Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  “It should be fun,” she said. “I’ve never been to Ma Maison. Mother’s dying to meet all the team, and I know Malise will enjoy Mother.”

  “Should do,” said Rupert. “He got enough practice driving tanks in the war.”

  Helen had her back to Rupert, but her slender right arm was crooked over her back, wrestling with the zip of her dress, which was catching in her hair.

  “Let me.” Moving towards her, Rupert pushed the newly washed hair aside and pulled the narrow gold zip up to the nape of the neck. He looked at her reflection in the mirror, breathing in the waves of Femme from her warm, newly bathed, hopelessly excited body. She was wearing a dress of dark gold silk, high-necked, long-sleeved, falling to the ankles, and clinging caressingly to every inch of her body. Her hair, long at the back, was drawn up at the sides by two gold combs. For a second, his long fingers clamped her waist, then they shifted up towards her breasts. He realized that, totally untypically, she wasn’t wearing a bra or even a petticoat. Feeling her tense and draw away, he tightened his grip.

  “Haven’t seen that dress. When d’you get it?”

  “Ages ago—not for a special occasion—I just liked it.”

  “I’m sure—you look great in it—almost too great.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she said defensively. “Ma Maison’s always crammed with movie stars and you’re always accusing me of looking too straight.”

  “Not this time I’m not.” Rupert glanced at his watch. “In fact if we miss predinner drinks, we’ve got time to…” He began to pull down the zip.

  “No,” gasped Helen, shrinking away from him, almost falling over the dressing table, knocking bottles on the floor in her desperate haste to get away.

  “I’m all made up and ready,” she said, trying to make a joke of it, “and I promised Mother we’d meet at nine-thirty. We can’t leave her stranded at the restaurant.”

  “How’s she getting there?” said Rupert. “On her broomstick?”

  Ma Maison, thanks to Boyson’s munificence, had pushed out the boat. On the British team table there were silver plates, silver goblets for the never-ending bottles of Krug, white roses and lilies, surrounded by silver leaves, in the silver bowl at the center of the table, with two silver horses on either side rearing up from the silver, satin table cloth.

  Jake was given a hero’s welcome when he arrived. It took him ages to get across the restaurant as people pumped his hand and wanted to touch his silver medal, glinting in the candlelight. A group of English actors who’d witnessed his victory that afternoon in Arcadia were now happily getting plastered, insisting that he sit down and have a drink.

  “Who were those people?” he asked Fen, when he finally reached the British team table.

  “Michael Caine, Susan George, Roger Moore, to name three,” said Fen.

  “Oh. I thought they seemed familiar.”

  At that moment a beautiful girl came up and, tapping Rupert on the shoulder, handed him a menu and a pen. “Would you very much mind?” She gave him a dazzling smile.

  “Not at all,” said Rupert, picking up the pen.

  “Asking Jake Lovell if I could possibly have his autograph?”

  Jake was already very tight, cocooned in euphoria, acknowledging the accolades with one part of his mind, but with the other back in the ring, jumping every fence, feeling great waves of love for that tricky, brilliant horse who’d finally confounded the critics and come up with the goods.

  Fen on the other hand wondered how much longer she could keep going. She’d been up since four, supporting Jake all the way, yet still praying Dino might turn up. Now, looking at Helen shining with happiness, aware that both Rupert and Jake were steadily getting drunk, she was filled with a feeling of terrible doom.

  “Can I sit next to you and can we go to Disneyland tomorrow?” asked Ivor.

  At that moment Suzy and Albie Erikson arrived to make up the party.

  “Darling,” said Suzy, kissing Jake on the mouth, “you were just sensational. You’ve got no excuse to resist my advances now.”

  Fen shot a glance at Helen. She was looking at Suzy with pure hatred.

  “We’ve just had an earthquake warning,” said Albie cheerfully.

  It’s going to start right here at this table, thought Fen.

  The waiter poured out more champagne. “To Jake,” said Malise. Everyone except Jake and Rupert raised their silver goblets.

  “To Hardy,” said Jake, half-draining his goblet. Then, looking across at Helen, his eyes not quite focusing, he raised it to her, blew her a kiss, and drained the rest.

