Riders

39

Three days later, Fen had reached screaming pitch. The week had been one succession of disasters. She remembered Jake warning her that his first show with the British team had begun catastrophically, but nothing could have been as bad as this. She didn’t even dare ring him at the hospital.

On the first day, she’d entered Desdemona in a speed class for horses who had never jumped in Rome before. The little mare had gone like a whirlwind, treating the course with utter disdain, sailing over fences she couldn’t see over, whisking home in the fastest time by a couple of seconds. Fen was so enchanted by such brilliance she promptly jumped off and flung her arms around Desdemona’s neck, to the delight of the crowd.

The British team were less amused.

“You berk,” said Rupert, as starry-eyed she led Desdemona out of the ring, “you’ve just lost yourself a grand.”

“But she won,” gasped Fen.

“She may have done, but you disqualified her by dismounting before you left the ring.”

“Oh, my God,” said Fen. “Oh, Des, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. What on earth will Jake say?”

“Shouldn’t tell him. Least said, soonest sewn up,” said Ludwig cheerfully, who, as the new winner, rode grinning into the ring to collect his prize money.

In the big class later in the day Fen made two stupid mistakes, putting Macaulay out of the running. Then on the second day in the relay competition, because Rupert always paired with Billy and Ivor with Driffield, Fen was stuck with a reluctant Griselda.

“I’ll show her,” fumed Fen, waiting on Desdemona, holding her hand out ready for the baton, as Griselda cantered up to them after a clear and surprisingly swift round on Mr. Punch. Desdemona, however, had other ideas. Mr. Punch had nipped her sharply several times on the journey out and, at the sight of him thundering down on her, she jumped sharply out of his way, causing Fen to drop the baton.

“What dreadful language,” said Rupert, who was standing nearby, grinning from ear to ear. “What a good thing all those nice Italian spectators can’t understand what Griselda’s saying to Fen.”

Determined to redeem herself in the big class in the evening, Fen rode with such attack that when Macaulay decided he didn’t like the jump built in the shape of a Roman villa and started to dig his toes in, Fen shot straight over his head, covering herself in bruises.

The previous day, Malise had organized some sightseeing. They went to St. Peter’s and saw the statue of St. Peter, with the stone foot worn away by the kisses of the pilgrims.

“I came here with Janey,” Fen overheard Billy saying to Rupert. “I swore that by the end of our life together I’d have kissed her more than the pilgrims had kissed that foot. Perhaps that’s why she pushed off.” He was trying to make a joke of it, but Fen could sense his despair.

Being superstitious, all the riders wanted to visit the Trevi fountain.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Fen, admiring the bronze tritons, the gods and goddesses, the wild horses, and the leaping glistening, rushing cascade of water.

“Only thing missing is Rossano Brazzi,” said Driffield.

“Who’s he?” asked Fen.

“He was in Three Coins in the Fountain. Christ, you must be young. Do you think,” he added, looking at his loose change, “an Irish penny would work?”

“No, it’s bad luck,” said Rupert, chucking in a fifty-pence piece. “I expect you’ll sneak back at dusk and fish that out, Driffield.”

Fen threw in a ten-pence piece.

“Please, Fountain,” she prayed, “when I come back, let it be with a really nice man who loves me as much as I love him.”

Opening her eyes, she found Billy beside her. He had also tossed a fifty-pence piece into the fountain, watching it float down, to land on the bronze and silver floor. His lips were moving, his face haggard, his hair even grayer in the sunlight.

He’s wishing he’ll come back to Rome with Janey, thought Fen. Oh poor, poor Billy.

Back at the show in the afternoon, she hadn’t fared any better. And now she’d been packed off to bed at eleven o’clock, with soothing reassurances from Malise that she was not to worry, she’d soon find her feet and to get a good night’s sleep. How could she possibly sleep with all that din and merrymaking in the streets below?

