by Jilly Cooper
“I’m starving,” she told Driffield. “I don’t think I could ever look at a grapefruit or a lettuce leaf again.”
“How much have you lost?”
“Not enough for Rupert.”
Across the table, Rupert laughed and raised his glass to her.
“I overestimated. You look delectable. Don’t lose an ounce more.”
“I’m going to have fettucine,” said Griselda sourly, “followed by abbacchio al forno.”
“What’s that?” said Ivor.
“Roast baby lamb, cooked whole,” said Griselda, watering at the mouth.
Probably one of those lambs that came over on the ferry, thought Fen savagely. Bloody carnivore. Suddenly she felt less hungry.
“What’s ucelletti?”
“Little songbirds roasted on a spit,” said Griselda. “They’re very good.”
“God, this is a barbaric country,” said Billy. “I’m surprised they don’t casserole all those stray cats hanging round the street.”
“Not enough meat on them,” said Rupert.
Next moment a messenger arrived at the table with two telegrams for Fen. One was from Jake and Tory and the children. When she opened the other, she gasped and went bright scarlet, but failed to shove it back into the envelope quickly enough to stop Driffield reading it.
“ ‘Congratulations,’ ” he read out, “ ‘and good luck. Look forward to seeing you this summer. Dino Ferranti.’ Consorting with the enemy, are we? You could do a lot worse for yourself. Evidently his father’s as rich as Croesus.”
“It’s nothing,” stammered Fen. “We just met briefly at the World Championship. I wonder how he discovered I’d been selected.”
Rupert was looking across at her with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “The sly fox,” he said, “must have been working overtime at Les Rivaux. As well as making a play for you, he was running like mad after Helen.”
“Not nearly as much as Macaulay was running after you,” began Driffield, then stopped when he saw the blaze of anger on Rupert’s face. “Sorry, dangerous subject.”
“Dino,” said Rupert, leaning over to fill up Fen’s glass, “even pursued Helen when we were in America. While she was staying with her mother, he was evidently never off the telephone, pestering her to go out with him.”
Fen felt her happiness evaporate. Seeing her face, Billy said quickly, “Never met Dino. Can’t imagine him pestering anyone. He sounds far too laid back.”
Dinner seemed to go on for hours. Fen found she couldn’t finish her spaghetti.
“Is Billy all right?” she said to Driffield in an undertone. “He seems to have lost all his sparkle and his hair’s even grayer than it was at Olympia.”
“Hasn’t really had a good win since then,” said Driffield. “Malise is only keeping him in the team for sentimental reasons.”
“He’s still so attractive.”
“Who is?” asked Rupert. Throughout dinner his eyes had flickered over Fen. He was the only man she’d ever met who could stare so calculatingly and without any embarrassment, as though he was a cat and she a bird’s nest he was going to raid in his own good time.
“No one,” she said quickly. She turned to Ivor. “Tell me about your new horse. Is he really called John?”
“I think you’ve lost your audience, Ivor,” said Rupert, five minutes later. Fen had fallen fast asleep, her head on the red raffia table mat.
39
Three days later, Fen had reached screaming pitch. The week had been one succession of disasters. She remembered Jake warning her that his first show with the British team had begun catastrophically, but nothing could have been as bad as this. She didn’t even dare ring him at the hospital.
On the first day, she’d entered Desdemona in a speed class for horses who had never jumped in Rome before. The little mare had gone like a whirlwind, treating the course with utter disdain, sailing over fences she couldn’t see over, whisking home in the fastest time by a couple of seconds. Fen was so enchanted by such brilliance she promptly jumped off and flung her arms around Desdemona’s neck, to the delight of the crowd.
The British team were less amused.
“You berk,” said Rupert, as starry-eyed she led Desdemona out of the ring, “you’ve just lost yourself a grand.”
“But she won,” gasped Fen.
“She may have done, but you disqualified her by dismounting before you left the ring.”
“Oh, my God,” said Fen. “Oh, Des, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. What on earth will Jake say?”
