Riders

10

Helen, as a result of three glasses of wine and no sandwiches, was feeling very unsteady. She was glad Rupert took a firm hold of her arm.

“Can you remember where I’m jumping?” he asked Billy.

“Fifteen,” said Billy, “I’ve got to wait until thirty. I’m last. Christ, look at that upright.”

They left Helen in the riders’ stand while they walked the course. She saw Joanna, the deadpan girl from the Chronicle, pointing her out to some of the other journalists who laughed and shrugged their shoulders. She wished she’d brought a coat; the suede dress wasn’t very warm.

She watched the riders splaying out over the emerald green arena. There were a few girls in black or very dark navy blue coats, several Irish riders in Army uniform or holly green, but the majority wore coats as red as an Armistice Day poppy. Some of them were pacing out the number of strides between jumps, like seconds in a duel, others put their hands up to rattle a pole to check how firm it was in the cup, others stood eyeing a turn or an angle, seeing how safe it was to cut a corner or come in sharply.

Several riders climbed up the famous Crittleden bank, like a turned-out avocado mousse, to examine the fence halfway across on the top. The jumps were absolutely colossal. Humpty Hamilton, looking stouter than ever in a quilted waistcoat, couldn’t even see over half of them.

And there was Billy, pulling on yet another cigarette, gloomily examining the water jump, while Mavis, thirsty from all that Easter egg, drank frantically, trying to lower the water level.

The indigo clouds had rolled away, leaving the softest pale blue sky above the acid green wood which had only a few sad gray streaks where the odd tree had died of Dutch elm disease. On the hill she could see the gleaming armadillo of parked cars and the caravan village.

Mostly her eyes were drawn to Rupert, who seemed to be spending more time ribbing his fellow competitors than studying the course. Unlike the others, he didn’t look bandy-legged or stout, or diminished by not being on a horse. All round the ring, crowds were gathering with binoculars. Helen reluctantly imagined every eye was on Rupert.

Two men in check suits and bowler hats, flushed from lunch, were going up into the judges’ box.

As the riders came out joking and laughing on the nervous high before a big class, the cameramen went in, most of them in jeans, gathering round the water jump. A large lady with a huge bust strode round the course with a tape measure, checking the height of each jump.

Tracey and Marion rode down to the collecting ring, one on the dark bay, Allenby, nicknamed The Bull, the other on the chestnut, Belgravia.

“God, I hate Rupe before big classes,” said Marion. “He’s so picky, checking and rechecking everything. Stop it, you monster,” she snapped, as Belgravia, oated up to the eyeballs, fidgeted and spooked at everything he passed, scattering the crowd with his huge feet and quarters.

“Seems on top of the world,” said Tracey.

“Wish I was,” said Marion gloomily. “You haven’t seen Rupe’s new girlfriend.”

“What’s she like?”

“Not really his type: redheaded, breedy-looking, quivering with nerves rather like Belgravia. I suppose he is mad about chestnuts and she’s mad about him, but trying desperately to hide it.”

“Sounds like all the rest,” said Tracey.

“Even worse, she’s called Macaulay.”

“Blimey,” said Tracey, leaning forward and giving the last bit of her Wimpy bun to The Bull. “He’s never done that before. Don’t worry, I expect she’ll go the way of all the others. He can’t be that smitten if he was fooling about with Grania Pringle last night.”

Helen was joined by Rupert, Billy, and Mavis in the riders’ stand.

“I wish you’d leave that dog behind, Billy,” said a steward fussily.

“She brings me luck.”

“Can’t see why she can’t bring you luck in your caravan.”

The first riders were crashing their horses over jumps in the practice ring under the oak trees. Members of the public leaned forward to pat their equine heroes as they passed in their colored rugs.

“What was the course like?” asked Helen.

“Bloody. You can park a double-decker bus between the parallel bars,” said Rupert. “There are only two and a half strides between the double, and the wall isn’t as solid as it looks. If you catch it on the way up, you’re in dead trouble.”

“Zee vater must be at least six meters,” said a German rider gloomily. Billy looked green and lit another cigarette.

A man in a felt hat, with long sideburns and a raffish face, stopped on the way to the commentary box. “Hello, boys,” he said in a carefully modulated put-on voice. “Are you going to show them how to do it again today, Rupert?”

“I might, if you don’t describe me as our most brilliant young rider as I come into the ring, in which case I’ll knock up a cricket score.”

