Riders

by Jilly Cooper

  She was only twenty-seven. She longed for love but, having been married to Rupert for six and a half years, she felt she had become what he kept telling her she was: boring, prissy, brittle, and frigid. He had so sapped her self-confidence that she didn’t think she’d ever be able to hold another guy. She knew she attracted people like Malise, Dino, and James Benson, but was sure they would all lose interest once they got her into bed.

  Zonked by sleeping pills, Helen didn’t come down until eleven o’clock the next day. She found Marcus guzzling German chocolates, sweet papers everywhere.

  “Where did you get those from?” she said furiously.

  “Daddy bought them for me.”

  Helen went storming into the tackroom. “You’ve given Marcus candy.”

  “You’re always reproaching me for not giving him presents. The one time I remember, I get it in the neck.”

  “You know the kids aren’t allowed candy except after lunch. How can I raise them when you spend your time undermining my authority?”

  “What authority? Producing a whining, sickly little milksop.”

  “That’s because he’s terrified of you.”

  The marriage limped on for a few more weeks. Helen continued to paint the house different colors, spending a fortune on wallpaper and fabrics. “One day I’m going to wake up and find I’ve been completely reupholstered in Laura Ashley,” grumbled Rupert.

  As Dr. Benson had predicted, Helen and Rupert recovered from the clap. Rock Star continued to sweep the board and provide a powerful new interest for Rupert, achieving almost a walkover at the Olympia Christmas show.

  The following Sunday, the last before Christmas, Janey and Billy lay in bed reading the papers.

  “Christ,” said Janey. “Have you seen this?”

  “Hell,” said Billy. “D’you think it’s true?”

  “I’m sure, and checked for libel, or they wouldn’t risk it. Helen’s going to do her nut.”

  The Campbell-Blacks were having roast beef for Sunday lunch. Rupert was just carving second helpings when he was called away to the telephone. Helen cleared away the children’s plates, helping them to apple pie and cream, and then settled down with the Sunday papers to wait until Rupert came off the telephone. She glanced at the one on the top of the pile. It was an awful rag, but you had to read it. Some starlet named Samantha Freebody was naming her loves on page six, the little tramp. Helen read about the antics of several deviant vicars and lascivious witches, then turned to page six and froze, for there, confronting her, was a large picture of Rupert lying on a beach in bathing trunks, eyes narrowed against the sun, glass in his hand, palm trees in the background.

  “One of my most thrilling affairs,” Samantha Freebody had written, “was with international show-jumping ace Rupert Campbell-Black. I was filming in Portugal and he came out for five days as part of the British show-jumping team. We met at a party. I was swept off my feet by his blond, blue-eyed good looks, and his air of tremendous self-confidence. He’d had a good win in the show ring that day and, having met me, was keen to keep on riding all night. At first I resisted his advances; I didn’t want to appear cheap. But a tide of champagne and euphoria swept us down to the beach and at two o’clock in the morning we made passionate love under the stars, until the warm waves washed over us. For the rest of the five days we were inseparable, loving each other all night. By day I would go and watch him in the ring. After five days we decided to end our idyll. He had other shows to go on to; I had to finish my movie. He was married, his wife expecting her second baby. It was only fair to give him back to her, but I really enjoyed the novelty of our naughty, racy lovemaking.”

  “Can I get down?” said Marcus for the second time.

  “May I?” said Helen automatically, getting up and lifting Tab out of her high chair. “Go and watch television, darlings.”

  Upstairs she locked herself in the loo and threw up and up and up. Rupert was waiting as she came out.

  “What on earth’s the matter? You sound like Jake Lovell before a big class.”

  “Look at this,” croaked Helen, handing him the paper.

  Rupert skimmed through it without a flicker of expression. “Load of rubbish; don’t believe a word of it.”

  “The dates tally. You were in Portugal just before I had Tab.”

  “Just ignore it,” said Rupert. “That girl’s publicity mad.”

  “I don’t understand you,” screamed Helen. “You go berserk if anyone criticizes the way you ride.”

  “I ride for a living. That’s what matters. I don’t fuck for a living.”

