Riders

46

The next few days were awful. Fen and Dino hardly exchanged a word. Fen got up before dawn. Dino changed his routine, got up after lunch, and spent his evenings working the horses in the indoor school. It seemed impossible in such a small house that they could avoid meeting. Dino was polite but unsmiling; he no longer mobbed her up.

On Friday morning Fen, Dino, Louise, and Sarah were due to get up at 3.30 A.M. for a four-thirty departure for a show in Amsterdam. On the Thursday before that, the Sunday Express sent a photographer and a reporter down to the Mill House to interview Fen. In the evening she had to go to a dinner at the Savoy, where she was being nominated for one of the Sporting Personality of the Year awards. The organizers were sending a car for her, which, at the end of the evening, would whizz her back to Warwickshire to catch three hours sleep before leaving for Amsterdam.

The Sunday Express reporter was a charming middle-aged roué, who thought Fen was gorgeous and buttered her up to mountainous heights in the hope of possible indiscretions. After lunch cooked by Tory, the photographer took pictures of Desdemona and Macaulay from flattering angles, as they were still a bit podgy from their six weeks’ rest, later photographing the yard and the house and the kitchen, with Tory cooking at the Aga and Fen pretending to fill in entry forms against a background of rosettes.

“I’m thinking of getting a secretary to cope with all my fan mail,” said Fen, who’d had three glasses of wine at lunch.

“I’m not surprised,” said the Express reporter. “Every little girl in England dreams of being like you.”

“I hope to Christ they don’t behave like her,” said a voice, and Dino wandered in, unshaven, yawning, bloodshot-eyed, and poured himself a large whisky.

“Is that your breakfast?” snapped Fen.

“No, the first one was my breakfast,” said Dino. “Hi,” he added to the reporter, and wandered off in the direction of the stables.

“That’s Dino Ferranti, isn’t it?” asked the reporter, refilling Fen’s glass. “Good-looking bloke, despite the stubble. More like a rock star. He your latest?”

“Hardly,” snapped Fen, “He’s working with Jake. Honestly, if I were cast away on a desert island I’d rather be propositioned by a gorilla!”

“You’d be wasting your time,” said Dino, coming back into the room. “Gorillas are mostly gay. Anyone seen this week’s Horse and Hound?”

“And don’t bloody eavesdrop,” said Fen, “Let’s go into the sitting room. We’ll be more private.”

It was already dark when she waved them good-bye. Outside, the lorry was waiting, already filled with petrol, water, and human and equine supplies. She’d better step on it. The car was picking her up at five-thirty. Sitting at the kitchen table she found Dino, Tory, and Sarah checking the list of what they were taking to Amsterdam. Fen looked at her message pad — ATV, Woman’s Own, and Malise Gordon had rung. Picking up the telephone, she suddenly noticed black fur all over her pale pink angora jersey, which was drying on a towel on the edge of the Aga.

“Bloody hell,” she said, dropping the receiver back on its cradle.

Tory looked up, alarmed. “What’s the matter?”

“My pink jersey. I’ve got to take it tomorrow and you can’t even keep the bloody cats off it.”

Dino looked up from a pile of horses’ health papers.

“Pack it in,” he said softly. “Tory’s cooked lunch for your press admirer, which you haven’t even had the manners to thank her for. She’s done all our ironing for tomorrow and seen everything’s back from the cleaners, as well as providing enough food for us for a month. She doesn’t actually have the time to police your pale pink sweater,” he really spat out the P’s, “against marauding tomcats.”

Fen lost her temper. “I ran this bloody yard single-handed for five months and now I don’t get any proper backup,” she screamed, and stormed out of the kitchen. Ten minutes later she was back with dripping hair: “Who’s been using my hair dryer?”

“I did,” said Tory apologetically, “on Darklis.”

“Well, you’ve fused it. How am I expected to dry my hair?”