The raffish man laughed. “I’d better get upstairs, we’re on the air in two minutes. How did the course walk?”

“Not very good. I don’t like banks in the high street or in a jumping ring, but it may ride better than it walks,” said Rupert.

Surely ride and walk aren’t transitive verbs, thought Helen. “Who’s that?” she asked as he moved on.

“Dudley Diplock — does all the commentaries. He’s a pratt, knows bugger-all about show jumping.”

Everything went quiet as the first rider came in — yesterday’s winner, Ludwig von Schellenberg on Brahms, a splendid horse, impeccably schooled.

“He’s the one to watch,” Billy told Helen. “He’s the best rider in the world, and was virtually unbeaten last season.”

“Kraut horses learn obedience the moment they come out of the womb,” said Rupert.

British spirits were not raised, however, when the mighty Ludwig had a most uncharacteristic twelve faults.

“Shows how bloody difficult the course must be,” said Rupert.

“We’ll all be up in the fifties,” said Billy.

“And here comes the despair of the pony club,” said Rupert, as Ludwig was followed by Humpty Hamilton on Porky Boy.

Humpty certainly rode in a very unorthodox fashion, pouter pigeon chest stuck out, hands held high, feet pointing down like a dancing master, showing a great patch of blue sky as he rose nearly a foot and a half out of the saddle over every fence. Nevertheless he acquitted himself well over the punishing course, and only had two fences down and a foot in the water for the same number of faults as Ludwig.

After that everyone went to pieces. Disastrous round followed disastrous round, slowing the proceedings up because the course had to be rebuilt every time.

Rupert got to his feet. “I’d better go and show them how to do it,” he said.

He kissed Helen on the cheek. “I won’t be long, darling.”

Without his red-hot presence beside her, Helen suddenly felt cold. A brisk wind was unfurling the flags and spreading out the horses’ tails. On television it had looked like a game for children with toy horses and toy fences. The camera had caught nothing of the colossal height of the jumps, the pounding hooves, the heroic splendor and sheer size of the horses thundering about like some Battle of Borodino. Suddenly Helen felt scared for Rupert.

“Aren’t you terrified?”

“Terrified,” said Billy, clutching Mavis for comfort and lighting another cigarette, “particularly as Malise Gordon has just arrived and parked himself below us.”

“Who’s he?”

“One of the selectors and the new chef d’equipe. He manages the British team and goes abroad with them to keep them in order.”

“What’s he like?” said Helen, admiring the taut aquiline features, the high complexion, and the dark hair graying at the temples. “He looks kind of attractive.”

“Bit of a tartar, stickler for discipline, always has spats with Rupe — well, you can never exactly tell what Rupe’s going to do next. Going to bed sober, early, and alone has never been his strong point. Although I’m sure,” Billy added hastily, worried that he might have hurt Helen, “now he’s met you, he’ll mend his ways. Mind you, it’s getting to the stage when Rupe’s so good, Malise can’t afford to leave him out.”

Helen watched Rupert saunter across the concrete below them, then vault over the fence into the collecting ring. Goodness, he must be fit. He walked up to Marion and Belgravia, bending down to adjust the bandages on the horse’s front legs.

“Is he that good?” Helen longed to talk about him.

“Christ, yes. Doesn’t have any nerves, cool as an icicle before every class, and he’s so fast and he meets every fence just right. Knows what risks he can take too. And he’s got the killer instinct. Even in novice classes he’s always out to win.”

Ivor Braine was in the middle of a good round. The television man ran nimbly after him with the boom, recording the grunts and snorts of his horse.

“Sounds like a live sex show,” said Billy. “We always say it’s Ivor’s Dumbo ears that carry him round.”

Ivor was followed by a handsome Frenchman in a blue coat with a crimson collar, who proceeded to demolish the course. As he came thundering down to the water the horse jammed on its brakes and the Frenchman took a leisurely somersault through the air, landing with a huge splash.

“Il est tombé dans l’eau,” said Billy. “I know that’s going to happen to me and The Bull. Now they’ll have to rebuild the course and Belgravia won’t like the wait.”

In the collecting ring the horse was plunging round, eyes rolling, nostrils flaring, flecks of foam going everywhere.

A colossal cheer went up as Rupert erupted into the ring through the red brick arch. In the private boxes people came out onto the balconies to watch, clutching their gin and tonics. Helen was sure she could detect some Beatle-screaming. Belgravia stood still just long enough for Rupert to take his hat off, fidgeting and stamping to be allowed into action.