Her mood was not helped by the fact that Sarah and Dizzy had been asked out by two American tennis stars, over for the tournament which ran concurrently with the horse show. Both grooms had come and had used Fen’s room to bath and wash their hair and change, then had gone off in raging spirits looking gorgeous.

Fen went out on the balcony. Here I am in the most beautiful city in the world, she thought, with the spring in its green prime, with the streets and parks filled with lovers kissing, holding hands, necking in traffic jams, lying on the grass. Everywhere she went, gorgeous Italian men, with hot, pansy-dark eyes, followed her, wolf whistling, and pinching her bottom, but Rupert and Billy and Malise chaperoned her so fiercely she wasn’t allowed near them. Only that evening at a drinks’ party she’d been chatted up by a fantastic-looking French tennis player, who was just asking her out to dinner when Rupert came up and told him to piss off.

“What’s that you say?” asked the Frenchman.

So Rupert told him in French, even more forcibly, and the Frenchman had gone very white and backed off. That was another thing. Rupert had made terrific verbal passes at her at the World Championship, but now he was treating her as though she was a very boring nine-year-old child he was expected to look after. And that night, no doubt, he and Billy had gone off on the tiles.

She knew she ought to undress and try to sleep. But it was so hot and stuffy she stayed on the balcony watching the lights twinkling in the grounds of the Villa Borghese. Even the moon was wrapped in a gold lurex shawl of cloud, as though she was going out for the evening.

“Nothing in excess,” Apollo’s motto, was carved over the door at the entrance to the hotel. I’m obviously not going to get a chance even to have anything in moderation, Fen thought sulkily.

“Please, Apollo,” she pleaded, “I promise I won’t be excessive. Just let me have a bit of fun.” As if in answer to her prayer, the telephone rang. Fen sprang on it. “Buona notte.”

“Hi,” said a soft voice, “is that Fen?”

“Who’s that?” she squeaked, her heart hammering.

“It’s Dino, Dino Ferranti.”

Fen sat down suddenly on the bed.

“Hello, hello,” he said when she couldn’t speak. “Fen?”

“Yes,” she stammered. “Oh, how blissful to hear you.”

“I sure missed you, baby. Did you get my telegram?”

“Oh, yes. It was so sweet of you. How did you know?”

“I’ve had my spies out. How are you getting on?”

“Not great, I haven’t won a thing.”

“Don’t worry, it’s a helluva course. Has Rupert been leaping on you?”

“On the contrary, they’re all treating me as if I was a typhoid carrier.”

“This is a godawful line,” said Dino.

“Where are you?”

“In Rome.”

“Rome!” She knew she should be cool, but she couldn’t keep the squeak of delight out of her voice.

“Just dropped by to look at a horse. I’m flying out tomorrow. I guess it’s late, but you wouldn’t like to come out, would you?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

“I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

She’d never washed her hair or bathed so quickly. Thank God, she hadn’t worn her new pink dress and pink shoes yet. She’d been saving them for a special occasion. “Everything in excess,” she told her radiant reflection as she sprayed duty-free perfume, bought on the boat, everywhere: in her shoes, behind her knees and ears and on her bush.

She hoped Dino wouldn’t go off her because she’d cut her hair. She wished she had time to paint her toenails.

She decided not to take the lift, in case she ran into Malise. Instead crept down the huge staircase, clinging onto the banisters for support. Her knees kept giving way. In two minutes she’d see Dino.

Blast! There were Rupert and Driffield in the lobby, apparently examining some expensive jerseys in a glass case. She shot back upstairs, peering through the banisters. Hell! They were still there. She’d just have to brazen it out. Why shouldn’t she go and have a drink with Dino? She reached the bottom of the stairs and was just tiptoeing across the marble floor to the front door, when Rupert and Driffield turned around, both doubled up with laughter.

“What’s the matter?” asked Fen, walking past them, her nose in the air.

“April fool,” said Rupert.

Ignoring them, Fen walked on.

Catching up, Rupert tapped her on the shoulder. “April fool.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I sure missed you, kid. This is Dino Ferranti.”

Fen looked at him, bewildered.

