Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  Fen was flattered by the fame and adulation, but all her energies were centered on the horses; all she cared about was Billy.

  The horses were going superbly, except for Hardy, who was growing more ungovernable. He was too strong and fly, and ever since he’d run away with her at the Royal and Lancaster early in the month, jumping right over two rows of girl guides sitting quietly by the ringside, Fen had been frightened of him, and he knew it. If he got any worse, he’d be a serious danger to Jake when he started riding again.

  The horses occupied her more than full time, and it was only on the endless drives, or when she fell into bed, usually long after midnight, that she allowed herself to think of Billy.

  Rumors filtered through on the groom grapevine that all was not well in the Lloyd-Foxe household. Tracey told Dizzy, who told Sarah, who told Fen, of endless rows into the night, of Janey opening Billy’s suitcase on the motorway and throwing all his clothes out of the window, because she thought he was driving too fast, of Janey storming out of a BSJA party because she heard Fen was coming, of Billy looking white and strained, and uncharacteristically snapping at the grooms.

  So Fen lived on the crumbs of hope. She knew Billy would make every effort to save his marriage, but she couldn’t help counting the days to Wembley in October, when they would all be under the same roof for a week.

  The following evening a very tired Billy arrived home from the Lisbon show. It was the first show to which Janey had not accompanied him since they got back together. She had stayed at home to write a piece on international polo players. At first, Billy found it a relief to be away from the rows and hysterics, but it was not long before the old demons started nagging him. He had forgiven Janey totally for going off with Kev, but he couldn’t stop the sick, churning fear which overtook him when he rang home and she wasn’t there. He hated the idea of her being closeted with handsome polo players. He remembered how she’d first interviewed him. He could hear her now: “In the last chukka, how amazing! You are brilliant, and what amazing right arm muscles. Let me feel them. You have to be so brave to play polo.”

  He and Rupert had reached Penscombe as a great red September sun was falling into the beech wood. The trees had hardly started to turn, but there was already a ring of lemon-yellow leaves round the mulberry tree in the center of the yard and a wet leaf smell of autumn in the air. Having supervised the unloading and settling-down of his horses, Billy decided to walk the half-mile home through the dusk. He needed a few minutes to prepare himself for Janey. What sort of mood would she be in? Would she have missed him? Would she have ransacked his drawers, frenziedly searching for evidence? He dreaded Wembley, because Fen’s presence would trigger off more abuse.

  Dew was already whitening the grass, the blue smoke from a hundred bonfires was blending with the damp vapors rising from the stream at the bottom of the valley. A blackbird was scolding as he approached the cottage; the golden dahlias in the front garden were already losing their color in the fading light. The sick feeling of menace overwhelmed him once more. There were no lights on in the cottage.

  Oh God, where was she? She knew he was coming home this evening. He broke into a run, slipping on the wet leaves and the mud. He banged the gate noisily behind him. That should give the polo player a chance to leap for his breeches. He mustn’t think that. Next moment Mavis hurtled down the path, greeting him in ecstasy. The front door was open. Janey must have gone out in a hurry. Despairingly, he dropped his case on the yellow flagstones in the hall, so he had two hands free to stroke Mavis’s joyful, wriggling body.

  “Billy, darling is that you?” called Janey.

  Overwhelmed with relief, he could only croak out, “Yes.”

  “I’m in the drawing room.”

  He found her sitting at her typewriter, wearing only his sleeveless Husky and a pair of scarlet pants.

  “I thought you weren’t here,” he muttered.

  She got to her feet and ran to him.

  “Oh, darling, I’m sorry. The piece was going so well, I couldn’t be bothered to put the light on.”

  “You’ll ruin your eyes,” said Billy. “Sorry to interrupt. Why don’t you keep on working?”

  “ ’Course not, now you’re back. How d’you get on?”

  Billy unzipped the holdall, produced a handful of rosettes, and chucked them down on the table.

  “Brilliant,” said Janey, sorting them out. “Two firsts, three seconds, a third, a fourth, and two fifths.”

  “The first was the Grand Prix, and there’s lots of loot, a lovely kitchen clock and a television set and a very obscene china bull with a huge cock. I left it at Rupert’s. I’ll bring it down in the morning.”

