Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  Rupert smirked noncommittally.

  “You did, and you’ve even beaten the stems so they won’t wilt. I’ve got some ribbon in the glove compartment. I’ll hide them in the shade for the moment. I must repay you. Come and have a drink after you’ve finished your class. My name’s Laura Bridges, by the way.”

  Rumor raced round the collecting ring as the riders warmed up their horses.

  “I hear Rupert’s been dropped,” Driffield said to Billy with some satisfaction.

  “Is it twue Malise caught him in bed with a weporter from The Tatler?” giggled Lavinia. “He is awful.”

  “For Christ’s sake, don’t say anything to Rupe,” said Billy. “He’s not in the sunniest of moods.”

  “What about that gorgeous redhead?” said Humpty. “I wouldn’t mind having a crack at her myself.”

  “Nor would I,” said Driffield, “but I gather she doesn’t put out.”

  “Shut up,” said Billy. “Here he comes.”

  As Rupert cantered up on Macaulay, scattering onlookers, Humpty said, “That horse is new.”

  “Where d’you get him?” sneered Driffield. “At a pig fair?”

  Everyone laughed, but the smiles were wiped off their faces halfway through the class when Rupert came in and jumped clear. He had reached that pitch of drunkenness when he rode brilliantly, total lack of inhibition giving an edge to his timing. He also made the discovery that Macaulay loved crowds. Used to the adulation of being a troop horse through the streets of London, he really caught fire and become a different animal once he got into the ring and heard applause.

  “If you’re going to be that good, perhaps it’s unfair to call you Satan again,” Rupert said as he rode out, patting the horse delightedly.

  Over the crowd he could see that the mayoress had arrived and, surrounded by officials, was progressing towards Laura Bridges’s green baize table, no doubt to receive her bouquet. Vaulting off Macaulay, he handed him to Marion and ran off to have a look.

  Mr. Harold Maynard, horticultural king of Plymouth, had won the rose championship at the Royal Show for the past five years. Going into the tent, confident he had swept the board for the sixth year, he was thunderstruck to find his prize exhibit missing. He was about to report the loss to the show secretary and get it paged over the loudspeaker, when he suddenly saw his lovingly tended Ena Harkness roses, now done up with a scarlet bow, being handed over to the mayoress by a curtseying Brownie.

  “What very choice blooms,” said the mayoress, who prided herself on being good with kiddies. “I’ve never seen roses so lovely.”

  With a bellow of rage, Mr. Maynard pushed through the crowd and seized the roses.

  “How dare you steal my Ena Harkness?” he shouted.

  The mayoress swelled. “They’ve just been presented to me by this young lady.”

  “And where did you get them from?” Mr. Maynard turned furiously to the quailing Brownie.

  “Mrs. Bridges gave them to me,” she whispered.

  “And who may she be?” roared Mr. Maynard, brandishing the roses like a policeman’s truncheon.

  “I’m me,” said Laura Bridges, “and don’t shout at that poor child.”

  Rupert arrived to find Laura Bridges, Harold Maynard, a number of Harold’s horticultural chums from the allotments, several show officials, and the lady mayoress in the middle of a full-dress row. The Brownie was bawling her head off.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “This lady’s stolen my Ena Harkness,” bellowed Mr. Maynard, glaring furiously at Laura Bridges.

  Next minute, Rupert had grabbed him by his coat collar. “Don’t you speak to her like that, you revolting little shit. She did not steal them, and you bloody well apologize.”

  “Those are my roses, and don’t use foul language. I’m calling the police,” yelled Mr. Maynard.

  “You are bloody not,” said Rupert and, picking Mr. Maynard up, he hurled him backwards into the nearby horticultural and produce tent. A second later four of Mr. Maynard’s chums from the allotments had landed on Rupert. Shaking them off, he dove into the tent after Mr. Maynard, picking up a lemon meringue pie and smashing it in his red roaring face. Turning, Rupert started pelting Mr. Maynard’s cronies, who were trying to storm the tent in pursuit, with iced cakes. Next minute a Bakewell tart flew over their heads and hit the mayoress slap in the face. Just as the allotment contingent were advancing on Rupert, menacingly brandishing huge marrows, reinforcements arrived in the form of Billy, Humpty, Ivor Braine, and Driffield, who, picking up everything they could find, hurled them at Mr. Maynard’s chums. Carrots, turnips, cabbages, rhubarb pies, and fairy cakes flew through the air.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Humpty asked Billy. “We’ve got to jump off in a few minutes.”