“Shouldn’t tell him. Least said, soonest sewn up,” said Ludwig cheerfully, who, as the new winner, rode grinning into the ring to collect his prize money.
In the big class later in the day Fen made two stupid mistakes, putting Macaulay out of the running. Then on the second day in the relay competition, because Rupert always paired with Billy and Ivor with Driffield, Fen was stuck with a reluctant Griselda.
“I’ll show her,” fumed Fen, waiting on Desdemona, holding her hand out ready for the baton, as Griselda cantered up to them after a clear and surprisingly swift round on Mr. Punch. Desdemona, however, had other ideas. Mr. Punch had nipped her sharply several times on the journey out and, at the sight of him thundering down on her, she jumped sharply out of his way, causing Fen to drop the baton.
“What dreadful language,” said Rupert, who was standing nearby, grinning from ear to ear. “What a good thing all those nice Italian spectators can’t understand what Griselda’s saying to Fen.”
Determined to redeem herself in the big class in the evening, Fen rode with such attack that when Macaulay decided he didn’t like the jump built in the shape of a Roman villa and started to dig his toes in, Fen shot straight over his head, covering herself in bruises.
The previous day, Malise had organized some sightseeing. They went to St. Peter’s and saw the statue of St. Peter, with the stone foot worn away by the kisses of the pilgrims.
“I came here with Janey,” Fen overheard Billy saying to Rupert. “I swore that by the end of our life together I’d have kissed her more than the pilgrims had kissed that foot. Perhaps that’s why she pushed off.” He was trying to make a joke of it, but Fen could sense his despair.
Being superstitious, all the riders wanted to visit the Trevi fountain.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Fen, admiring the bronze tritons, the gods and goddesses, the wild horses, and the leaping glistening, rushing cascade of water.
“Only thing missing is Rossano Brazzi,” said Driffield.
“Who’s he?” asked Fen.
“He was in Three Coins in the Fountain. Christ, you must be young. Do you think,” he added, looking at his loose change, “an Irish penny would work?”
“No, it’s bad luck,” said Rupert, chucking in a fifty-pence piece. “I expect you’ll sneak back at dusk and fish that out, Driffield.”
Fen threw in a ten-pence piece.
“Please, Fountain,” she prayed, “when I come back, let it be with a really nice man who loves me as much as I love him.”
Opening her eyes, she found Billy beside her. He had also tossed a fifty-pence piece into the fountain, watching it float down, to land on the bronze and silver floor. His lips were moving, his face haggard, his hair even grayer in the sunlight.
He’s wishing he’ll come back to Rome with Janey, thought Fen. Oh poor, poor Billy.
Back at the show in the afternoon, she hadn’t fared any better. And now she’d been packed off to bed at eleven o’clock, with soothing reassurances from Malise that she was not to worry, she’d soon find her feet and to get a good night’s sleep. How could she possibly sleep with all that din and merrymaking in the streets below?
Her mood was not helped by the fact that Sarah and Dizzy had been asked out by two American tennis stars, over for the tournament which ran concurrently with the horse show. Both grooms had come and had used Fen’s room to bath and wash their hair and change, then had gone off in raging spirits looking g
orgeous.
Fen went out on the balcony. Here I am in the most beautiful city in the world, she thought, with the spring in its green prime, with the streets and parks filled with lovers kissing, holding hands, necking in traffic jams, lying on the grass. Everywhere she went, gorgeous Italian men, with hot, pansy-dark eyes, followed her, wolf whistling, and pinching her bottom, but Rupert and Billy and Malise chaperoned her so fiercely she wasn’t allowed near them. Only that evening at a drinks’ party she’d been chatted up by a fantastic-looking French tennis player, who was just asking her out to dinner when Rupert came up and told him to piss off.
“What’s that you say?” asked the Frenchman.
So Rupert told him in French, even more forcibly, and the Frenchman had gone very white and backed off. That was another thing. Rupert had made terrific verbal passes at her at the World Championship, but now he was treating her as though she was a very boring nine-year-old child he was expected to look after. And that night, no doubt, he and Billy had gone off on the tiles.