Humpty Hamilton sat down beside Helen.

“Belgravia looks completely over the top. Is it true, Billy, his half brother was second in the Grand National?”

Belgravia gave three colossal bucks. Rupert laughed and didn’t move in the saddle. As the Klaxon went off with its eldritch screech the horse bounded forward.

“Complete tearaway,” muttered Humpty. “Steerable, but not stoppable.”

That horse would benefit from some dressage, thought Malise Gordon disapprovingly. “If it weren’t for Rupert’s colossal strength, he’d be quite out of control.”

Over the brush sailed Belgravia, over the post and rails, over the rustic poles, driven on by Rupert’s erotic pelvic thrusts. When he came to the massive upright he flew over it as though it was a tiny log.

At the gate with Crittleden written across it in large red letters he came in too fast, slipped, just righted himself, and rapped the fence hard as he went over. For a second it swung back and forth, making Rupert’s fans gasp, Rupert didn’t even bother to glance round. With his long stride, Belgravia managed the double in three strides. Now he was rounding the corner. Next moment Helen saw Belgravia’s pricked ginger ears appearing over the top of the bank, then his lovely head with the white star, and then Rupert. They were on top, popping over the little fence, then tobogganing down the other side, Belgravia on his haunches. Only Rupert’s superhuman strength again stopped the horse running into the fence at the bottom. He was over; the crowd gave a cheer. Over the wall and the combination, which caused him no trouble. Then he kicked Belgravia into a gallop and sailed over the water, yanking him back to get him in line for the final triple.

“Too fast,” said Billy in anguish. “He’s going to hit it.”

Helen shut her eyes, listening to the thundering hooves, waiting for the sickening thud of falling poles and the groans of the crowd. Instead there was a mighty roar of applause. Helen opened her eyes.

“Ouch,” said Billy.

Looking down, Helen realized she’d been gripping his arm.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Be my guest. Brilliant round, wasn’t it?”

“Wonderful.” Helen watched a delighted Rupert letting his rein go slack and walking Belgravia out of the ring, slapping his lathered neck, pulling the ginger ears with joy. Belgravia’s coat, dark, bronzed, and shiny with sweat, looked like uncooked liver.

“That puts me in joint second, which means £500, but there are still fifteen to go,” said Humpty.

Helen noticed the arrogant way Rupert ignored the cheers. Sliding to the ground, he patted the horse once more and turned towards the riders’ stand. Stopped by admirers on the way, in an exultant mood, he was prepared to sign autographs.

“Once you get a clear, people realize it can be jumped and you’ll probably get a lot more,” said Billy. “If I watch any more rounds I’ll start getting the heeby-jeebies.”

He lit another cigarette. Mavis closed her slanting eyes to avoid the smoke.

“How long has your mount suffered from hydrophobia?” asked Helen.

“What?” Billy looked alarmed.

“Been frightened of water.”

“Oh, ever since I had him. I think he might have nearly drowned in some tiny river when he was a foal because it really scares him. Last week I managed to get him over a six-foot stream at home, but he trembled for ages afterwards. I just don’t know how he’ll go today. He’s such a good horse,” he went on, his face lighting up. “So kind, and such a trier, he’ll get himself into all sorts of trouble rather than duck out, and he’s so bright. Over and over I put him wrong and he just brakes at the last moment and sails over, and he’s so cheerful, never moody, and so gentle, a child could lead him up to London on a piece of string like a little dog.”

Helen smiled. “I think Mavis is getting jealous,” she said.

“Oh, Mavis knows she’s my favorite dog, and there goes my favorite girl,” said Billy, as a blonde with a pink and white complexion on a gray horse waited to go into the ring.

“Look at her bloody father telling her to give it a whack at the water, and her mother telling her not to. Poor girl’s in such a muddle. I could sort her out,” he said longingly. “Good luck, darling,” he called down. Lavinia looked up, waved her whip, and smiled. Her parents looked simply furious.

How nice he is, thought Helen, and he’s Rupert’s best friend. There couldn’t be much wrong with Rupert if he inspired friendship like this. In anguish, Billy watched poor Lavinia, after a nervous, tentative round, meet the same fate as the Frenchman, flying through the air into the water.