“Is he here already? Where is he?”

Rupert looked down at her, his eyes narrowed to slits, that mocking, cruel smile on his beautiful face.

“In America, as far as I know.”

“He’s not,” said Fen patiently. “He’s in Rome. I’ve just talked to him on the telephone.”

“And he’s come to look at a horse and all the British team are treating you as if you were a typhoid carrier.”

The color drained from Fen’s face.

“It was you,” she whispered.

“Sure was. Don’t you think I’ve picked up quite a good American accent from my wife?”

Fen looked at him with contempt. “You bastard. How could you?”

Rupert shrugged. “New girl’s tease.” He ruffled her hair. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

“You bloody won’t,” and, bursting into tears, she ran back upstairs. As she panted, sobbing, up to the second floor Rupert came out of the lift.

“Come on, it was a joke.”

“Not to me, it wasn’t.” She fled down the passage, but as she scrabbled desperately in her bag for her key, Rupert caught up with her.

“Angel, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it would upset you that much.”

“Go away,” she sobbed. “I hate you.”

“Shush, shush,” he said, taking her in her arms. “You’ll wake up Griselda from her ugly sleep.”

“Stop it,” she said, hammering her fists against his chest as tears spilled down her cheeks. But he was far too strong for her.

Next moment he was kissing her quivering mouth. For a second she clenched her teeth together. Then, suddenly aware of his warmth and vitality, she melted and began to kiss him back. Her hands, against her will, crept up over the powerful shoulders, her fingers entwining in the sleek thick hair.

“What the hell are you two doing?” said a voice.

Fen nearly went through the ceiling. Rupert didn’t move.

“What does it look as though we’re doing?” snapped Rupert.

He stopped kissing Fen, but still shielded her in his arms. “Look, Malise, this is entirely my fault, not Fen’s. I enticed her out as a practical joke, pretending to be someone else. Then I followed her upstairs and — er — forced my attentions on her.”

“She didn’t appear to be putting up much resistance,” said Malise coldly.

“That’s my irresistible charm,” said Rupert. Releasing Fen, he opened her door and gave her her bag which had fallen on the carpet. “Go to bed, darling. I’ll sort this out.”

Malise, in a dinner jacket, had been to the theater. Rupert and he glared at each other.

“Well,” said Rupert softly, “what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing, this time,” said Malise, “but you can thank your lucky stars, albeit interpreted by Patric Walker, that I caught you outside the bedroom. If this happens again, I’ll leave you out of the team for the rest of the year.”

Rupert looked unrepentant. “She’s so adorable, it’s almost worth it,” he said.

Billy, who’d forgotten to declare for the following day and had just returned from the show offices, was absolutely livid when he heard what had happened.

“You rotten sod,” he shouted at Rupert. “Didn’t you see the way her little face lit up when the cable arrived? She’s obviously mad about him. How could you do such a fucking awful thing to her? You don’t understand anything about people’s feelings. You’re like a bloody Boy Scout in reverse. You have to do a bad deed every day,” and he walked into his bedroom, slamming the door. Immediately he dialed Fen’s number.

“If that’s Rupert, you can bugger off.”

“It isn’t. Are you okay?”

“Perfectly,” said Fen in a choked voice.

“Do you want a shoulder to cry on?”

“And get into more trouble with Malise! No, thank you very much,” said Fen with a stifled sob, and hung up.

By morning, misery had hardened into cold rage against Rupert. How could she have betrayed Jake and let herself kiss him back like that and, even worse, have enjoyed it? She was a nymphomaniac virgin. She went out to work the horses, boot-faced, with dark glasses covering her swollen eyes.

Malise came down to watch her, asking her to come and have a cup of coffee with him afterwards.

Perhaps he’ll even send me home, she thought miserably.

But Malise merely wanted to tell her that she hadn’t been picked for the Nations’ Cup. Ivor Braine had pulled a back muscle, so the team would be Rupert, Billy, Driffield, and Griselda.

