by Jilly Cooper
‘Ker-rist, you do want me.’
And his smile of genuine delight, so seldom seen in the last few months, made the moment even more precious.
‘Oh God, yes, I do want you.’ She kissed his sleek muscular chest, then sliding her hand downward outside his trousers encountered a leaning tower of pleasure. ‘Wow, you want me too.’
‘“See! Antony that revels long o’nights is notwithstanding up.”’
‘Julius Seize him,’ giggled Gala and had no difficulty unzipping, drawing down and finding her way in.
Kneeling down on Paddington, she languorously rotated her tongue down the whole legendary length, mumbling: ‘Hail, cock of the West.’
‘Careful, I don’t want to come too soon.’
Next moment he’d stripped off in his full glory and pushed her down on the duvet, thinking how voluptuously cushiony and welcoming she was. Taggie had recently become so thin, pale and reluctant, showing no interest in sex.
Moving in, he licked her clitoris, then parted her labia, murmuring, ‘I do like to make an entrance,’ before plunging his cock deep inside her, hearing her laughter become gasps of joy.
‘Oh buttercunt, buttercunt.’ As her warm wet slipperiness gripped him he really had to battle not to come. Her cries grew louder as his long fingers crept down, gently stroking, until she stiffened, shuddered and came. They were both so out of it, they didn’t notice a log falling out of the fire, or that someone was pounding on the door.
‘Christ, it’s the porter in Macbeth. Don’t answer it,’ hissed Rupert.
Gropius, however, jumped down and waddled past them, squeaking excitedly as the banging increased.
‘Gala,’ shouted a voice. ‘It’s Dora!’
At first, they couldn’t stop laughing, then Gala said, ‘Quick! Get in the wardrobe, next door. I’ll pretend I was about to have a shower. Hurry! Dora’ll tell half Penscombe and the world.’ She gathered up Rupert’s clothes and chucked them into the bedroom after him. ‘I’ll get rid of her.’
Wrapping herself in one of the big white towels that Taggie – again – had given her when she moved in, she answered the door. Gropius’ squeaks rose, overjoyed to see Dora and his friend Cadbury, who after goosing Gala, discovered and wolfed down the remains of Gropius’ breakfast.
‘So sorry to bother you,’ said Dora.
‘I was just about to have a shower,’ said Gala, whipping Paddington away from the fire and flinging him over an armchair. ‘Sorry about the mess.’ She kicked Rupert’s underpants under the sofa.
‘Lovely fire.’ Dora put back a fallen log. ‘I was looking for Rupert actually,’ then as Gala froze, ‘but I can’t find him. I’ve got to get his Racing Post copy in before he leaves for Singapore tomorrow. I thought you might be able to give me a few pointers about Rupert. It’s so hard when he’s away so much.’
Well, he’s a fantastic fuck, thought a dazed Gala then said, ‘Not really. I haven’t seen him recently.’
She noticed Dora looking longingly at the bottle of white on the table. Cadbury, meanwhile, had shoved his way into the bedroom. Very fond of Rupert, he was now wagging his tail and yelping excitedly at the wardrobe door.
‘Come out of there!’ yelled Gala.
‘What on earth is he after?’ asked Dora as the noises and scrabbling intensified.
‘Probably a mouse – the place is crawling with them. I might borrow Purrpuss for a day or two. Get Quickers into training for when he goes to the World Cup. He misses Purrpuss more than Safety or Bitsy.’ She was rattling on now. ‘Could be the ghost, of course.’
‘Didn’t know there was one.’
‘Goodness yes,’ lied Gala. ‘This cottage is eighteenth century, some keeper hanged himself. Gropius often barks at him.’
Dora shivered and looked at Jan’s photographs of Ben.
‘Wasn’t he handsome? You must miss him so much.’
‘Yes, yes I do. Cadbury, do come back. Dora, I must have that shower. I’m meeting a friend at the Everyman – another carer. We’re going to Miss Saigon, a new production on its way to the West End. So I’d better get moving.’
‘OK,’ said Dora. ‘Sorry to bother you, and if you can think of any other snippets of goss about Rupert …’
The moment Dora was out of the front door, Gala ran after her. ‘You’ve left your torch behind.’