  “Could have fooled me. She obviously does.”

  “I wonder how much she got,” said Rupert, picking up the paper again.

  “Aren’t you even going to sue?”

  “What’s the point?” Rupert shrugged. “If you leave mud to dry, you can brush it off. What did you do with the roast beef? I want a second helping.”

  “You can honestly eat having read that?” said Helen, appalled. “And how am I supposed to cope? Mothers sniggering at the playgroup. Mrs. Bodkin, Charlene, and the grooms all talking their heads off.”

  “I’m sure they’ll enjoy it enormously.”

  “How can I ever hold my head up in the village shop again?”

  “Ask them to deliver,” said Rupert.

  Matters were not improved a week later when a leading columnist in the Sunday Times took Samantha Freebody to the cleaners for naming names.

  “How must Rupert Campbell-Black’s unfortunate wife and children feel?”

  The answer was much, much worse. Everyone who hadn’t seen the original piece rushed off to the library to read it. A couple of days later Janey rang up Rupert to wish him a Happy New Year.

  “And for God’s sake hide Private Eye,” she went on. “You’ve been nominated White’s Shit of the Year.”

  “Thank God it’s 1980 now,” said Rupert. “Apart from buying Rocky, 1979 hasn’t been the greatest of years.”

  In the evening Rupert found Helen in the drawing room writing letters. He wished she wouldn’t always wear her hair up these days, like a confirmed spinster.

  “Applying for a new husband?” he said.

  Helen gritted her teeth and didn’t answer.

  Rupert crossed the room, and kissed the nape of her white neck. “I’m sorry I gave you the clap and went to bed with Samantha Freebody. I am totally in the wrong. There is absolutely no excuse. But the more you reject me and take no part in what I do, the worse it becomes. Come on, get up.”

  The sudden unexpected overture totally disarmed her.

  “There, there,” he said, drawing her against him, “it’s all right. Shall we have another try? I’m going to cancel the next two shows and take you abroad. Charlie Masters has offered us his house outside Nairobi. We can lie in the sun and I’ll give you the honeymoon you never had.”

  “ ‘And I will heal me of my grievous wound,’ ” quoted Helen sadly.

  “Grievous womb?” demanded Rupert. “You been to see Benson again?”

  Helen shook her head, smiling faintly.

  “That’s better,” said Rupert. “It seems an awfully long time since you smiled.”

  “What about the children?”

  “They’re not coming,” said Rupert firmly, “nor are the dogs; just you and me on our own. And I’ll start off tonight by taking you out to dinner.”

  The doorbell rang. It was Janey. Billy had gone to some evening show in Warwickshire and she was at a loose end.

  “Come and have a drink,” said Rupert. “Helen and I are having a rapprochement.”

  “About time,” said Janey.

  She was full of gossip and in high good humor. Evidently Fenella Maxwell had gone into a complete decline since Dino Ferranti had walked out. Fen didn’t seem very good at holding men, she added with satisfaction. Janey had lapsed in her resolution to give up drink while she was pregnant, but at least she had cut down and was only drinking wine.

&nbs
p; Helen could hardly believe her ears half an hour later when she heard Rupert saying to Janey, “Why don’t you come out to dinner with us?” She went upstairs and sat on her bed in a rage for ten minutes. Then she steeled herself to be tolerant. After all Janey was on her own.

  Downstairs, she found Tabitha had invaded the drawing room, reducing the place to chaos. Every ornament had been moved, Janey’s handbag had been upended and a flotsam of bus tickets, old telephone numbers, pens, defunct mascara wands, and dirty combs lay scattered over the floor. Then she started screaming for sweets and for Daddy to read her a story. On being told Daddy was going out, the screaming redoubled. Picking her up under one arm, Rupert took her upstairs for Charlene to sort out.

  “That child is more destructive than a JCB,” said Janey, reloading her bag. “Don’t ever worry that Rupert will leave you for another woman. No stepmother would take on that monster.”

  Helen was appalled how pleased she was because Janey was bitching about Tab.