“Why don’t you go stick your head in the oven,” said Dino, “and preferably don’t light the gas! You’re getting much too big for your £500 boots. We all know you’re England’s answer to show jumping and the role model for the entire schoolgirl population, and we’re fed up with it. You know perfectly well you wouldn’t speak to Tory like this if Jake was here.”

“Were here,” screamed Fen, “were here. ‘If’ takes the subjunctive,” and she stormed out of the room again.

“Oh, dear,” said Tory, in distress, gazing at the last orange rays of sunset. “Oh, dear, oh, dear.”

Fen was in such a rage that she went off to London without saying good-bye to anyone. She wore a black, backless taffeta dress she’d bought in Paris the previous summer and never worn, with high-heeled black shoes, black stockings, and Dino’s necklace at her throat. As she walked into the predinner drinks party, which was choc-a-bloc with every sporting celebrity, commentator, and journalist you could imagine, a few heads turned in her direction. She drifted over to Dudley Diplock, propped up against the fireplace, who was already three-parts cut, and gave the room the benefit of her back view. The dress was so low it almost gave her a cleavage at the back. When she turned around five minutes later, everyone was gaping at her. It was one of those evenings when her looks really worked, perhaps because she was giving off such wanton promise, or because she longed to forget Dino and everything at home.

“What does F stand for?” asked a famous tennis player.

“Fuckable,” said Fen sweetly, “and it’s spelt out in emeralds and pearls.”

“You can say that again,” said the tennis player as everyone laughed.

Soon the journalists were hovering round her. They kept asking her about Billy and Dino, but she cracked back that she was married to her career and had no intention of getting a divorce. She had a good deal to drink and had some difficulty negotiating even the short walk into the dining room. She found herself sitting between a famous footballer with permed blond hair and a fake suntan, named Garry, and an Olympic shotputter whose arm muscles bulged through his dinner jacket, whose stomach folded over the table, and who lifted Fen above his head to loud cheers when she complained she couldn’t see the Princess.

The first course, because most people were in some sort of training, was Parma ham and melon, which Garry the footballer thought too outré for words.

“You got a boyfriend?” he asked Fen.

“Nope.”

“Fort as much. Riding an ’orse is a substitute for sex.”

“What an original thing to say,” said Fen politely, molding her uneaten roll into pellets and chucking them at Dudley.

“Stands to reason. Funny thing, most of them look like ’orses, but you don’t.”

“You’re talking garbage,” said the shotputter.

“Why don’t you come home with me?” said Garry the footballer. “Wife’s staying with her mother. I’d give you more fun than an ’orse.”

“You reckon?” said Fen.

Suddenly all the flashbulbs exploded as the photographers clustered round a late arrival, a tall, dark, very broad-shouldered man wearing a dirty bomber jacket, a dark blue shirt, no tie, jeans, and sneakers. He was extremely good-looking in a brutal, suntanned, heavy-eyelidded way, and appeared not remotely embarrassed to be the only man in the room not wearing a dinner jacket. The plane from Rome was late; he hadn’t had time to change.

At the sight of him the convoy of waitresses, rushing in like some musical comedy act, nearly dropped the massive oblong silver plates of beef they were bearing aloft. One comely brunette was so excited she gave the shotputter five slices of beef as she gazed entranced. Others dived for the kitchen and within seconds, six plates of Parma ham and melon were pressed on the new arrival from all sides, followed by several very large glasses of Bacardi and soda, which he lined up in a row in front of him, laughing all the while, showing beautiful big white teeth with several gold fillings. In the mat of black chest hair hung a gold St. Christopher medal.

“Who’s that?” said the shotputter.

“Enrico Mancini,” said Fen. “The fastest driver on earth.”

“Certainly be’aves like it,” said Garry disapprovingly. “I don’t like racing drivers. Fink they’re God’s gift. Not much skill in driving around and around the same track.”

He’s coarser looking than Rupert, thought Fen, watching Enrico Mancini joking with a couple of television commentators, but he behaves with the same certainty that he owns the earth. He was forking up Parma ham very fast now, his eyes raking the room for crumpet or cronies.