Only when she’d seen Dora disappear into the dark wood did she release Rupert from her wardrobe. He emerged, rubbing his neck. ‘Midgets must have hung their clothes in there. I now know how horses suffered from bearing reins.’
‘It’s a First World Wardrobe.’
‘Only compensation, your clothes smell of your scent. I thought that leopard dress was going to gobble me up.’
He must have remembered that from the party, thought Gala in wonder.
After that they attacked the bottle of white and got quite hysterical with laughter until he suggested they celebrate getting Gropius off the bed. What touched her in their second lovemaking was his gentleness yet determination to give her pleasure.
‘I adore you,’ she mumbled, lying in his arms afterwards. ‘I’m trying so hard not to love you.’
‘Please don’t. I’ve tried so hard to stay away, to get you out of my system – it hasn’t worked. I’ll be back from Kringi next week and I’m definitely taking you to the World Cup.’
Returning to the stud, chided by hooting owls, Rupert admired a lovely filly Cordelia had just given birth to, watched Fleance covering a French chestnut mare – from the wrong side again – then checked on a worryingly listless Love Rat before retreating to his office to cool down.
Christ, he mustn’t let Gala get to him, but she was so adorable and no one gave head like that – he must get her a Headmistress badge. He’d just switched on At the Races to watch one of Love Rat’s offspring run at Wolverhampton when Dora wandered in.
‘Absolutely riveting – I dropped in on Gala earlier, who behaved in a most extraordinary way. She was wearing only a towel and hastily kicked a pair of man’s pants under the sofa. I’m sure she’s seeing someone. She didn’t even offer me a drink, and chucked me out saying she had to rush because she was going to Miss Saigon at the Everyman with a girlfriend. Well, I just Googled Miss Saigon and it doesn’t start till next week. Sooo … I wonder who he is? I bet it’s Gav. She pretends not to, but she’s always fancied him rotten.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snarled Rupert. ‘And if you’ve nothing better to do than indulge in fatuous gossip, you can bugger off. I want to watch this race.’
‘Oh,’ said Dora, looking at the screen, ‘isn’t that one of Lester Bolton’s horses going down to the post? He evidently paid Brute Barraclough a massive £300,000 for it.’
‘The only way that horse will win a race is inside some greyhound,’ said Rupert sourly.
‘That is gross,’ stormed Dora, going bright red in the face. ‘There is nothing funny about horses going for meat and this week I think your column should attack the utterly atrocious transport of live horses.
‘Did you know they cram thousands of horses, mares, little foals, randy unbroken stallions, delicate racehorses, donkeys, pony-club ponies past their sell-by date, carthorses so obese their fetlocks won’t hold them up, all into lorries without partitions?
‘Then horrible Eastern European travellers hurtle them across Europe without any breaks for food, water or rest, so they end up with broken legs or crushed to death on a floor running with blood and crap.
‘And the drivers don’t stop until they get them to the slaughterhouses in Italy, because the bloody Italians like their horsemeat fresh. It’s an abomination, it’s a bloody disgrace and once they dump the horses at the abattoir they turn round and hurtle back for another load. Are you listening to me, Rupert?’
‘I’ve heard it all before,’ said Rupert, looking up from the Racing Post. ‘I know it’s awful. Things are being done to improve it.’
‘Not nearly fast enough. I’m going to write a real po
lemic in your name to shake things up.’
‘And Animal Rights will say it’s my fault because I contribute to the over-population with my stallions breeding hundreds of foals a season, like an assembly line.’ Although Love Rat’ll never get anywhere near that again, he thought sadly.
‘Anyway, if people aren’t allowed to sell horses for meat any more, they’ll turn them out in a field to starve or freeze to death.’
84
Only a fortnight to go to the World Cup. With the lure of ten million dollars prize money and several other rich races on the same night, the best horses in the world would be flying into Dubai.
These included New Year’s Dave, who’d been given another season by Mr Wang, To Die For, Simone de Beauvoir and Noonday Silence. An incredibly strong home side would be headed by Dubai’s ruler the great Sheikh Mohammed – but the main interest was in a repeated clash between the two Breeders’ Cup Classic superstars, I Will Repay and Master Quickly: whoever won would ensure his sire the Global Leading Sire title.