  The next minute a vast Black Forest gateau, hurled by Mr. Maynard and meant for Rupert, hit Humpty in the middle of his forehead. Roaring like a little bull, rubbing cream out of his eyes, Humpty jumped on Mr. Maynard, hammering him with his fists. Driffield, behind the safety of a long white table, was lobbing sponge cakes into the mêlée, stopping to take a bite from time to time. Three of the allotment chums had Billy on the ground now and were belaboring him with parsnips.

  “Stop it, you wotten cowards,” screamed Lavinia Greenslade. “Thwee against one isn’t fair.” And, having kicked them all in the bum, she picked up a chair and bashed it over their heads.

  Suddenly there was the wail of police cars.

  “We better beat it,” said Humpty reluctantly.

  “Come on,” said Driffield, stuffing pieces of shortcake into his pockets and running towards the tent opening. But they were too late, for the next minute the tent had filled with policemen. Slowly show jumpers and horticulturalists picked themselves off the floor.

  “Now, who started this fight?” said the sergeant, getting out a notebook. “Morning, Mr. Lloyd-Foxe, morning, Mr. Hamilton.”

  For a minute no one said anything. Then, from the corner, pulling himself up by the trestle table, Rupert staggered to his feet.

  “I did, officer,” he said, weaving towards them. “But he provoked me,” and picking up the last prize-winning fruit cake, he flung it at Mr. Maynard. Unfortunately it missed, knocking off a policeman’s helmet.

  “Book him,” said the sergeant.

  “You can’t,” said Humpty in tones of outrage, wiping chocolate icing out of his hair. “He’s got to jump-off.”

  A noisy argument ensued, only ended by the police threatening to book all the show jumpers.

  “You can’t do that,” said the show secretary in horror. “The public have come specially to see them. They’ve got two more big classes after the jump-off.”

  “Well, I’m booking him,” said the sergeant, slapping handcuffs on Rupert. “Never heard such abusive language in my life.”

  On the way out, Laura Bridges stopped him.

  “I’m so sorry. It was all my fault.”

  Rupert grinned. “Don’t give it a thought, sweetheart.”

  “I’ll get you out of there,” promised Billy. “Not now,” said Humpty. “Bail him out after the classes.”

  In the early evening Billy and Laura Bridges, who’d pulled every string in the book, arrived at the police station. The police agreed to let Rupert go as long as he appeared in court first thing tomorrow. They found him sobering up in the cells and playing poker with a couple of constables who happened to be show-jumping fans. The story had made the late editions of the evening papers and the showground and the front of the station were swarming with press. Rupert was smuggled out of the back door.

  Despite the heat, he was shivering like a rain-soaked puppy. He looked terrible.

  “Better come home with me,” said Laura. “Keep the press out of your hair and at least give you a decent night’s sleep.”

  Billy, who wanted to see Lavinia, went back to the showground.

  In the car, Rupert lay back and shut his eyes.

  “How d’you fe
el?”

  “Bit of a headache. Don’t know if it’s hangover or flying marrows.”

  “Presumably you did take those roses from the tent?”

  “Yes.”

  She patted his knee. “It was very sweet of you.”

  “Can I go and have a bath?” he said when he got to her house. “Just to wash the rainbow cake out of my hair.”

  Downstairs, changed into a sweater and jeans brought by Billy, he found her in the kitchen. She had changed, too, into a long pale blue cotton dress with a halter neck, which showed off her beautiful brown shoulders.

  “When did you last have something to eat?” she asked.

  “I don’t remember.”

  She gave him a glass of ice cold milk. “Do you good,” and got a large piece of steak out of the larder.

  “You can put this on your eye if you like, or I can grill it for you.”

