The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

60

In the second week in March doughty little Penscombe Pride trounced The Prince of Darkness in the Cotchester Cup by ten lengths, bringing great glory to the yard, and putting a welcome forty thousand pounds into Rupert’s pocket. Rannaldini, who’d watched the race on satellite, while attempting to hammer out terms with the New World Phil, was so furious he promptly faxed his trainer to say he was taking The Prince of Darkness and his other horses away and would also be seeking a new jockey.

The two equine Titans were due to meet next in the Rutminster Gold Cup in the first week in April. Arthur, who had been reluctantly heaving his whale-like bulk over Rupert’s fences, had also been entered, but not declared. It was still a question of Lysander having enough races in the bag to qualify. Spirits at Penscombe plummeted when, ten days before the race, he had a punishing fall from Mr Sparky, putting his shoulder out and breaking a front tooth. Laid off for a week, he was nearly sacked on the Saturday before Mothering Sunday. His mind was so much on Pippa, as well as Kitty, that he forgot to pack the colours.

With only forty-eight hours left to qualify, however, he exonerated himself by winning a selling plate at Leicester so brilliantly that the owner was forced to buy the horse back for three times what he’d paid for it. Then he came third in the 3.15, and finally notched up his quota by finishing, as he thought, second in the handicap hurdle. But he was so elated he raised a clenched fist to punch the air, whereupon a startled Hopeless, thinking he was going to whack her, shot past the dark brown gelding in front to win by a nose.

The only person in the yard not overjoyed was Rupert. ‘How many times have I told you to get past before you start waving your arms about like a fucking politician,’ he yelled at Lysander as he caught up with him on the way to the winner’s enclosure. ‘And where was your head during the first circuit? Between Mrs Rannaldini’s fat legs, I suppose.’

A very nasty punch-up was averted when a pretty brunette from The Scorpion shoved her tape recorder under Rupert’s nose.

‘Is Penscombe Pride going to beat The Prince of Darkness on Saturday?’

‘Not a question of whether he’ll beat him,’ snapped Rupert, ‘but by how many lengths.’

‘Is he the best horse you’ve ever had?’

‘Yes, now buzz off.’ The prettier the reporter, the more Rupert distrusted them.

‘We do have another runner in the race,’ protested Tabitha indignantly, as she gave Hopeless a congratulatory hug.

‘Oh, right, King Arthur, 200-1.’ The brunette consulted her notebook. What had Timeform said about him that morning: ‘Campbell-Black’s white elephant, gigantic grey gelding of little account.’

‘Fucking hell!’ Lysander, on his way to being weighed in, swung round glaring at the brunette over Hopeless’s saddle. ‘How dare they?’

‘He’s your horse, Lysander,’ she said slyly. ‘How d’you rate his chances?’

‘Negligible if he rides like he did just now,’ snapped Rupert. Then turning to Lysander. ‘Piss off and get weighed in.’

‘People are saying the Rutminster’s a grudge match between you and Rannaldini,’ the brunette quailed slightly under Rupert’s chilling ice-blue glare, ‘for taking Lysander under your wing.’

‘So?’

‘You were in Monthaut with Lysander and Kitty Rannaldini.’

‘Don’t you say anything against Kitty,’ said Lysander coming back again.

‘Fuck off,’ hissed Rupert.

‘Why are you entering Lysander on a no-hoper just to irritate Rannaldini?’ asked the brunette, delighted at what she’d stirred up.

As Lysander opened his mouth, desperate to think of a really crushing reply, Rupert spoke first.

‘Arthur isn’t a no-hoper,’ he said coldly. ‘He’s a stayer. He stays even longer than my mother-in-law.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Tabitha whispered to Lysander. ‘Daddy’s always in strop before a big race.’