“Lovely beef,” said Fen. “I don’t know how they cook it on such a large scale.”

She took a big slug of red wine and, looking across at Enrico Mancini, found he was staring at her. Christ, he was taking the skin off her face. She looked hurriedly away, then glanced back five seconds later. He was still staring, gazing with peculiar intensity through a pot of yellow chrysanthemums. Her beef had lost all its appeal. She took another slug of wine. Putting her elbow on the table, it slid off as though it was greased. When she looked back again he’d moved the flowers and was smiling at her, lounging lazily in his chair. Then he blew her a kiss. Fen blushed, then found herself smiling.

“Eat up your beef, Fenella,” said the footballer. “You’ll never get to Los Angeles that way.”

“No, thanks, I’m full,” said Fen, putting her knife and fork together.

“Shame to waste it,” said the weightlifter, forking up the slices of beef. Dudley Diplock swayed over to have a chat, launching into a long story about Colonel Roxborough.

“How wonderful,” said Fen after five minutes, when it was obvious some response was expected.

“I said he’d had a stroke,” said Dudley.

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry. I misheard you. Who did you say?”

“Colonel Roxborough. But he’s expected to pull through.”

Fen could see Enrico Mancini writing a note on the back of a place card.

“I reckon you’ve got a good chance of getting the woman’s award tonight,” said Dudley.

“How dreadful for the family,” said Fen, who thought they were still on Colonel Roxborough’s stroke.

“The award, Fen! If you do, we’ll have a chat straight to camera immediately afterwards. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Dudley,” said Fen. Her glass seemed to be full again and someone had brought her a large brandy and the pretty brunette waitress, with some disappointment, Fen thought, was handing her a card.

On the back of Enrico Mancini’s place card was written, “Will you come out with me afterwards?”

Fen looked up. Enrico was still staring at her with that knowing, speculative, supremely confident smile. He raised his eyebrows. Fen shook her head, mouthing: “I can’t.”

“Black or white,” said the waitress.

“White. No, sorry, I mean black.”

“Must go to the toilet,” said the footballer.

Fen had broken off some frosted grapes and was putting them in her bag, wrapped in a paper napkin, for Darklis and Isa, when she felt a warm hand traveling the length of her back, lasciviously fingering her spine.

“There is no such word as ‘can’t,’ ” said a husky Latin voice. Spinning around, she saw Enrico had taken the footballer’s seat.

He had eyes the color of black treacle and an incredibly sensual mouth shaped rather like a car tire. I wonder if he changes it after three laps when it gets worn out with kissing, thought Fen with a giggle.

“Why d’you laugh?” he said softly, “I don’t find you funny.”

“I don’t find you funny either,” stammered Fen. “I’m just nervous.”

“With good cause,” said Enrico. “You won’t escape. I have wanted you for a very long time.”

“About an hour,” said Fen, looking at her watch.

“No, no, I see you on television in May in Rome with Desdemona, when you beat my friend Piero Fratinelli. His father makes my car. Then later you fall off Macaulay and got on again with the concussion. I said I must meet this girl. She is not only beautiful but brave. I am more attracted by courage than beauty in a woman. You and I will be magnificent in bed.”

“You saw me in Rome?” said Fen, amazed.

“Of course. That ees the only reason I come here tonight. They told me you’d be here. Shall we go?”

“We can’t,” said Fen.

His eyebrows were so black and his hair so thick and his face so strong and commanding. Oh, heavens, thought Fen in panic, how can I not go to bed with him?

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s a bit rude, before the speeches and the awards.”

“I will give you my own personal award,” said Enrico, staring at her breasts. “Much better than some stupid prize.”

“Besides I’ve got to go straight back to Warwickshire at eleven o’clock. I’m leaving for Amsterdam at four-thirty.”

Enrico looked at his massive digital watch, pressing knobs. “How many miles?”

“More than a hundred and twenty.”

“At night, that takes me one hour and ten minutes, no more. We leave London at three. That gives us four hours if we leave now. Not long, but quite long enough for the first time, which should be brief, passionate, exquisite, and leave one hungry for the next.”