  Rupert decided he was very hungry.

  “Two newspapers rang for you while you were in the bath,” she said, as she switched on the grill. “I said you’d gone to stay with friends in Exeter.”

  Rupert went up to her, dropping a kiss on the bare shoulder.

  “What a very, very nice lady you are.”

  They ate outside in the dusk, hardly talking, but allowing the silence to be companionable. Afterwards Rupert wandered into the drawing room and examined the photograph of the man on the desk.

  “Your husband?”

  She nodded. “My Charlie.”

  “Good-looking bloke. You happy with him?”

  “Very.”

  She also had three children. The last had just gone to prep school. “I love them, but you’ve no idea the bliss, after thirteen years of marriage, of having the house to ourselves.”

  She was swinging gently on the hammock seat. Every time she came forward her blond hair gleamed in the light from the window. Rupert longed to sit down beside her, but thought the swaying back and forth might make him sick.

  “Ever get bored with each other sexually?”

  She shook her head.

  Reaching down, he took her hands, pulling her to her feet. She felt so honey soft and nicely fleshed. His hand crept round to the back of her neck where the halter was knotted.

  “I’m not sure you should,” she said. “After that fight you can’t be feeling very well.”

  “I know the one thing that’d make me better.”

  Slowly he unknotted the halter, allowing her dress to slither to the ground. Underneath she was quite naked. On her warm golden breasts there were delicate blue lines. She had full thighs, and round curving hips. In a few years her body would collapse like a peony. Now it was superb. And, knowing it, she gazed back at him without embarrassment.

  Rupert pulled her towards him.

  “I want to give you the best time in the world,” he murmured. “Tell me what turns you on.”

  At three o’clock in the morning the telephone rang.

  Laura stretched out an arm.

  “Charlie, darling, where are you?” she asked with simulated sleepiness. “Oh, that’s lovely. You can get a flight to Plymouth. I’ll come and meet you. What an hour! You must be exhausted. Yes, I’ve been fine. The show was a great success. Love you, darling, all news when I see you. Bye.”

  “Where is he?” asked Rupert.

  “Madrid. He’ll be back in three hours. He’s got his own plane.”

  Rupert laughed. “Good thing he didn’t parachute in unexpectedly.”

  “I’ll drive you back to the showground on the way.”

  Rupert snuggled up against her splendid breasts. “Come on, we don’t want to waste any time.”

  It was another beautiful day. An innocent cerulean sky hung over the deep green fountain of the oak trees. As they left the house dawn was just breaking. Rupert breathed in a smell of dust, roses, and approaching rain.

  “Laura,” he said, as they reached the outskirts of Plymouth, “I was at a pretty low ebb when I met you yesterday. You’ve been very good to me. Feel I ought to write Charlie a thank-you letter.”

  “Have you got a steady girlfriend?” she asked. “Apart from the multitudes, I mean.”

  “We’ve just packed it in.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s too serious-minded, and she won’t sleep with me.”

  Laura braked at the lights. “Must be crazy. You’re the eighth wonder of the world.”

  “I am when I’m with you.” He put his hand between her legs, pressing gently. “That must have been one of the most glorious fucks I’ve ever had. If I wasn’t absolutely knackered, I’d drag you back to the caravan for another go. D’you ever get away to London, or Gloucestershire?” he asked, as she drew up at the showground.

  “Sometimes, usually with Charlie.”

  “There’ll be next year’s show.”

  “Charlie’ll probably be here next time.”

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her.

  “We’ll get together again sometime. I won’t forget you in a hurry.”

  Laura watched him walking across the dew-laden grass, with that lovely athlete’s lope, red coat slung over his shoulder. As he turned and waved, she thought it was a very good thing Charlie was coming back. The boy was quite irresistible. Underneath the macho exterior, he was very vulnerable. I could straighten him out, she thought wistfully.

  Rupert headed for the stables. He couldn’t ever remember having been so tired in his life. Due in court at nine, he must get a couple of hours’ sleep beforehand. He hoped the press weren’t going to make too much of a meal of it. He might even get suspended for a year. Malise would be charmed.