Daddy got stroppier. On the last gallops before the Rutminster, little Penscombe Pride was so well and above himself that he carted Bluey off the end of the all-weather track across two fields of barley on to the Penscombe-Chalford Road in the rush hour. Arthur, by contrast, didn’t try at all, slopping along at the back of the field, listening to the larks singing in a cloudless sky. He was still outraged that because caffeine was a banned substance, Rupert had stopped his morning cup of coffee. Far worse, having despatched Lysander to the dentist yesterday to get his tooth capped, Rupert had taken the opportunity to sharpen Arthur up himself, giving the old horse a good hiding when he refused to jump a row of fences at the gallop.

Lysander was in despair as he rode back to the yard. The cracks in the paths were as bad as last summer. Rain, which would make the going soft enough for Arthur, had been forecast for days, but showed no sign of appearing. Wild garlic was spreading over the floor of the wood like a thousand green hangover tongues. Lysander hadn’t had a hangover since the morning after Valentine’s Day. Nor a drink, nor any dope, nor magic mushrooms, nor even a fuck. Last night he had reached his target weight of nine stone six, but what was the point of all this self-denial if Rupert wasn’t going to declare Arthur? He glanced at his watch. It would be too late in half an hour. In the distance he could hear Tiny yelling her head off because Arthur had deserted her. She’d give him hell when he got back.

‘Can’t someone strangle that fucking Shetland?’ Rupert stalked into the kitchen where Taggie was turning sausages and frying eggs.

‘There are about thirty press messages on the machine,’ she said desperately, ‘asking if you’re going to run Arthur.’

‘Not after the way he went this morning,’ snapped Rupert, pouring himself a cup of black coffee and disappearing into his office.

The morning’s papers didn’t make Lysander any happier. There was a lot of guff about Rupert’s ‘Rutminster raiding party’ and how many winners he would get during the meeting. The tabloids all concentrated on the contrast between Penscombe Pride and Arthur. ‘Beauty and the Beast,’ said the Mail. ‘David with an Exocet faces Goliath with a sling,’ quipped the Sun. ‘Why do the handsomest men choose the ugliest horse?’ wrote the brunette from The Scorpion.

‘How dare they pick on Arthur?’ Lysander was practically in tears. ‘I’ll sue them.’

‘Hush.’ Shoving a piece of fried bread spread with marmalade into Lysander’s protesting mouth, Taggie led him to the door of Rupert’s office. ‘Just listen.’

‘It’s Race 31161,’ Rupert was saying in his flat drawl, ‘Rutminster Gold Cup, King Arthur, owned by Lysander Hawkley, ridden by Lysander Hawkley — that’s right. You still don’t know who’s riding The Prince of Darkness yet?’

Coming out of his office on his way to a Venturer board meeting back at the house, he found Lysander leaning against the wall, fighting back the tears again.

‘Thank you, Rupert. I won’t let you down.’

‘I’ve declared him, but I won’t run him unless it rains. And go and have a haircut. You can’t ride in the Rutminster with a pony-tail.’

Everyone grew increasingly tense. Danny, Penscombe Pride’s Irish lad, had been throwing up all morning, even Taggie was shouting at the Press. Rupert, in his board meeting, was trying to concentrate on plummeting advertising revenue, when there was a thundering on the door and Lysander barged in, white-faced.

‘Oh, Rupert, Arthur’s lame. He’s going short on the off-fore.’

‘Probably knocked himself this morning, just poultice him. Now get out,’ said Rupert curtly.

‘Just come and see him. Per-lease.’

So the entire board trooped down to the yard to have a look, only to find Arthur dramatically recovered.

‘He’s winding you up,’ Dizzy chided Lysander. ‘He does it to get sympathy and Polos now.’

Although the yard was running down at the end of the season, and most of the young horses had been turned out, Rupert hadn’t wanted to waste a valuable stable-lad on Arthur. To keep Tabitha out of mischief, he let her do the horse. She had proved both responsible and efficient.

Wearing a navy-blue jersey, which brought out the famous Campbell-Black eyes, but was already coated with white hairs, she stood on a bucket that afternoon to wash Arthur’s mane.

