Mount!

by Jilly Cooper

  I Will Repay and Ash six lengths behind took the race. Geoffrey was second, Josephine third.

  Cosmo turned to Mrs Walton in triumph.

  ‘This is the way the Campbell-Blacks ride,’ he sang, ‘gallopy, gallopy, gallopy and down into the mud.’

  Ash, riding back in Sheikh Baddi’s purple and gold colours, was in heaven.

  ‘It does make it easier for the rest of us,’ he told Emma Spencer, ‘when Penscombe jockeys can’t stay on their horses. I guess both Rupert and Eddie should take some riding lessons.’

  Rupert, never one to worry about living in glass houses, bawled Eddie out.

  ‘You stupid little fucker, you little rat, how many times have I told you to get over the line! You’ve utterly fucked Love Rat’s chances, and Gav and Gala who’ve put so much work into Quickly, and Valent and Etta, and Quickly himself as a stallion prospect.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rupert, I’m sorry,’ Eddie stammered, ‘but something in the crowd spooked Quickly.’

  Valent was even angrier. ‘You’ve wrecked the stud career of a great horse, you’ve broken Etta’s heart, you’ll bloody well sell that puke-green Ferrari and pay back the staff.’

  ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry, but Quickly was got at.’

  ‘Only by you.’

  ‘Please, Rupert,’ implored Taggie. ‘Something must have frightened Quickly.’

  But in the play-back, nothing could be seen except Quickly shying violently, which could have been caused by Eddie leaping up and waving his whip.

  For a devastated Eddie, who got booed all the way back to the weighing room, the only solution would have been to get legless with Sauvignon, but he received a very pointed text from her instead.

  ‘Sorry can’t make it, we’re off to celebrate.’

  Ash was over the moon. In gratitude, Sheikh Baddi had given him a new BMW.

  Immediately after the St Leger, Rupert flew back to Keeneland and to the sales. On the way to the airport, along one of Doncaster’s most prosperous roads, he passed numerous retirement homes, and felt tempted to dispatch Young Eddie to one. Instead he called Tarqui McGall.

  ‘Not a great Doncaster for either of us. How would you like to come and work for me?’

  ‘It’s a deal, let’s nail the fockers.’

  ‘When can you start?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll need you to take horses abroad. You got a contract?’

  ‘Cosmo doesn’t do contracts. He owes me last month’s salary. What about young Alderton?’

  ‘You’ll be stable jockey.’

  ‘And Gav’s not my greatest fan.’

  ‘I’ll sort Gav.’

  ‘I’ve got a girlfriend and a baby on the way.’

  ‘That’s OK. Should reassure Gav.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d approach Harmony at the same time. She’s bloody good and absolutely gutted with Sauvignon taking all the credit.’

  ‘She’s too fat.’

  ‘She’s lost a lot of weight, and Repay’d go into a decline if she left. Tanks, Rupert.’

  Someone, however, had hacked into Rupert’s mobile. Within an hour, it was all over the internet that Tarqui was moving to Penscombe.

  POACHED EGO shouted the Post, predicting Titanic clashes between Rupert and Tarqui.

  Isa was absolutely furious. As Tarqui’s long-term lover, he had tolerated the girlfriend and baby on the way. Nobody galvanized horses like Tarqui, and Isa needed to play him off against Ash.

  Young Eddie was devastated. He was utterly mortified. He’d screwed up the Leger, enabling Roberto’s Revenge to gallop further and further out of reach of Love Rat, and he’d been blown out by Sauvignon. However, he bit the bullet and didn’t walk out, because the thing he wanted most in the world was Rupert’s approval.

  Back home, Gav and Gala watched the Leger again and again. Something had terrified Quickly, but beyond a slight bruise on his neck on the stands side, nothing could be detected.

  60

  Morale was rock bottom at Penscombe after the Leger. Matters weren’t helped by Tarqui’s arrival.

  Lover of Isa and some time of Bethany, a relentless seducer of both sexes, Tarqui the go-to jockey who never rode work or went to Wolverhampton on a cold Monday morning, had recently settled more or less down with his girlfriend Tresa and was quite chuffed she was expecting his baby. Capricious, dissolute, histrionic, Tarqui was also very expensive.