“At least she won’t have to wash her hair before she goes out with you this evening,” said an amused voice. It was Rupert. He was eating an ice cream.

“Congratulations,” said Helen.

“Bloody well done,” said Billy.

“That should wrap the whole thing up,” said Rupert, shooting a sideways glance at Billy. “Don’t imagine there’ll be any more clears.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Billy. “I’ve still got to jump. Oh, look at poor darling Lavinia coming out in tears.”

“She looks like a seal,” said Rupert. “She may just be dwipping water, not cwying. Lavinia,” he added to Helen, “can’t say her Rs.”

“It was a good round until she came to the water,” protested Billy.

“That girl couldn’t ride in a taxi with the door shut,” said Rupert. “They ought to pay her disappearance money.”

Billy got up. “Can you hold Mavis for me?” he asked Helen.

“Good luck,” said Rupert.

As he went downstairs the dog whined and strained after him.

“Shut up,” snapped Rupert. Mavis gave him a cold stare, then climbed onto Helen’s knees and settled down with a sigh of deep martyrdom.

Helen, though not wild about dogs, was grateful for the warmth. Seeing she was shivering, Rupert put his red coat round her shoulders. The heat still left from his body was like a caress. Riders kept returning to the stand, many of them on twelve faults. Everyone congratulated Rupert. He was in tearing spirits until Malise Gordon came over and sat down on his other side. Rupert was about to introduce Helen when Malise said, “Not a bad round, but a bit hit and miss.”

Rupert’s lips tightened, his face suddenly expressionless.

“Belgravia could do with a lot more work on the flat,” went on Malise, “and a lot less corn.”

“He never felt in any danger to me,” said Rupert coldly.

“You were very lucky at the gate, and at the rail after the bank, and you came in much too fast at the triple. That’s a good horse, but you won’t get him out of trouble every time.”

Rupert stared stonily ahead.

“We ought to be thinking of him in terms of the Olympics or the World Championships,” said Malise in a slightly more conciliatory tone.

“Belgravia’d be the ideal horse,” said Rupert, relenting slightly, too. “In the World Championship,” he explained to Helen, “the four finalists have to jump each other’s horses. Belgravia’s such a sod, no one would have a hope on him.”

“Hardly cricket,” said Malise.

“ ’Course it isn’t,” said Rupert insolently. “I thought we were talking about show jumping.”

“By the way,” asked Malise, “have you come across a rider called Jake Lovell? He’s been jumping on the northern circuit. I think he’s very good.”

Rupert paused for a second. “No. Is he good enough to make the British team?”

“He will be in a year or two.”

“You’d do much better with Billy,” said Rupert quickly.

“Billy has yet to convince me he has the killer instinct,” said Malise, standing up. “I’ll probably see you at Grania’s.”

Helen could see exactly why he and Rupert struck sparks off each other.

Down in the collecting ring Billy went up to Lavinia Greenslade and commiserated with her.

“Same thing’s bound to happen to me,” he said. He was just about to ask her out when her mother came up. “Wish you wouldn’t call out to Lavinia just as she’s going into the ring,” she snapped. “Completely put her off her stroke.”

“Sorry,” muttered Billy.

Winking at Lavinia, he walked over to The Bull, who whickered with joy and stuck his nose inside Billy’s coat. Built like an oak tree with a vast girth, short, wide-apart well-shaped legs, and surprisingly small feet, it was the wide forehead and rather small eyes that made him look like a bull. The wide blaze down his forehead gave him an added appearance of placid contentment.

“How is he?” he asked Tracey.

“Gorgeous,” said Tracey. “Always is. Didn’t Rupert jump champion?”

Billy rode off, trying to control his nerves. Rupert had been so cockahoop, he felt needled into producing something better. Other riders, having finished jumping, were all too ready to offer him advice. But it was no good listening to other people at this stage; he’d only get muddled. Over the years he’d schooled himself to tackle the problem by himself. In the ring you were on your own.

The German number two rider, Hans Schmidt, came out. An Irish rider was next, then Billy.

“How did you get on?” he asked Hans.

“Von stop at zee vater,” said the German despondently, “and zee gate and zee wall down, puts me in second place viz Ludvig and Humpty.”

“Bloody good,” said Billy.

“Zee Bull looks vell, put on a lot of condition.”

“Thanks,” said Billy.

The collecting ring steward called his number. Good lucks came from all round. Billy was very popular.

