by Jilly Cooper
Luigi arrived with the menu. Helen noticed there were no prices.
“What are you going to eat? I’m sure Luigi can flambé you some nut cutlets, but why not be really decadent and have a large rare steak?”
Luigi particularly recommended the scampi served with a cream pernod sauce or the filets of wild duck with juniper berry sauce.
“No, I don’t want any of your mucked-about rubbish, Luigi. My guest would like…” He turned to Helen.
“Oh, pâté, and a small steak and a green salad.”
“And I’ll have smoked salmon, and grilled lamb chops, very rare, with some fried potatoes, and can you bring an extra steak for Badger? He likes it well done, and we’ll have a bottle of Number Six, and another bottle of this while we’re waiting.”
While he was ordering, she admired the beautifully lean curve of his jaw. Unlike most Englishmen, and particularly ones who spent so much time out of doors, there was no red tinge to his complexion which, even without the suntan, would have been pale olive. Glancing around, he caught her gazing at him. “Well?” he said.
“You’re very tanned.”
“Skiing last month.”
“I hear you’re an expert at horseback riding.”
Rupert grinned. “You could call it that. The show jumping season’s about to start in earnest. It’s Crittleden next weekend. Why don’t you come down on Saturday?”
He was touched to see how thrilled she was.
“I’d just love to. I’d so enjoy seeing one of your performances.”
“With any luck you might be seeing one of those before that,” he said, smiling at her with those wicked, dangerously direct eyes. Helen chose to ignore the innuendo. Was it Badger or Rupert under the table, pressing against her leg?
“How did you get into that terrible coven?”
Helen looked disapproving.
“Regina House is a very distinguished institution. It was founded to accommodate women of substance.”
“Oh, that’s what’s the matter with them,” said Rupert. “I thought they all looked like that frightful harridan that was out with you yesterday, the one with more spare tires than the Firestone factory.”
Under the influence of the wine, Helen found herself more and more at ease, minding less and less about his flip remarks. As their first course arrived, she found herself telling him about her first digs and the unfixed tom and the lecherous lodger.
“I gained ten pounds.”
“Well, it seems to have gone in the right places,” said Rupert, gazing at her breasts. He ate very fast, finishing his smoked salmon before she was a quarter way through her pâté.
“This is excellent paté.” She pronounced it “part-ay.” He wondered idly if her accent would get on his nerves. “I’m afraid I can’t finish it, I’m awfully sorry.”
Off her grub, thought Rupert; another good sign.
“Now is the time for all good dogs to come to the aid of the partay,” he said, spearing it with his knife and handing it under the table to Badger, who gobbled it up with more thumping.
As their second course arrived, she tried to steer the conversation on to more academic lines. Did he enjoy reading?
“Not a lot. The best book I’ve read in years is The Moon’s a Balloon.”
“Do you go to the theater a lot?”
“Well, I went once,” said Rupert.
Helen determinedly didn’t look shocked. Writers had to accept all kinds of people.
Rupert was picking his chop bones now, tearing the meat off with very strong white teeth; particularly good teeth, she noticed, for an Englishman.
“Have you any siblings?”
“What?”
“Brothers and sisters,” she explained.
“Only one. A brother, Adrian. Very bright. My mother’s favorite. He runs an art gallery.”
“Oh, which one?” asked Helen eagerly.
“The Bellingham; specializes in modern stuff.”
Helen said she’d been there often.
“Awful tripe, don’t you think?” said Rupert. “Adrian gets frightfully miffed when I tell him Badger could do better with his tail dipped in a paint pot.”
All these remarks were drawled out with a completely deadpan face. She couldn’t tell if he was sending her up.
“At least you must go to the cinema?”
“No,” said Rupert. “Quite honestly, if you’ve got nearly thirty horses, as Billy and I have, many of them novices that need bringing on, or top-class horses that need keeping up to the mark, you don’t get much time for anything else. We’ve got a man and three girl grooms, but we still get up at six-thirty and seldom leave the yard before nine or ten at night. Horses still need looking after on weekends. And you’ve got to keep looking at other horses all the time in case you miss something. Nearly all the year round we’re traveling nonstop from show to show all over the world. You don’t get to the top by going to French films or hanging around art galleries.”