Fortunately there was a roll of drums and it was announced the awards would begin in two minutes. Fen staggered off to the loo. She looked pretty abandoned; her hair was all over the place. Overwhelmed by frantic excitement, she tipped half a bottle of Diorissimo over her body and wandered back to the table, to find Garry having a frightful row with Enrico for stealing his seat. Fen collapsed into hers as the lights dimmed. Garry, who was even more drunk than Fen, was removed, complaining bitterly, to a chorus of shushes. Enrico poured Fen another glass of wine.

“What does hedonistic mean?” she asked the shotputter.

“Haven’t a clue.”

“Nor have I, but I think I’m about to be it.”

She hardly heard a word of the speeches as, in the dim twilight of their corner, she felt Enrico’s hand running all over her back, firm, warm, powerful hands with splayed flat fingers and pudgy balls to the thumbs. Now they were inching round underneath the front of her dress.

“You mustn’t.”

“I must,” he said, leaning across her to stub out his cigar.

“Ouch,” squealed Fen as he bit her shoulder.

Now his free hand was moving downwards, slipping into the cleavage of her buttocks. She leapt away as the lights blazed on. The Princess, to thunderous applause, was presenting the award for the Male Personality of the Year to yet another famous footballer, who was saying he was “absolutely over the moon, definitely” and holding up his prize like a football cup.

When the Princess started reading out the female nominations Enrico started kissing Fen. Enjoying the frantic swordplay of tongue and saliva, she could feel the stubble of his cheeks. He had a zoolike, unwashed smell. He was just like a stallion. Unheeding, she kissed him back. His hand was between her legs now. If the lights hadn’t blazed on again she had a feeling he would have taken her there and then in that dark corner.

The huge cheers seemed to be getting louder. Someone was tapping her on the shoulder.

“You’ve been nominated,” whispered the shotputter.

“Fuck off,” growled Enrico.

Fen wriggled away from him just as the spotlight found her.

“Come here,” said Enrico.

Next moment there was a burst of cheering and Dudley Diplock was crying, “Well done, Fen. Go on. You’ve won.”

Everyone seemed to be helping her through the tables as she frantically straightened and pulled down her dress and wiped away the mascara, smudged under her eyes.

“Oh, she’s crying, bless her,” said a fat woman. “She’s only eighteen and so unspoilt.”

Fen fell up the stairs and was picked up by Dudley.

“Hello again. Congratulations,” said the Princess, laughing.

Fen clutched the trophy, which was a model of a silver pen writing on a silver page. Finally the deafening cheers were silenced. Fen took the microphone, grinning fatuously.

“Honestly, I had no idea. I can’t tell you how knocked out I am. Thank you, sports writers, for this stunning award. It was all due to the horses. I’ve just got good ones and my brilliant brother-in-law, Lake Jovell,” no, that wasn’t right, “I mean Luke Jovell,” she opened her hands despairingly, “I’m sorry, I’m a bit over the top. It’s excitement and all your wonderful hospitality.”

Everyone laughed and cheered.

Dudley collared her for an interview, but all she could think about was being in bed with Enrico. She could see him at the table, fingers drumming impatiently. He was not a man who would be kept waiting very long.

As she left she tapped one of the BBC minions on the shoulder.

“Could you tell the car that’s supposed to be taking me back to Warwickshire that I won’t be needing it.”

“Right ho, dearie.”

“Should I ring home? They’re expecting me back by one o’clock.”

“No,” said Enrico.

His flat was all white, with shagpile carpet as thick as a hayfield, huge white sofas, and walls lined with mirrors. Everywhere there were photographs of Enrico, winning races or being photographed with presidents and kings.

“This is small place,” he said, adjusting the dimmer switches. “In Rome I haf really nice apartment.”

In the drawing room he took off her dress, then her tights and her panties. Then he turned the spotlights on her, so that she was reflected a hundred times in the mirrored walls, as though taking part in some vast orgy. She wished her face wasn’t so pink and weathered rather like a toffee apple compared with her slender, white body. At first she covered her breasts and her bush with her hands, but she was too drunk really to mind.

