Mount!

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘You’re coming back to the house and bloody well apologizing.’

  Back in the marquee, Louise and Marketa were getting off with the Carlisle twins, polo’s golden boys. No better behaved in their forties, they were particularly taken with Gropius.

  ‘We had a bull terrier called Decorum, so we could make jokes about exercising him.’

  The party had progressed to cheese and a great deal more wine and liqueurs. Marcus, Wolfie, Xav and Jan had returned to the marquee.

  Taggie, too upset to eat, had fled to the kitchen to supervise coffee, and on her return moved timidly along the tables, checking people were OK. At the end of the marquee, a little platform awaited any speeches. Mounting it, Taggie’s brother Patrick took the microphone.

  ‘God, he’s gorgeous,’ sighed Louise.

  ‘As your hostess’s brother,’ Patrick had the same soft Irish accent as Declan, ‘I’d just like to say a few words. Today is a bit like Hamlet without the Prince, but my brother-in-law doesn’t have a very good track-record at parties. At his own wedding he was so anxious to be alone with my sister, Taggie, he only stayed at the reception for twenty minutes, sloping off into the sunset long before dinner, dancing, cake-cutting or any of the speeches.’

  ‘We were there,’ roared the Carlisle twins, ‘the party-pooper.’

  ‘To be alone with my sister,’ repeated Patrick, ‘who can’t spell, by the way, so when it said “no presents” on the invitation, she actually meant “no presence” i.e. birthday boy wouldn’t be putting in an appearance.’ Which was greeted by howls of laughter.

  ‘He’s an absolute shit, my brother-in-law. CB stands for Complete Bastard but you can see from the marvellous display round the walls of this marquee, created by Tristan de Montigny, the great director, that Rupert has achieved a lot in his life.

  ‘The food has been utterly amazing, and is almost entirely the work of my sister and Jan Van Deventer, who’s supposed to be looking after Rupert’s father, Eddie, but now seems more to be caring for Taggie.’ Which was greeted by bellows of approval.

  ‘No, Patrick,’ begged Taggie.

  ‘Everyone has worked ridiculously hard but it’s most of all a shame for Taggie who’s been slaving for months to celebrate Rupert’s birthday.’

  Whereupon everyone stood up and cheered her.

  ‘I don’t know where Rupert’s got to,’ went on Patrick. ‘The chopper dropped him off near the village. The hunt’s gone to look for him – I hope hounds tear him to pieces.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more,’ said a voice and there was a gasp as Rupert walked in, pausing in the gangway below the platform.

  His slate-blue v-neck jersey and pale-blue shirt were splattered with blood, and drenched with water from Constance Sprightly’s spilt flowers. His left eye was closing up, his suntan faded to a yellowing pallor. He was greeted by a hostile and deathly silence.

  Taggie, about to race up the aisle to him, was grabbed by Declan, tugging her into a chair beside him. Next moment the silence was broken by barking and yelping as the dogs, led by Forester and Banquo in their blue and green bows, swarmed up the gangway throwing themselves on Rupert in ecstasy. This was followed by whickering and great snorts of delight as Safety Car trundled up, pushing the dogs to one side, nuzzling and nudging his master.

  ‘At least someone’s forgiven me,’ drawled Rupert.

  Then, in the silence that followed, Old Eddie could be heard saying: ‘Who’s that fellow with Safety Car?’ which was followed by roars and roars of laughter, particularly from Rupert.

  And like the sun creeping through the trees above the Penscombe and Cotchester Road and flooding the valley with light, his magnetism kicked in and everyone rose to applaud him.

  ‘Rupert, Rupert,’ said a voice. It was Dame Hermione, which nearly sent Rupert into reverse.

  ‘What the fuck’s she doing here?’

  ‘Naughty, naughty,’ chortled Hermione.

  ‘Good par-eee, isn’t it exciting?’ cried Clover as Rupert raised his hand.

  ‘All I can do,’ he said, ‘is apologize unreservedly to you all, but most of all to my darling wife. It was utterly unpardonable. My only excuse is I’d had a long flight, celebrating Dave winning the Melbourne Cup and Fleance coming second, pushing up Love Rat’s winnings – and when I saw you all, I just bottled out. It’s the wettest, most awful thing I’ve ever done. I’m so sorry, darling.’ And watched with ambiguous emotions by Jan and Gala, he opened his arms and Taggie flew into them.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ they both gabbled, ‘entirely my fault.’