  He was furious that Rupert, before flying off to Canada, had issued instructions that he should rise early and ride several lots a day to familiarize himself with the horses. Tarqui proceeded to gee them all up, wielding his whip on the gallops, reducing little Delectable, who’d never been hit, to a jelly, insisting Quickly wore a painful new noseband to stop him bolting, even demoralizing the sweet, phlegmatic Fleance, who always tried his hardest and more.

  Tarqui was particularly insensitive towards Gav, ostensibly now his boss.

  ‘Is his divorce through yet?’ he demanded from the back of a sweating, eye-rolling, plunging Quickly. ‘Who’s the tramp shacked up with now?’

  ‘Shut up, Gav’ll hear you,’ hissed Gala. ‘And unless you want to end up on the moon, don’t smack Quickly any more.’

  ‘This horse is totally feral,’ snapped Tarqui, as he slid to the ground. ‘Old Floppy Dick’s as useless at training horses as he was in bed.’

  ‘Don’t be so foul.’ To her horror Gala found she had slapped Tarqui’s face really hard. With her fingermarks crimsoning his sallow cheeks, Tarqui spat that it was not just the horses who were feral round here. A shouting match escalated, with Tarqui complaining to Rupert the moment he returned from Keeneland and Rupert promptly summoning Gala to his office.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

  ‘How could you bring in that arrogant, insensitive, vicious little twat?’ stormed Gala. ‘He’s undoing all Gav’s brilliant work with the horses. Delectable’s gone to pieces, he hit Touchy Filly round the head because she bit him, Fleance doesn’t need hitting and Quickly nearly choked to death trying to breathe in that cross noseband. And he’s bloody tactless, making no secret he’s an on-off lover of Bethany.’

  ‘Everyone’s an on-off lover of Bethany.’

  ‘Gav’s so stoic, he doesn’t need his nose rubbed in it. You’ll lose him or drive him to drink.’

  Since when had Gala got so protective about Gav?

  ‘This place needs stirring up,’ said Rupert angrily.

  ‘It wouldn’t if you spent more time here.’

  ‘Since when did you start calling the shots? If you’re not happy, get out.’

  Gala gave a sob and fled from the room.

  ‘Shall I draft an email giving her notice?’ said a delighted Geraldine.

  ‘No, wait till I get back from France. Hell,’ he added, looking up at the stallion leg-waving clock. He’d have to leave in half an hour. ‘Must go and see Tag.’

  In the old days he’d have whisked her upstairs for a quick fuck, and he loathed leaving the dogs, who couldn’t believe he was off again.

  ‘You have upset the boss,’ gloated Geraldine to Gala. ‘He’s asked me to draft an email giving you notice. How long have you worked in the yard?’

  The only person lower than Gala was Eddie, who should have been on the helicopter to ride Petruchio, and Chekov in Deauville. Nor would he ride Quickly in the Champion Stakes. And Fleance was off with Marketa to Newmarket, to go into quarantine before the Melbourne Cup, with Tarqui riding him. Suddenly, Eddie realized how much he’d been looking forward to seeing Lark again in Australia.

  ‘Why the hell am I lusting after that bitch Sauvignon?’ he asked Gala, as during a sweltering hot lunch-break at Lime Tree Cottage, some days later, they pondered what to do with the rest of their lives.

  Next moment, Dora rolled up looking very fetching in a pale-grey denim shirt and shorts.

  ‘How are you both?’

  ‘About to be fired.’

  ‘Well, you’d better come t
o a party tonight.’

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Eddie listlessly.

  ‘Valhalla.’ Dora rolled her eyes. ‘Cosmo’s giving an Indian Summer fancy dress party, which is bound to deteriorate. His father’s orgies were legendary. The police once turned up to complain about the noise and were soon shagging everything in sight. Lady Chiselden, a local JP, got off with a man dressed as a pantomime donkey, only to discover after a two-hour session in the broom cupboard that her seducer was Rannaldini’s gardener. Here’s the invite.’

  Dora waved a card on which were printed the words: Cosmo Rannaldini requests the pleasuring. Please dress for chess.

  ‘So everyone’s going as chess pieces: kings, queens, castles, bishops, pawns and things. I’m sure most people will dress up as porn stars or pawnbrokers. Oh, come on, it’ll be a laugh.’

  ‘I hate fancy dress,’ said Gala.

