by Jilly Cooper
‘They need feeding,’ ordered Rupert.
‘They can wait ten minutes,’ said Gav, getting up. ‘Gala’s frozen stiff.’
He knows my name, thought Gala in amazement. Her hands were so numb, she couldn’t feel his fingers as he took hers and led her through the snow back to the kitchen up at the house, pushing her against the Aga, and putting on a kettle.
‘Well done.’ He was stammering again. ‘Have you had horses?’
‘Lots, but not in the snow. Easier in Africa.’
Gavin made two cups of black coffee, added a tablespoonful of sugar in each, and had just opened a bottle of brandy when Rupert stalked in and raised an eyebrow.
‘Only in mine,’ blurted out Gala through chattering teeth as Gavin poured a huge slug into her cup.
‘What are you doing here anyway?’ demanded Rupert. ‘Are you a friend of Tab’s?’
‘I’m your father’s carer.’
‘Doesn’t need one – whose idea was that?’
‘Mrs Campbell-Black didn’t want to worry you, but he was asked to leave the Home. He’s so pleased to be back, like an escaped prisoner of war.’
Goodness, Rupert’s glance could freeze far more than the weather. Gala scalded her mouth on a great gulp of coffee.
‘Gala, Gala.’ Eddie, clad only in a pyjama top, wandered into the kitchen. ‘Are you coming back to bed, darling? It’s very cold.’
‘Oh fuck off, Dad. Take him back to bed, Gav,’ said Rupert impatiently. Then, looking Gala up and down, ‘Wonder if he’ll propose to my mother on Christmas Day. He usually does, even though she’s been dead for years.’
Gala glanced up at a new photograph on the dresser, of a jubilant Rupert with his arm round Safety Car after the Hong Kong Cup, and said, ‘Thank God we saved him.’
‘Did you see the race?’
‘I watched it with Young Eddie.’
‘Who’s even worse behaved than my father.’
How unnerving he is, thought Gala. He must be twenty-odd years older than her. His face was seamed with tiredness yet he was the best-looking man she had ever seen, and quite the most high-handed, particularly when he brusquely ordered her to go upstairs, ‘And sort out my father – and send Gav down at once. I need him in the yard.’
Ungrateful sod, stormed Gala, tempted to break off one of the icicles hanging from the gutter and ram it into him.
As she wearily climbed the stairs, she could see out of the landing window a huge red sun, firing the frozen lake, turning the white fields to rose, arrogant like Rupert, as if it were entirely responsible for such a beautiful day.
Upstairs, she discovered Gav putting a spare rug over Old Eddie, who had fallen asleep.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You did well.’
‘More than your bloody boss thinks.’ In the mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself: red-faced, woolly-hatted, mascara smudged. Then, ignoring Gav’s finger to his lips: ‘What a bastard! He’s the most insufferably arrogant, ungrateful sod I’ve ever met, and he wants you back downstairs. Oh my God,’ as Gav pointed towards Eddie’s alarm. Rupert, if he was still in the kitchen, must have heard every word.
17
Alas, Simmy Halliday, the Estate Manager, had just joined Rupert in the kitchen and overheard Gala’s outburst, details of which were instantly and gleefully texted round yard and stud.
The first Gala knew was when she was tipped off by a delighted Geraldine.
‘Rather unwise of you to slag off the boss. He does call the shots and he’s never been a fan of any of Eddie’s carers.’
Gala started to shake. Oh God, would Rupert fire her? She had nowhere else to go and she’d been as happy as possible at Penscombe before he arrived.
A hellish day followed. After an interrupted night, Eddie was uncharacteristically difficult, rejecting his favourite shepherd’s pie for lunch, constantly ringing his bell for the television to be changed, sulking because Gala thought the paths were too dangerously icy for him to visit Love Rat.
Matters weren’t helped by Taggie ringing up full of apologies. She’d be home after giving her parents lunch. Meanwhile could Gala possibly feed the dogs and the birds, break the ice on the bird-bath and start Rupert’s favourite, Beef Wellington, for supper.
‘He likes the beef coated in pâté before you wrap it in pastry.’