  No one was about yet. Belgravia and Mayfair were lying down. Macaulay, however, who missed life at the barracks, welcomed any interruption and stuck his head out, nudging Rupert for Polos.

  “From what I can remember,” Rupert told him, “you jumped bloody well yesterday. Over the next few months you and I are going to raise two hooves to Malise Gordon, until he can’t afford not to have us back in the team. We’d better think up a new name for you; perhaps we ought to call you Bridges.”

  But as he walked wearily towards the caravan, remembering the day he had bought Macaulay, he felt kneed in the groin with longing for Helen. It must be tiredness that made it hurt so much. His resistance was weakened. Bloody hell, there was a light on in the caravan. Billy must have gone to bed drunk. He found the key behind the left front wheel, where it was always left. He let himself in cautiously. Billy might be shacked up with Lavinia.

  For a minute he thought he was hallucinating. For there, lying in the double bed, apparently naked, dark blue duvet over her breasts, lay Helen. There were huge circles under her eyes, and she’d obviously been crying. She looked waiflike and terrified. Not a muscle flickered in Rupert’s face. For a few seconds he gazed at her.

  “How did you get in here?” he said coldly.

  Then, as the tears began to roll down her cheeks, he crossed the caravan, taking her in his arms. After Laura’s opulent curves she felt as frail as a child.

  “Sweetheart, it’s all right.”

  “I’m so desperately sorry,” she sobbed. “I know you g-got drunk, and into that dreadful fight, because I was real mean to you the day before yesterday.”

  “You weren’t.”

  “I was, too. You were down because you’d been dropped, and all I did was come on sanctimonious and blame you. I should have been supportive and kind. You’re right; I am a prude. I don’t love Harold at all. I love you and and it’s stupid to pretend I don’t.”

  She was crying really hard now. Rupert got out his handkerchief, then not able to remember whether he’d used it to clean up Laura Bridges, shoved it hastily away and grabbed a handful of Kleenex from the box on the side.

  “You can make love with me whenever you want to,” she said.

  “Only if you want to,” he said gently.

  “I do,” her lip trembled, “more than anything else in the world. I’m just s
o scared of losing you.”

  Rupert tightened his grip on her. “You’re not going to.”

  “I want you so much now,” she pleaded.

  Christ, Rupert said to himself, I come home smelling like an old dog fox, and I’m so pooped I can’t do a thing.

  He took her hands. “I respect you far too much to force you,” he said gravely.

  “You don’t have to be kind. I really want it.”

  “It wouldn’t be right.” Then he had a brainwave. “Why don’t we get married?”

  “Married?” she whispered incredulously.

  “Why not? It’s different.”

  “Are you sure you’re not still…”

  “Drunk? Not at all, I haven’t had a drop since yesterday lunchtime.” He pulled off his boots, then collapsed into bed beside her.

  Then, removing his signet ring, he slid it onto her wedding ring finger. “That’ll have to do, ’til I get you an engagement ring.”

  She gazed at it, speechless, turning it over and over.

  “You really mean it?”

  “Really.” He lay back and laughed. “I was so mad at you yesterday morning, I even changed Macaulay’s name. Now you’ll be changing yours, perhaps I’d better call him Campbell-Black. Christ, you’re beautiful. I can fall asleep for the rest of my life counting freckles.”

  Next minute he was fast asleep.

  He was woken by Helen an hour before the court case.

  “My God,” he said, startled. Then, seeing his signet ring on her finger, he gradually brought the last few days’ events into focus.

  “Rupert,” she said, frantically twisting the ring around and around, “when you came in this morning you asked me to marry you. But honestly, I’ll understand if you’ve decided against it.”

  “Darling.” As he pulled her into his arms he could smell toothpaste and clean-scented flesh. She must have been up for hours. “Of course I meant it. There’s only one obstacle.”

  “What’s that?” she said, going pale.

  “I don’t remember you accepting.”

  Helen flung her arms round his neck, kissing him fiercely. “Oh, yes, please. I promise I’ll be supportive. I’ll learn about horses and be a real help in your career.”