  ‘Well, come as you are. I know Isa won’t bother with it.’

  ‘Isa! God, Rupert would kill us.’

  ‘He won’t know as he’s not back from Tattersalls Ireland till tomorrow. You’ll die laughing when you see what I’m wearing.’

  ‘I would like to see Valhalla,’ said Gala. ‘It’s medieval.’

  ‘It’s very fuck-off,’ said Dora, adding slyly, ‘Sauvignon’s going as a bishop, so you can unfrock her, Eddie, and get to meet Roberto’s Revenge. They’re sure to parade him.’

  ‘That would be something. OK, let’s go,’ said Gala.

  Eddie shrugged. ‘I guess one might as well get drunk at someone else’s expense.’

  ‘Shall we try and take Gav?’ suggested Gala.

  ‘Not a hope,’ said Eddie. ‘Doesn’t drink, hates parties. Cosmo and Isa fired him and Bethany might be there.’

  Bao, still anxious to convince Gala that China was an animal-loving nation, offered to dogsit Gropius.

  As Gala was leaving Lime Tree Cottage, Gav rang.

  ‘Please don’t go, they’re evil.’

  ‘As opposed to medi-eval. I want to case the joint.’

  ‘You’ll get plenty of those. Evil things happen there. If you have any problems, ring and I’ll come and get you.’

  As he’d sold his beloved green Ferrari, Eddie drove to the orgy in Dora’s Golf. Even on a beautiful, very hot September evening, the great abbey, lurking behind its conspirator’s cloak of woodland, looked sinister.

  ‘Are there any ghosts?’

  ‘A former Lord of the Manor evidently surprised his young wife in bed with the local blacksmith,’ confided Dora. ‘Fleeing on his horse, the blacksmith was strangled by some overhanging cables of Old Man’s Beard. Villagers often hear the clattering of ghost hooves, and horses spook and refuse to go down that lane.’

  ‘Horrible,’ shivered Gala.

  ‘Staff in the house catch glimpses of the heartbroken young wife and hear her weeping, but women are always weeping at Valhalla, and particularly when Cosmo’s father was alive. It’s a pretty spooky house, full of priest-holes and secret passages.’

  ‘Now you tell us,’ grumbled Gala, giving a shriek as, turning the corner, they found the main gates swarming with photographers. ‘Hurry, Eddie, please. Rupert will kill us if he finds out.’ She pulled a copy of Racing Post over her head as long lenses closed in on the windows.

  ‘Slow down, or they won’t get any decent pics. These are the big time,’ pleaded Dora, waving happily. ‘Hi, guys. There’s Richard Young and George Selwyn … I’m fine, how are you? And Dan Abraham. Hello, Dan. That’s why I’m not changing into my fancy dress till we get there, or they’d never recognize me.’

  Valhalla, in fact, was looking wonderful, the sun slanting in just the right direction on the park and its shaggy woods, the flowerbeds full of roses with no weeds, unlike Penscombe. Below, like a huge python waiting to swallow you up, coiled the yew hedges of the maze. A full orchestra was belting out The Rite of Spring. Carrying on the theme of ‘Dress for Chess’, Cosmo had laid out a 30-yard by 30-yard chessboard on the lawn. Guests armed with large glasses of champagne were already playing against each other. Kings and Queens proliferated. Ash had dressed up in full drag as the young Queen Victoria. Cosmo, his curls brushed off his forehead and down the sides of his face, had come as an old queen: Oscar Wilde. Bishops, castles, knights and pawns and predictably porn stars abounded. Tommy Westerham, who couldn’t stop laughing, had come as a pawnbroker, his testicles plus a third one attached, painted gold. Chas Norville had donned a horse’s head, and was telling everyone between neighs: ‘I’m Sir Roger de Covering Yard.’

  Mrs Walton, who in anticipation had spent a week at Champneys, was showing off red ribbons round each suntanned thigh.

  ‘I’m the Knight of the Garters.’

  Young Eddie had boldly rolled up as a porn star in just a leopardskin thong, brandishing a whip, which frightfully excited Dame Hermione.

  ‘You are so like your grandfather, Eddie,’ she told him. ‘I do hope you’ll test that whip on me later.’

  Dressed as the Queen of the Night, she then launched into an ear-splitting flood of Mozart.