“I’m sorry,” said Helen, feeling corrected. “Do you do the same sort of thing as Mark Phillips?”
“He events, I show jump. Ours is the serious stuff; eventing’s for gifted amateurs.”
“Do you know Mr. Phillips?” Helen felt ashamed for asking.
“Yes, he’s a very nice bloke.”
“Will he marry Princess Anne?”
“So he tells me,” said Rupert, filling up her glass. Helen tried not to betray how impressed she felt.
She couldn’t eat any more of her second course than her first. Rupert gave her steak to Badger.
“It’s so expensive, it’s awful,” said Helen in distress.
“It isn’t offal, it’s steak,” said Rupert, again imitating her accent.
“Did you go to Eton College?” she asked.
“No, Harrow.”
“Lord Byron went there,” said Helen excitedly. “He was an extraordinarily fine poet.”
“Pulled some amazing girls, too.”
“His letters are fascinating.”
“Supposed to have had his half-sister.”
Luigi brought brandy for Rupert and coffee and chocolate peppermint creams for Helen.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’ve given up candy for Lent.”
“I’ve given up women,” said Rupert, taking her hand, “except you.”
Almost on cue an exquisitely beautiful girl with long, blue-black hair barged into their jungle glade.
“Rupert Bear,” she screamed, “what are you doing, skulking away like a babe in the wood? Aren’t you frightened of all the wild animals?” she added to Helen.
But before Helen could answer, the girl had rattled on.
“Nicky Cripps is absolutely livid with you, Rupe. He booked this table weeks ago and you just pinch it from under his nose. Aren’t you going to offer me a drink, Rupert Bear, just for old times’ sake?”
“Beat it,” said Rupert icily.
“Oh, well, I’ll have to help myself,” and, picking up Rupert’s glass of brandy with a shaking hand, she drained it. Suddenly there was a tremendous thump from under the table and Badger emerged grinning, pressing his black face into the girl’s crotch.
“Hello, Badger,” she said in a choked voice. “You’ve always been keener on me than Rupert Bear is.”
Glancing at Rupert’s face, Helen tried to lighten the atmosphere.
“Why do you call him Rupert Bear?” she asked.
The girl looked at her pityingly. “Don’t you know? Rupert BA-R-E, because he spends so much time with his clothes off.” Reaching over, she picked up the cross that hung round Helen’s neck. “And don’t think that’ll keep you safe. You won’t be able to ward him off any more than anyone else, and afterwards he’ll spit you out like a grape pip.”
Rupert got to his feet. “Get out,” he said in a voice that made Helen shiver. “You’re drunk and you’re boring us.”
The girl gave a sob and fled. Helen escaped to the loo. She felt quite sick. Her face was flushed
, her eyes inflamed.
As she slapped on some makeup, two girls came in, heading for the loos, shouting to each other over the partition.
“Bianca’s just had a showdown with Rupert Bear,” said the first. “And all in front of his new girlfriend.”
“She won’t be new by next week,” said the second, “she’ll be an ex like the rest of us.”
As she emerged from the loo, Rupert, having paid the bill, was waiting for her.
“What’s the matter? You’re shaking.”
“I want to go home.”
“Don’t be silly.” Taking her hand, he led her back to the car.
“Now, what happened?”
“Two girls were talking in the john.”
“What did they say?”
Helen told him.
Rupert took her hands again, holding them tightly.
“Look, I’m sure it upset you, and what Bianca said, too. But if you and I are going to have anything going together, and I feel we can, you must shut your eyes and ears to gossip. If you’re any kind of celebrity, which I suppose Billy and I are, people will always bitch about you. If they don’t know you, they make it up; if they catch you snapping at a traffic warden because your mother’s just died, they’ll assume you’re always bloody-minded. I had a brief walkout with Bianca. I broke it off. I’ve even had girls accusing Billy and me of being queer because I haven’t made a pass at them. You listen to me, not anyone else. Is that clear?”