  Watching her poring over the rosettes, her breasts falling forward, strands of bush escaping from the red satin pants, Billy felt his own cock rising and wished he didn’t always want her so much. Sex had not been brilliant lately because Janey had so often fallen asleep drunk, but if they could avoid a row before they went to bed, he might get to screw her tonight.

  Janey looked up, misconstruing the expression on his face.

  “Sorry I look so awful, but I took Mavis for a walk in the woods at lunchtime and my trousers got drenched, so I took them off and couldn’t be bothered to find any more.”

  “You look lovely.”

  “I’ve been a good little wife,” Janey went on. “There’s a casserole bubbling in the oven. I’ve ironed all your shirts; not very brilliantly, I’m afraid; some of the collars curl worse than Mavis’s tail, and I’ve got your dinner jacket back from the cleaners.”

  Billy was pleased she was in high spirits; then he felt a lurch of fear. The last time he’d seen her in this manic mood, floating-on-air, that inner-directed radiance that had nothing to do with him coming home, was when she was starting her affair with Kev. He desperately wanted a huge drink to blot out the terrors.

  Janey read his thoughts. “Let’s have a drink.”

  He followed her into the kitchen, which looked amazingly tidy. Janey got down two glasses and, instead of reaching for the vodka for herself, got a carton of orange juice out of the fridge. Filling the glasses, she handed one to him.

  “Aren’t you drinking vodka?”

  “Nope. I’ve got something to celebrate.”

  “You’ve sold the book in America?”

  “Nope, I’m coming off the booze for a few months.” She chinked her glass against his. There was no mistaking the sparkle in her eyes. Billy couldn’t bear to look at her anymore. He went to the dresser and started flipping through his pile of mail.

  “Seven and a half months, in fact,” said Janey.

  “What?”

  “That’s the time I’m giving up booze for.”

  “Whatever for?” said Billy wearily.

  “I’m going to have a baby.”

  Billy dropped the pile of letters.

  “Your baby,” said she softly. “Our baby.”

  “How d’you know?” he muttered. There had been so many false alarms.

  “James Benson confirmed it today.”

  “Is he sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Billy turned incredulously.

  Then she ran to him, flinging her arms round him, burying her face in his shoulder.

  “Oh, Christ,” he said, “how wonderful. Oh Christ, how wonderful. Where can I hug you that I won’t hurt it?”

  “Anywhere you like. It’s only six weeks old.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Benson?”

  “I didn’t want you to get too excited. I told myself if I could manage to keep my trap shut until I’d had the test, it’d be all right. It’s like you not drinking until all the bills are paid off.”

  “They are now. Lisbon wiped out the lot. Oh, angel, I’m so happy.”

  “Are you sure?” she said in an uncertain voice. “You don’t f-feel,” she stumbled over the word, “I’ve done it to trap you into staying with me?”

  She took his face
in her hands and found it was wet with tears.

  “I was so miserable about the low sperm count,” he muttered. “I felt such a shit not being able to give you a baby. Oh, darling, I’m so happy. It’s the best news I’ve ever had. Can we ring my mother and tell her? She’ll be beside herself.”

  “D’you think?” asked Janey doubtfully. “She hasn’t paid the subscription to my fan club for a long time.”

  “ ’Course she will.”

  “Oh, and I told Helen,” said Janey. “She rang this afternoon, and I was so excited I had to tell someone.”

  “Was she pleased?”

  “Ish. You know Helen,” she said, “ ‘It’ll be a real positive experience for you, Janey. After all, you’re still just at prime child-bearing age.’ The silly cow.”

  Billy grinned. “I still can’t take it in. God, it’s wonderful.”

  The telephone went. Billy leapt on it.

  “Hi. Guess what? Oh, you know,” he said, sounding a little deflated. “Helen must have told you. Isn’t it? I haven’t come down to earth yet.”

  “Rupert is terribly pleased,” said Billy as he put down the receiver. “He wanted to bring a magnum of Krug over, but I said it’d be wasted on us, so he suggested some extra strong grass that Guy had sold him.”

