Mount!

by Jilly Cooper

  And Eddie’s terror turned to ecstasy as he felt the power of the horse beneath him, the long, raking stride – then, as the deer fled at their approach – the lightning acceleration. The further they went, the better Repay travelled.

  Eumenides was a class animal, but I Will Repay beat him by nine lengths. Eddie was laughing with joy as he pulled up.

  ‘What a beautiful, beautiful horse – I’ve never ridden anything like him. He makes Quickly with his little stride seem like a Shetland pony.’

  Isa glanced at his stopwatch. ‘Five furlongs in one minute ten, that’s not bad, although you ought to lie lower over him.’

  Isa was not stupid; he knew that success in jockeys was a lot about confidence.

  ‘I can’t teach you anything,’ he went on. ‘You’re a bloody good rider, and you’re an American so you understand how they ride over there – exploding out of the gates, ballbreaking rough and tumble, and because they don’t push forward as much as British jockeys do, they hit their horses far harder.’

  For a moment, Eddie was speechless, close to tears; it had been a hellish twenty-four hours.

  ‘D’you really mean that?’

  ‘Yup, and you’re coming to the Breeders’. You can ride in the Junior Turf and show your effing grandfather how good you are.’

  Without their realizing it, the sun was rising, turning the silver valley to rose and the trees a singing flame-red. When they got back to the yard, Ash had rolled up, furious to see Eddie riding his horse.

  ‘I don’t want Repay picking up any bad habits.’

  The yard was off to the Breeders’ Cup at the end of the week, taking Herb Roberto for Eddie to ride in the Juvenile Turf. The rest were for Ash, who kept up his bitching as Eddie stuck to his fitness regime, and rode as many horses as he could.

  He was comforted when Dora rang him.

  ‘We’re all worried stiff about you. Life’s not the same here. How’s it going?’

  ‘The clocks go back this weekend,’ sighed Eddie, ‘but not cocks. Sauvignon won’t let me near her, not even to talk. I don’t know what game she’s playing.’

  ‘Bitch – we all miss you. Old Eddie’s inconsolable – he’s got no one to watch porn with.’

  ‘Have the horses gone to Santa Anita?’

  ‘Going next Tuesday.’

  ‘When’s Rupert off?’

  ‘He’s at the Horses in Training sales in Arqana, but he’s off to the Breeders’ on Thursday. Taggie’s not going, although she hasn’t told him yet. They had such a frightful row because he was so foul to you, and Taggie’s going to say that she’s got too many grandchildren coming for half-term. Really, she wants to get the surprise party organized. You’re coming, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not fucking invited.’

  ‘Course you are. Gala also had a row with Rupert over firing you, so she’s had a couple of days off, and Quickly had colic and may not go to the Breeders’ Cup and certainly not with Gala, Rupert’s so cross with her. So it’s all up in the air.’

  The press were still utterly obsessed with the drama. Rupert had poached Tarqui; Cosmo and Isa had poached Eddie. The Scorpion ran a story that Eddie had moved to Valhalla to be with the mother of his forthcoming child, and how hypocritical of Rupert with his promiscuous track-record to chuck Eddie out.

  Eddie found comfort in talking to Harmony, who said how fond she was of Gala and wasn’t Taggie lovely.

  ‘Doesn’t she get lonely with Rupert away all the time?’

  ‘Well, she’s got Old Eddie, my grandfather, and Jan, Eddie’s carer, a handsome South African who looks after her – too well for Rupert’s liking – and a sweet Chinese boy called Bao Tong.’

  ‘Where have I heard that name …?’ Harmony’s forehead wrinkled.

  ‘Everyone’s called Tong in China. Bao gave me this rabbit for luck, when Rupert chucked me out. It’s made of ivory. Gala would do her nut – poachers killed her husband.’

  Eddie was amazed how nice Isa was being to him. ‘What the hell am I going to do about Sauvignon?’ he asked him, as they rode back from the gallops one morning.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Isa. ‘I had to get married – Tab was pregnant. I fancied her rotten but I didn’t love her. Then she lost the baby, and we were stymied.’

  ‘Tab’s awful,’ volunteered Eddie.

  ‘Not nearly as awful as her mother Helen, who nearly destroyed my parents’ marriage.’

  Ash was wildly jealous of Isa and Eddie’s friendship, never missing an opportunity to bitch, and when Eddie was in the sauna, hovering outside so Eddie couldn’t escape and the pages of Felix Francis got very wrinkled.