Unlike his grandson Eddie, Rupert didn’t surrender to jet lag nor snowdrift, and in a frenzy he swept through the yard, far fiercer than last night’s killer gale from the west.
One of Simmy Halliday’s tractor drivers had already cleared the yard and stud of snow; another, towing a gritter behind a farm buggy, was laying down grit. By ten, the snowplough attached to a tractor had cleared the gallops for first lot.
One could appreciate Rupert’s ability to toughen up his horses as, in a 4 x 4 with the window open, he watched them storm up the all-weather; or later, as, clipboard in hand, he clocked them cantering round the covered ride, calling out differing instructions to the riders of apparently identical dark-brown or dark bay horses: even though he’d been away a month, knowing exactly what each one should do.
Despite the snow falling relentlessly, Rupert insisted each stallion was walked out several miles, getting fit for the covering season in February. Inspecting any foal bought at the sales, he in turn demanded why Cosmo Rannaldini had been allowed to snap up some brilliant filly.
Back in the office, he was delighted by the mares lined up for Love Rat and all the other stallions including Dardanius, who was about to start his first season. After Libertine’s second in Hong Kong, Rupert ordered that Love Rat’s stud fee should be raised by £10,000.
Hearing dire forecasts of full-scale blizzards bringing the country to a halt, staff members kept ringing to say they couldn’t make it in. Whereupon Rupert dispatched Simmy Halliday in a four-wheel drive to gather them up. In the process, he found Celeste being pleasured by Brute Barraclough and Young Eddie similarly enjoying Marketa, then pleading, ‘For God’s sake, don’t say anything to Trixie.’
In the afternoon, the snow stopped. A shaft of silver sunlight caressed the valley and Gala gave in to Old Eddie’s pestering and, wrapping him up, she crackled with him across the frozen lawn. The snowplough, chugging along the top road, was putting up fountains of white. The lads on their break were making a snowman.
‘Bugger!’ cried Gala, as she stubbed her toe on a frozen molehill. She was just clinging on to Old Eddie for support when they went slap into Rupert, with Cuthbert, one of the Jack Russells, perched like a parrot on his shoulder.
‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’
‘Your father wanted to see Love Rat.’
‘Don’t be so bloody silly. Broken hip is all he needs. Go back inside.’
Safety Car was equally fed up to be confined to his box, particularly when the mares were released, and, racing into the field, they rolled and rolled in the snow.
Desperate to see Taggie after so long a separation, Rupert had sent the gritter over to his in-laws’ house across the valley to fetch her. Gala had stoked up the fire in the kitchen and was putting the finishing touches to the Beef Wellington when Taggie walked in looking lit up and utterly beautiful and, Gala realized, unusually wearing blusher and eye make-up. Her hair was still wet from the shower and she smelled of Eau D’Issey and toothpaste.
Next minute, Rupert came loping across the yard. They met in the hall.
‘Oh, how heavenly to see you.’
‘Christ, I’ve missed you.’
Followed by a long pause when they were obviously locked in a passionate embrace. Next moment they were racing upstairs, and the bedroom door banged, then opened again to let in a whining Forester, who’d been missing his mistress, and then the door slammed shut again.
God, it was cold. As she washed firelighter off her hands, Gala felt stabbed with envy. She took some chocolate cake and a cup of tea to Old Eddie, who was watching a porn film and gazing out of the window.
‘I us
ed to skate on that lake when I was a boy …’
Even Rupert and Taggie’s bedroom was arctic. Forester crawled under the duvet as Rupert drew it up, reluctant to lose sight of his wife’s adorable body.
‘That was so lovely,’ sighed Taggie. ‘Until one has sex, one doesn’t realize how much one has missed it.’
‘I do,’ said Rupert, pulling her head into the crook of his arm, his fingertips stroking her breast. ‘So, what’s Dad doing back home?’
‘He got sacked from Ashbourne House.’
Rupert laughed when Taggie told him the reason.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Where did you find that woman?’
‘She’s Zimbabwean, from the same agency. She’s wonderful, Rupert, and absolutely sweet. We’ve done nearly all the staff and family Christmas presents, we’ve filled up the deep freeze for the office party and written nearly all the Christmas cards. She faked your signature so we could get the abroad ones off.’
