by Jilly Cooper
Leaving two dusty footprints in the bath, she leapt out and combed her hair. Since Jake had told her he liked her just as much without makeup, she felt secure enough not to bother with that all the time, either. Stretching voluptuously, she went to the window, and then stiffened with horror, for there, as usual coming too fast along the road and only five minutes behind Jake, was Rupert’s blue Porsche.
Next minute she heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel and the dogs barking and tore downstairs. Opening the door she collapsed gibbering into Jake’s arms.
“What’s the matter?”
“Rupert’s just behind you. I’ve seen him on the road. What can we do?”
“Nothing,” said Jake, his brain racing. “Go and wash that scent off. We have to brazen it out. Pretend I just dropped in.”
“Better come out onto the terrace,” said Helen. “It’s getting dark out there and he won’t be able to see how much we’re blushing.”
Jake followed her out, running his finger down her spine.
“Anyway, if he finds out, he finds out. He’s got to know sometime,” he said. Helen went very still. Turning around, she looked straight into Jake’s eyes. “Has he?” she whispered.
Jake gazed back at her steadily, no shiftiness in his eyes now.
“Yes,” he said. “You know he has to, sooner or later. It’d just be easier after L.A.”
Helen moved towards him. “Do you really mean that?”
“Yes, I think I always have. I just haven’t said it.”
He only had time to hold her briefly before there was a second crunch on the gravel and more barking.
“I can’t face him,” said Helen, in sudden panic.
“I’ll sort him out. Just get me a drink—Scotch; a quadruple, and as soon as possible.”
Helen fled to the kitchen, her bare feet making no sound on the carpet.
Bang. Rupert slammed the front door behind him. He was not in a good mood. He’d specially come back to spend the night in London with Amanda and, after two admittedly splendid hours, she’d pushed off to Sussex, saying she had to drive her daughter to some dance.
“Helen,” he shouted, “Tab, I’m home. Where the hell is everyone?”
Jake waited on the terrace.
“Helen,” Rupert shouted again, more irritably.
“She’s in the kitchen,” said Jake.
“Who’s that?” Rupert came out onto the terrace, then stopped in his tracks, looking at Jake with slit eyes. His hair was bleached by the French sun, and he was wearing a blue T-shirt, with “I Love L.A.” in red letters across the front. Inspiration suddenly came to Jake.
“Beautiful place you’ve got here,” he said. “I’d only seen it from the road.”
“There are perfectly good gates at the bottom of the drive. I’m sure you don’t need me to show you the way to them,” said Rupert coldly.
“I dropped in,” said Jake, “on the off-chance you might be back. I got a letter from Malise this week. I decided, as we’ve both been selected and I want the team gold as much as you do, we’d stand a better chance if we buried the hatchet, at least temporarily.”
He held out his hand.
Rupert, for once at a loss for words, looked down at the hand, which was completely steady. He thought of his own humiliation in the World Championship. He thought of Fen defying him at the Crittleden strike. He thought of Jake in the dormitory at St. Augustine’s, a terrified little boy, cringing away from the lighted matches. Now, here he was waving white flags and offering peace initiatives.
The hand was still there. Briefly Rupert took it.
“All right. I don’t trust you a fucking inch, Gyppo, but for the sake of the team gold we’ll suspend hostilities till after the Games. Then,” he added, smiling, “I’ll smash the hell out of you! We’d better have a drink. Helen,” he yelled.
“Yes,” said Helen faintly.
“She was getting some ice,” said Jake. “Probably hovering to see if I was to be allowed a drink.”
“You were lucky to catch me. I wasn’t planning to come back tonight at all. What d’you want?”
“Scotch, please.”
At that moment Helen came through the door, clutching a tray with one already poured glass of whisky, the whisky decanter, a second empty glass, and the ice bucket. She looked at them both with terrified eyes, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, not knowing which way to bolt.
“Hi,” said Rupert. “We’ve decided not to kill each other. You’ve met Helen before, haven’t you?”
As Jake took his glass from Helen to stop the frantic rattling, he wondered for a second if Rupert was speaking ironically. Then decided that such was his egotism and contempt for Jake that he couldn’t possibly envisage anything between him and Helen. All the same it was a good thing there was only Helen’s glass, half-full, on the terrace wall.
Jake took a huge gulp of whisky and nearly choked. Christ, it was strong, and thank God for that.
Rupert poured two fingers into his own glass.
“I’m giving up after Dublin,” he said. “I want a stone off before the Games.”
“I can’t afford to lose it,” said Jake. “How was Dinard?”
“Bloody good.”
“And Rocky?”
“Bloody good, too. I keep thinking he’s going to jump off the top of the world. I’m scared he’s going to peak too early.”