Brute Barraclough had also been invited to send Geoffrey, the bridesmaid horse who came second or third in everything. Rosaria, however, was panicking. Having learnt how much Mr Wang had forked out for New Year’s Dave, Brute was determined to flog Geoffrey to Wang’s great rival, Mr Tong, for a lot more.
Colin Chalford, Mr Fat and Happy, the banker whom Rosaria had liked and with whom she had danced at Cosmo’s orgy, had persuaded Janey Lloyd-Foxe to bring him down to the yard to meet Geoffrey, and was clearly very taken with him.
Lark, despite missing New Year’s Dave desperately, had been so happy to be back at Penscombe but found that everywhere reminded her even more desperately of Young Eddie. She half dreaded seeing both him and Dave again at the World Cup. Would she find herself still hopelessly in love with both of them? And would Eddie even be there? After his great Breeders’ Cup Classic victory, he’d won several races in Australia on Cosmo’s horses – but Cosmo and Isa, who liked to keep jockeys on the jump, hadn’t yet confirmed that Eddie would have any rides in Dubai.
Rupert meanwhile was increasingly worried about Love Rat, who had not recovered from his savaging, was not eating up or showing any desire to cover anything.
‘Completely gone off sex,’ sighed Pat.
Just like my wife, thought Rupert bitterly.
He and Taggie were not getting on. While he’d been off round the world, he had been increasingly wracked by desire for Gala. In fact, to lessen this he had ordered Taggie to come to the World Cup with him. But she had flatly refused and kept wriggling away from him. With her perched on the far side, their huge double bed was such a lonely place, he was tempted to send out search-parties. He was also worried in case she had found out about Gala. He didn’t trust Jan. And who had let Love Rat out?
Suspicion was increasingly falling on Bao, particularly when Rupert saw the ravishing diamond necklace he had given Taggie – was he yet another man in love with her? The afternoon after she’d refused to come to the World Cup, he’d just wandered into the kitchen to make himself a ham sandwich when Lark walked in looking uncharacteristically furious.
‘I don’t mean to sneak, but Harmony, Repay’s groom, just rang me to say Bao had lunch at Valhalla on Sunday.’
‘He what?’
‘Cosmo gave a lunch party. Zixin Wang and his beautiful wife, Bingwen, were there and Dame Hermione, who sang for Mr Wang – who evidently adores opera – and Bao played the piano accompanying her. Sauvignon was apparently there,’ Lark’s voice rose indignantly, ‘all over Wang, when she’s having Eddie’s baby.’
‘Christ! Wang’s the bastard whose poachers murdered Gala’s husband.’
‘It seems he toured the stable admiring Dave and Repay, both of whom he now owns,’ Lark’s voice trembled, ‘and is determined to win the World Cup with them. He’s even based his silks on the Chinese flag.’
‘My God,’ said an outraged Rupert, adding an extra dollop of mustard to his sandwich, ‘Bao must be our mole. All those leaks all summer going straight to Cosmo; the red chestnut filly at Tattersalls, me poaching Tarqui and firing Eddie. He was always hanging around the yard. He must have let out Love Rat.’
He took a bite of his sandwich and choked; it was a minute before he realized Jan was standing in the doorway.
‘We’re busy,’ gasped Rupert, as Lark patted him on the back.
‘I don’t want to stir things,’ said Jan, ‘but I’ve always suspected Bao. I found your lucky shirt under the lining paper in his room and I discovered this in the inside pocket of the jacket, which he asked me to take to the dry cleaners.’
Jan handed over a photograph of a brutally handsome, granite-jawed Chinese man with his arm around a beautiful, also Chinese, woman.
‘On the back of which Bao’s written “Mother” in Mandarin,’ said Jan.
‘When did you speak Mandarin?’
‘I don’t, but when Bao was giving Sapphire and Timon Mandarin lessons, he made a card for them to send Tabitha, which is still in their rooms. Look – it’s the same hieroglyph, “Mother”.’
‘Good God.’ Rupert and Lark examined card and photograph.
‘That’s certainly the Wang who bought Dave,’ said Lark with a shudder, ‘and Mrs Wang.’
‘I’ve been checking online,’ said Jan. ‘Zixin Wang is actually married to Bao’s mother, Bingwen, who he stole from Mr Tong. The present Mrs Tong is Tong’s second wife, Aiguo, and Bao’s stepmother. No wonder Tong hates Wang and wants to beat him in the World Cup. Rumour has it he’s trying to buy Geoffrey.’