  Help, thought Fen. “Do you think the course’ll be as difficult on Sunday,” she asked Rupert, frantic to distract his attention. Glancing around, he saw how wan she looked.

  “You okay, duckie?”

  She nodded. “I’m sorry about Rocky today. You must be heartbroken.”

  Rupert shrugged. “D’you know who I miss most of all?”

  “Billy,” said Fen. “I miss him, too.”

  Ma Maison came up with a special menu which Fen had patiently to explain to Ivor.

  “Clear soup, that’s for Jake’s clear round, then Coquille St. Jake à la champagne—that’s scallops, then Gâteau Hardy. For God’s sake, stop gazing at Goldie Hawn, Ivor.”

  As dinner progressed Rupert’s anger channeled into anti-American asides to irritate both Helen and her mother. “The Olympics have become a shambles,” he was saying, “a laboratory war between East and West. The Americans have better drugs, better computers to detect minor faults, better shrinks to psych out the athletes. The whole spirit of amateurism has gone.”

  Mrs. Macaulay, who was discussing property prices with Albie, swelled like a bullfrog. Helen, toying with a piece of coquille, managed to engineer Malise on to the subject of Jake. “Naturally I’m disappointed Rupe didn’t get a medal, but if anyone deserved one, it was Jake.”

  Malise nodded. “It’s a fairy tale, really, after that terrible fall.”

  “You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”

  Malise smiled deprecatingly. “He’s tricky and cussed, but you have to admire his integrity. Of course, he’s fantastically lucky in his home backup.”

  “Isn’t Tory kind of dull?”

  “God no,” said Malise sharply. “She keeps him calm. I must say I never expected him to get a silver. I thought he’d crack.”

  “But he didn’t. He managed without her,” said Helen, kneading her bread into pellets in her agitation.

  “She’s carried him through the last ten years,” said Malise gently.

  A diversion had been created on the other side of the table. Joan Collins had arrived and was being embraced by Rupert.

  “Helen, my dear.” Malise lowered his voice, “I’ve known you long enough to give you a piece of advice. Don’t play with fire—particularly Olympic fire. Cool it—until after the Games.”

  Helen blushed furiously. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do,” said Malise gravely. “I’ve got enough headaches keeping this lot together, without you rocking the boat.”

  Joan Collins, svelte in black lace, was progressing down the table. “Hi, Jake. We haven’t met, but what a round! I was stuck in the studio, but we suspended shooting to watch the second half. All the Brits went wild.”

  She turned to Helen. “Darling, how are you?” Then her eyes lit on the gold dress. “You meanie. I had my eyes on that. Saw it at Giorgio’s yesterday. Then I found out the price. You’re lucky to have a rich husband to pick up the bills. Let me know if you ever get tired of him.”

  Helen went very still.

  “I think she already has,” said Rupert. He looked across at Helen, his fingers drumming on the table. “Oh, this old thing,” he said softly.

  “Oh, shut up,” said Fen. “It does suit her.”

  Suzy, who’d been flirting outrageously with Jake, got up to go to the loo. Mrs. Macaulay immediately took her place. Jake found himself getting t
he fifth degree. Her big red face seemed to have an extra pair of eyes in the middle of her forehead. Really, he must be extraordinarily drunk. As Mrs. Macaulay questioned him about Tory, the children, the yard, and the horses, it became plain to her that, despite the fact that Jake was obviously four parts cut and kept calling her Mrs. Campbell-Black, his marriage was a good deal happier than Helen’s was to that monster who was still bad-mouthing America.

  “The television coverage is utterly one-sided,” said Rupert. “American viewers are totally unaware of any foreign competition.”

  Helen turned to Malise helplessly. “Don’t you find L.A. fascinating?” she said. “It’s such an eclectic mixture of the functional and the bizarre.”

  “Don’t talk crap,” snapped Rupert. Malise frowned. Mrs. Macaulay went purple. “That’s no way to address a lady.”

  “What makes you think she’s a lady?” drawled Rupert. “Certainly not her parentage.”