  Valhalla was a terrifying house after dark, with rooms on all levels, enabling people to peer out of mullioned windows through creepers into other rooms.

  ‘Any ghosts here?’ asked Eddie.

  ‘I’m more frightened of the living,’ shivered Harmony.

  Aching for Sauvignon, Eddie was sleeping appallingly. If only they could have sex to ease his tension, he might have dropped off. He’d never read so much in his life.

  Two days before they left for Santa Anita, the house was creaking in a high wind like a rheumaticky old man. It was after midnight when Eddie heard a step, then another step. As he shoved the big armchair against the door, and switched off the light, he heard the screech of another raped vixen, and leapt back into bed. Next moment there was a crash, the door was forced open, then slammed and the light switched on. It was Ash, reeking of aftershave and wearing a purple paisley silk dressing gown, which fell open to reveal the huge tattoo of David Beckham.

  ‘Get out, you slimy toad,’ yelled Eddie.

  ‘That’s not very friendly, poster boy. You know you want it. You won’t get it from Sauvignon, and once you’ve tried it with a guy, you’ll never want to go back.’

  ‘I bloody won’t.’ Eddie jumped out of bed, wearing only a long T-shirt bearing the words: single but straight.

  Next moment, Ash had grabbed him. Incredibly strong from driving horses across the finishing line, he pulled Eddie close, his medallion scraping Eddie’s chest. His breath tasted sour from making himself sick so often as he rammed his tongue between Eddie’s lips. His left hand reached round to caress Eddie’s buttocks, parting them, fingering and probing. As Eddie struggled frantically to escape, he could feel a ramrod-hard cock jabbing his belly button. Then, as Ash rolled him over on his front on the bed: ‘There you go, poster boy.’

  ‘Get off,’ screamed Eddie. ‘Just fuck off, you revolting faggot.’ Fury fuelling his strength, swinging round, he hit Ash across the room – and as Ash landed on the wooden arms of the big chair, pushed aside from blocking the door, there was a fearsome crack of bone. A minute later, Cosmo, who’d been watching the whole thing through a two-way mirror, came storming in.

  ‘What the hell have you done to him? He’s got the Classic on Saturday.’

  ‘He’s fucked me,’ screamed Ash.

  ‘Au contraire,’ drawled Cosmo, ‘you were about to fuck him.’

  Cotchester Hospital confirmed Ash had broken his arm and three ribs. Dawn was breaking, a tiny flicker of flame beneath glowering dark-grey clouds, as Ash got home. Immediately, he and Eddie were summoned to Cosmo’s office.

  ‘When will you learn to control yourself, you stupid goat?’ Cosmo’s voice was so venomous, Eddie nearly crossed himself and could hardly take it in, when Cosmo turned to him, saying, ‘You’re going to ride Repay in Santa Anita.’

  ‘Omigod, I’ll be riding against Quickly.’

  ‘And you know exactly how to beat him.’

  70

  The Breeders’ Cup, America’s richest, glitziest race meeting, was this year being held in Santa Anita in California. A place Rupert was always edgy returning to because it had once witnessed his greatest humiliation: his wife Helen running off with his teammate Jake Lovell, in the middle of the Los Angeles Olympics.

  Ascendancy had been regained by Rupert then clinching the Team Gold with an epic clear
round, when he’d jumped using only one arm, the other having been rendered useless by an excruciatingly painful trapped nerve.

  Helen’s departure in such a conflagration of publicity, however, still rankled, which was why Rupert felt it imperative on any return to Santa Anita to be accompanied by an adoring, much younger and infinitely more beautiful second wife – particularly this year when there’d be so much guff in the paper about his sixtieth birthday and approaching great-grand-fatherhood.

  Despite the ongoing froideur over the firing of Young Eddie and Taggie’s irritating but perennial sadness at beloved foals going off to the sales, Rupert automatically assumed she would be accompanying him to Santa Anita, and then on to the Melbourne Cup. From there, to avoid any fuss and festivities, he aimed to return late on the Wednesday of his birthday.

  After several days away at the sales, he came home to find Taggie in the kitchen baking a cake. Having pecked her on the cheek and removed several pumpkins from the sofa, he sat down, opened the Racing Post app and to placate her announced that they’d be staying at the Langham, one of her favourite hotels, only three and a half miles from Santa Anita Racecourse.

