Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  As Helen soothed him to sleep in the early hours of the morning, she found under his pillow one of the little dogs with a ruff from the circus Jake had given him.

  “Want to see Dake again,” murmured Marcus slowly. “Like Dake very much.”

  “Oh so do I, darling,” sighed Helen.

  A week later Janey gave birth to a beautiful, dark-haired boy who weighed seven pounds and happily looked exactly like Billy. They called him Christopher William, soon abbreviated to Christy, and both parents absolutely doted on him.

  Watching Billy in his newfound role as an adoring father, Helen brooded all the more on Rupert’s lack of interest in Marcus.

  On the other hand, she had reason to be grateful to little Christy. As a devoted godmother, she was provided with the perfect alibi. Afternoon or evening, she merely had to tell Charlene she was popping along to see Janey and the new baby. Then, having dumped a bunch of flowers and a glossy magazine and cooed for two minutes, she could rush off to see Jake.

  During the Royal show, she and Jake were able to snatch an afternoon together. Leaving Rupert safely competing in a couple of classes, Jake left Birmingham and drove the eighty odd miles over to Penscombe. Charlene had taken the children to a birthday party, so they had the house to themselves.

  Jake was very jumpy. He hated making love to Helen on Rupert’s territory. He thought of the Mill House with its damp, peeling paint, torn wallpaper, and messy, homely rooms which had suffered eight years of wear and tear from children and animals. Then he looked at this ravishing house, and the green valley, and the tennis court, and the swimming pool, and the garden in its rose-scented midsummer glory. The blatant perfection of the whole thing depressed him. And yet, overwhelming all this was his desperate need to see Helen again, and again, though he hated to admit, the buzz of actually making love to her in Rupert’s huge four-poster. He was amazed how passionate and totally uninhibited she’d become.

  “I never thought I’d like it that way,” she said. “The only problem with soixante-neuf is that neither of you can tell the other how marvelous it is while you’re doing it.”

  “Let’s do it straight next time, so you can,” said Jake.

  “Bighead,” said Helen, rolling onto her front.

  Lying on top of her, Jake slowly returned to earth, kissing her freckled shoulders, gently nibbling the lobes of her ears.

  Helen, who’d buried her face in the pillow, said in a muffled voice, “Jake—I love you.”

  There was a long pause, a horse whinnied from the valley, a dog barked in the distance. Then Jake said, “I love you, too.”

  Lying beside her, smoking a cigarette, not worrying about the smell of tobacco because Rupert wasn’t due back until the following day, he said, “I’ve never said that to anyone in my life before.”

  “Not even to Tory?”

  He shook his head.

  “Why did you marry her, then?”

  “Because she was rich and she bought me my first horse.”

  “Didn’t you love her at all?”

  “Not in the way I love you. As I said, she’s been a very good wife, but we’re all inclined to take her for granted. Dino brought her out. He really bothered with her, and she adored him.”

  “Dino was also very fond of me,” said Helen, her face suddenly sulky. Jake sat up and looked down at her, grinning.

  “I do believe you’re jealous of Tory.”

  Then, seeing the pain and misery in her eyes, he pulled her into his arms. Clinging to him fiercely like a child begging for a bedtime story to ward off the terrors of darkness, she said, “Tell me about the gypsies.”

  He settled her into the crook of his arm.

  “Well, if a woman’s unfaithful to her lover he cuts off her ear or her nose, or scars her cheeks, so you’d better be careful. If your wife’s unfaithful you tie her to a cartwheel and thrash her, or shave her head.”

  “Golly,” said Helen nervously, “how primitive.”

  “Then if you want to marry a girl you send her a spotted handkerchief. If she’s wearing it next time you meet her, you know she’s willing to marry you.”

  Helen was amazed how much it hurt her to ask, “Did you give one to Tory?”

  “Yes. It was very cheap, red cotton. All I could afford at the time. She still keeps it in her jewel case, but it’s terribly faded.”

  He looked at his watch. “Christ, I must go.”

  “Oh, please not.”

  “I’ve got a class at seven. I’ve got to walk the course and it’ll take me an hour to get back in the rush-hour traffic. I’ll have to drive like hell as it is.”