Hanging her head, Fen reminded Malise of a snowdrop.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so hopeless.”

“You haven’t. You won that class the first day.”

“You don’t want to send me back because you’ve made a ghastly mistake?”

“You have the self-confidence of a snail,” said Malise. “You obviously don’t rate me as a chef d’equipe if you assume I’d select someone who was no good.”

Fen sprinkled chocolate on her cappuccino.

“Wherefore rejoice,” she said moodily, “what conquests brings she home?”

“Oh, you will. Look, you’re a very, very good rider; better, dare I say it, even than Jake when he jumped that first earth-shattering double clear on Sailor in Madrid. But it’s all strange. Macaulay’s strange, you haven’t got Jake to mastermind your every move, Griselda’s bitching, and Rupert and everyone else are letching.”

Fen flushed and bit her lip.

“Rupert really wouldn’t do for you,” he said. “I realize he’s attractive. But Helen’s had so much of that to put up with, and you know how Jake detests him.”

“I didn’t want — it wasn’t like that,” stammered Fen.

“I don’t want excuses,” said Malise. “Rupert accepts full responsibility, but that still doesn’t alter the fact that you shouldn’t have been out of your room, in a party dress, an hour after you’d been sent to bed. Now, d’you want to come and have a look at the Sistine Chapel?”

There were two big classes that afternoon: the first a knockout competition, the second a puissance, sponsored by one of Italy’s leading car manufacturers.

“Macaulay’s in a foul mood,” Sarah told Fen when she got to the showground. “He’s just sulking in his box.”

“He’s fed up with not winning,” said Fen. “I’m going to jump him in the puissance.”

Sarah looked horrified. “Are you sure that’s wise? Jake’s never jumped him in a puissance, and high-jumping really isn’t his forte. The ground’s absolutely rock hard.”

“I don’t care,” said Fen. “Get him ready.”

The knockout competition before the puissance consisted of two U-shaped courses each of nine jumps, lying side by side. The riders raced up the outside of the U’s, then around the top and came side by side down the inside of the U’s. Riders going around the right-hand U had to wear a primrose yellow sash to distinguish them. Twenty-four riders started. Fen had a walkover in the first round. Apart from that, she had a tough draw, which included Guy de la Tour, Ludwig, and Rupert. In the other draw was Piero Fratinelli, son of the car firm and darling of the crowd.

Her first battle was against Griselda, whom she had great delight in beating by a couple of lengths. This was just Desdemona’s sort of class. She was nippy, lithe as a cat; her father hadn’t won the Cesarewitch for nothing.

Count Guy, whom she rode against next, had had rather too many glasses of wine at lunchtime and carelessly had the first fence down, so Fen was able to conserve Desdemona’s energy and coast to an easy clear. Ludwig put out Rupert; Piero Fratinelli sadly put out Billy. But Fen had no time to feel sorry before she had donned the yellow sash and was back in the ring, competing against Ludwig.

“He’s taken one prize off us this week, and he’s not going to do it again,” Fen said to Desdemona.

The handsome Ludwig was already in the ring, exchanging badinage with the rest of the German team who, already knocked out, were sitting in the riders’ stand. He turned, giving Fen a dazzling but slightly patronizing smile.

“Ah, Mees Fenella, I vill really haf to try. You look very nice in zat yellow sash.”

“Yes,” muttered Fen, “and I’m jolly well going to wear it again in the final.”

Ludwig got away a fraction after Fen, who streaked ahead, nibbling at Desdemona’s ears, racing her like a gymkhana pony, rocketing over the jumps without any regard for safety. On the U-turn her hat flew off.

Oh, Christ, thought Billy, in anguish. I hope she doesn’t fall on her head.

Ludwig, on his big striding horse, was gaining on her. Neck and neck they came down the center.

“Go on, Des,” screamed Fen.

Desdemona saw the collecting ring. Her blood was up. Flattening her pink ears in fury, she edged past the post a nose ahead of Ludwig.

“Photo feenish,” chorused the German team from the stands.