‘We’ve got to stop you rolling and getting yourself mucky before tomorrow,’ she told him, as Arthur nudged her jeans’ pocket hopefully looking for Polos.

Lysander, sitting on the edge of a stone tub of white narcissi, holding Arthur’s lead rope with Jack on his knee, had been laboriously reading Ivor Herbert’s life of Red Rum to inspire Arthur, but had given up with the effort. Trapped in her stable, Tiny watched them beadily.

‘Arthur has a look of Rummy,’ said Lysander. ‘I wonder how many more stable-boys The Prince of Darkness has eaten. I tried to help one of the grooms at Valhalla clip him once. Jesus, he went ape-shit. I jumped on to the manger. The groom shot out of the door. I want to know who’s going to ride him. I bet Rannaldini’s got some nasty surprise. God, I hope he lets Kitty come to Rutminster tomorrow.’

He was really upset that, unlike most of Paradise, Kitty hadn’t sent him a good-luck card. He had even driven over to Magpie Cottage in the lunch hour to check.

‘Have you got a picture of her?’

‘It’s a bit cracked.’ Lysander took a photograph out of his trouser pocket.

After a long pause, Tabitha said kindly, ‘I expect she looks better in the flesh.’

Lysander scratched his head. ‘No, she doesn’t really. Jack’s very plain, particularly on his white-eyed side, but he’s got such a dear little face, and Arthur isn’t classically beautiful either, although I hate the Press saying it, but I love him to bits too.’

‘But you don’t want to go to bed with Jack and Arthur,’ said Tabitha. ‘Shut your eyes, darling,’ she added, as she hosed the soap out of Arthur’s forelock. ‘Not bed-bed, I mean. I suppose you’re beautiful enough for two.’

‘I feel safe with Kitty,’ confessed Lysander. ‘Since I lost weight I’m always cold. The only thing that could make me warm would be her arms around me.’

Suddenly noticing the expression of desolation on Tab’s face, Lysander realized how tactless he was being. Taking her grubby little hands, he pulled her off her bucket.

‘If I wasn’t so hopelessly hooked on Kitty, I’d fall madly for you, Tab. There isn’t a single man in the world that won’t slit his throat for you in a year or two. Like your father, you’re irresistible.’

‘Not to you,’ said Tabitha dolefully.

‘I got you a present.’

It was a silver horse-shoe brooch and he pinned it on her jersey.

‘Oh, thank you, it’s lovely.’

‘It’s going to bring you special luck. Mystic Meg said your destiny was linked with the initial I. God, I’m nervous about seeing Kitty.’

Returning at dusk from the second day of the Rutminster meeting with two wins and a couple of places, Rupert was in a much better mood. The raiding party was turning into a rout. But the smile was wiped off his face when he went into the tack-room and found Dizzy, Danny and the stable cat poring over the Evening Scorpion. They all jumped when they saw him.

‘You’re not going to like this,’ said Dizzy warily. ‘Bloody Beattie’s dumped again.’

RANNALDINI’S REVENGE, said the front-page headline.

‘Once again Rupert Campbell-Black’s past has come back to haunt him and perhaps rob him of a third victory in the Rutminster Cup tomorrow,’ ran the copy.

‘In 1980,’ it continued, ‘top show-jumper Jake Lovell shocked the world by running off with the charismatic trainer’s beautiful first wife, Helen, in the middle of the Olympics. Eleven years later, Rupert’s neighbour, jet-setting conductor, Roberto Rannaldini, has brought Jake Lovell’s twenty-year-old son, Isaac, over from Ireland to ride the brilliant but vicious Prince of Darkness in tomorrow’s race.

‘“I was impressed by Isaac when I saw him winning a race recently in Ireland,” enthused the Machiavellian Maestro from Valhalla, his Rutshire mansion. “He and The Prince of Darkness will annihilate Penscombe Pride.” ’

Without a word Rupert turned to page three.

