. She seemed to hear a shout from the collecting ring, but it was too late. Gathering Macaulay together, she cleared the wall, then looked around in bewilderment for the next jump. In front, a triple was facing backwards with a red flag on the left. Excited officials were waving their arms at her; the crowd gave a groan of sympathy. And suddenly it dawned on Fen — she’d taken the wrong course.

Head hanging, fighting back the tears, white-faced, she cantered out of the ring.

“Fucking imbecile,” said Rupert.

“You’ve ruined our chances,” said Grisel, her mouth full of hot dog.

Fen slid off Macaulay, loosening his girths, giving him his lemon sherbets, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again.

“Bad luck,” said Sarah, “you were going so well.”

Malise came up. “I hope that won’t happen in the second round,” he said bleakly.

“I must not cry, I must not cry,” said Fen, and fled to the loo, where she was sick for the fifteenth time that day.

On her return, she found everyone more cheerful, particularly Mr. Block, Billy’s sponsor, who’d flown out to watch the Nations’ Cup. Billy and Bugle had gone clear, bouncing over the fences like a jack-in-the-box. At the end of the first leg the Germans were in the lead, the Italians second, and the English and the Swiss tying for third place.

Fen couldn’t face the riders’ stand. She sat on an upturned bucket, under the thick canopy of an umbrella pine, with her head in her hands. Macaulay, led by Sarah, came up and nuzzled her.

“Poor old boy,” said Fen listlessly. “It’s bloody hot.”

Macaulay looked longingly as an ice-cream seller came by.

“Oh, get him one,” Fen told Sarah. “He deserves it.”

At that moment Rupert came up, keeping his distance because Macaulay promptly rolled his eyes and stamped his foot threateningly. “I hope you’ll know better in future than to get plastered and seduced by geriatric wops,” said Rupert viciously.

Already the sun was beginning to slant sideways through the pines, throwing treacherous shadows across the fences, particularly the parallel.

On his mettle, Rupert jumped just as brilliantly in the second round. He was unlucky to hit the second pole of the parallel and notch up four faults. He came out in a furious temper.

“Horse was going superbly, but he simply couldn’t see what he was jumping at the parallel. I’m going to object.”

Nor did the Germans or the Italians fare any better. The unaccustomed hot weather and the punishing course were tiring them all out. Griselda finished her second hot dog and rode off into the ring.

“How the hell can she stuff herself like that before a class?” said Fen.

“Her nerve ends are so coated with fat they don’t function properly,” said Sarah. “Oh, whizzo, she’s fallen in the bidet. Look at her covered in water lilies.”

“You’re being very unpatriotic,” reproved Billy. “She is on our side.”

He put a hand on Fen’s forehead. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Not after that frightful cock-up.”

He shrugged. “Happen to anyone.”

Having fallen off, Griselda went on to notch up a further four faults.

“Just get around this time. That’s all that matters,” said Malise, as Fen went in. She had never felt so ill in her life.

“Keep the white flag on your left, keep the white flag on your left,” she said to herself over and over again.

Somehow she got over the first seven fences, including the bogey parallel. But as she approached the combination a child at the edge of the crowd let go of her gas balloon and, with bellows of misery, watched it float out like a spermatozoa just in front of Macaulay. For a second he glanced at it, confused, put in a short stride, found himself under the fence and took a colossal cat jump which nearly unseated Fen. Losing her reins, but clutching onto his mane for grim death, she managed to stay on as he cleared the second element, but her foot went straight through the iron. His last huge leap over the final element completely unseated her and she went crashing to the ground, but, with her foot trapped, was dragged, bumping horribly, for several yards before Macaulay, realizing what had happened, jammed on his brakes. Two officials ran up and disconnected her. Blood was pouring from her nose onto her white shirt, tie, and breeches. Staggering to her feet, she looked dazedly round for Macaulay.

“I must get back on; got to finish.”

There he was, looking apologetic and worried. His white face seemed to come towards her and go away. Stumbling over to him, she tried to clamber on, but as he was 17.2 it was like climbing the Matterhorn.

“Give me a leg up,” she screamed to the steward. “I’ll run out of time.”

The stewards, in broken English, told her she mustn’t jump and looked desperately around for the first-aid man. Just as he came running on, she somehow managed to get her foot in the stirrup and heaved herself up, blood still streaming from her nose.

Heedless to the cries to stop, she turned to the last row of jumps.

“Get her out of the ring,” said Billy, as white as his shirt. “She’ll kill herself.”

The crowds were screaming in horror. Fen had lost so much blood it seemed that she was dressed all in red. Somehow she cleared the next two fences. She looked around, bewildered and swaying. There was only the oxer left. Fortunately Macaulay took charge. He could see the collecting ring and he wanted to get back there as soon as possible. Trotting briskly around the oxer, with Fen clinging round his neck, he carried her carefully out of the ring.

Malise, Billy, and Rupert rushed forward.

“It’s only a nosebleed,” muttered Fen into Macaulay’s blood-soaked mane. “You were right about there only being four and a half strides between the stile and the combination.” As they lifted her off, she fainted.

“Get an ambulance,” said Billy in anguish. “We must get her to hospital. I’m going with her.”

“Don’t be so fucking silly,” said Rupert and Malise in unison. “You’ve still got to jump.”