Helen nodded, speechless.
“You’re terribly sweet.” Leaning forward, he kissed her very gently. At first she resisted, then, as her lips parted, he drew away.
“Come on, we’ve got to see that horse.”
8
“Jesus, Tommy,” he said a quarter of an hour later, as a huge black horse with a white face clattered out of the stable, tugging a helpless, terrified trooper on the end of a rope, “are you trying to sell me an elephant?”
“He’s a good horse,” said Tommy. “Jump the Harrods building with all four feet tied together.”
Going up to the plunging animal, ignoring its rolling eyes and snapping teeth, Tommy caught the other side of the head collar. Together, he and the trooper managed to steady him.
“Come and have a look,” he said.
From a safe distance, Helen watched Rupert’s practiced hands moving over the horse, running down a leg here, picking up a hoof there, examining his teeth, looking at him from front and back.
“Lovely courageous head,” said Tommy, dodging hastily sideways to avoid a diving nip.
“What’s his background?”
“Dam was an Irish draft mare, father was clean bred, won a few races in Ireland. We got him from Jock O’Hara.”
“Doesn’t usually miss a good horse,” said Rupert, walking around him again.
“His wife was having a baby at the time. He was a bit more distracted than usual.”
“And he’s being discharged? What’s wrong with him?”
“Well, quite honestly, he’s a bit of a bugger; run away with nearly every trooper in the regiment, fidgets on parade, breaks ranks, naps on duty, and won’t obey orders.”
Rupert laughed. “And you’re suggesting I buy him?”
“You could always sort out difficult horses and I promise you he can jump. He carted a trooper in the King’s Road last week. A milk float was crossing the road; old Satan stood back on his hocks and cleared it by inches. Several witnesses saw him. That has to be some horse.”
“Okay,” said Rupert, taking off his coat, “tack him up.”
A trooper stood nervously in the center of the indoor school, waiting for Rupert’s orders. Tommy and Helen, to her relief, watched from the gallery. At first, Satan walked around as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth; only his eyes rolled and his tail twitched. His white face and the one white sock that came above knee and hock gave him a comic appearance. Rupert pushed him into a canter; with his huge stride he circled the school in seconds. Then, suddenly, the horse seemed to gather itself together and, as they rounded the top end, he humped his back in a series of devastating bucks which would have unseated any rodeo rider.
Helen gave a gasp, putting her hands over her eyes.
“It’s all right,” said Tommy. “He’s still there.”
“Okay,” said Rupert to the trooper, “put all the fences up to four foot six.”
Tommy got out a silver cigarette case and handed it to Helen, who shook her head. “Watch this,” he said.
As Satan bucketed towards the upright, Rupert put him at exactly the right spot and he cleared it by a foot. It was the same with the parallels.
“Put them up to five foot six,” said Rupert.
“Known Rupert long?” asked Tommy.
“No,” said Helen, “and it won’t be much longer at this rate,” she added nervously as Satan thundered towards the upright, then put in a terrific stop. The next moment Rupert was beating the hell out of the horse.
“Poor Satan,” murmured Helen.
Rupert turned him again. Satan cleared the upright, then, careless, stargazing at some pigeons in the roof, he rapped the parallel so hard that only Rupert’s immaculate riding held him together and saved them both from crashing to the ground.
“Put it up to six foot,” said Rupert to the white-faced trooper.
“Crazy,” agreed Tommy, “but he always liked riding something over the top.”
This time Rupert cantered down quietly and Satan cleared the upright with several inches to spare. Rupert pulled him up. Coming out of the school the horse appeared positively docile. Sliding off, Rupert reached for his coat pocket which was hanging on the door and, taking out a packet of Polos, gave a couple to Satan, who looked at him suspiciously, then ate them, curling his upper lip in the air.
“I think we’ll get along,” he said. “I’ll buy him, Tommy. You’ll discharge him as uncontrollable, will you? And I’ll have a word with Colonel Cory up at Melton Mowbray.”