  Still hugging Taggie, Rupert went on, ‘I want to apologize to all my children: Marcus, Xav, Bianca, Perdita and Tab, and to all my friends and guests who’ve come miles, and all my staff who’ve worked so hard to put on this amazing party.’ Then, pausing to check his iPhone, he laughed, ‘And the best birthday present, which should also please Bao, is that Beijing Bertie and Jemmy have just hacked up at Nottingham.’

  ‘Roo-pert,’ reproached his audience collectively.

  ‘That’s enough, Rupert, go and sit down,’ shouted Dancer Maitland.

  A little orchestra formed by Marcus on the piano, Bao and Abby on violins and Viking O’Neill on the horn then struck up.

  ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,’ sang Dancer and Georgie Maguire. ‘Happy birthday, Rotter Rupert, happy birthday to you,’ with Hermione joining in, drowning the lot of them.

  A beautiful cake was then wheeled in, decorated by a sugar model of Love Rat and sixty blazing red candles.

  ‘Take a hurricane to blow that many out,’ quipped Patrick.

  But Rupert was glancing at his iPhone again, to check on Love Rat’s latest nominations.

  ‘Put that thing away,’ thundered Declan.

  ‘Cut the cake, make a wish,’ shouted Bas Baddingham, then turning to Gala: ‘We all know what that is.’

  ‘Leading Sire for Love Rat,’ said Gala.

  Bleeding sire, she thought, noticing the blood all over Rupert’s shirt and wondering who the hell had hit him.

  Clutching a glass of red, Rupert toured the tables, trailing dogs, shaking hands, apologizing particularly to Bao, then reaching Baby and his brother Adrian.

  ‘How the hell did you get here from Melbourne in time?’

  ‘We took a private plane,’ grinned Baby.

  ‘I thought you were broke?’

  ‘Couldn’t miss your birthday.’ Adrian smiled thinly. ‘When are you going to reinstate my godson?’

  Pretending not to hear him, Rupert moved on to Gala, sitting between Bao and Drew. He was jolted by how gorgeous she looked.

  ‘Hi, you got back all right? Great dress.’ He bent to kiss her, and was not amused when Bas and Drew chorused: ‘Hands off, she’s ours.’

  ‘You’ll have to help yourself to drink from now on,’ Rupert told his guests, as he ordered his staff, before they got too hammered, to feed and settle for the night their horses, who might need extra rugs.

  The horses were delighted as many of them got double and treble helpings. As Quickly had earlier jumped out of his box, it was no longer felt necessary to parade him. Beijing Bertie and Jemmy also received a rousing reception when they got home from Nottingham.

  People had started dancing: Marcus with Alexei, his ballet-dancer boyfriend, his sister, Tabitha, wrapped round her husband Wolfie.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m so jealous – I’m like Dad, but it’s only because I love you, Wolfie.’

  Looking round, Rupert saw Gala dancing with Drew, rather too closely.

  ‘Gala,’ he snapped, ‘have you checked Quickly?’

  ‘Killjoy! Come back,’ Drew called after her as Gala fled from the marquee.

  Reaching the yard, she found Quickly had turned the light on, and judging from his half-full manger, he had clearly enjoyed several suppers. Purrpuss-very-full was still tackling a pyramid of Whiskas. Louise had passed out in Delectable’s box.

  Glancing up, Gala saw a light o
n in Gav’s flat, and felt overwhelmed with relief. What a comfort to have him back. She was about to nip up and knock on his door when the light went out.

  Apart from his daughter Perdita bawling Rupert out for banishing his grandson, and not accepting Eddie was going to become a father, then storming out followed by her husband Luke, the party ended without fights breaking out.

  As he and Taggie fell into bed, Rupert said for the thousandth time how sorry he was for buggering off.

  ‘My fault for giving a party. Your poor eye looks so sore, shall I bathe it?’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Who hit you?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. I must have cracked my head on something and blacked out.’

  ‘Poor boy.’ Taggie kissed him. ‘Happy birthday, darling. I was wondering, as we’ve got the marquee up and there’s buckets of food and drink, could all the lads have a party of their own tomorrow night?’