As he waited for the Irishman to come out, a little girl bent over and stroked The Bull’s nose.

“Good luck, Bull,” she said shyly.

Billy smiled and thanked her, wishing the butterflies in his stomach would go away. He couldn’t even remember which fence to jump first. The Bull, however, showed no such fears, striding out briskly, ears pricked, tail up, merry eyes sparkling, taking everything in.

“Take your hat off, Billy,” whispered a ring steward.

The crowd roared with laughter as Billy started and hastily whipped off his hat, damp curls sticking to his forehead. Malise stopped talking to Grania Pringle in the president’s box.

“I want to watch this round,” he said. “Must say The Bull looks marvelous.”

“More than can be said for Billy,” said Grania. “He’s pea green.”

“Take it slowly,” Billy told himself over and over again. If you can go clear, even with time faults, you’ll be second. “You’re the best, you’re the best,” he whispered to The Bull as he leaned forward and started cantering as the Klaxon went.

The Bull bucketed over the first three fences, giving huge scary leaps with inches to spare, then he settled down, trundling merrily along, little legs going like pistons, meeting everything just right.

“God, that horse has improved,” said Malise, as he flew over the double. “Billy’s really been working on him.”

Helen held her breath as The Bull scrambled up the bank which, after much use, was extremely slippery. On the top Billy steadied him. Just for a second The Bull looked dubious. The crowd crossed their fingers in case he stepped back, which would have constituted a stop, costing Billy three faults, but he popped over, tobogganed down the other side, and took a huge jump out over the tiny rail, snorting with disapproval, ears flat, tail swishing.

“Didn’t enjoy that,” laughed Humpty. “Look at his old tail going. Who did you say his dam was, Rupert?”

“Probably a cow,” said Rupert.

Helen giggled.

The combination, three good solid fences, held no fears for The Bull.

“He’s faster than you,” said Humpty with some satisfaction.

“I know,” said Rupert coldly.

Now it was only the water, and the final triple. Turning The Bull, Billy thundered down, his red coat like a spot of blood against the dappled crowd.

“Come on, Billy,” howled Rupert.

Ahead Billy saw the water glinting as wide and as blue as the Serpentine. On each side huddled the photographers, waiting for the third ducking.

“Go on, go on,” Billy whispered, “you’re a star, you can do it, we can do it.”

He felt The Bull tense. He’s probably thinking it’s twenty feet deep, thought Billy. Just for a second the horse hesitated. Then suddenly he seemed to relax and put his trust in Billy.

“If you think it’s okay,” he seemed to say, “let’s give it a whirl.” People who were close swear to this day that The Bull closed his eyes. Standing back, he took a mighty leap off his hocks, soaring about six feet in the air, and landed three feet beyond the tape on the other side. People claim it was the longest jump they had ever seen. As he landed, the ring erupted in a bellow of cheers: “Go on, Billy, you can do it, go on.”

He had only the triple to jump and that had caused no problems to anyone. But to the crowd’s amazement, Billy suddenly pulled The Bull up, hugging him, patting him, running his hand up and down his mane, and telling him what a king he was.

“You’ve got one more fence to jump,” yelled the photographers.

“You’ve missed the last fence. Go back. You’ve still got time,” shouted the ring steward who’d reminded him to take his hat off.

“I know,” said Billy, and, raising his whip to the judges to show he was retiring, he cantered slowly out of the ring in front of the stunned crowd.

Rupert met him in the collecting ring, absolutely white with rage.

“Bloody maniac, what the fuck are you playing at? You’ve just chucked away £1,000 or £750. It was only you and me in the jump-off.”

“I know,” said Billy, “but he was so frightened, and he jumped the water so bravely, I thought I’d call it a day, so he could remember how good he’d been.”

Rupert looked at him incredulously. “You must be crazy.”

Billy slid off The Bull, burying his face in the brown shiny shoulder, hugging him, patting his chest.

“Good boy, clever boy.”

Rupert suddenly realized Billy’s eyes were filled with tears. Tracey rushed up and, removing the rug which she’d been wearing round her shoulders for warmth, put it over The Bull.

“What happened?” she said in concern. “Did he hurt himself?”

Billy shook his head.

“No,” he said in a choked voice, undoing a packet of Polos, all of which he gave to The Bull. “I was so pleased with him, winning didn’t seem to matter anymore.”