Helen was ashamed how much the sight of Rupert mastering that huge, half-wild horse had excited her. He might not have heard of François Truffaut or Kandinsky, but when it came to horses he was obviously a genius. Suddenly, she felt a spark of pure envy; however much she slaved at her novel, she could never display such joyful, spontaneous talent as Rupert.
The sun was going down now, firing the barracks windows. Dog walkers were hurrying home from the park. As Rupert sorted out the details of the sale with Tommy, Helen did her face yet again. She turned on the car radio and found the middle movement of Schumann’s piano concerto. Listening to the rippling, romantic music she looked uneasily at the pile of mail on the backseat. Many of the envelopes were mauve, or peppermint green, or shocking pink. Someone had addressed a letter: “To Rupert Campbell-Black, the handsomest man in England.”
And so he was, thought Helen, as he walked back to the car, Badger at his heels. He looked very happy.
“That is one hell of a good horse. I reckon I could take him to the Olympics if he doesn’t kill me first. Let’s go and have a drink at my mother’s house.”
“That’d be nice,” said Helen. Privately, she didn’t feel quite up to meeting Rupert’s mother. She’d have to talk out of the corner of her mouth to hide the drink fumes.
Rupert listened to the piano concerto for a minute. “I suppose this is the sort of music you like?”
“Yes,” said Helen. “Are your parents happily married?”
“Yes,” said Rupert.
“How lovely,” said Helen.
“But not to each other. My mother’s on her third marriage. My father on his fourth.”
“Were you very traumatized when your parents split up?” she asked.
Rupert looked surprised: “Not at all. I stayed with Mummy and Nanny.”
“But you must have had endless replacement parents?”
“What?”
“Stepmothers and -fathers.”
“Oh, legions.”
“Weren’t they
very unkind to you?”
“I was very unkind to them. I was a little sod when I was young. They got their own back by never taking me out when I was at school.”
“So you never went out?” said Helen, her eyes filling with tears.
“Nanny came down by train occasionally and brought me fruit cakes. I spent most leave-outs and a lot of the holidays with Billy’s family.”
“What about Adrian?”
“Oh, he was my mother’s darling—far too delicate and sensitive to go to boarding school.”
Rupert spoke without bitterness or self-pity. He was not given to introspection and never considered anything his parents had done might have affected his behavior in life.
Helen, who’d studied psychology, felt differently. Still hazy and emotional from an excess of champagne, she was flooded with compassion for poor, poor Rupert. Parents who’d never loved him, stepparents who neglected him, a mother who preferred his younger brother. No wonder he felt the need to beat other riders all the time; and to seduce women to bolster his self-confidence; then, unused to a loving relationship, break it off the moment things became heavy. I could change him, she thought expansively. I could arrest the rake’s progress and show him what real love is like.
Rupert’s mother lived in one of those large white Georgian houses looking onto an emerald green railed-in square. The garden was filled with grape hyacinths, scillas, and white daffodils. An almond tree was already scattering pink petals on the sleekly shaven lawn. Every window was barred. Rupert opened the door with several keys and sprinted in to switch off the alarm.
“Well, your mother certainly won’t get burglarized,” said Helen.
“No, but you’re just about to, my treasure,” said Rupert under his breath.
They went into the drawing room. As Rupert switched on the lights, Helen gave a cry of pleasure.
“What an exquisite room.”
There were pale primrose walls and carpets, old gold watered silk curtains, and sofas and armchairs covered in faded pale blue and rose chintzes. Two tables with long, pale rose tablecloths were covered in snuffboxes. The walls were covered in portraits of handsome arrogant men and beautiful women, their faces lit up by fat strings of pearls. Orchids in pots added to the exotic atmosphere. On the draped grand piano were photographs—one of Rupert’s mother as a deb and others of several men in uniform who were presumably replacement fathers. There was also a picture of Rupert on a horse being handed a cup by Princess Margaret. What caught the eye was a photograph of an extraordinarily beautiful youth, very like Rupert, but more fragile of feature.