In a daze, Helen poured herself another glass of wine. I cannot believe this, she said to herself. Here are two men, who I know detest each other beyond anything, talking not just politely but with enjoyment. Not by a flicker of an eyelid did Jake betray any nerves or the slightest interest in her, but continued to discuss the team, their weaknesses, the strength of the opposition at the Games, and which riders they had to watch. He asked Rupert’s advice about the L.A. climate, and possible breathing and fitness problems. After Dublin, Rupert explained, he was flying Rocky straight out to L.A. to give them both time to get adjusted to the climate. This would certainly give him the edge over the other British riders, who wouldn’t be leaving until a fortnight later.
If Rupert’s in L.A., thought Helen, that’ll give Jake and me a safe fortnight. She marveled at his quick-wittedness. She never dreamed he would use the excuse of coming to make peace. She was overwhelmed with gratitude that he had averted a scene. She wished she could remember his exact words before Rupert arrived, but she’d been in such a panic. When he said Rupert would have to find out sometime, did he mean that he was going to commit himself to her and leave Tory; or merely that, by the law of misfortune, Rupert would rumble them sooner or later? She felt sure he had meant the former. Watching his face, dark, intense, growing more shadowed as the sun slipped behind the beeches, yet suddenly illumined gold as a chink was found between the leaves, Helen could read only one emotion; passionate interest in what Rupert was saying. Bloody, bloody horses, she thought; will I ever get away from them?
Jake tried to leave after the second drink. He was already slightly tight and, on an empty stomach, might easily make some false move. He glanced at his watch and put his glass down: “I must go. Sorry to barge in on you like that. Good-bye, and thanks,” he added casually to Helen.
Rupert went to the door with him. A desire to show off overcoming natural antipathy, he said, “Like to see the yard?”
“Okay,” said Jake, “Just for two minutes.”
An hour later, Helen heard his car drive away and Rupert came through the front door.
“I’m starving. Shall I go and get a take-away?”
I want to be taken away, thought Helen in desolation. She had been so happy when Jake had turned up and now she had no idea when she’d see him again, particularly as he was going to Dublin first thing in the morning.
She couldn’t resist discussing him with Rupert.
“Wasn’t it amazing his coming here?”
“He was certainly impressed by the setup,” said Rupert, picking up his car keys. “Said he’d come to bury the
hatchet; bury it in my cranium more likely. Don’t trust the bugger an inch. Suspect he came to have a gawp, as much as anything; to see if he could pick up a few tips. Asked me the way back to Warwickshire. Hadn’t a clue where he was. I told him the Sapperton way. He was so pissed, with any luck he’ll run into a wall. Do you want Chinese or Indian?”
The following Friday, Helen slumped in total despair at the breakfast table, two hands gaining warmth from a cup of black coffee. She had heard from Jake only once since he’d been in Dublin and that was only a two-minute call before someone interrupted him. He said he’d ring back and hadn’t. He’d obviously got cold feet.
“Letter for you, Mrs. C-B,” said Charlene, handing her a bulky envelope: “Postmarked Dublin. You’d better watch out it’s not a letter bomb.”
Helen was about to tell her not to be nosy, then she recognized Jake’s black spiky handwriting. Inside the envelope was folded a large, dark blue, silk spotted handkerchief.
“That’s lovely, Mrs. C-B,” said Charlene. “Navy goes with everything.”
Helen went white and upended the envelope. There was nothing else inside. The spotted handkerchief—Jake was telling her he wanted her for good.
“She seemed absolutely dazed,” Charlene told Dizzy afterwards.
Then Helen jumped to her feet, laughing.
“I’m going to Dublin,” she said. “I want to watch—er—my husband in the Aga Khan Cup.”
The Aga Khan Cup—a splendid trophy—is presented to the winning side in the Nations’ Cup at the Dublin Horse Show. All Dublin turns out to watch the event and every Irish child who’s ever ridden a horse dreams of being in the home team one day. For the British, it was their last chance to jump as a team before L.A. All the riders were edgy; which of the five would Malise drop? In the end it was Griselda, who pulled a groin muscle (“shafting some chambermaid,” said Rupert) but who would be perfectly recovered in time for L.A.
On the Thursday night the British team had been to one of those legendary horse-show balls. Unchaperoned by Malise (who was unwisely dining at the British Embassy) and enjoying the release from tension after being selected, they got impossibly drunk, particularly Jake, and all ended up swimming naked in the Liffey. Next day none of them was sufficiently recovered to work their horses.
Jake, who didn’t go to bed at all, spent the following morning trying to ring Helen from the press office. He had huge difficulty remembering and then dialing her number. A strange bleating tone continually greeted him. Dragging Wishbone to the telephone, he asked, “Is that the engaged or the out-of-order signal over here?”
“Sure,” said Wishbone soothingly, “ ’tis somewhere between the two.”
“Christ,” yelled Jake, then clutched his head as it nearly exploded with pain.