“It’s ours,” said Rupert, grinning and making a V-sign at them.

Piero beat Wishbone, to the delight of the crowd. The stadium was like a cauldron. Fen kept the primrose yellow sash and the right side. She had to wait, riding Desdemona around and around, while Piero got his breath back.

“Number Thirty-one,” said the collecting ring steward.

“Good luck,” said Rupert, handing her her hat. “At least we know you’re not swollen-headed.”

Ignoring him, Fen rode into the ring, where Piero was sitting on the huge, dark bay thoroughbred, Dante, who had been purchased for millions of lira and who was hardly sweating.

How ever much she polished Desdemona’s coat, she’d never got her that shiny, thought Fen wistfully, but the little mare stepped out proudly, ears pricked and flickering at the cheers.

David and Goliath, thought Billy, as Piero looked down at Fen, and smiled as he took off his hat to the judges. Fen bowed beside him. Then with a supremely Latin gesture, Piero picked up Fen’s hand and kissed it.

“Bella bella bella,” roared the crowd.

“She’s gone scarlet, bless her,” said Driffield fondly.

Billy looked at him in amazement. Christ, even Driff was smitten.

Piero and Fen lined up, Desdemona snatching at her bit and casting disapproving glances at Dante: don’t you dare cheat now. The red flag dropped: they were off.

“Come on, angel,” cried Fen, as they threw themselves over the first three fences. Reaching the bend, she saw a huge black shape already swinging around. He was ahead of her.

“Go on, Des,” screamed Fen, bucketing over the fences like a runaway Ferrari. The crowd were going berserk. “Piero, Piero, Piero,” the cry rose to a tremendous roar. Piero, ahead by a fence, looked round to make sure of his lead. Fen picked up her whip and gave Desdemona a jockey’s swipe down her steaming flank. Outraged, the mare shot into overdrive. At the same time, the dark bay, Dante, caught a pole with his off hind. As it fell Fen drew level. She was over and clear; she’d made it. Desdemona, livid at being whacked, went into a succession of outraged bucks which nearly unseated Fen.

“I’m sorry, angel,” she said, pulling her up. “I needn’t have done it but I daren’t risk it. You are a total star.”

She hoped the crowd weren’t going to lynch her for beating their hero, but Malise’s face told her everything.

“You’ve broken your duck. Brilliantly ridden.”

“Terrific,” said Billy, hugging her. “She went like a dream.”

“Not bad for a beginner,” said Rupert. “Are we friends again?”

“No,” said Fen, and stalked off to warm Macaulay up for the puissance.

That evening, when she got back to the hotel Fen rang Jake.

“I suppose you’ve won a class at last,” he said sourly, “or you wouldn’t be ringing.”

“Co-rrect,” said Fen. “I made such a cock-up of things earlier in the week, I didn’t dare. Desdemona won the knockout. I beat Ludwig, then Piero in the final.”

Jake grunted. “How’s Macaulay?”

“Wonderful. Actually I’ve got good news and bad news about him.”

“For Christ’s sake. He’s all right, isn’t he?”

“Well, the bad news is, I entered him in the puissance.”

“You what?” Even at a thousand miles away, she quailed.

“But the good news is, he won.”

For two minutes Jake called her every name under the sun. Then he asked, “How high did he jump?”

Fen giggled. “Seven foot, two, easy-peasy. He could have gone higher; and, oh Jake, he was so delighted to be in the money again. You know how he adores winning. He bucked after every jump and insisted on doing two laps of honor and ate the president’s carnation. But he’s really well,” she added hastily. “I hosed down his legs myself and put on cooling liniment, and I’ll walk him round in an hour or two, but it really bucked him up.”

“How much have you won?”

“Well, I haven’t worked it out yet; you know my maths. About £3,000, I should think. But the best news is I won a little car as well, so I’ll be able to whizz you around all over the place when you come out of hospital. How are you, anyway?”

Jake didn’t want to talk about himself, but she could tell by the sound of his voice how thrilled he was.