Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  “They tried. It didn’t make any difference.”

  “Where’s Dino now?” asked Malise.

  “Dropped off Carol’s two horses and then flew Manny’s body back home.”

  “Who’s he riding now?” asked Jake, looking absolutely shattered.

  “Nothing,” sobbed Mary Jo. “That’s what makes it so awful. Manny was our star horse, right, but he was really Dino’s only horse. His father’d been ill and he was letting the yard run down.”

  “Won’t he come to the Games at all?” whispered Fen.

  “He told Carol he couldn’t face it, not after all those years and years of hard work. And he just adored Manny. I tried to call him at his place just now, but his mother said he was too upset to talk to anyone.”

  “Surely he can ride someone else’s horse?” said Rupert. “He’s easily your best rider.”

  Mary Jo allowed herself a faint smile.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Well, almost,” said Rupert.

  “Dino wouldn’t do that to anyone—take their horse off them at this stage, knowing how much work they’d put in.”

  “Seems crazy to me,” said Rupert. “If I was your chef d’equipe I’d put him on one of Carol’s horses.”

  “I’m awfully sorry,” said Malise. “I’ll write to him tomorrow. It’s heartbreaking.”

  “But extremely fortuitous for us,” said Rupert in an undertone, as Mary Jo moved out of earshot to tell Ludwig and Hans.

  “That was totally uncalled for,” snapped Malise. “Dino was definitely in the running for the gold.”

  “Exactly,” said Rupert. “We had better go and have some dinner.”

  “I think I’ll go back to the village,” said Fen, in a high flat voice. “Jet lag’s suddenly got to me. After all, it is four in the morning in England.”

  “Oh, come on, darling,” said Rupert. “Come and see this amazing place. They’ve even got Jacuzzis in the dog kennel. A couple of Bloodies and a good steak and you’ll feel on top of the world.”

  “Honestly, I’m jiggered,” said Fen, who’d gone terribly white.

  “Are you sure?” said Jake, who also seemed stunned by the news about Manny. “I’ll come back with you.”

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  Back at the Olympic village, Fen had to climb four flights of stairs, because some Ghanaian athletes, who’d never been in a lift before, were spending all day riding up and down. Despite her talk of jet lag, Griselda, thank God, was not in the room. As she slumped on the bed, Fen felt the Games had lost any importance. If she blew it next Monday, or the following Sunday, what did it matter.

  Poor Dino, she kept whispering, oh poor, poor Dino. In a daze she got out her writing case. Donald Duck paper didn’t seem suitable, nor a postcard of an athlete running with the Olympic torch. She tore a page out of her diary, headed December—appropriately wintry, some day in the future, when life didn’t matter anymore.

  “Dearest Dino,” she wrote, “I just heard about Manny. I can’t think of anything to say except I’m sorry. I loved him, too. I know what you’re going through. I can’t think of anything to say about my behavior last winter, except I’m sorry too about that. With all my love, Fen.”

  Walking down the four flights of stairs again, she posted the letter before she had time to change her mind.

  The Eriksons lived in a beautiful ranch-style house, which had once been an avocado farm, now converted into the most exquisite garden, with clematis, morning glory, and bougainvillea growing up every tree. Behind reared the mountains, snow-capped and often blacked out by thunderstorms or rainstorms, but seldom affecting the perfect weather in the valley.

  Rupert went into the house and kissed his beautiful hostess, with whom he had once been on intimate terms. She was wearing a sopping wet yellow bikini and drinking a margarita.

  “Helen’s by the pool,” said Suzy Erikson. “Have you any idea how many are coming so I can warn Annunciata?”

  “Well, the American team aren’t coming,” said Rupert, “nor are either of our women riders, although you’d hardly call Griselda a woman!”

  Then he told Suzy about Dino. She was shattered.

  “Oh, poor Dino, and bang goes our chance of a gold. That’s tough, that’s real tough.”

  “What is?” said Helen, from the doorway.

  She was wearing the briefest of dark blue bikinis that she would have thought absolutely shocking eight months ago in Kenya, and a blue spotted silk scarf tying back her hair. It was the first time Rupert had ever known her tanned; it brought out the amber of her eyes and the wonderful slenderness of her body.

