Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  “Have you ever tried that?” said Billy, handing the book to Rupert.

  “Once in Solihull during the Royal.”

  “Let me see,” said Janey.

  “No, you can’t,” said Billy, “or you’d go back to bed for the rest of the morning. And you’ve only got another week to get brown.”

  “Billy never finished Histoire d’O,” said Janey, peeling a piece of loose skin off her heel. “He kept having to take me upstairs between pages.”

  Rupert got up to pour himself a drink. He was broad-shouldered, bronzed, and rippling fit as any of his horses, thought Janey. She lifted her thighs slightly off the lilo, so the flesh fell downwards and they looked thinner.

  “Bikinis are awfully stupid things,” said Janey. “You look as though you’d got one on when you take it off.”

  “Take it off then,” said Billy idly, not looking up from his book.

  Janey encountered a searching look from Rupert.

  “All right,” she said, and removed her bikini. Her breasts had a soft, honeyed ripeness, her round belly swelled like a fig, and her bush was shaved, leaving her as smooth as a pink snooker ball. Helen, rigid with shock and envy, couldn’t take her eyes off her. Billy looked up and found Rupert staring at Janey with an erection like a steeple. Next moment Billy found he had an erection like a steeple too.

  “Christ, it’s like a cathedral city round here,” he said, rolling over and returning to his book.

  Without turning his head, Rupert said to Helen, “Take your bathing dress off, too.”

  “I can’t. I burn so easily.”

  “Use plenty of oil,” said Janey, her breasts moving as she handed Helen the Amber Solaire.

  “I’m fine,” snapped Helen.

  “Take it off,” repeated Rupert, with a distinct edge to his voice.

  “No! What would Jomo think? It’s all right for Janey; she’s a guest. I’d never be able to look Abdul in the face again when I discussed desserts.”

  She turned back to Crime and Punishment and read a whole page without taking in a word. Abdul seemed to take an enormously long time clearing up ashtrays and taking orders for drinks.

  I can’t do it, I can’t, thought Helen in panic. I can’t take my clothes off in front of them and besides, said an inner more truthful voice, my boobs aren’t as good as Janey’s.

  Janey didn’t bother to dress for a late lunch, which started with salad Niçoise. A large piece of tuna fish fell on her left breast. Rupert removed it with a spoon. Everyone, including Abdul, giggled immoderately, except Helen, who was a tight knot of embarrassment inside. Realizing this, Billy tried to persuade Janey to get dressed. But the atmosphere was getting more and more highly charged.

  “I’m going to have a siesta,” said Janey, who’d been exchanging lingering glances with Rupert. Inside, seeing her flushed face and bloodshot eyes, she felt irritated at how awful she looked and wondered how she could have flirted so much with him.

  The next minute Billy had come up behind her, catching her oiled breasts in his hands, kissing the back of her neck, slipping his hands between her legs, which seemed even more oiled.

  “Christ, you’re excited,” he said.

  Instantly they were on the bed, not bothering to close the windows or the door.

  Helen went into her bedroom next door. Despite the oppressive heat, she was trembling violently. She could hear Janey’s cries and moans and hastily shut the window. Rupert came in, red-faced and hard-eyed.

  “God, it’s hot in here. Why the hell have you shut the window?” Opening it, he paused for a few seconds, listening to Janey and Billy, a half-smile on his face. Helen was desperate for him to make love to her gently and tenderly, not because she really wanted it, but because she’d seen the intense, predatory way he’d suddenly started looking at Janey. She’d die if he had an affair with her.

  “Rupert, I do love you.”

  “Why don’t you show it, then?”

  “It’s so hard when you’re always so angry with me.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He walked out, slamming the door.

  He returned when it was dark and Helen was changing for dinner, grabbing her irritably. Helen shrank away. “I’ve just taken a bath and the Mountleys are coming to dinner.”

  “So the Campbell-Blacks aren’t coming, hurrah, hurrah. Why the hell did you ask them?” Then answered for her. “Because they’ve already asked us twice and you can drop literary names all evening.”

  Professor Mountley was in his fifties, an American who taught English Literature at Nairobi University. His English wife, a little younger, was a show-jumping groupie.

