Riders

Epilogue

The following afternoon, Rupert Campbell-Black passed his first interview with the Birdlip and Chalford constituency committee with flying colors. There was only one sticky moment, when deaf old Lady Oakridge, who never read the papers, asked Rupert if he and his wife would be living in the constituency.

Everyone held their breath in embarrassment.

“My wife will certainly be living in the constituency,” said Rupert emphatically.

“Good, good, glad to hear it,” said Lady Oakridge.

“But not actually with me,” said Rupert.

Everyone, except Lady Oakridge, suppressed smiles.

“Better to have a wife,” she said.

“I absolutely agree,” said Rupert. “Unfortunately mine’s only just pushed off, so I haven’t had time to get another one.” “Fellow’s certainly got charm,” said Lord Oakridge after the meeting.

“Views are sound too,” said the brigadier. “Think we should seriously consider him.” “You did so well,” said Amanda, patting Rupert’s thigh as she drove him back to London. “It’s a cinch.” “Glad you think so.” Privately Rupert wondered how much he would enjoy listening to his constituents grumbling about one-way streets and their rows with their neighbors. Being off the circuit for two months had made him realize how desperately he missed show jumping. With any luck he should be back for Olympia.

“Oh, damn,” said Amanda, as they drew up at her house in Rutland Gate. “Conceptione’s left the drawing room light on. She’s getting awfully slack.” “Hope it isn’t Rollo.”

“Rollo’s in Paris,” said Amanda, opening the front door. “Anyway, he knows I’m driving you around. Georgina!” she cried in outraged tones as she went into the drawing room. “What on earth are you doing here?” “The rest of the form’s gone to the Old Vic. I couldn’t face it. I thought it would be more fun to come and see you,” said Georgina. “Hello,” she turned to Rupert. “Mummy’s never allowed us to meet.” Oh, Christ, thought Rupert helplessly.

For there, in school uniform, exuding lascivious innocence, was a replica of Amanda, just as beautiful, but twenty-five years younger. No, he told himself firmly, it simply wouldn’t do. Now he was almost a prospective Tory candidate, he’d got to behave himself — although, heaven knows, they all seemed to be at it.

“What was the play?” he heard himself saying in an abnormally avuncular voice.

“All’s Well That Ends Well,” said Georgina smiling dreamily. “I hear you’re going into politics.” “Not sure I’ll be very good,” confessed Rupert. “The only babies I like kissing are female and over fifteen.” “Oh, brill!” said Georgina. “I was sixteen last week.”

Billy Lloyd-Foxe, just back from Amsterdam, watched his beautiful wife feeding his beautiful son with enormous pride and decided against pouring himself another glass of whisky. He was just getting over the glow of being on This Is Your Life. So many people had emerged from his past and said such amazingly nice things.

“I heard the most riveting bit of gossip today,” said Janey.

“What was it?”

“Well, Tracey told me she heard it from Dizzy, who heard it from Sarah, who heard it from Bridie, who’s just got this tremendously intellectual boyfriend, who actually takes her to the opera. Poor Bridie had to sit through Parsifal the other night. Said she nearly died of boredom.” “Oh, get on with it,” said Billy, grinning.

Janey’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll give you three guesses who she saw in the stalls together, looking radiant and not at all bored.” “You know I can never guess anything.”

“Malise and Helen.”

“Good God,” said Billy, astounded. “Isn’t Helen rather too old for him?” “I would have thought so,” said Janey, “and Monica Carlton will certainly call Malise out.”

Tory was getting better by the minute, but Jake, terrified that she might still elude him, hardly left her alone for a second.

“From the way he bullies her into resting and polices her every mouthful, you’d think she was Macaulay,” grumbled Fen, but she was so happy for them both.

As the doctor said, it was little short of a miracle.

A few days later, however, when Tory was definitely out of danger, Jake was persuaded downstairs to see Garfield Boyson.

“Well, lad,” said Boyson.

“Well,” said Jake.

“You’ve made a right cock-up of your career, haven’t you?”

“I don’t need anyone else to tell me.”

“I gather you’ve been to see every other sponsor, touting for business. Didn’t come to me. Not much faith, have you? I said I’d keep my side of the bargain, if you kept yours, and you did. You got your medal. I’m still ready to back you.” “The BSJA are going to suspend me.”

“Happens they won’t. Under the circs, you may get off with a hefty fine.” “I’m not interested,” said Jake. “I’m not going back on the circuit. I’m going to train instead. I don’t want to leave Tory or the children anymore, and Dino and Fen are going back to the States.” Looking out of the kitchen window, he saw Fen ride into the yard and collapse off Macaulay and into Dino’s arms. He wouldn’t have believed it was possible for anyone to go on kissing for so long. Boyson brought him back to earth.

“You’ll be looking for riders, then. My lad can be your first jockey.” Jake looked skeptical, so Boyston went on: “I’ve just had a look at Africa’s foal. Dino said she jumped six foot out of her field this morning.” Jake laughed for the first time since the night he won his silver.

“I suppose you’re trying to tell me that she and your boy’ll be ready for the next Olympics,” he said.