  Rupert hadn’t bothered to book, but as usual the best table in the restaurant was rustled up straightaway. Everyone was staring and nudging: “Look who’s just walked in. It is, isn’t it? He’s even better in the flesh.” Helen wished she had washed her hair.

  “Where are you going for your second honeymoon?” asked Janey.

  “Kenya,” said Helen.

  “Some golfing friends of my parents have just gone there on safari. They’re called Dick and Fanny, can you imagine!”

  Janey could always make Rupert laugh, thought Helen, with a stab of envy.

  “Have you heard the latest Samantha Freebody story?” Janey went on, squeezing lemon on her smoked salmon. “What’s the difference between Samantha Freebody and a KitKat?”

  “What?” asked Rupert.

  “You can only get four fingers in a KitKat.”

  Rupert howled with laughter, and Helen, although blushing furiously, joined in.

  “Billy bumped into her at the opening of some sports center last night,” Janey went on. “He was going to cut her dead when she accosted him and said: “You’ve got a hole in your jersey!” and Billy replied quick as a flash, “You’ve got a hole between your legs, but the difference between us is I don’t write about my hole all over the papers.” She’s so publicity mad, the old slag heap, Billy says she’d turn up for the opening of an envelope.”

  Somehow by bringing the whole awful business into the open, Janey was making things much better, thought Helen. Now she was attacking Rupert.

  “You’re a monster to Helen. You treat her appallingly.”

  “I don’t remember you treating Billy all that well in the past,” said Rupert coldly.

  “That was only once. I just needed to prove that Billy was really the only man for me. I’m with him for keeps now.”

  Janey was being real nice, thought Helen, so upfront and supportive. It was such a novelty to be talked about and defended and argued over that Helen drank more than usual.

  While they were having coffee she went to the loo.

  “All right?” they both said solicitously when she came back.

  “Rupert’s just suggested that Billy and I fly out to join you in Kenya for one of the weeks,” said Janey.

  “But, but, I thought it was supposed to be a honeymoon,” stammered Helen.

  Rupert didn’t quite meet her eyes.

  “All honeymoons should be spent in duplicate,” said Janey. “Helen and I’ll come if you and Billy promise not to talk about horses.”

  49

  Charlie Masters’s house, a few miles outside Nairobi, was perfect. Open balconied, it had papyrus walls, leopard skins on the floor, a vast sunken bath, comfortable beds, and a fleet of smiling African boys who could not only cook but didn’t turn a hair at any outlandish English antics.

  The garden, lushly crowded with jacaranda, flame trees, and a sweet-smelling tangle of herbaceous plants, also contained a tennis court and a swimming pool ringed with palm trees. All around lay the bush, and Helen had the feeling that the house was only here by the courtesy of nature and that any minute the jungle might take over. From the start, the holiday was a disaster. With Billy and Janey around, she and Rupert never had a moment to themselves. Billy and Rupert tended to play tennis or swim all morning, followed by a large lunch and lots of alcohol. Then sleep or sunbathing, followed by more tennis and swimming, followed by a large dinner, more drinking, and a trip round the Nairobi nightclubs. Billy was drinking again, not to excess, but on holiday he reckoned he was justified in coming off the wagon.

  Helen, exhausted and emotionally bankrupt, wanted to sleep, be cherished, and made love to in the gentlest way and to talk through her and Rupert’s problems. She tried to persuade Rupert to dine alone with her, but the others seemed always to come along too. She was deeply embarrassed, too, by the way Rupert and Billy wandered round the garden with no clothes on, their cocks wiggling like those rubber devils that hang from driving mirrors. She was sure Janey wore a bikini only because she was pregnant. Helen worried too about the children—well, mostly Marcus, and insisted on telephoning home every day from the local post office, which was extremely time-consuming and irritated the hell out of Rupert.

  Finally, being Rupert, as soon as he and Billy hit Kenya, people discovered they were there and old friends started ringing up and inviting them to parties. Newspapers wanted to interview them, Kenyan television wanted to send down a crew. The alacrity with which Rupert welcomed every diversion made it obvious that he didn’t want to get away from it all in the least.

  After one long, boozy lunch, when Rupert and Billy had gone out on safari, Helen unbuttoned slightly to Janey.