‘In a Mafiaesque move worthy of his Latin ancestors, Rannaldini could be paying back Rupert for taking Lysander Hawkley under his wing. Fun-loving Lysander (son of Hatchet Hawkley, headmaster of posh Fleetley — fees £16,000 a year), nicknamed the Man Who Made Husbands Jealous because of a string of relationships with married women, was caught cuddling and kissing Rannaldini’s much younger wife, Kitty, in Monthaut in December.’

Rupert was deceptively calm and, as the stable cat, who loved newspapers, padded across the page, he gently removed her so he could read on. But as Tab wandered in, putting her arm round his shoulder to see what he was reading, she caught a glimpse of Isaac Lovell’s thick, dark, sombre, gypsy’s face and gave a moan of wonder: ‘Wow-wee, he is gorgeous.’

Turning on her like a cobra, Rupert grabbed her shoulders, shaking her until her bones rattled like castanets.

‘If you ever have anything to do with that little shit,’ he hissed, ‘you’re disinherited, out of here, never coming back, see?’

‘I don’t see at all,’ said Tabitha, flaring up. ‘You never approve of the men I like.’ Then, as Rupert stormed out, ‘Is he worse than Ashley?’

‘Much worse,’ sighed Dizzy. ‘I’ll tell you about it.’

‘Bastard, bastard, bastard.’ Eyes narrowed to slits, Rupert paced up and down the bedroom, neat whisky in one hand, cigar in the other.

Helpless in the face of such volcanic fury, Taggie lay on the faded patchwork counterpane of the huge Jacobean four-poster in which Rupert had made love for so many years to his beautiful first wife.

‘Pridie’ll win it with two legs tied together,’ she stammered. ‘A new jockey won’t make any difference. You’re the best trainer in the world. No-one’s heard of Isaac Lovell over here.’

Rupert got hopelessly uptight on the eve of big races. It affected the whole yard. He had hardly ever been nervous when he was show-jumping because he was so confident of his own riding, but now he could only mount the best jockeys on the best horses and pray. It was the one time when he had to be kept really calm.

‘It all happened such a long time ago,’ muttered Taggie. ‘You’re the most utterly g-gorgeous, glamorous, faint-making m-m-man in the world. Jake Lovell’s a little squit, so’s Rannaldini. I’ll probably trip over both of them in the paddock.’

Taggie never bitched about anyone. Rupert looked down at her in amazement, as she stood up, and putting her hands on both sides of his rigidly clenched face, pulled his mouth down to meet hers.

‘Kiss me. I love you so, so much.’

‘Oh, Tag,’ groaned Rupert, burying his face in her thick dark hair. ‘Thank God for you. You’re absolutely right. It’s all in the past. Jake did me such a good turn. I’m such a boring old reactionary, and I’m so against divorce, I’d probably still be miserably unhappy with Helen if he hadn’t walked off with her, and never married you and been so divinely happy. It just destroys me because he beat me in the Olympics and sex, if you know what I mean. But if I lost the war, I won the peace.’ Pulling her down on the bed beside him, he reached inside his jacket pocket.

‘I’ve got something for you.’ He handed her two open-ended first-class tickets to Bogotá. ‘We’re going baby-hunting.’ Then, when Taggie looked up in incredulous hope, ‘The nuns have accepted our application. If we fly out to Colombia and stay there for six weeks, really convincing them we’re serious about wanting a baby, they’ll find us one.’

Taggie couldn’t speak. Like the moon’s reflection in a lake ruffled by a wakeful carp, her pale face suddenly disintegrated. Rupert could feel her tears as she covered his face with kisses.

‘Oh, I love you. A real baby. I can’t believe it. Oh, d’you think they’ll like us enough?’

‘They’ll like you. I’ll have to behave myself.’ And give them a fat cheque, thought Rupert.