‘She’ll be signing my cheques next – did you give her my pin number?’
‘Everyone adores her, even Titus Andronicus. She’s sweet.’
‘You think everyone’s sweet, but you’re the sweet one. God, you’re beautiful …’ Feeling her nipple budding beneath his fingers, Rupert was tempted to make love to her again but it was dark outside and he still needed to check on Safety Car, ring Valent about China, and Evening Stables called.
‘How was China? How did you manage not speaking Chinese?’
‘I typed into my iPhone where I wanted to go, Google translated it into Chinese and I showed it to the taxi driver. Funny country – they all want to meet the Queen and play polo with William and Harry. I met a ridiculously rich aeroplane billionaire interested in buying horses, and another even richer one who only likes dealing with people born in the Year of the Monkey so I had to lie about my age.’
Taggie squinted up at him. ‘You look wonderful, you don’t need to lie about anything. I missed you so much.’
Kicked off the bed, Forester sighed. They were at it again, fat chance of him getting his supper for a bit.
In the kitchen, Gala made patterns in the Beef Wellington pastry and painted it up with beaten egg, ready to go in the oven. Then she cooked the rest of the egg, with smoked salmon for Eddie whose teeth weren’t that good. As she took it upstairs, Forester was being let out of Rupert and Taggie’s room.
She felt utterly exhausted. She didn’t like Rupert but she must try and win him over, as she couldn’t bear to go back to mad old ladies in draughty houses. Oh God, she’d forgotten to feed his dogs. Running downstairs, she gave a scream of horror.
Taking matters into his own paws, Forester had pulled the Beef Wellington on to the floor and, aided by Banquo and the other dogs, had wolfed the lot, except for the mushrooms, which Cuthbert was spitting out.
Oh help! Such a lovely piece of beef – Taggie would murder her. Fleeing to the pantry, Gala unearthed one of the lasagnes she’d made for the office party from the freezer and rammed it in the microwave.
She’d better check the fire and feed the badgers while the dogs were all safely inside. She was in the pantry clutching a bowl of leftovers when Rupert and Taggie, on hearing her shriek of horror, had dressed and come down into the kitchen.
Seeing three places laid for dinner, Gala heard Rupert say, ‘Christ, she doesn’t have to dine with us, does she? None of the other boots did.’
‘She’s not at all a boot,’ protested Taggie. ‘We’ve had supper together since she’s been here.’
‘She wouldn’t want to have dinner with us, she thinks I’m an arrogant sod.’
Gala could hide no longer and emerged from the pantry.
‘I’m desperately sorry,’ she gabbled. ‘I was late feeding the dogs and I’m afraid Forester got the Beef Wellington. I’m so sorry. I hope it’s OK. I got one of the office party lasagnes out of the freezer and I’ve made a salad. I’ll make another lasagne tomorrow.’
‘Oh well done!’ cried Taggie. ‘Poor you, naughty Forester, it couldn’t matter less. Have an enormous drink.’
Although she was gagging for one, steeling herself not to cry, Gala said: ‘Actually I’m going to watch a bit of television with Eddie, if that’s all right, then I’ll put him to bed. I’m not hungry, honestly. You must have so much to catch up on, so I’ll see you in the morning. Good night,’ and she fled.
Appalled, Taggie turned to Rupert. ‘She must’ve heard everything we said. Oh poor Gala and no supper.’
‘Do her good to lose some weight.’
‘She’s not fat, she’s just cold and wearing a thousand layers. I’m sure she heard. Please, please, Rupert, go and get her. She lit the fire for us, she’s a widow and lost everything and had such a terrible time.’
‘I don’t care.’ Rupert poured a large whisky and opened a bottle of Sancerre for Taggie. ‘I don’t want to know.’
‘Please, please, Rupert.’
Upstairs, Gala sat on her bed trying to cry quietly. ‘Oh Ben, oh Ben.’ If only she could feel his arms around her once more.
Next moment, the door opened and Banquo trotted in, jumping on to the bed beside her, licking away her tears as she flung her arms around his kind, solid body. His thick black tail slapped the bed as Rupert joined them, holding out a large vodka and tonic. Seeing Gala’s eyes swollen with crying, he thought once again how plain she was.