  “Am I jeopardizing your career?”

  “Yes,” he said, kissing her.

  Next minute the doorbell pealed and the dogs went into a frenzy of barking.

  “Christ, who’s that?”

  Helen snuggled up to him. “Lie still. It might go away.”

  The doorbell rang again, the barking increased.

  Naked, Helen crept down the passage and, hidden by the clematis which swarmed over the spare room window, peered out. A minute later she was back in her bedroom, giggling. Jake was already getting dressed.

  “All I can see is a straw hat.”

  “Well, you’d better go and redirect it,” said Jake.

  Wrapping herself in a big rust-colored towel, Helen went downstairs.

  In the doorway she found two elderly women fanning themselves. One was carrying a camera.

  “We thought for an awful moment you were out,” said the first, who was wearing the straw hat.

  “I was in the bath,” said Helen. “Can I help you?”

  “We’ve come to interview you for Loving Mother magazine. Miss Taylor here,” the woman in the straw hat waved in the direction of the woman with the camera, “is going to take the pictures.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Helen froze with horror. She remembered they’d rung and made an appointment weeks ago, and Jake must have rung straightaway afterwards and she’d forgotten to put it in the diary. Suddenly she could feel Jake’s sperm trickling down her legs and backed away hastily, ramming her legs together, hoping they couldn’t smell all the sex and excitement.

  “You’d better come in,” she said weakly. “You must forgive me. I had a panic getting Rupert off to a show this morning,” she lied. “Usually, I’m so punctilious about these things.”

  Miss Crabtree gave a jolly laugh. “Oh, the needs of the great man must take preference.” She stepped into the hall. “What a lovely home.”

  Helen’s mind was racing. How the hell was she going to smuggle Jake out? Then she had a brainwave. “Come onto the terrace; the view’s so lovely. Would you like a drink?”

  Miss Crabtree consulted her watch. “Well, it’s only half-past four. We’d love a cup of tea.”

  “Of course. A cup of tea.” Helen fled into the kitchen, put the kettle on, and rushed up the backstairs, half-hysterical with laughter and terror. She found Jake dressed and trying to make his cigarette butt disappear down the loo.

  “Have you got rid of them?”

  “No; they’ve come to interview me about being a devoted wife and mother.”

  Jake grinned. “They’d better come and interview me.”

  “Shut up. I’ve got them safely on the terrace. You steal out by the back door.”

  Tugging on a dress and a pair of pants, she flung her arms around his neck. “Ring me this evening.”

  Tearing downstairs, she rang Charlene. She could hear tumultuous party noises in the background.

  “Bring the children back at once. Someone’s come to photograph them.”

  “I can’t in the middle of tea, and then there’s the conjuror and Tom and Jerry.”

  “Well, bring them back as soon as possible.”

  They were nearly out of Earl Gray and the only biscuits were shaped like animals and topped with different colored icing. All the cups were in the dishwasher, which wasn’t turned on. She’d have to have a word with Charlene
; things were getting awfully slack.

  She was just drying the cups when Miss Crabtree wandered into the kitchen.

  “It’s rather hot out there, so I thought I’d come and help you. They’re so lovely and cool, these old houses.”

  Any moment, thought Helen in panic, Jake would come down the backstairs into the kitchen, and where the hell had Miss Taylor gone?

  “How old are your children?”

  Helen dragged her mind back.

  “Um—four and two.”

  “What a lovely age.”

  “They’ll be back soon. They’ve gone to a party. I thought we could talk in peace first.”

  “I hope you don’t mind. Miss Taylor’s gone upstairs to find a toilet.”

  Helen gave a whimper of horror. “Oh dear. I hope there’s a clean towel up there.” She was just rushing out of one kitchen door when she heard steps on the backstairs.

  “Why don’t you go and sit in the drawing room,” she pleaded to Miss Crabtree. “It’s awfully cool in there. I’ll bring the tea in.”

  “It might help if you put some tea in the pot,” said Miss Crabtree with a jolly laugh, not budging an inch.

  Tripping over Action Man and an ancient teddy bear, placed on the stair to be taken up to the nursery, Jake fell into the kitchen. To Helen’s amazement, he was carrying a bucket and a J-cloth. She gazed at him despairingly.