  “She knows even more about my bloody horses than I do,” said Rupert.

  Rupert mixed white ladies and they all sat on the terrace, gazing at the green pigeons and the enormous stars and listening to the rustle of night creatures: frogs bubbling like a cauldron, the hysterical chatter of baboons, and the water pump sound of approaching lion.

  “I’m beginning to understand why evacuee children were so frightened of cows in the war,” said Janey.

  “Nice to be here,” said Professor Mountley, raising his glass to Helen.

  “Nice to be still here,” said Janey. “I’m sure some leopard is going to gobble me up.”

  “Did you know warthogs lead exemplary married lives?” said Mrs. Mountley.

  “No wonder there aren’t any in Gloucestershire,” said Rupert.

  Rupert and Billy were drinking steadily, Janey only less so because it might be bad for the baby, and because she didn’t want to get too flushed. After long lovemaking, a sleep, three Alka-Seltzers, and a bath, she was feeling wonderful. She was wearing a frangipani flower in her hair and a white, ruffled, slightly transparent shirt, through which could be glimpsed her rosily sunburnt breasts. Conscious of Billy’s adoration, the professor’s admiration, and Rupert’s blatant lust, she was getting thoroughly overexcited.

  Before dinner, Helen had gone in and offered her a choice of blue or lime green caftans. Being pregnant, she said, Janey might find them more comfortable. (“Comfortable indeed,” Janey had snorted to Billy. “Shapeless and ugly, you mean.”) If she wasn’t aware of Helen’s lack of malice, she’d have thought she was doing it on purpose.

  “Billy’s been reading all about orgies today,” she said to Professor Mountley at dinner.

  “Janey!” said Helen furiously.

  “We call it group therapy in the States,” said the professor, with a nervous laugh.

  Soon they were all discussing orgies.

  I can’t bear it, thought Helen. I wanted a nice civilized evening discussing Crime and Punishment with the professor and all anyone can talk about is sex. They were all philistines. Earlier in the week she’d lent Janey her precious copy of A Hero of Our Time, and Janey had dropped it in the bath. Rupert was talking to Janey in an undertone. Frantically she tried to lip read what they were saying.

  Billy, sensing her distress, patted her arm. “Everything’s under control.”

  The Mountleys left around midnight, when everyone was still sitting round the table. The professor was very reluctant to go, but Mrs. Mountley had recently become a grandmother and felt things were definitely getting out of hand.

  Helen, having seen them off, stood on the balcony breathing in the heady smell of warm earth, frangipani, dust, and burning charcoal. Beyond the garden she could see the gleaming eyes of waiting animals. But the animals inside the house frightened her much more. Determined to break the spell, she went back into the dining room.

  “Don’t know about you, but I’m absolutely exhausted.”

  Rupert looked up, a long cigar clamped between his white teeth.

  “Let’s have another drink,” he said, getting up and filling everyone’s glasses with brandy, “and then let’s go to bed,” he paused, “together.”

  Helen laughed nervously. “Together?”

  “Sure—why not?”

  Janey got up, her eyes glittering. “D
o we use your bedroom or ours.”

  “I’d prefer a home fixture,” said Rupert. “And besides, our bed is bigger.”

  He strolled over to Janey and began to kiss her. Frozen with horror, Helen watched him take her pink breast out of the white shirt and gently stroke it, then he undid the zip of her trousers. Helen shot a panic-stricken look at Billy, only to see him watching with fascinated pleasure.

  Janey ran laughing into the bedroom. Giving a view halloo, Billy followed her. Rupert turned to Helen, holding out his hand.

  “Come on, darling, or you’ll miss the first act.”

  Helen looked at him aghast. “We can’t! what about the servants?”

  “I sent them home hours ago.” He grabbed her arm.

  At the bedroom door she balked. Billy, already undressed, was sitting on the bed drinking brandy, watching Janey and wearing Helen’s sun hat. He was roaring with excited laughter and had a huge erection. Janey was standing in front of the mirror, tossing her hair back, spraying Helen’s most expensive scent over her boobs, and jiggling them so they caught the light. Helen turned to bolt, but Rupert’s viselike grip on her arm tightened.