  “What’s tough?” she said.

  “Your lover’s had an accident,” drawled Rupert.

  “What d’you mean?” said Helen, aghast. “What are you talking about?” She gripped the door handle for support, her knuckles whitening. Fortunately Rupert had turned to the drinks’ tray and was pouring out some Perrier.

  “His prize horse threw a fit on the plane and had to be shot—so I’m afraid he’s not coming to the Games. Tough, huh?”

  “Is he hurt?” said Helen, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “Nothing broken except his heart, according to Mary Jo.”

  Helen, as though sleepwalking, found one of the leather sofas flanking the fire and sat down very suddenly on it.

  “Could I have a drink, please?”

  Her mind was galloping: where was Jake? Had he flown home already, without getting in touch? Did horses mean that much to him? Her heart seemed to be crashing against her rib cage.

  “I guess Manny was insured,” said Suzy Erikson, examining her back view in the long mirror. “I wonder if I ought to get my bottom lifted.”

  “Only by me,” said Rupert, putting a hand under her buttocks.

  “If he’s not coming,” said Helen shakily, “Fen’ll have to jump.”

  Letting go of Suzy, Rupert looked at her irritably. “Are you that out of touch? Since when did Fen ride for the American team? I’m talking about Dino Ferranti, your admirer, remember? What d’you want to drink?”

  “Oh, poor, poor Dino,” said Helen, shaking like a leaf at the terrible gaffe she’d nearly committed.

  Rupert and Suzy were having drinks by the pool when Jake, Malise, and Ivor arrived. Several other handsome, golden-tanned Californian couples had also turned up. A splendid blonde was gamboling in the blue-green water. Helen was lying in a hammock, still in her bikini. She wanted Jake to see how good she looked.

  “Hi, Ivor.” She got out of the hammock and kissed him. “How was the flight?”

  Ivor went scarlet and mumbled something about it being “Joost fine.” Then Helen kissed Malise, which gave her the perfect excuse to kiss Jake, too. Putting her face against his cheek on the side away from Rupert, she whispered “I love you” in his ear. The smell of hot flesh, suntan oil, and Femme sent his senses reeling.

  He was astonished afresh by her amazing beauty. All his doubts fled. How could he ever live without her? He felt as if he was walking straight through the celluloid of a Hollywood soap opera and plucking out the heroine. He had little time to talk to her, however. Malise, who wanted to quash a romance which he had grimly suspected was developing in Dublin, sat down on the hammock and proceeded to monopolize Helen. Ivor was soon frolicking in the pool and roaring his head off, playing with the blonde and a large yellow rubber duck. Jake was saved by his host, Albie, an English expatriate mad about show jumping, who seemed to know every horse Jake had ever owned.

  More people arrived, all very beautiful. Jake wished Californians weren’t so tall; they made him feel like a midget. Rupert, not drinking, was working off his excess energy in a mixed four on the floodlit tennis court.

  “You are horribly unchivalrous,” grumbled the brunette playing against him, as she leapt out of the way of one of his thunderbolt serves. “Gentlemen are supposed to ease up when they serve to a lady.”

  Jake would like to have swum but he felt f
ar too pale and puny to take his shirt off in this company, let alone display his scarred and wasted legs. Helen was still trapped by Malise and now, as well, by some film director.

  “Must go and check everything’s okay in the kitchen,” said Albie. “Come and meet Paul and Meryl. He writes screenplays. She acts in them.”

  Paul and Meryl were polite, but obviously much more interested in ensuring Meryl got the biggest part and Paul’s screenplay was not tampered with. Others joined them. Jake felt gauche and out of place. This lotusland depressed him utterly, knowing he could never conjure up paradises like it for Helen.

  Wandering into the drawing room, he picked up the latest copy of Horse and Hound, wondering whether to get a taxi back to the village. Malise didn’t look like shifting for hours and there was no sign of dinner.

  “Is the heat getting to you?” said Suzy Erikson, curling up beside him on the leather sofa.

  “A little.”

  “Why don’t you swim?”

  “I’d rather watch.”