She knew she ought to undress and try to sleep. But it was so hot and stuffy she stayed on the balcony watching the lights twinkling in the grounds of the Villa Borghese. Even the moon was wrapped in a gold lurex shawl of cloud, as though she was going out for the evening.
“Nothing in excess,” Apollo’s motto, was carved over the door at the entrance to the hotel. I’m obviously not going to get a chance even to have anything in moderation, Fen thought sulkily.
“Please, Apollo,” she pleaded, “I promise I won’t be excessive. Just let me have a bit of fun.” As if in answer to her prayer, the telephone rang. Fen sprang on it. “Buona notte.”
“Hi,” said a soft voice, “is that Fen?”
“Who’s that?” she squeaked, her heart hammering.
“It’s Dino, Dino Ferranti.”
Fen sat down suddenly on the bed.
“Hello, hello,” he said when she couldn’t speak. “Fen?”
“Yes,” she stammered. “Oh, how blissful to hear you.”
“I sure missed you, baby. Did you get my telegram?”
“Oh, yes. It was so sweet of you. How did you know?”
“I’ve had my spies out. How are you getting on?”
“Not great, I haven’t won a thing.”
“Don’t worry, it’s a helluva course. Has Rupert been leaping on you?”
“On the contrary, they’re all treating me as if I was a typhoid carrier.”
“This is a godawful line,” said Dino.
“Where are you?”
“In Rome.”
“Rome!” She knew she should be cool, but she couldn’t keep the squeak of delight out of her voice.
“Just dropped by to look at a horse. I’m flying out tomorrow. I guess it’s late, but you wouldn’t like to come out, would you?”
“Oh, yes, please.”
“I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”
She’d never washed her hair or bathed so quickly. Thank God, she hadn’t worn her new pink dress and pink shoes yet. She’d been saving them for a special occasion. “Everything in excess,” she told her radiant reflection as she sprayed duty-free perfume, bought on the boat, everywhere: in her shoes, behind her knees and ears and on her bush.
She hoped Dino wouldn’t go off her because she’d cut her hair. She wished she had time to paint her toenails.
She decided not to take the lift, in case she ran into Malise. Instead crept down the huge staircase, clinging onto the banisters for support. Her knees kept giving way. In two minutes she’d see Dino.
Blast! There were Rupert and Driffield in the lobby, apparently examining some expensive jerseys in a glass case. She shot back upstairs, peering through the banisters. Hell! They were still there. She’d just have to brazen it out. Why shouldn’t she go and have a drink with Dino? She reached the bottom of the stairs and was just tiptoeing across the marble floor to the front door, when Rupert and Driffield turned around, both doubled up with laughter.
“What’s the matter?” asked Fen, walking past them, her nose in the air.
“April fool,” said Rupert.
Ignoring them, Fen walked on.
Catching up, Rupert tapped her on the shoulder. “April fool.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I sure missed you, kid. This is Dino Ferranti.”
Fen looked at him, bewildered.
“Is he here already? Where is he?”
Rupert looked down at her, his eyes narrowed to slits, that mocking, cruel smile on his beautiful face.
“In America, as far as I know.”
“He’s not,” said Fen patiently. “He’s in Rome. I’ve just talked to him on the telephone.”
“And he’s come to look at a horse and all the British team are treating you as if you were a typhoid carrier.”
The color drained from Fen’s face.
“It was you,” she whispered.
“Sure was. Don’t you think I’ve picked up quite a good American accent from my wife?”
Fen looked at him with contempt. “You bastard. How could you?”
Rupert shrugged. “New girl’s tease.” He ruffled her hair. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“You bloody won’t,” and, bursting into tears, she ran back upstairs. As she panted, sobbing, up to the second floor Rupert came out of the lift.
“Come on, it was a joke.”
“Not to me, it wasn’t.” She fled down the passage, but as she scrabbled desperately in her bag for her key, Rupert caught up with her.
“Angel, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it would upset you that much.”