  “No you don’t. Don’t be a fucking spoilsport. We might finally find out what turns you on.” Shoving her towards the bed, he turned the key and pocketed it. Turning to Billy, he added, “It’s harder than getting Snakepit into the lorry.”

  Billy took off the sun hat and turned to Helen.

  “Come on, lovie, it’ll be fun. No one’s going to eat you.”

  “Everyone’s going to eat her,” said Rupert and, pulling down Helen’s panties and lifting her dress and her pink silk petticoat, he kissed her bush. As she wriggled frantically away, his hand clamped down on her bottom.

  Across the room her eyes met Janey’s, which were mocking and slightly contemptuous.

  “Come and help me undress her,” Rupert said to Janey.

  As he peeled off the black dress and the petticoat, Janey undid the pink bra.

  “Lovely underwear,” she said. “Did you get it at Janet Reger?”

  Helen covered her pitifully small breasts with one hand, clasping the other over her bush.

  “I can’t, I can’t,” she pleaded to Rupert in panic. “I truly can’t.”

  “Don’t be so bloody wet,” he hissed. “Do you want to make me look a complete idiot. Here she is, all yours,” he added and, scooping her up, dropped her on the bed between Janey and Billy. The fastest trouser-dropper in the business, next minute he was on the bed beside Janey.

  From then on it was a heaving anthill of legs and arms. Helen lay beneath Rupert, her eyes glazed, her hair coming down, as responsive as a corpse, aware that Rupert was fondling Janey’s breasts at the same time. Janey, determined to put on a virtuoso performance, climbed on top of Billy, bucking like a bronco, arching her back in pleasure, writhing and wriggling against Rupert’s hands.

  Then they changed over and, despite shutting her eyes, Helen knew Billy was inside her. He was much solider and heavier, yet gentler than Rupert.

  “I’m not hurting you, am I, angel?” he breathed in her ear, running his hands over her body. “You’re so beautiful. Please enjoy it.”

  Helen didn’t respond, lying rigid with horror, her teeth clenched, eyes closed. Billy, her dear, dear friend. How could he do this to her? But Billy was watching Janey bucking on top of Rupert. God, she looked wonderful! He was so proud of her!

  “I’m coming,” cried Rupert suddenly, his face contorting.

  “So am I,” said Janey, screaming and threshing.

  She might be faking, thought Billy, but it’s a lovely performance, and next moment he’d shot into Helen. Looking down, he saw two tears welling out of her closed eyes and coursing down her cheeks.

  “Don’t cry, angel. Please don’t cry.”

  More tears welled.

  Oh Christ, he thought. We shouldn’t have forced her. He rolled off, gathering her against him. Rupert gave Janey a long, long kiss, then eased out of her and said in an undertone, “See if you can get Helen going.”

  “Move over,” Janey said to Billy, pushing him to the left of the bed. “Our turn now.” She trailed her fingertips up Helen’s thighs. Helen gave a moan of terror, shrinking away from Janey, eyes darting frantically for a way of escape. But, like bookends, Rupert and Billy blocked her exit.

  “No, no, no,” she sobbed, as Janey’s insistent fingers started burrowing inside her, as she felt Janey’s breasts flopping on her stomach and Janey’s tongue on her breasts.

  “Jesus,” Billy muttered to himself. “I’ll be off again in a minute.”

  “Please don’t be frightened, Helen,” whispered Janey, as she caressed and stroked. “We’re all having such a good time, we want you to enjoy it too.”

  I can’t go on forever, thought Janey, five minutes later. No wonder Rupert complains she’s frigid. She needs twenty-four hours’ defrosting. Rupert, bored with a spectator role, crawled down the bed and entered the slippery warmth of Janey from behind, so he could watch Helen. She looked like a martyr at the stake. Putting his hand around, he found that, despite Janey’s ministrations, she was as dry as a marathon runner’s throat.

  She’s useless, he thought.

  Suddenly, with Rupert behind Janey, Helen saw a way of escape. Shoving Janey to the left, she wriggled away from her and, before any of them had realized it, had jumped off the bed and stumbled across the room. In Rupert’s pocket she found the key.