  “I simply don’t know what to do. Our marriage is in smithereens. Rupert simply doesn’t want to spend time with me. I feel everything I do gets on his nerves.”

  Janey poured herself another glass of wine. “Want one?”

  Helen shook her head. “Oh, all right, just a small one.”

  They took their glasses out onto the terrace. A shower of rain had rinsed the earth, and a rainbow arced over the jacaranda trees.

  “I think you’re too subservient,” said Janey. “I mean Billy was lovely but pretty casual before I took off with Kev.”

  “Billy was always very caring,” said Helen.

  “But he was always happy to booze with his chums rather than come home to me. Why don’t you try making Rupert jealous? He was jolly broody over Dino Ferranti. Even talked to Billy about having your telephone tapped.”

  Helen looked amazed. “He had no cause. There was nothing between Dino and me except a few lunches.”

  “Ha,” said Janey. “Rupert is aware how fragile a thing possession is. He can’t imagine anyone having lunch with anyone else’s wife without evil intent. He thinks everyone is like himself.”

  “But what can I do? We can’t go on like this.”

  “Don’t shove off until you’ve found someone else. If you’re going to be virtually a single parent, why not get paid for it? If you left Rupe you wouldn’t be able to buy dresses like that, or do up the house every two years. It’s very cold outside the marital cage.”

  It was so oppressively hot that they returned to Janey and Billy’s bedroom. Sitting on the bed, Helen appeared to let off a huge fart. Crimson, she jumped to her feet. “That wasn’t me.”

  Janey laughed. “You’ve sat on my vibrator.”

  Helen took a slug of wine.

  “If your sex life’s so good,” she said, “why d’you need a vibrator?”

  “Oh they’re lovely,” sighed Janey, “and they do jazz things up. Billy’s wonderful, but not absolutely infallible.”

  Outside, the crickets were shrilling their permanent burglar alarm, the frogs croaked in lazy lechery.

  Janey peered at her smooth brown face in the mirror. “God, I look like a hag. Look at all these wrinkles.”

  “You haven’t got any,” said Helen, “and now you’ve given up smoking, you won’t get all those little lines ar
ound your mouth.”

  “I’m bound to get them as punishment for all the men I’ve sucked off,” said Janey ruefully.

  Helen turned away, shocked. What an appalling thing to say. She’d only sucked Rupert off once and been so revolted she’d never done it again. She realized in despair how many light-years sexually she was behind Janey. She must try and catch up. Blushing even further, taking another huge gulp of wine, and gazing at the eyeless African mask on the wall, she asked, “Do you—do you really enjoy doing that to men?”

  Janey shrugged. “Well, it’s an acquired taste. Whisky and dry martinis don’t taste very nice the first time. It’s all right if you swallow it fast. I said to Billy the other day, ‘It’s a pity one can’t have it with tonic, or better still with ice and lemon!’ The trouble with sex is that all sorts of things are wildly exciting in fantasy, but no good when they happen. I get frightfully turned on by the thought of being buggered, even whipped. But when darling Billy tried it, I didn’t like it at all.”

  That evening they all went to a party which continued in a state of rampage and carousal until eight o’clock in the morning. Neither Rupert nor Billy felt like playing tennis the next morning, so they lazed round the pool.

  Helen was wearing dark glasses, a large hat to prevent her freckles spreading, and a lime green bathing suit. She’s so thin now, she’s really better covered up, thought Janey critically.

  Every day Janey’d start on another diet, and abandon it by lunchtime, when Rupert opened a bottle and the smell of Abdul’s cooking drifted out from the kitchen. But her skin was turning as golden as a peach. She was four months pregnant, and Billy liked her plump, anyway.

  Helen, having finished yesterday’s Guardian, was reading Crime and Punishment with effort. Janey was reading Vogue. Rupert was flipping through Horse and Hound for mentions of his name. Billy was reading through a pornographic novel, skipping until he came to the sex bits. Jomo, the African boy, was steadily but unhurriedly sweeping up jacaranda petals and bird droppings. Morning glory spread in a sapphire haze over the tennis court wire, vying with the sky in blueness.