‘I wonder if it’ll be a he or a she, blond or black hair, oh, Rupert.’

‘It’ll certainly be black market,’ said Rupert, ‘Our little black-market baby.’

‘And six weeks together, what bliss! But I hope you won’t be too bored,’ she added anxiously. ‘What’ll you do?’

‘I can think of one thing.’ Rupert slowly unbuttoned her harebell-blue cardigan and unhooked her bra, so, like cream boiling over, her wonderful breasts spilled out. Putting his lips to one nipple he sucked gently. Just as desperate for her attention and love as any baby, he thought wryly.

‘I’m terribly sweaty and unwashed,’ mumbled Taggie, as he pushed up her scarlet skirt, and burrowed under the dark purple tights and skimpy knickers.

Rejoicing that he could get her that wet so quickly after five years of marriage, finding it always as exciting as pulling a groom in the back of a loose box for the first time, Rupert moved his fingers upwards as Taggie’s hands fumbled with his zip.

Naked, white-skinned, utterly gorgeous, her dark hair tickling his belly, she kissed him everywhere, her tongue as delicate and subtle as a lurcher’s.

‘Oh, my angel.’ Wriggling down, he slid inside her, hearing her gasp of joy, as he warmed her with his body and constantly moving hands.

‘Oh, Rupert, Rupert, Rupert.’

‘Rupert, Rupert, Rupert!’ Taggie’s voice had suddenly got deeper, and was accompanied, he realized, by someone hammering on the door, and then — good God — opening it.

‘Rupert, I’m really sorry to bother you. Oh, Christ!’ Lysander clapped his hands over his eyes. ‘I mean really sorry, but I think Arthur’s been nobbled. He keeps yawning and he hasn’t eaten his last feed.’

‘I’ll nobble you, you little fucker,’ howled Rupert, scooping up a shoe from the carpet and hurling it in Lysander’s direction. ‘Get out, get out. Arthur’s exhausted because you keep waking him up to see if he’s OK, and he’s not hungry because the entire Press have been stuffing him with Polos.’

In the end, chivvied by Taggie, Rupert tugged on a pair of jeans and ran barefoot across the parched lawn to the yard. In his box, he found Arthur lying flat out, waving a huge foot in the air, snoring loudly, one eye open. Seeing his tormentor, however, he lumbered up and hid behind Tiny shivering with terror in the corner, his newly washed coat, and particularly his mane, once more stained with green.

‘Oh dear,’ Lysander blushed. ‘He’s made a lightning recovery. I do think,’ he went on hastily, ‘Arthur ought to have a security guard tomorrow. Pridie’s got a guard and closed-circuit television in his box, and The Prince of Darkness’ll have all Rannaldini’s hoods around him.’

‘He’s got Tiny,’ said Rupert, avoiding the Shetland’s darting teeth and deciding not to blow his top. ‘Now will you please stop wasting my time.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Lysander hung his head. ‘I gather all this Isaac Lovell business has upset you. Bloody unfair. Can’t make head nor tail of it myself. Who is Isaac Lovell anyway?’

‘His father ran off with my first wife.’

‘Bastard!’

‘Like you want to run off with Kitty Rannaldini,’ said Rupert, bolting the half-door.

‘Not at all,’ said Lysander indignantly. ‘Rannaldini’s an utter shit, and a bully who beats up horses and women and never stops humiliating poor darling Kitty by screwing around. You were never like that.’

‘Hum, your faith in me is touching. You didn’t know me in the old days.’

‘Old days is old days.’ Lysander blushed again. ‘I used to be a bit of a stud myself in the past. But I want you to know you and Taggie have really restored my faith in marriage as an institution.’

‘Ta very much,’ said Rupert. ‘I had better go back and — er — institute it. What are you going to do with yourself this evening?’

‘Watch the video of last year’s Rutminster again, and then play poker with Danny and Dizzy. We’re teaching Tab.’