  “Come here,” he snarled.

  For once she was in luck. In his excitement, Rupert hadn’t locked the door properly. Crying hysterically, she managed to slip out, slam the door, and turn the key, just as he crashed against it. She longed to run away into the night, but on the terrace the moon had gone in and everywhere was as black as ink. She heard the dry cough of a leopard and decided to settle for the third bedroom. There were no sheets on the bed. Huddled under the counterpane, gazing unseeingly at the bookcase, she shuddered until dawn. If her sleeping pills hadn’t been in the bathroom cupboard, which could only be reached by going through the bedroom, she would have taken the lot. Any minute she expected an enraged Rupert to appear and drag her back to the torture chamber.

  But the others were enjoying themselves.

  “The grown-up has gone to bed now,” said Janey.

  “All hands on dick,” said Rupert, filling up the glasses.

  Playing games of their own, they carried on till morning.

  50

  Ringing home next day, Helen discovered that Marcus was in bed with tonsillitis and a temperature of 103. She was so riddled with guilt that she felt so relieved there was a really good excuse to fly straight home by herself.

  In recent months the tonsillitis attacks had been getting closer together. The antibiotics were having less effect and Marcus was looking so waiflike that Helen accepted James Benson’s recommendation that he should have his tonsils out at once.

  “They’re as big as billiard balls. Marcus’ll be much better shot of them. It won’t cure the asthma, but all the illnesses he’s having as a result of the infected tonsils are pulling him down. There’s a very good man at the Motcliffe in Oxford. He’ll only be in hospital for four or five days.”

  “Can I go in with him?”

  “I honestly don’t recommend it. You’ve been under a lot of strain recently.” Privately Benson thought he’d never seen her look so wretched. “Leave him with experts who see this operation fifty times a week.”

  “You’re saying I’m no good as a mother,” said Helen, beginning to shake.

  “No, no,” said Benson reassuringly. “I’m saying you’re too good.”

  “It’s certainly been a stressful year. D’you think that’s making his asthma worse?”

  Benson shrugged. “Probably. Children are like radars; Marcus must realize how unhappy Rupert’s making you.”

  Thank God we didn’t take the kids to Kenya, thought Helen, with a shudder.

  “Rupert wouldn’t want m
e to go in with him.”

  “Well, don’t. By all means visit him during the day, but go home and get a good night’s sleep every night.”

  The night before Marcus was due to have his tonsils out, at the beginning of March, Helen and Rupert went to a big ball in London to raise funds for the Tory Party. It was the sort of invitation that Rupert would normally have refused; but, surprisingly, he was rather a fan of Mrs. Thatcher, the new prime minister, and felt she needed every bit of help if the Tories were to stay in power.

  “You wouldn’t be able to afford to have Marcus’s tonsils out privately if the Socialists brought in a wealth tax.”

  They went very grandly to the ball with several ministers and their wives. Helen found the evening a nightmare. Hollow-eyed, thinner than ever, her black ball dress had had to be taken in yet again. She knew she was being a damper on the evening, but all she could think about was Marcus in his white hospital bed and the surgeon’s knife going into his little throat in the morning. All around her, every table seemed filled with ravishing, chattering women flirting with bland smooth-haired men. At the same table a be-diamonded brunette with a roving eye, who’d already had a long amorous dance with Rupert, was surreptitiously holding hands with one Tory minister and, at the same time, making animated conversation to his wife.

  The whole world’s at it, thought Helen, in despair.

  There was Rupert coming off the dance floor, looking around for fresh talent. Goodness, he was going up to Amanda Hamilton, the much-admired wife of the minister for foreign affairs. Now she was smiling up at him and he was taking her onto the floor. She must be forty, but very attractive in a determined sort of way—driving her husband Rollo on from success to success, knowing everyone, rigidly governed by the social calendar.

  Rupert had actually met Amanda Hamilton before, at a party last June, and had promptly asked her out to lunch.

  “No, I can’t,” she had replied in her shrill, piercing voice. “Next week’s Ascot.”

  “The week after then.”