‘Also,’ Jan went on, ‘Bao’s probably worried about his mother. Wang is suspected of having bumped off his first wife, who was in television, in order to marry her.’
‘And assassinated Gala’s husband – not a great track record,’ said Rupert. ‘Bao must be our mole, the little shit.’
‘But he was so sweet,’ protested Lark, ‘and he really loved all the horses and the dogs. It doesn’t add up. Perhaps he only went to Valhalla to check his mother was OK with Mr Wang. He so adores her. According to Harmony, vile Sauvignon was doing a real number on Wang on Sunday. Poor Eddie.’
‘Wang, bang, thank you, Mum.’ Rupert threw the rest of his sandwich in the bin. ‘It’s obviously Wang who’s backing Cosmo, that’s why he’s been able to spend such billions on horses. I must go and ring Valent.’
Valent was equally appalled to learn of Bao’s transgressions but reluctant to call the police because he was so involved with Tong on a business level; he and Rupert were also about to pull off a huge deal selling him hundreds of horses.
‘I’ll try and ring Bao,’ said Rupert.
But Bao wasn’t answering his mobile and had clearly pushed off back to China.
Worse was to come. With tragic irony, a fortnight after Dora’s inflammatory column in Rupert’s name, inveighing against the transport of live horses, Safety Car was found missing from his field, leaving his sheep friends racing around frantically bleating.
‘He’s probably in the pub,’ said Roving Mike.
‘Or been signed up to play football for Chelsea,’ said Cathal.
‘He’ll go for meat, I know he’ll go for meat,’ sobbed Dora.
‘Can’t sell for meat without a passport,’ said a shaken Rupert, then went cold when he discovered Safety Car’s passport was missing from the office. It must be an inside job, somebody wanting to destabilize Quickly. Anyone armed with the passport could now spirit Safety Car across the Channel and on to a long-distance lorry rattling towards a bloody death.
‘It must be Bao,’ said Cathal. ‘He was hanging around photographing Safety and Love Rat for hours on the day he left. He always made a point of cosying up to Safety, who probably went with him willingly, poor old boy.’
It was then discovered the CCTV had been switched off that night, so there was no evidence.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Taggie, fingering her diamond necklace in horror. ‘Bao adored Safety – he thought he was so funny
. He wouldn’t do that.’
Marketa, who’d been so excited about taking Safety to Dubai, was inconsolable. ‘Some windictive willain’s stolen him.’
Equally inconsolable, but refusing to show weakness, Rupert called in the police and offered a £500,000 reward for Safety, not excessive when one appreciated Quickly was going to compete in a $10,000,000 dollar race.
‘With his one ear, white face, scraggy tail and his photograph all over the press and internet, someone must recognize him,’ said Lark hopefully. But as hammer blow followed hammer blow, it seemed that someone must really hate Rupert. On a pre-race canter the following morning, Bitsy got a leg treading on a pile of stones unaccountably thrown down on the gallops – so Quickly had no pacemaker with whom to go to Dubai.
Poor Taggie was just as upset about Safety Car, but at least it meant that people assumed he was the reason for her tear-stained unhappiness when, on the pretext of going shopping for Sapphire’s birthday in Cotchester, she went to hospital for the blue-coloured dye to be injected into her breast. Jan had wanted to go with her but Eddie’s buxom carer, Shannon, had a migraine so he couldn’t get away.
Returning from hospital, Taggie was chucking out a pile of newspapers when she discovered on the features page of the Scorpion a picture of Rupert and Gala embracing after the King George. She was still fretting that, when Jan had found her crying a while back, he had assumed it was over Gala and Rupert.
On his last night before leaving for Dubai, Rupert was caught up with so many things in the yard, particularly a fading Love Rat, he was very late coming to bed. Taggie pretended to be asleep, but when Rupert woke her and tried to make it up, she shoved him away, petrified he’d discover the blue dye, refusing to let him touch her. Rupert had proceeded to walk out and have insomnia in the spare room with all the dogs.
In the morning, Love Rat was even more lethargic. He didn’t even whicker when Rupert entered his box. Sapphire and Timon had spent the night in the straw beside him.