  Janey giggled. “No, that’s all behind us. We’re responsible parents-to-be now. Let’s go and have a fuck instead.”

  Fen and Sarah arrived at Wembley just before midnight on Sunday. Fen was utterly shattered. She hadn’t eaten or slept properly for weeks. Jake could only help so much, as though by remote control. She’d had a bad fall from Hardy and her back still ached. The very thought of jumping the four horses all week, in big classes that went on late into the evening, filled her with exhaustion.

  Next morning, on her way to declare, she looked through the red curtains and saw Billy walking the course for a novice class. He was wearing old green cords and a tweed coat and laughing at some crack of Rupert’s. He looked so happy and carefree and so much younger. Her heart twisted with longing. I’m not cured, she thought in panic. In the secretary’s tent she found Humpty and Griselda, who both turned their backs on her. Oh, God, how long was this stupid pantomine going on?

  Early in the evening, when she was least expecting it, she bumped into Billy. He was very friendly, but shifty somehow, not meeting her eyes and firing questions about Jake and the yard, asking after Laurel twice and congratulating her in a hearty, most unBillyish way. He seemed almost in a hurry to get away from her, which left her far more uneasy and depressed than the other riders shunning her.

  She wandered down to the stables. Macaulay’s top door was shut to stop his adoring public feeding him and tugging souvenir hairs out of his mane. She slid into the box and shut the doors quickly behind her. Macaulay whickered with pleasure but didn’t get up, so she sat down on the straw beside him, stroking his mane, still crinkly from the afternoon plaits.

  There were two classes that evening—a fancy dress pair relay and then the Sunday Times Cup, worth £10,000. She hadn’t entered the relay because she was scared no one would want to be her partner. Outside, she heard shrieks of laughter. Standing up, she peered through the crack in the box and saw Billy and Rupert teetering past wearing fishnet stockings, three-inch heels, and coats and skirts with coconuts heaving in their twin-sets. Rupert, immaculate in a blond wig, was Mrs. Thatcher; Billy, wearing a mop on his head, was Shirley Williams. Then they were gone, and next door she could hear Sarah getting Hardy ready for the Sunday Times Cup. Fen sighed and sat down beside Macaulay again. She was just nodding off when she heard hoofs clattering outside, and an excited voice saying: “Guess what? Gossip, gossip, gossip.” It was Dizzy.

  “What?” said Sarah, coming to the door.

  “Where’s Fen?” asked Dizzy.

  “In the lorry, I think. I haven’t seen her for some time. Come on, out with it.”

  “Janey Lloyd-Foxe is pregnant.”

  Fen’s hand tightened convulsively on Macaulay’s mane.

  “Jesus,” said Sarah. “When did you find out?”

  “Well Count Guy, Billy, Rupert, and Driff were all declaring. And Count Guy was ribbing Billy, saying he’d heard some très interessant rumors, and Billy went all scarlet and pleased and admitted Janey was having a baby. Count Guy was tickled pink, of course. He didn’t like Billy being separated from Janey, in case he started running after Lavinia again. Anyway, they were busy congratulating each other when bloody Driffield said, “Who’s the father? Kevin Coley?” The next minute Billy let him have one on the jaw—wham—sending Driff flying across the tent. Then Billy jumped on Driff with his hands round Driff’s neck, howling, ‘Take it back, you effing bastard,’ and other pleasantries.”

  “Golly,” said Sarah.

  “Rupert and Count Guy dragged Billy off and Driffield said he’d get Billy suspended. ‘No, you won’t,’ said Rupert. ‘There’s nothing in the BSJA rules about eliminating a competitor before an event, only during.’ ”

  Both grooms started to giggle.

  “Anyway,” Dizzy went on, “Malise made Driffield apologize. Driff said it was only a joke and Billy, Rupert, and Guy turned on their booted heels and stalked out undeclared, and had to come back five minutes later when Driffield had gone. So it looks as though Driff, not your poor boss, is going to be the next candidate for Coventry.”

  “Christ,” said Sarah, “Fen’ll go bananas when she hears. He must be mad about Janey to punch Driff. I’m glad someone has at last; he’s such a poisonous little toad.”

  “I thought Billy couldn’t have kids,” said Dizzy. “Do you think it is Kev’s?”