  Dora, meanwhile, caused complete hysterics by emerging from the Ladies as Lester Bolton, Willowwood’s dreadful porn millionaire, in a too tight shiny suit and orange comb-over draped across a rubber skull.

  ‘That should deter any letches until Paris arrives later,’ she told Gala. ‘They made a film of Don Carlos, the opera, here, and based the big drawing room on the Throne Room at Buckingham Palace.’ This had entailed cherry-red walls, and gilded mirrors down to the ground.

  Huge amounts of drink and drugs were being consumed, but there was no sign of supper yet, although in the Great Hall next door, coloured cushions were scattered round low tables. People were openly snogging and beginning to undress each other. Drunken games on the chessboard were being accompanied by cries of ‘Checkmate!’ as people charged off into the bushes.

  ‘You look so like Lester Bolton, Dora,’ a passing beauty giggled. ‘I can’t believe you’re not going to grope me.’

  Up in the minstrels’ gallery above the ballroom a small orchestra was playing Ravel’s Bolero, minus the flautist who, armed with binoculars, was gazing out of the window behind him on to a lawn below, where a blond youth was snorting up a long line of coke from the flat belly of a comely brunette.

  ‘Good thing Gav didn’t come,’ Dora whispered to Gala. ‘That’s his ex, Bethany.’

  The place was awash with beautiful young people, Cosmo’s friends.

  ‘Mrs Walton must feel as if she’s giving a children’s party,’ added Dora.

  61

  Gala felt completely outclassed. If only she’d washed her hair and bothered with something more appealing than a black shift which, since she’d been up since five, matched the shadows under her eyes. Was she being paranoid, or did she note several female guests clocking with satisfaction that the woman seen kissing Rupert so ecstatically after the King George was nothing to text home about? Dora and Eddie had vanished. One man she talked to slid away the moment another man joined them, and after two minutes, the second man slid away too: ‘Must go and check on my wife.’

  If no one had talked to her at parties when she was married, she could always join Ben. She realized once again how sheltered she was at Penscombe, with people always around to combat her loneliness, and Gav and Eddie looking after her, and Rupert to dream about. Oh God, she hoped he wasn’t going to find out she was here.

  ‘Hel-aire, hel-aire.’

  There was a din at the front door as Famous Grouse and Damsire swept in.

  But Roddy was going to find nothing to grouse about this evening. He was wearing a check suit, check tie and check shirt, with Damsire in a check patterned dress.

  ‘We’re checkmates, ha, ha, ha.’

  Both were also clad in an air of self-congratulation, aware they were the oldest people there, but invited because, ‘We get on so well with the young.’

  ‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your red trousers, Roddy,�
� said Mrs Walton.

  ‘Roddy, Roddy, great to see you.’ Cosmo glided up and led them into the morning room, thrusting huge glasses of champagne into their hands, showing off the beautiful silver and gold St Leger Plate won by I Will Repay, which was now filled with giant prawns and oysters.

  ‘Pity we can’t drink Krug out of it,’ quipped Cosmo. ‘Not a good Doncaster for the Campbell-Blacks or Love Rat.’ He raised his glass to Roddy. ‘Thank you for seeing off the King in the Legends race.’

  ‘Terrible loser,’ boomed Roddy, scooping up a handful of prawns.

  ‘He’s a loser,’ purred Cosmo. ‘Revenge is so far ahead, Love Rat will never catch him.’

  The orchestra was playing Prince Igor.

  ‘Hold my gland,’ sang Cosmo, ‘I’m a stranger in Paradise. I hope you’re both going to behave very badly, Enid.’

  Gala looked at her watch. If only she could go home. She escaped into the big drawing room. There was Sauvignon wearing a dog collar and a black cassock, shiny dark hair drawn back, yellow eyes matching her gold chasuble, black lashes falling on flawless cheekbones. Surrounded by a group, she had positioned herself in front of one of the long gilt mirrors so she could admire her own reflection while checking if anyone more interesting was behind her.

  Gala went to the window to watch the game on the huge chessboard.

  ‘Hi, Gala.’ Casting aside her entourage, Sauvignon joined her. ‘Do you play chess?’

  ‘Not very well.’

  ‘Chess,’ said Sauvignon, ‘is a war game between two armies who line up and face each other. The aim is to take out your opponent’s King.’

  ‘I know that.’