“Go away,” she sobbed. “I hate you.”
“Shush, shush,” he said, taking her in her arms. “You’ll wake up Griselda from her ugly sleep.”
“Stop it,” she said, hammering her fists against his chest as tears spilled down her cheeks. But he was far too strong for her.
Next moment he was kissing her quivering mouth. For a second she clenched her teeth together. Then, suddenly aware of his warmth and vitality, she melted and began to kiss him back. Her hands, against her will, crept up over the powerful shoulders, her fingers entwining in the sleek thick hair.
“What the hell are you two doing?” said a voice.
Fen nearly went through the ceiling. Rupert didn’t move.
“What does it look as though we’re doing?” snapped Rupert.
He stopped kissing Fen, but still shielded her in his arms. “Look, Malise, this is entirely my fault, not Fen’s. I enticed her out as a practical joke, pretending to be someone else. Then I followed her upstairs and—er—forced my attentions on her.”
“She didn’t appear to be putting up much resistance,” said Malise coldly.
“That’s my irresistible charm,” said Rupert. Releasing Fen, he opened her door and gave her her bag which had fallen on the carpet. “Go to bed, darling. I’ll sort this out.”
Malise, in a dinner jacket, had been to the theater. Rupert and he glared at each other.
“Well,” said Rupert softly, “what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing, this time,” said Malise, “but you can thank your lucky stars, albeit interpreted by Patric Walker, that I caught you outside the bedroom. If this happens again, I’ll leave you out of the team for the rest of the year.”
Rupert looked unrepentant. “She’s so adorable, it’s almost worth it,” he said.
Billy, who’d forgotten to declare for the following day and had just returned from the show offices, was absolutely livid when he heard what had happened.
“You rotten sod,” he shouted at Rupert. “Didn’t you see the way her little face lit up when the cable arrived? She’s obviously mad about him. How could you do such a fucking awful thing to her? You don’t understand anything about people’s feelings. You’re like a bloody Boy Scout in reverse. You have to do a bad deed every day,” and he walked into his bedroom, slamming the door. Immediately he
dialed Fen’s number.
“If that’s Rupert, you can bugger off.”
“It isn’t. Are you okay?”
“Perfectly,” said Fen in a choked voice.
“Do you want a shoulder to cry on?”
“And get into more trouble with Malise! No, thank you very much,” said Fen with a stifled sob, and hung up.
By morning, misery had hardened into cold rage against Rupert. How could she have betrayed Jake and let herself kiss him back like that and, even worse, have enjoyed it? She was a nymphomaniac virgin. She went out to work the horses, boot-faced, with dark glasses covering her swollen eyes.
Malise came down to watch her, asking her to come and have a cup of coffee with him afterwards.
Perhaps he’ll even send me home, she thought miserably.
But Malise merely wanted to tell her that she hadn’t been picked for the Nations’ Cup. Ivor Braine had pulled a back muscle, so the team would be Rupert, Billy, Driffield, and Griselda.
Hanging her head, Fen reminded Malise of a snowdrop.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so hopeless.”
“You haven’t. You won that class the first day.”
“You don’t want to send me back because you’ve made a ghastly mistake?”
“You have the self-confidence of a snail,” said Malise. “You obviously don’t rate me as a chef d’equipe if you assume I’d select someone who was no good.”
Fen sprinkled chocolate on her cappuccino.
“Wherefore rejoice,” she said moodily, “what conquests brings she home?”
“Oh, you will. Look, you’re a very, very good rider; better, dare I say it, even than Jake when he jumped that first earth-shattering double clear on Sailor in Madrid. But it’s all strange. Macaulay’s strange, you haven’t got Jake to mastermind your every move, Griselda’s bitching, and Rupert and everyone else are letching.”
Fen flushed and bit her lip.
“Rupert really wouldn’t do for you,” he said. “I realize he’s attractive. But Helen’s had so much of that to put up with, and you know how Jake detests him.”
“I didn’t want—it wasn’t like that,” stammered Fen.