  Like a sleepwalker, Fen came out of Macaulay’s box.

  “Fen,” gasped Dizzy, backing into the patiently waiting Arcturus. “We didn’t realize you were there.”

  “Obviously not,” said Fen, “or you wouldn’t keep Rupert’s horse hanging round in the cold. All you bloody well do all day is gossip.”

  Not even bothering to close Macaulay’s door, she walked unsteadily away from them. “Billy’s going to have a baby,” she muttered over and over again through trembling lips. She had no idea where she went, but she ended up in the lorry, locking the door behind her.

  A few minutes later she heard pounding on the door.

  “Fen, it’s Sarah. They’re walking the course.”

  “I don’t care,” sobbed Fen. “Leave me alone.”

  “Please—I’m sorry about your overhearing everything, but Hardy’s all ready and I know you wanted to jump him in this class.”

  “Go away, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Let me in. I want to look after you.”

  Fen didn’t answer. She lay on her bed, sobbing convulsively, shuddering like a palsied dog. She couldn’t cope anymore. There was no future, nothing, nothing. The light had gone out at the end of the tunnel; both ends were blocked up; there was no hope. “Oh, Billy, oh, Billy,” she groaned.

  Then she heard someone fiddling with the door handle, then voices, then more fiddling and the door was forced open and the inside of the living area was flooded with light.

  “Go away,” Fen screamed. “I can’t take it. I simply can’t take it.”

  Then she saw a man’s figure framed in the doorway.

  “Billy,” she croaked, in an insane moment of hope. “Oh, Billy.”

  “Afraid not, sweetheart,” drawled a voice. “You’ll just have to put up with second best.”

  It was Dino Ferranti.

  Fen slumped back on the bed. “Leave me fucking alone.”

  “You can’t fuck alone. It’s a physical impossibility,” said Dino, sitting down on the bed and drawing her close to him. “There, honey, hush, hush.” He stroked her hair, damp with tears, feeling her drenched shirt and jersey against him, horrified by the fragility of her body.

  “I love him so much I don’t know what to do.”

  “Hush, don’t try to talk.” Gradually he managed to calm her.

  “What
am I to do?” she repeated shakily.

  Dino pulled off a piece of paper towel, dried her eyes, and held out another piece for her to blow her nose with.

  “There are still twelve riders to jump before you. You’re gonna get dressed and jump that course.”

  “I am bloody not.”

  “Sure you are. Just figure if this had happened in L.A. You couldn’t just not jump. Every round’s a dress rehearsal for that day, right?”

  “Los Angeles is ten months away,” snapped Fen. “I’m having difficulty getting through the next five minutes.”

  She was shivering violently now.

  Dino poured her a glass of brandy.

  “Have a slug of this.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Yes, you do. Open your mouth.” He almost forced it down her throat.

  “Bastard,” said Fen, but she drank it.

  “Now get out of those clothes.” Like a father, he removed her shirt and tie, which were streaked with lipstick and mascara.

  “That’s my lucky shirt and tie,” moaned Fen, covering her breasts with her arms.

  “Haven’t brought you much luck today,” said Dino. “Try another combination.” He held out a clean shirt for her.

  “I am not going to jump,” said Fen mutinously. “Not on Hardy. He’s a nightmare and I haven’t walked the course.”

  “You’ve got time to watch the last three rounds,” said Dino. “Come on, put your jacket on and borrow my shades.”

  “I hate you,” said Fen. “I truly, truly hate you.”

  For a moment, as he stood behind her while she checked her appearance in the mirror, she was struck by the contrast between her waiflike figure, white face, and swollen eyes, and Dino, brown as peanut butter, ridiculously elegant in a black silk shirt and pale gray suit. He’d streaked his hair pale gray since she’d last seen him.

  “Talk about Beauty and the Beast,” she said.

  News of Janey’s pregnancy and Billy punching Driffield had spread rapidly around the showground.

  Fen came out of the lorry to find the place swarming with reporters. Dino dispatched them ruthlessly. No, Fen couldn’t speak to anyone, nor could she sign autographs. With his arms round her, he forced a gangway through the crowd.