  Mrs. Macaulay rose to her feet. “I’ll not stay here to be insulted.”

  “Why don’t you leave then?” said Rupert.

  Only Malise’s blandishments, Helen’s pleadings, and the arrival of the Gâteau Hardy, a splendid ice cream cake in the shape of a gray horse, induced her to stay.

  Rupert returned to attacking the American team. “They’re all robots, Mary Jo’s a robot, Carol Kennedy’s a robot, Dino Ferranti…”

  “He is not,” yelled Fen.

  “Fancy him, do you? So does my dear wife. She is dear, too. At least you earn your keep. She’s a parasite.”

  “Didn’t know Helen came from Paris,” said Ivor, in surprise.

  Everyone laughed, which for a moment eased the tension.

  “There’s a marvelous concert at the Hollywood Bowl tomorrow,” Helen said to Malise, “and tomorrow they’re doing Hamlet in Russian. I’d love to go.”

  “Count me out,” said Rupert. “Why not Black Beauty in Urdu? The only use for the Hollywood Bowl is to be sick in it.”

  Fen resisted the temptation to giggle.

  “There’s a very naughty movie on at the Rialto,” said Suzy, who, irritated to find she’d been ousted from her place next to Jake, wanted to get back in on the action. “Why don’t we all go tomorrow night?”

  “My wife is not interested in sex,” said Rupert flatly.

  Jake had been watching Rupert for some time. His eyes narrowed and his right hand played idly with the knife he’d been given to cut the cake.

  “I’m not surprised,” he said, “being married to you.”

  Rupert looked up. There was a long embarrassed pause. Then Fen said desperately, “Ivor and I are going on a tour of movie stars’ homes tomorrow. We’re going to see Rudolph Valentino’s grave, and…” Rupert put a hand on her arm. “Shut up, darling,” he said softly. “Jake was talking.”

  “Why don’t you give her a break for a change?” said Jake.

  “What kind do you suggest, a broken jaw, perhaps?”

  There was another awful pause.

  “Just because you rode like a costive chimpanzee today,” said Jake “and screwed up the chances of the best horse in the class, you don’t have to take it out on her.” He was quivering like a leopard about to spring.

  “Oh dear,” drawled Rupert. “We have grown in status since we won our silver medal this afternoon, haven’t we?”

  “Shut up,” yelled Jake.

  “Been at the human growth hormone, have we?” taunted Rupert. “Little man has had a happy day and is now making a big big night of it. Gypsy, my arse! You’re just a little suburban creep whose mother screwed around so much she couldn’t remember who your father was.”

  Jake picked up the knife.

  “No,” thundered Malise.

  Suddenly the whole restaurant had gone quiet.

  “You little creep,” said Rupert gently. “The only thing I’d use you for is to measure my tennis net.”

  Helen leapt to her feet, knocking over her wineglass.

  “Stop it,” she screamed. “Just because you’re jealous as hell of Jake, you have to spoil everything.”

  “St. Georgia to the rescue,” said Rupert.

  “I’m going,” said Helen. “Thank you, Malise, I’m real sorry, everyone,” and she fled out of the restaurant, a shimmering column of gold, cannoning off tables, blinded by tears.

  “Aren’t you going to cut that cake?” said Griselda.

  Rupert caught up with Helen outside the restaurant. They stood side by side, not speaking, while the doorman conjured up their car. Helen was amazed that Rupert could be so charming, when Michael Caine stopped on the way out and asked them to a party the following night.

  “Shut up,” he snarled on the journey back when she asked him to drive slower. “Let me get home in one piece. Then we’re going to do some straight-talking.”

  At the Eriksons’ house the servants had gone to bed. Drunk though Rupert was, he managed to switch off the burglar alarm, before going into the drawing room and pouring himself a glass of neat whisky. Helen walked towards the stairs.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Bed. I’ve had enough of you for one day.” Careful, she told herself, careful. But all those things that Malise and Fen had said earlier about Tory and not rocking the boat had only made her more desperate.

  “Come here,” said Rupert.

  It was not a voice to disobey. Rupert once again had that curiously dead expression on his face that always heralded trouble.