‘She’ll beat you all,’ said Rupert. ‘But I want you in bed early.’

Lysander slept fitfully and woke at a quarter-past three. In twelve hours exactly, if by some miracle he got to ride, they’d be lining up at the start. In twelve hours, ten minutes, it would all be over. And after tomorrow, would Rupert kick him out? Despite his misery over Kitty, he’d been happier living at Penscombe than anywhere else. Desperate for some sign of rain, he opened the window, and was mocked by a million stars. The lawn was lit by daffodils and a clump of white cherry trees already in bloom, it had been so mild.

The constellation of Leo the Lion was romping off to his lair in the west. But any moment Lysander expected his great shaggy face to appear back over the top of Rupert’s beechwood to bite the Great Bear in the bum. Longing as never before for Kitty’s arms, he collapsed into an armchair.

He must have drifted off again, for the next minute he was galloping up Rupert’s track, and Arthur was going gloriously, and he could hear, far more menacing than Rannaldini’s tympani, the thunder of hoofs behind him. But no-one was going to catch Arthur. The stands were rising to cheer him.

‘Go on, go on, go on,’ yelled Lysander.

‘Lysander, Lysander, wake up! It’s tipping down.’ It was a few seconds before he realized Tabitha was shaking him, and the thunder of hoofs was torrential rain, machine-gunning the roof.

Leaning out of the window into Niagara, he could see the downpour flattening the daffodils, stripping the white cherries, flooding the gutters, sluicing the valley.

‘Yippee, yippee, Arthur’s in with a chance.’ Lysander let out a great Tarzan howl, hugging Tab until she screamed for mercy and Jack began yapping with excitement.

‘When you come back to earth,’ announced Tab, ‘the tooth fairy’s been.’

Under Lysander’s pillow, still in its polythene wrapping, lay a vast blue rug, braided with emerald green and with the initials RC-B which always brought bookmakers out in a cold sweat, embroidered in the corner.

‘Daddy had it made up specially. Any of the normal rugs look like saddle blankets on Arthur.’ Then, as Lysander buried the balls of his thumbs in his eyes, ‘It’s OK, Daddy really likes you, Lysander.’

Few would have thought it later in the morning, as Rupert shouted at everyone in the yard. Danny was throwing up in the 100. Even Bluey was silent and preoccupied during the gallops, on which Rupert had insisted, to give an air of normality to the day. Only Arthur was unmoved, as he breakfasted on carrots, oats and a handful of dandelions newly picked by Taggie.

‘Have you got Arthur’s passport and your medical card?’ nagged Tabitha.

Lysander was packing his bag, putting in pain killers because his shoulder was still giving him hell, and his own beautiful colours, which he’d chosen himself: white sleeves, black-and-white body and brown cap, because they were the same colours as Jack. He was wearing his Donald Duck jersey, which Taggie had finally dragged off his back yesterday and hand washed.

The morning seemed endless, but at last the lorry containing Penscombe Pride, Arthur, Tiny and three younger horses splashed down the drive, splitting the pack of Press outside the gates with their Barbours over their cameras.

‘Charlie’s going to do a runner,’ said Tabitha, as they passed Penscombe’s betting shop. ‘Everyone’s put so much money on Pridie, and on Arthur for a place, his odds have shortened from 200 to 100-1, and you should see the champagne they’ve got on ice for a mega piss-up this evening at The Goat and Boots.’

‘I’m going to be sick again.’ Hanging out of the window, Danny came back inside absolutely drenched. ‘If it rains any more it’s going to be too wet for Pridie.’

Water was pouring in a tidal wave down the High Street.

‘Ouch,’ grumbled Lysander, as he bit his cheek instead of his chewing gum. ‘I’m injured before I get to the course.’

He felt even worse as he read the horoscopes in the Sun.

‘Arthur’s going to have a good day for shopping.’

‘I hope that isn’t a misprint for stopping,’ said Tab.