Rupert sighed. “I’m afraid Malise Gordon will feel differently,” he said. “I hope you realize you’ve blown your chances of going to Rome.”

He put an arm round Billy’s shoulders. “All the same, it was a bloody good round. You were up on the clock on me.”

Marion came up with Belgravia. “They want you in the ring, Rupert.”

As Rupert rode off to collect his first prize, Billy turned to Tracey.

“I’m sorry,” he said humbly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have done it.”

“ ’Course you should. He’s got years ahead. Look how pleased he is.”

The next minute they went slap into Malise, who took Billy and The Bull aside.

“That was a bloody silly thing to do,” he said.

Billy hung his head.

“I’m sorry, but it’s the first time he’s ever jumped water and it was such a tremendous jump.”

“Well, don’t do it again.” Malise patted The Bull. “I must say he looks terrific. So don’t get carried away and overjump him in the next three weeks. I’ll certainly be needing him for Rome, if not for Madrid.”

Billy looked up incredulously.

“What did you say?”

“Don’t go blathering it around to everyone, but I’d like you to bring him to Rome.” He gave The Bull another pat and stalked off.

“Whatever did he say to you?” said Tracey. Then, seeing there were tears in Billy’s eyes again, “Did he bawl you out?”

“No, yes, no, I don’t know,” said Billy in a dazed voice. “I think I’ll ride The Bull back to the stable myself.”

After winning a major competition, Rupert was usually in a manic mood. But today he felt that Billy had somehow stolen his thunder. Malise Gordon’s remarks had niggled him. He resented the implication that Belgravia’s win had been a matter of luck. If Billy hadn’t pulled The Bull up in that stupid fashion, Rupert would have been able to prove Malise wrong by trouncing Billy in the jump-off against the clock. Anyway, he’d like to see Malise or anyone else controlling Belgravia. And all that fuss about dressage, it was no more than bloody Come Dancing.

He was further irritated that Billy, despite having chucked away £750 prize money without a thought, was behaving as though Malise had kissed him under the mistletoe. Rupert loved Billy, but he was constantly irked by Billy’s hazy assumption that the Lord or Rupert Campbell-Black would provide. Like many generous people, Rupert liked to have the monopoly of the expansive gesture. Billy’s £750 could have gone a long way towards repainting the yard. It never occurred to Rupert that Billy might have beaten him.

After the competition, the heavens opened and journalists and other riders crowded into Rupert’s caravan to get out of the rain. But after drinking Rupert’s health in Rupert’s champagne out of the huge silver cup he had just won, they were far more interested in talking about The Bull’s amazing jump and Billy’s retirement. Rupert loved Billy, but he did not like playing second fiddle. He might have been indifferent to public adulation, but he liked it to be there, so he could be indifferent to it.

Leaving them all gassing together, he took half a bottle of champagne into the shower. As the drumming of raindrops on the caravan roof drowned the noise of the hot water, he was gripped by the lust that always overwhelmed him after a big class. Normally he would have screwed Marion in the back of the horse box, but he doubted if she would oblige with a quickie with Helen around. Anyway, he didn’t want Marion; he was amazed by his violent craving for Helen. He must get her into bed soon. Only that could restore his amour propre and remove the ache from his loins. He’d already told Billy to find somewhere else to shack up for the night as he needed the caravan for Helen and himself. But, although he knew she was hooked on him, he was by no means sure she was going to be a pushover. He’d have to make her jealous. He knew Grania Pringle would oblige.

Helen, in fact, was feeling absolutely miserable. She knew Rupert was busy, that this was his world, but he had this ability to be all over her one moment and virtually oblivious of her the next. Since he’d won the cup, he’d been completely withdrawn. And now all these people were guzzling his drink, talking shop, and ignoring her. Only the German, Hans Schmidt, who had rather mad arctic blue eyes, had made any attempt to chat her up.

But he hadn’t seen any of the German movies she so admired and when she got him on to writers it was even worse.

“I just adore Brecht,” she said with enthusiasm.

“I too am a great admirer of breasts,” said Hans, brightening perceptibly and gazing at her bosom.

“No, Brecht, the writer.”

“Ya, ya,” said Hans. “Small breasts, big breasts, it’s quite all right viz me for zee ladies to like other ladies’ breasts.”

Helen went pink and hastily started talking about Gunther Grass. She thought she was making progress. The German seemed most interested until he suddenly said, “Vot is zis grass? Is it some kind of hay which Rupert feed his horses?”