“I’m awfully rusty,” she mumbled. “Can we have a long warm-up first?”

Enrico shook up a bottle of Moët Chandon, then opened it, spraying it all over Fen’s body and into every crevice. Then he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom where, on a huge oval bed, he proceeded very slowly and thoroughly to lick every drop off until Fen was a squirming, ecstatic bundle of desire. God, she thought, he had a cock like a salami. A lot of junk is talked about the size of the male member having no importance in sex. And when a man is as magnificently endowed as Enrico, as skillful in manipulation, and of such unquestionable sex appeal, and the girl in question is as well lubricated as one of Enrico’s engines, the result is bound to be ecstatic. For Fen it was the most glorious hour of her life. “Talk about a one night stunned,” she muttered afterwards.

Hazily she looked at the clock beside the bed, red eyes flickering like hers. “My God, it’s a quarter to three. We must go,” she said, leaping to her feet.

Enrico put out a hand. “Stay with me. Give Amsterdam a miss.”

“I can’t. The lorry’s loaded. The tickets booked. I must go.”

Enrico leaned over, kissing her and running his hand down her body.

“You are like little schoolboy, no? Next time I bugger you.”

“Not sure,” muttered Fen, wriggling away. “I must be home by four.”

The motorways were deserted. She was almost more turned on by his handling of his Ferrari and the subdued dragon roar of its engine. He didn’t seem to be driving fast at all and it was only as he overtook other night flyers that she looked at the speedometer and realized they were traveling at more than 120 mph. They hardly spoke. One big hand rested between her thighs.

How long would she be in Amsterdam, he asked, and where was she staying? He would be in New York when she got back, but he would be back in London for the last day of the Olympia show, when he would come and watch her. She was to leave some tickets at the box office.

He had her home by five past four; it would have been four o’clock if he hadn’t spent five minutes parked on the bridge, with the engine growling, leisurely kissing her good night, his tongue tickling her epiglottis.

“ ’appy treep, my darling,” he said as he dropped her off at the front gate. Thank God Jake’s still away, thought Fen. As she walked up the path, high heels crunching on the frozen grass, the owls were hooting and the dog star was just sinking into his kennel behind Pott’s meadow.

All was activity in the yard. She could see Sarah and Louise putting on bandages and tail guards, changing rugs. In the lorry Tory was making a last-minute check.

She crept unnoticed into the kitchen and went slap into Dino, still wearing the same check shirt, jeans, and sweater he’d had on when she left. He plainly hadn’t been to bed and was absolutely white with anger.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I haven’t been to hell at all; rather the reverse.” She realized she was still tight. “I’ve just been finding out what hedonism is and I do agree it’s much better than celibacy.”

For a second, she thought he was going to hit her.

“Why the fuck didn’t you call? All the kids, Tory, and the grooms saw you winning the award. They were so excited they had a bottle of champagne ready to welcome you when you got back. Not that you looked as though you needed it from the way you fell up the stairs. Then you just disappear. Don’t even bother to cancel the car.”

“I did. I told a BBC man.”

“Probably pissed, like you. Anyway he never passed on the message. No one got any sleep or knew whether to load up the horses. We were all worried stiff.”

Enrico, thought Fen dreamily, was stiff but not worried.

The grandfather clock in the hall struck the quarter hour.

“We’re leaving in fifteen minutes,” said Dino.

“I’ll be ready. Don’t worry.”

At that moment Tory came in. “Oh Fen, where have you been?”

“I got diverted,” said Fen, weaving joyfully towards the door, “highly diverted. I’m sorry to have caused so much trouble.”

Never had her bed looked so inviting. She’d only had time for a lightning shower and a change when she heard the lorry revving up. Bloody hell! Dino was just doing that to wind her up. Sweeping everything on top of her dressing table and the contents of her washbasin into a holdall and throwing Lester on top, she fled downstairs.