  Whereupon Taggie went as scarlet as the poppy pinned to her luscious grey cashmere bosom and stammered that she wasn’t coming.

  ‘But it’s all booked.’

  ‘I told Geraldine a week ago.’

  ‘Rather than me.’

  ‘You weren’t here to tell.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody silly, of course you’re coming.’

  At the tone of his voice, the dogs, who’d been swarming around him, slunk back to their boxes.

  ‘I can’t get away, I’ve got too much to do.’ Taggie was furiously creaming butter and sugar together.

  ‘Like what? Last time it was the cake stall at the fete.’

  ‘Both Sapphire and Timon are coming – it’s half-term and Tab’s still mending her marriage.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she get a bloody sewing-machine? What else?’

  It was Sapphire’s birthday, stumbled on Taggie, and Caitlin’s two sons were coming.

  ‘They’ve got parents, for God’s sake.’

  ‘And I’ve promised them a Halloween party this Saturday: we’re going off trick or treating round the village.’

  ‘Am I hearing this right?’ said Rupert softly. ‘Quickly is running in one of the greatest races in the world and you’re hawking yourself round Penscombe, touting for confectionery?’

  Taggie wanted to hurl a pumpkin at him and yell, ‘No, I’m trying to organize a surprise party for you, which is ballooning by the second,’ but she only said, ‘I’m truly sorry, I can’t.’

  ‘Yansy Pansy’s so brilliant with children, why can’t he organize this bash?’

  ‘Because,’ snapped back Taggie, ‘since you fired Eddie, your father’s got no one to watch porn with and keeps wandering into the stable lasses’ bedrooms looking for him.’

  At that moment, anxious to create their own porn, Cuthbert chose to mount Rupert’s leg so vigorously that Gilchrist decided to mount Cuthbert – behaviour which would normally have sent Rupert and Taggie into fits of laughter, had not Jan barged in with a broomstick between his legs and sporting a witch’s hat.

  ‘Just the thing for you to wear at Royal Ascot, mam,’ and he grinned, showing red plastic Dracula fangs.

  Whereupon an outraged Rupert gave a goal kick, sending both Jack Russells flying through the air, and stalked off to bollock Geraldine, who was also in a foul mood. She and the rest of the office were run off their feet, unravelling Breeders’ Cup red tape, with Quickly, Delectable and Touchy Filly flying out tomorrow, several days early, to adjust to a much hotter climate and get over the journey.

  ‘I can’t believe you and Taggie hadn’t discussed it,’ said Geraldine bitchily.

  And Rupert thought for the millionth time how much he’d love to sack her, if only she hadn’t been so efficient. Being away so much, he needed her to cover things.

  ‘Rupert’s furious I’m not going,’ a distraught Taggie told Jan.

  ‘Don’t worry, mam, he’ll understand once he appreciates what a great party you’ve organized for him. We could never have got it together if he’d been around. That’s neat.’ He picked up a sugar bat Taggie had made, and swooped it around the room. ‘Don’t cry, mam.’

  Glancing back as he stalked towards the yard, Rupert saw the fucking poofter’s arm around Taggie.

  Gala, who’d also rowed with Rupert, had taken her one weekend off in four to stay in London with an aunt visiting from Zimbabwe.

  Yet knowing Rupert was due back this morning, she had washed her hair and splashed Bluebell, a lovely new scent she’d treated herself to, behind her ears. Her heart somersaulted with excitement as she and Quickly reached the bottom of the gallops on his last workout before flying to America. There was Rupert’s Land Rover parked outside the Love Tower, whose windows he’d opened so he could tell if any passing horse had breathing problems. As third lot thundered by, Rupert was delighted. Hardly moving out of a canter, Quickly beat the yard’s best by ten lengths. Gala rode beautifully, reminding him of Fenella Maxwell, his showjumping teammate in Santa Anita.

  As she rode back, Rupert came out of the Love Tower and beckoned her over. Quickly, hardly blowing, took a bite out of his dark-blue jersey. Despite the freezing day, Rupert had been so cross with Taggie and Jan, he’d stormed out without a coat.

  ‘Quickly’s really well,’ said Gala.

  ‘I hope so.’ Looking up, Rupert noticed the cold just gave a glow to her golden skin, whereas English girls tended to turn red or purple. Telling Louise, who was riding back on Touchy Filly, to take Quickly home and put two rugs on him, he took Gala back into the Love Tower. Worrying how Quickly would cope with a long flight, the heat of California, and with the incredible whooping din of an American crowd, he felt the colt needed people he loved around him.