So she gave up and he turned back to Humpty Hamilton, who was having an argument with the man from the Daily Telegraph about dust allergy.

Billy still being interviewed by Joanna Battie from the Chronicle, who was showing all the intensity of someone who realizes they’ve stumbled on a really good story, could do little more than smile apologetically and shove the bottle in Helen’s direction from time to time.

Unaware of the taciturnity and habitual suspicion towards outsiders of all show-jumping people, Helen felt she must have lost her sex appeal. Nor did she realize they were too wary of Rupert to chat up one of his girlfriends.

She longed to be able to shower and change before Lady Pringle’s party. She’d never met a member of the British aristocracy before and wondered if she ought to curtsey, and how she should address her. Her mother always emphasized the importance of using people’s names when you talked to them. Was it milady, or your grace, or what? She’d liked to have asked Joanna or Marion, who had just returned exhausted from settling the horses, but they both looked at her with such hostility. To hell with them all, she thought, helping herself to another drink. I am a writer, I must observe life and listen to British dialogue.

One of the journalists was ringing his newspaper on Rupert’s telephone.

“I’m sure he was half brother to Arctic Prince,” said Humpty.

“He was own brother,” said Ivor sullenly.

“Half brother.”

“Own brother. I ought to know, I rode the horse.”

“I must use the telephone next to ring my news desk,” said the man from the Telegraph.

At this moment Rupert came out of the shower, a dark blue towel round his hips, blond hair dark and otter sleek. Helen felt her stomach give way.

“I want to change, so would you all fuck off?” he said coldly.

“Don’t mind us,” said Humpty. “You never have before. Wasn’t Polar Pete half brother to Arctic Prince?”

“I don’t care. Get out—all of you. And get off my telephone, Malcolm.”

He ripped the telephone wire out of its socket.

“I was on to the news desk, singing your praises,” said Malcolm indignantly.

“I don’t care. Beat it.”

Grumbling, they all dispersed into the sheeting rain, running with their coats over their heads, until only Billy and Helen were left. Rupert replugged the telephone. It rang immediately. At a nod from Rupert, Billy picked it up. Rupert came over and kissed Helen. He tasted of toothpaste and smelt faintly of eau de cologne. In the safety of Billy’s chaperonage, she allowed herself to melt against him, kissing him back until she could hardly stand. Rupert put a hand on her breast.

“I can feel your heart,” he said softly, “and it sure is racing.”

“Ahem,” said Billy. “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s Dick Brandon. He wants to drop in for a drink.”

“Hell! Oh, all right, tell him to come over. Go and have a shower, darling, the water’s baking.”

“Will it be very fancy tonight?”

“Not particularly.”

“Shall I wear pants?”

Rupert’s eyes gleamed. That was getting somewhere. “Certainly not,” he said.

Helen was relieved to find that the shower, unlike the showers at Regina House, gushed out constant hot water. But there was no lock on the door and Helen imagined Rupert barging in, so she showered with frantic haste. She put on a black silk jersey dress with a discreetly low back and pale gray tights which stuck to her legs because they were still wet.

Outside, she found that the double bed had been let down from the wall. Joining the two bench seats, it formed a huge area. On top of the dark blue duvet lounged Rupert, wearing a striped shirt and gray trousers. Perching on the edge of the bed were Billy and a man in a light check suit with an expansive red-veined face, bags under his eyes, and blond hair going gray. They were three-quarters of the way down another bottle of champagne. Rupert’s eyes were beginning to glitter slightly.

“Well, if the horse is so bloody good, I can’t see why you’re selling her,” said Brandon.

“She’s not quite up to my weight and she’s too sensitive for me. You know what I feel about mares.”

Suddenly they all noticed Helen standing there, white skin flushed from the shower, brilliant red hair falling over her forehead, the perfect contrast to the black dress. The man in the check suit whistled.

“Oh boy,” he said. “Come here, sweetheart.”

As she came towards him, he ran his hand down her pearly gray stockinged leg as if she were a horse.

“Now this I’m really prepared to offer for.”

Rupert laughed and, reaching out for Helen, pulled her down beside him, offering her his glass to drink out of. Then he ruffled her hair, gazing into the huge shy bruised eyes.

“I’m afraid this one’s definitely not for sale, Dick,” he said.

Christ, Rupe is a lucky sod, thought Billy. She gets more stunning by the minute.