  “All right, Mrs. C-B,” he said, putting on a strong cockney accent. “I’ve finished. I’ve done all the upstairs winders, even that little blighter on the top landing. Fort I’d swing to my death.”

  “Oh-oh,” Helen mouthed ineffectually. “Oh, how much is that?”

  Jake scratched his head. “Fifteen pounds,” he said. “There’s a lot of winders.”

  Helen got a fiver and a tenner out of the housekeeping pot.

  “Here you are. Thank you so much.”

  Miss Crabtree, who’d taken matters into her own hands, had made the tea.

  “Would you like a cup?” she added to Jake. “Cleaning windows is an awfully thirsty business, although…” her voice trailed off. He didn’t seem to have cleaned the downstairs windows at all.

  “No, thanks,” said Jake. “I’ll be off.”

  “There are quite a few smears here,” said Miss Crabtree bossily.

  “Only did the top two floors,” said Jake. “I leave the bottom to Mrs. Bodkin. When do you want me again? In a monf’s time?”

  Helen nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Well, cheerio, then.” Jake nodded to Miss Crabtree.

  “I’ll see you out,” mumbled Helen.

  Quite helpless with laughter, they collapsed outside the back door.

  “I’d no idea you were such a good actor,” she said, as he shoved the money back into the pocket of her dress.

  Jake kissed her again. “I’ll ring you after the class is finished tonight.”

  In the kitchen Miss Crabtree was joined by Miss Taylor.

  “What a lovely house. Where’s our hostess?”

  “Saying good-bye to the window cleaner. They’re awfully unclass conscious, aren’t they, the Americans? I mean she’s just as charming to him as she is to us.”

  54

  As the day of the last Olympic trial at Crittleden approached, Jake grew more and more nervous. Hardy’s off days were fewer and Fen had had some good wins on Desdemona. But equally Griselda Hubbard had hit amazing form, and two young short-listed riders, Ralph Naylor and Fiona McFadden, had both jumped brilliantly under pressure at Aachen and several newspapers were agitating for their inclusion in the team. Rupert and Ivor Braine had been so consistent all year, so they were virtually certain of a place.

  Fen was terribly down because Joanna Battie had written a bitchy piece headlined: “Fen—resting on her Laurel,” pointing out that she hadn’t had a decent win on Laurel since the previous year at Wembley, and that Desdemona was too small for an Olympic course. Knowing how desperate Fen was to go, Jake felt almost more apprehensive for her than for himself.

  Rupert, on the other hand, was irritated because Helen refused to make up her mind whether or not she was going to Los Angeles. She used as an excuse the Los Angeles smog being bad for Marcus’s asthma, but in reality she wanted to see if Jake were selected. If he wasn’t, she’d stay behind. Rupert, who was trying to persuade Amanda Hamilton to fly out for a few days, wanted a decision one way or the other.

  The course for the final trial was unnecessarily huge. There were a number of very unhappy rounds before Jake came in. Griselda was on twelve, Ivor eight. Fen had one stop, because she’d come in too fast, and two elements of the combination down. Everyone was grumbling that the combination was unjumpable. Then Jake rode in and proved them wrong by going clear. Thus encouraged, Rupert, Wishbone, and Ludwig went clear. But in the final jump-off, Jake really set Hardy on fire on the long run-up to the last fence to score the fastest time.

  “Well done,” said Fen, desperately trying to be enthusiastic. “You must be picked after that.”

  Jake shook his head. He was horribly afraid it wouldn’t be good enough. They wanted dependability at the Olympics. The selectors locked themselves away. The riders waited and waited for the promised announcement. After an hour biting their nails, Jake and Fen, who were jumping at Stoneleigh early the following morning, decided to push off. If they were selected they’d hear soon enough. If they weren’t it didn’t matter anyway.

  The jams were terrible. They seemed to get caught up in all the holiday traffic. Nobody talked very much. After an hour’s delay on the M4 they decided to cut across country. Bored with tapes, Sarah turned on the lorry radio.