  ‘I don’t know if I’m crazy,’ he told Gala, ‘but I’ve entered Quickly in the Classic,’ which was the biggest race.

  ‘But that’s on dirt. Quickly’s never run on dirt and he detests having mud in his face.’

  ‘Exactly. He hates it so much, he’ll bolt to the front.’

  While she had been away, explained Rupert, Cathal and Gav had taken Quickly with half a dozen others for a racecourse gallop on the all-weather at Southwell, where the Fibresand surface was very similar to dirt.

  ‘Quickly loathed the kickback so much, nothing could catch him.’

  ‘Dirt’s even worse, particularly if it rains.’

  ‘Exactly, so he’ll run even faster.’

  ‘Why can’t he run on the Turf as planned?’

  Rupert glanced out of the window across the valley, where a once grey, now white stallion in a dark-blue rug was hanging over the fence in search of someone to chat to.

  ‘Because the Classic has a larger five-million-dollar purse. If Repay wins the Turf, he’ll be almost too far ahead in the Global Sire charts for Love Rat to catch him.’

  ‘Poor Quickly,’ sighed Gala.

  ‘He’s tough, he’s the fastest horse on the planet and at least Gav and Bao have got him used to loading on to a plane, but he needs people around who he trusts and loves. I want you to come to Santa Anita.’

  Gala glanced up, amazed. Yet Rupert seemed completely serious. ‘I’d love to. But aren’t Cathal, Louise and Clover already going?’

  ‘Marketa’s gone to Melbourne with Fleance, and Gav’ll be pushing off to the sales, so he won’t be around to disapprove.’

  ‘Disapprove?’ Had she heard Rupert right? ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Then I’d absolutely adore to.’

  ‘Good.’ Then, closing the Love Tower window, ‘We don’t want fourth lot to overhear any heavy breathing.’

  As Gala laughed, he took her face in ice-cold hands, studying it for a second, then kissing her. The cleanness of his mouth, the lazily exploring tongue felt so right. As fourth lot thundered by
, she opened her eyes for a second, to find his eyes tight shut.

  ‘We mustn’t,’ she mumbled, pulling away. ‘I love Taggie.’

  ‘So do I. But she’s refusing to come to Santa Anita, some fatuous Halloween party. So you’re coming instead.’

  Gala felt dreadfully guilty, not levelling with him about the surprise party, but she had been sworn to secrecy.

  ‘What about Gropius?’

  ‘He can stay with our dogs. We’ll have to watch it. Helen left me, thank God, in the middle of LA Olympics. If I return without Taggie, the paps will be everywhere, so I’ll put you in the hotel where Gav and the jockeys are staying.’

  ‘Is it too risky?’ Gala glanced out as Tarqui and Chekov hurtled past.

  ‘No, it’s worth it.’

  Drawing her towards him, feeling for her breasts, kissing her neck, breathing in Bluebell with all its promise of spring, he murmured, ‘Etta and Valent will chaperone us.’

  Valent Edwards loved coming home, creeping up to the window and finding his wife waltzing around the room to Classic FM with Gwenny the cat in her arms. Even to watch Quickly in the Breeders’ Cup, he knew she loathed leaving Mrs Wilkinson, Chisolm, Gwenny, Priceless and her garden.

  Etta was relieved they’d be back for Guy Fawkes Day. Priceless was terrified of fireworks – so, for that matter, was she, still nervous of pyrotechnic Rupert and glad Taggie would be with them to smooth things over. Dora and Paris, who were pet-sitting, had promised to let Wilkie, such a proud mother, and Chisolm watch Quickly’s race.

  Back in the office at Penscombe, they were wrestling with endless Breeders’ Cup documents, and insurance forms to be filled in, providing photographs and fingerprints for racecourse passes, wading through endless regulations about drug abuse and not using growth hormones or animal venoms, aware that a horse, even after a 3,000-mile flight, would be scratched if anything weren’t adhered to.

  ‘And when you think how they pump their horses full of stuff,’ exploded Geraldine.

  Dora was giggling over the handbook: ‘“All runners must meet the starter to make him aware of any special needs”. Sex and Polos in Quickly’s case. Oh, and listen to this. “Geldings are allowed twenty nanograms of testosterone”.’