  “You would, wouldn’t you? You’re the stillest man I’ve ever met.”

  “Besides,” he added wryly, “I’ve got a lousy physique.”

  Suzy ran her eyes over him. “I wouldn’t say that. You’ve certainly got something.”

  “An empty glass for a start.”

  “Let me freshen it.”

  “No, thanks, I’ve got to get up at four o’clock tomorrow morning to work my horse.”

  “What d’you do after that?”

  “Our time is pretty much our own.”

  “Then I’ll come and pick you up and drive you into the mountains.”

  “The entire team?”

  “No, just you,” she said softly.

  “You’re making a pass at me?”

  “Right. Haven’t you heard how up front Californian women are? And I find you very attractive…”

  “I’m married,” said Jake.

  “Your wife can’t be very smart letting you come over here on your own.”

  “She would have come if we could have afforded it.”

  “Feeling homesick, huh?”

  Jake shrugged. “A little.”

  “I’m real good at curing that. I’d really like to spend some time with you.”

  With a glorious feeling of irresponsibility, Jake looked at the depraved little face with its gleaming catlike eyes, and long, dark hair as coarse and shiny as Macaulay’s mane. She had changed out of her bikini and beneath the pale beige string vest the curvy body, with its high full breasts, was perfectly visible. He suddenly thought how nice it would be to take off into the mountains with her, over the hills and far away, and junk all his problems.

  “That,” he said, “is one of the nicest offers I’ve ever had, but I’ve actually come to L.A. to jump fences, not into bed with beautiful ladies. That’s my chef d’equipe out there and he’s very hot on abstinence.”

  Suzy laughed. “He hasn’t had much success with Rupe.”

  “Rupert’s different. He doesn’t suffer from nerves. I’ve got to distance myself.”

  “I’ve got a marvelous shrink, if you’ve got anxiety problems. He claims you’ve got to be filled with both anger and calm.”

  “He should start with Hardy, my horse,” said Jake.

  “Suzy,” said a sharp voice, “Annunciata wants to know whether you want to start with the Gambetta?”

  It was Helen.

  “Oh, you tell her. You’re so good at that sort of thing.”

  “No, you tell her,” snapped Helen. “People are starving.”

  When Suzy had left the room Helen brought Jake another whisky: “Lousy hostess. Can’t even freshen people’s drinks. That woman’s a nympho.”

  “Shame,” said Jake. “I thought it was my personal magnetism.”

  “What did she want?” said Helen, quickly.

  “To take me to the mountains.”

  Helen went white.

  “And I refused very politely,” Jake went on, “because there’s only one woman I want to take anywhere. You look so beautiful, it’s a shame to spoil it by sulking.”

  “You were flirting with her.”

  “I was putting Malise and Rupert off the scent, and you weren’t doing so badly on the hammock.”

  “Where’s Fen?”

  “Shattered about Dino.”

  Helen then told Jake about mistaking Dino for him.

  “You can’t imagine how I overreacted. It was awful. I so nearly gave us away.”

  “How did Rupert react?”

  “I’m not sure. If anything, I guess he thinks I’m upset because Dino’s not coming.”

  “Well let him go on thinking that. All the same, we must be careful.” He told her about the possibility of the Boyson sponsorship. “It would go halfway to solving all our problems. But I must keep my nose clean until the contracts are signed.”

  “But we can meet during the day. Rupert’s out so much.”

  He shook his head. “Too risky. Everyone knows your face over here. The place is swarming with press, desperate for a new angle. I don’t want it to be us. You’ve just got to hack it until after the Games.”

  Helen’s lip quivered. “I don’t think I’ll survive.”

  “You’ve got to,” he said more sharply than he intended. “There’s too much at stake—our whole future.”

  A shadow fell across them. It was Rupert. Before either of them could say anything he shouted down the hall, “For Christ’s sake, Suzy, can’t we have dinner? I’m going to pass out.”

  “If you want instant guacamole, go jump on an avocado in the garden,” said Suzy, wandering in, waving a three-pronged fork. “There’s steak, swordfish, salmon, smoked chicken, and red snapper, so you won’t go hungry. It’ll be ready in two minutes.”