  80

  Rupert woke up next day with a blinding headache, a black eye and a huge bump on his head, to find the press having another field day. Half the papers had the headline CAMPBELL-BLACKEYE, and ran pieces that reaching sixty hadn’t made Rupert behave any better: ‘Sixty must be the new sixteen.’ All of them speculating who had decked him for humiliating Taggie and 250 guests. Was it a jealous husband?

  After thanking Jan profusely for saving the party from total disaster, Taggie, knowing she shouldn’t gossip, couldn’t resist asking him who he thought had blacked Rupert’s eye.

  Jan, who was taking glasses out of the dishwasher to return them to the marquee for the staff party, said nothing.

  ‘Rupert hasn’t a clue who it was, but they’ve given him a terrible bump.’

  Still Jan said nothing, not meeting her eye.

  ‘It wasn’t you?’ gasped Taggie in horror, and when Jan didn’t deny it, ‘Oh my God, it was you.’

  ‘I couldn’t bear him to get away with it, to see your heart breaking, after all you’d put into it. But please don’t tell anyone. I only did it for you.’

  ‘But how did you manage it?’

  ‘Oh, I just nipped out after the main course … Hush, mam, Dora’s coming.’

  At the prospect of opening several wheelbarrowsful of presents, Rupert took four Zapains and summoned Gav to his office for a catch-up. He was delighted that, as a result of Quickly, Dave and Fleance’s spectacular successes, Love Rat had received over a thousand new applications.

  ‘We’ll have to pick out the very best, don’t want to wear the old boy out.’

  ‘Penscombe yearlings sold very well in Keeneland,’ said Gav.

  ‘Good, we’re going to need the money,’ said Rupert. ‘I’ve gotta find a fortune to buy Dave back from Baby, who’ll screw every penny out of me. Lark’s bringing him back – we need fresh blood. Love Rat’s getting lazier, although you wouldn’t think it to see him flying round his paddock this morning. All in all, we’d better pull in our horns. That party must have cost a fortune.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Dora, wandering in. ‘Jan and Taggie did all the food themselves; Taggie would have trodden on grapes to produce the wine. In fact, you should make a profit. I took so many pictures and I’ve sold the lot to Hello.’

  ‘Well, bloody well unsell them then!’

  Having assured Taggie how much he adored his Love Rat cufflinks, Rupert settled down to opening his presents, watched beadily by Sapphire who couldn’t understand why none of them were for her.

  He loved the bronze of Banquo, the portrait of Taggie and the beautiful painting of Love Rat by Daisy France-Lynch. He was amused by the yearling called Jerry Hatrick from Drew, Bas and Hengist, but less so by the ton of Viagra and the Zimmer wrapped in red paper from the Carlisle twins.

  A pair of red trousers were dropped straight in the bin, as was a made-to-measure gold bridle for Quickly, which Rupert said was the most vulgar thing he’d ever seen but which Sapphire bore off to try on her rocking horse.

  Five minutes later there was a rattle of hooves and Quickly, wearing the gold bridle and ridden by a grinning Dora, appeared at the window.

  ‘Look how dazzling he looks.’

  ‘Bloody awful, take it off!’

  Bao had given him three blue silk shirts. Helen, some huge fluffy bedsocks ‘to keep you warm at night’.

  ‘I’ve got Taggie, the stupid cow,’ said Rupert irritably.

  He had just opened in delight a first edition of an ancient biography of Eclipse from Gav, when the telephone rang. It was Lark in Australia, crying so much it was a few minutes before Geraldine could make out what she was saying. Having always resented Lark’s popularity, she then hung up.

  ‘Who was that?’ demanded Rupert.

  ‘Lark in floods, wanted to dump on you – I said you were busy.’

  ‘Get her back,’ snarled Rupert. ‘At once.’

  ‘Oh Rupert, oh Rupert,’ sobbed Lark. ‘Baby’s sold Dave to Mr Wang.’

  ‘W-h-a-a-at! You sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. I’ve looked after him since he was a baby. I can’t bear the thought of him going to China. I’m so sorry – I can’t work here any more.’

  ‘Course you can’t – so sorry, angel, I’ll send you your airfare. Don’t give up hope, I’ll talk to Baby.’

  Gav had witnessed Rupert’s rage on numerous occasions but never thought the telephone would catch fire.

  ‘What the fuck are you playing at, Baby? How dare you sell Dave! You know I wanted him back. How much did Wang pay for him?’