‘I’m sorry, I’m bloody short of sleep, I guess. Tag says you’re doing a wonderful job and have been a real help to her. My father’s fast asleep, even Cindy Bolton’s latest DVD can’t keep him awake. Please come down and have some supper. I can’t have you seducing my dog.’
Gala half laughed. ‘You wouldn’t want to dine with a boot!’
‘You’re different,’ said Rupert. ‘You’re the Beef Wellington Boot.’
18
Apart from the crucifying cold, Gala had been gradually mending and finding happiness at Penscombe. That all changed with Rupert’s return.
After a brief rapprochement on his first evening, not only was she aware that her presence irked him, because he wanted Taggie to himself, but their obvious love and need to touch each other only made her own loss worse.
So Gala kept her distance, having meals in her room or with Old Eddie, not addressing any remarks to Rupert, edging past him with lowered eyes. It was hard to avoid him, however, when the staff speculated about him the whole time, pestering her with questions.
‘Does he ever switch off? He was working in his office at four this morning. What does he talk about? It must be hard not being able to wander round his own house naked, or leave the loo door unlocked.’
Gala, having been overheard describing Rupert as ‘an ungrateful sod’, kept her trap shut, until one day a glamorous but rather raddled blonde dropped in when Rupert and Taggie were out. After greeting Old Eddie with affection, she introduced herself as Janey Lloyd-Foxe, a very old friend of the family, poured herself a large drink and began quizzing Gala, who was ironing in the kitchen.
‘So you’re Eddie’s exciting new carer. Rupert was awful, he referred to earlier ones as the boots and wished he could use the boot-rack in the hall to scrape them off. He must be thrilled with you.’
Gala said nothing, edging the iron down the blue and green striped sleeves into the cuffs.
‘What’s it like living in the house of the handsomest man in England? You must fancy him rotten.’
‘He’s miles too old for me,’ retorted Gala
‘Rochester was miles older than Jane Eyre,’ teased Janey.
‘Well, in this instance, frankly I much prefer Mrs Rochester.’
‘Ah, the sainted Taggie.’ There was an edge to Janey’s voice. ‘And you’re about to burn that shirt.’
‘Eddie wants the loo,’ yelled Dora from the hall. So hastily Gala switched off the iron, snatched up any ironed shirts and fled. Grabbing her arm, Dora bustled her upstairs.
‘Eddie doesn’t,’ she whispered. ‘I was just rescuing you. Janey Lloyd-Foxe is an absolute bitch and the most dangerous journalist in the universe. She was married to Rupert’s best friend, Billy, a saint, who died. She and Rupert don’t get on and she is always trying to dish the dirt on him. Half my job as his press officer is spent seeing her off. She wanted to come for Christmas but he’s banished her.’
‘She was banging on about him being the handsomest man in England,’ confided Gala, as they reached the landing.
‘Well, he was to die for.’ Dora pointed to a painting on the wall of a naked Rupert, slim and leggy as a yearling, lying asleep in a crimson four-poster. ‘That four-poster boy portrait was painted by my father’s first wife, a complete slag, a million years ago. She and Rupert had a terrific affair, long before he was even married to his first wife Helen. He’s lush now but not as good-looking as my boyfriend Paris. You must come and have spag bol with us when he is back and you get a night off.’
As Christmas and the New Year passed, despite avoiding Rupert, who spent more time in the yard when he was at home, Gala found herself increasingly drawn to the stud. In her break, she was always sloping down to make friends with the stallions and gossiping with Pat Inglis, the Stallion Master. Broad-shouldered, stocky, red-haired, freckle-faced, with knowing, watchful yellow eyes, despite being happily married with three young children, Pat had an eye for the ladies and a slick line in repartee.
‘That’s the second biggest thing I’ve had in my hand today,’ he told her as he washed down Love Rat’s cock.
An excellent stock man, he also knew if animals were right. Although he adored his charges, he warned Gala: ‘Never turn your back on a stallion, they’re not to be trusted. In the old days, girls were never allowed to do colts.’
Gala hubristically persisted, however, with carrots and Polos, and was enchanted when even the psychopath Titus Andronicus whickered at her approach.