  Fen looked miserably out at the great rolling cornfields, deepened to red gold by the rain. When would she ever see Dino again. When would she ever be happy? Idly she listened to the eight o’clock news. Mrs. Thatcher, the prime minister, would be spending a few days up at Balmoral, staying with the Queen during the summer recess. The Russians had launched another satellite. The unemployed had risen by 20,000 as a result of school leavers.

  “The Olympic show-jumping committee tonight announced their team for Los Angeles,” said the announcer.

  Everyone stiffened. Fen grabbed Sarah’s hand, crossing her fingers on the other. “Oh, please, please God.”

  “The five riders and their horses include: Rupert Campbell-Black and Rock Star, Griselda Hubbard and Mr. Punch,” Sarah gave a groan. “Ivor Braine and John.” The announcer rustled his notes, “Jake Lovell and Hardy and Fenella Maxwell and Desdemona.”

  Giving a whoop of joy, Jake nearly drove off the road.

  The car behind them was trying to overtake and hooted furiously.

  Speechless, Sarah and Fen hugged each other, then Sarah hugged Jake. Then they all started shouting at the tops of their voices and bellowing: “California, here we come.”

  Jake drove to the next village where they found an off-license and bought a bottle of wine.

  “Have one on the house,” said the landlord, putting another bottle in the carrier bag. “I’ve just heard it on the radio. Congratulations.”

  They pulled up on the edge of a field and drank the Muscadet out of mugs, allowing the horses to graze, and watching the sun set.

  “Here’s to you,” said Sarah. “I’m so proud of you both.”

  Next moment Fen had stumbled to her feet and was hugging Desdemona.

  Jake saw that her shoulders were shaking. He put an arm round her. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I’m just so happy.”

  “There’s no need to cry then.”

  “I’m going to see Dino again.” Half-laughing, half-crying, she rubbed away the tears, streaking her face with grimy hands. “I expect he’s got a million other girlfriends by now, but at least I’ll get the chance to say I’m sorry.”

  “Missed him that much, have you?”

  Fen nodded. “There’s never a moment when I’m not missing him. But you wouldn’t understand that, never having been
in love.”

  After the team announcement Malise wrote to all the five riders, confirming their selection. They would be expected to jump together once more as a team at the Dublin Horse Show, the first week in August, then rest their Olympic horses until they flew them out to Los Angeles at the end of the month.

  Leaving Rocky at home to rest, Rupert flew the rest of his Grade A horses over to France for the Deauville and Dinard shows, and was due home on Monday night. He had been deeply scathing of the rest of the Olympic team.

  “A schoolgirl, a cretin, a rip-roaring dyke, and a crippled gypsy. I’ll have to carry the lot of them,” he told Amanda Hamilton.

  Nor was he particularly pleased when Helen decided that she would be coming to Los Angeles after all.

  Helen sat on the terrace, drinking white wine, breathing in the night-scented stock, and reading George Herbert in the fading light:

  “Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart

  Could have recovered greenness.”

  Who indeed? She had never believed, after Kenya, that she would ever be happy again, that she would be totally wiped out by love for Jake, that the only person she wanted to be in the world was the second Mrs. Lovell. Not that Jake was showing any inclination to make her so. She knew that he loved her, except in her frequent moments of panic, and with that, until after Los Angeles, she would have to be content.

  As Rupert was not due back from Dinard until the next day, and Charlene and the children were away for the night, Jake said he might pop in—but only might—she mustn’t expect him. On the eve of departure for Dublin, he was frantically busy loading the lorry. Rupert, taking the easy way, was flying over and letting the grooms do the driving.

  Helen hadn’t done anything except wash her hair and have a bath earlier. She’d learnt superstition from Jake. If she tarted herself up, he wouldn’t make it. Watching a half-moon sailing like a moth up the drained blue sky, she gave a cry of joy, for there, clearly visible, moving along the top road towards Penscombe above the honey-colored stone wall, was Jake’s car.

  Rushing upstairs to the bedroom, she cleaned her teeth, splashed on cologne and, tugging off her panties, leapt into the bath. Holding up the skirt of the yellow dress, she’d worn the night he’d first made love to her, and which she knew he liked, she hastily showered between her legs, shivering with excitement as the hard jet of water flattened her bush and seeped into her vagina.