  ‘Mind your own business. I’m sorry, Rupert, but you couldn’t have topped it. Means I’ll never have to worry about money again.’

  ‘So that’s why you took a private plane over. Bet my brother’s behind it.’ Rupert looked up at a jauntily waving Rupert Black. ‘Tell him he can have the fucking Stubbs if he wants it so badly – if you give me back Dave. You’re retiring a great horse in his prime.’

  ‘Who said anything about retiring him? We’re going for the World Cup.’

  After Rupert had hung up and was pacing up and down in fury, Gav said, ‘I think this Wang is the same mafia thug who killed Gala’s husband. He was the reason why she fainted and didn’t bid for the red filly. I think he’s Cosmo’s backer. Don’t say anything to Gala – she’s terrified.’

  Opening the Racing Post, Rupert found a full-page advertisement offering:

  Congratulations to I Will Repay and Master Quickly in the Breeders’ Cup Classic and inviting them to take part in the World Cup in Dubai in March.

  And Dave as well, thought Rupert.

  ‘When shall we three meet again?’ he intoned.

  ‘At least this should help Love Rat in the Global Sire awards,’ observed Gav.

  81

  The tensions and traumas of Rupert’s surprise party had affected Taggie far more than she had realized. She couldn’t understand why she continuously felt so exhausted. Even feeding the birds and the badgers tired her. Christmas with all the family pouring in would have wiped her out if it hadn’t been for Jan. Now, nearly two months later, the prospect of them pouring in for Easter filled her with dread. How had she managed to cope with entertaining all Rupert’s owners in the old days?

  She was also fretting about Young Eddie, who’d been packed off to Australia to win races on Cosmo’s horses. What was happening about his baby? Sauvignon must be at least four months gone now and Rupert still hadn’t made it up with Eddie.

  Rupert was away so much, and when he was home they weren’t getting on. Thank God for Jan, who was so angelic and took so much pressure off her. And thank goodness for Forester, to whom she’d got closer and closer, who hadn’t run away or killed or rolled in anything for weeks.

  Then in February she’d become aware of him sniffing her a lot. One evening she’d been arranging a vase of yellow catkins on the kitchen table. The temporary carer was upstairs with Old Eddie and Bao had gone out to supper with Lark and Gala. Unable to be bothered to cook for herself, Taggie had collapsed on
the kitchen sofa, trying to summon up enough energy to go to bed when Forester leapt up beside her, raking her left breast with his long claws.

  ‘Ouch,’ squawked Taggie. ‘Stop it, Forrie, that really hurt!’

  Putting up fingers to soothe the pain, she froze in terror as she encountered a lump. She must be imagining things … no, there it was again, the size of a large boiled sweet, hard beneath her trembling fingers as she squeezed it, her heart crashing, her breath coming in great gasps.

  Rupert was in Dubai at a carnival running up to the World Cup. She longed to tell Jan but he was away seeing his family in South Africa. Thank God no one, except Old Eddie and Local Janet who were snoring upstairs, was there to hear her cry. She wanted to bury herself under the duvet. Upstairs, Forester jumped on to the bed and tried to comfort her, but when she tossed and turned, he retreated to the spare room in a sulk.

  She wished he could accompany her on her first appointment with James Benson, the Campbell-Blacks’ smooth family doctor, who’d handled multiple dramas over the years. He had allegedly been very keen on Helen, believing, as a young wife, Rupert had treated her appallingly. Taggie had always felt that James found her wanting by comparison, but today he was unbelievably kind, his good-looking, expensive, red-veined face unusually softened.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling, the lump’s not very large. It’s probably just a cyst.’

  He arranged for her to see a specialist called Mr Minter at Cotchester Hospital, then urged her to tell Rupert immediately.

  ‘You can’t compare this, but look how he loathed having a surprise party landed on him. He’ll want to know, he adores you. He’ll want to look after you.’

  ‘No, no!’ Taggie was hysterical. ‘Please not. He’s abroad and he’s got so much on, I don’t want him worried.’

  In the end James agreed to her pleas not to tell anyone. ‘Let’s see what Minter says.’

  Taggie hardly took in James asking, ‘How’s that nice boy Gavin Latton getting on? Rupert said he had sex problems – waste of a good-looking bloke. Tell him to come and see me.’