  “I suppose we could always barbecue Jake,” said Rupert.

  Jake got to his feet. “You did that once already,” he said in a voice that made Helen shiver. “At St. Augustine’s, if you remember,” and he limped out to talk to Malise.

  “You were so vile about that guy before he arrived, I knew I’d find him attractive,” said Suzy.

  Having finally fallen asleep at 3 A.M. Jake had to get up, jangling with nerves and hangover, an hour later. Speeding along the fast lane reserved for car pools, Malise, not used to fierce power-braking, kept producing appalling screeches like a butchered pig every time he tried to slow down. Even worse, sitting between Jake and Fen, taking up almost the entire backseat, Griselda grimly ate her way through two huge fried-egg sandwiches.

  As Jake gave Hardy the gentlest of workouts in the already punishing heat, he realized Rupert’s horse Rock Star was hardly sweating. And while Jake felt dislocated and woolly-headed from lack of sleep, Rupert, despite his late night, seemed utterly together. By leaving ahead of the pack, not only had he acclimatized his horses to the heat and humidity, but also adjusted his time clock as well.

  Fen walked Desdemona beside Jake.

  “She’s very down,” she said.

  Like her mistress, thought Jake, noticing her swollen eyes but making no comment. Ivor was worried about John.

  “It’s like sitting on a dead log.”

  All around them other nations were crashing their wringing wet horses over massive combinations on what was plainly very hard ground.

  Later in the day, Malise called another meeting. Rupert rolled up in a pale blue tracksuit, like Rock Star, hardly sweating after a four-mile jog along the beach.

  “The great problem with the Olympic Games is peaking too soon,” said Malise. “Now you’re in L.A. you feel you must be doing something to prepare yourself and your horse. You see other teams popping their horses over all sorts of different kinds of fences, and think they’ve got inside information, but you can be sure no one will know anything until we walk the course on Monday week. If I were you I’d concentrate on work on the flat, and jump your horses as little as possible. Let them rest, relax, and enjoy yourselves and have fun.”

/>   “I’d rather have Fen,” said Rupert, who’d also noticed her red eyes.

  As they came out of the meeting they bumped into Ludwig and Hans, who’d just been looking at the Olympic swimming pool.

  “Did you know it vos specially built for zee Oleempics?” said Hans.

  “So was that girl,” said Rupert, as a spectacularly blond and voluptuous Romanian athlete loped past them without a backward glance. “Bet I can bed her before the Games are over.”

  “How much?” said Ludwig.

  “Hundred bucks.”

  “Done.”

  The event that saved Fen from utter despair was the opening ceremony that afternoon. Everyone had been cynical about the American hype beforehand—particularly Rupert, who made Helen furious with his persistently disparaging remarks. But somehow, the Antony and Cleopatra set, the girls in hot pants with their silver balloons, the eighty-five males bashing away at Porgy and Bess on their grand pianos, and the president grinning like a telly puppet, the whole thing worked.

  There was a big row beforehand. Rupert had removed the Olympic badge from his blue blazer and had had the trousers narrowed to drainpipe proportions. Fen had shortened her skirt. Griselda had put on so much weight that she kept popping buttons like Tom Kitten, and the skirt of her dress was so stretched there weren’t any pleats left. Ivor had typically ordered trousers too small, so the turn-ups skimmed his ankles, and a blazer so big it hung like a peasant’s smock.

  “You’re all a bloody disgrace, except Jake,” snapped Malise. “Let’s hope you can lose yourselves among the rest of the British athletes.”

  After all the razzmatazz, it seemed the athletes might be ignored, but on they came in, country by country, to tumultuous cheers from the amazingly overadrenalized and happy crowd. There were Mexicans in big hats, and Africans in national costume, and the French incredibly chic in couture-designed clothes, and the English very formal, with the sexes sharply defined.

  “You can tell Rupert’s been in the army,” said Fen, watching his straight-backed march. Jake tried to disguise his limp as much as possible.

  “Thank God we’re jumping out in Arcadia and not in front of a crowd as big as this,” said Fen, looking at the endless pebbledash of faces.