  She removed her gold high heels, which would impede a quick getaway, and sank into the white warmth of Suzy’s sumptuous fake-fur sofa.

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she said in a low voice. “I guess they had a celebration dinner for you when you won your bronze.”

  “Hey, wait a minute. You’ve got very protective about Jake Lovell lately, haven’t you? Embracing him when he came out of the ring, sticking up for him this evening. What’s going on?”

  Helen took a deep breath, aware that she was pushing a huge boulder towards the edge of a cliff and that any minute it might roll over, crushing innocent people in its path.

  “What’s going on?” repeated Rupert.

  One of Helen’s combs had fallen out of her hair, which flopped forward over her face. Looking at the golden tanned face and the shimmering gold body and the mass of shining hair, Rupert suddenly thought she had never looked so desirable—almost wanton—despite her terror.

  “You’re looking very good. As I said earlier, you’re looking much too good. Don’t tell me you’ve got yourself a man at last?”

  “Yes, I have,” said Helen, goaded.

  “Who is it?”

  “Jake,” whispered Helen, “Jake Lovell.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Jake Lovell!” Rupert began to laugh, totally without mirth. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve been having it off with that pathetic little cripple?”

  “Don’t you dare call him that!”

  “A cripple,” Rupert went on, “a warped gypsy cripple. Doing our bit for the disabled, are we? It figures, I suppose it made you feel good. A pound in the collection box on Sunday, a day a month for the NSPCC, hawking a slit tin up and down the high street once a year for the Distressed Gentlefolk, and leaping into bed with a cripple. Mrs. Campbell-Black does so much for charity. You bet she does!”

  “You’re revolting,” screamed Helen. “Pulling everything down to your own disgusting level.”

  “It appears to be you who’ve done the pulling.”

  “Even at a time like this, all you can do is to make jokes.”

  “Oh, believe me, baby, I don’t think this is funny.”

  “I love him,” sobbed Helen, putting her face in her hands, “and he loves me.”

  Rupert filled up his glass. Then in an almost calm voice that made Helen’s blood run cold, he said: “How long has this been going on?”

  “Since February, when Marcus was hospitalized. I was worried
stiff. Jake came in to see the consultant about his leg. He was very caring and supportive. I sure needed it after the Kenya trip.” She looked up at him. He stared back, as though daring her to go further. Helen dropped her eyes first.

  “So that’s why you’ve been hanging around the circuit like a bitch on heat. How extraordinary. I was barking up quite the wrong tree, thinking you’d be turned on by Janey, wasn’t I? Never guessed your particular buzz would be a crippled dwarf.”

  “Jake is not a dwarf,” screamed Helen. “He’s five foot seven.”

  “You’ve measured him, have you—all over?”

  For a few seconds he paced up and down the room, trying to calm the rage that kept boiling up inside him.

  “And you had to pick the one man who’s always been out to get me. Remember when he tried to kill me before the World Championship? He doesn’t give a stuff about you. He just wants to score off me.”

  “He doesn’t. He wants to marry me.”

  The boulder was over the cliff now, crashing down, gathering force.

  “Marry you?” said Rupert, genuinely amazed. “How?”

  “As soon as he can get a divorce.”

  “And he’s going to leave that fat, rich cow for you?”

  “Yes,” sobbed Helen. If she said it, it must be true.

  “And presumably that night when I came back from Dinard and he was there jawing about healing breaches and team solidarity, he’d merely come to fuck you—I beg your pardon—make love with you?”

  Helen lost her temper. “Yes, he had. What about you and Podge, and Dizzy and Marion, and Samantha Freebody, and the one that gave me clap, not to mention all the others? You’ve never been faithful to me for one minute.”

  “Oh, yes, I was,” said Rupert, “until you got involved with that sniveling child and refused to come abroad with me. He doesn’t give a stuff about you,” he went on. “Why did he nearly kill me at Disneyland for saying Tory was fat? Why was he on the telephone to her the moment he won that medal? You’re not going to break up that marriage. Anyway, what’s so special about him?”

  “He’s a better rider,” screamed Helen, leaping to her feet, “and he’s much better in bed.”