Half of him was desperate to talk to Helen and find out how she’d reacted to the blue spotted handkerchief he’d sent off to her the other day, when he was plastered. The other half was demented with panic at what he might have triggered off. None of the telephones seemed to work. Wishbone, who was talking to a man in a loud check suit, who seemed to know every horse in the show, bought Jake another drink.
“Drink is a terrible dirty ting,” he said happily, “but the only answer is to drink more of it.”
Jake looked at his watch and wondered if he’d ever totter as far as the ring.
“We’d better go and walk the course,” he urged Wishbone. “We’ll be very late.”
“Stop worrying,” said Wishbone. “We haven’t got a course yet.” He jerked his head towards the man in the loud check suit, who was busy buying yet another round. “He’s the course-builder.”
All in all the British put up a disgraceful performance. A green-faced tottering bunch, they staggered shakily from fence to fence, holding on to rather than checking the spreads, wincing in the blinding sunshine, to the intense glee of the merry Irish crowd, who had seen visiting teams sabotaged before.
Ivor fell off at the first and third fences, and then exceeded the time limit. Fen knocked every fence down. Rupert managed to get Rocky round with only twenty faults, his worst performance ever.
Jake, waiting to go in by the little white church, was well aware, as Hardy plunged underneath him, that the horse knew how fragile he felt.
“For Christ’s sake, get round,” said Malise, who was looking extremely tight-lipped, “or we’ll be eliminated from the competition altogether.”
Suddenly Jake looked up at the elite riders’ stand, which is known in Dublin as the Pocket. He felt his heart lurch, for there, smiling and radiant, was Helen. She was wearing a white suit, and her hair, which she’d been in too much of a hurry to wash, was tied back by a blue silk spotted handkerchief. His challenge had been taken up.
“Oh, good, Helen’s come after all,” said Malise, sounding very pleased and beetling off to the Pocket. “Good luck,” he called over his shoulder to Jake.
Concentration thrown to the winds, Jake rode into the ring. Somehow he managed to take off his hat to the judges and start cantering when the bell went, but that effort was too much for him. Hardy put in a terrific stop at the first fence and Jake went sailing through the air. The next moment Hardy had wriggled out of his bridle and was cavorting joyously round the ring until he’d exceeded the time limit.
Jake just sat on the ground, sobbing with helpless laughter. When he finally limped out of the ring Malise was looking like a thundercloud.
“There is absolutely nothing to laugh about.”
“You don’t think he’ll unselect us?” said Fen, in terror.
Jake shook his head, then winced. But all he could say to himself joyfully over and over again was, “She’s here and she’s wearing the handkerchief.”
The Irish won the Aga Khan Cup.
“There’s absolutely no point in talking to any of you,” said Malise furiously. “But I want everyone, grooms, wives, hangers-on included, to come to my room at nine o’clock tomorrow. If any of you don’t show up, you’re out.”
The only answer seemed to be to go on to another, even more riotous ball, where reaction inevitably set in.
“The hair of the dog is doing absolutely nothing to cure my hangover,” Fen grumbled to Ivor, as he trod on her toes round the dance floor. “Really, if Rupert doesn’t get his hand out of the back of that girl’s dress soon, he’ll be tickling the soles of her feet.”
The music came to an end.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Don’t,” said Ivor. “I’ll have no one to dance with.”
“Go and talk to Griselda,” said Fen, kissing him on the forehead. She couldn’t cope with the frenzied merriness. Nights like this made her longing for Dino worse than ever. She drifted rather unsteadily across the ballroom and out through one of the side doors, looking for Jake to say good night. A couple of Irishmen called out to her, trying to persuade her to come and dance, then decided not. There was something about Fen’s frozen face these days that kept men at a distance, the way Helen’s used to.
She wandered down a passage and into a dimly lit library, which was empty except for one couple. They were standing under a picture light, talking in that intense, still way of people who are totally absorbed in one another. They were about the same height. Fen’s blood ran cold. She must be seeing things.
The man was comforting the girl.
“Be patient, please, pet.”
“It was a crazy idea to come,” she said in a low voice. “I can’t bear not being able to be with you all the time or to go to bed without you tonight.”
The man was stroking her face now, drawing her close to him. “Sweetheart, just let me get Los Angeles over, and then we’ll make plans, I promise.”
“You really promise?”
“I promise. You know I love you. You’ve got the handkerchief.” He bent his head and kissed her.
Fen gave a whimper and fled. Forgetting her coat, she ran out of the building and through the streets, desperate to escape to her hotel roo
m. Helen and Jake—it couldn’t be true. That explained why he’d been so different recently. Remote and unsociable one moment, then wildly and uncharacteristically manic the next, and terribly absentminded. He’d hardly have minded if she’d fed Desdemona caviar.
Fen had always hero-worshiped Jake and regarded his marriage to Tory as the one safe, good constant she could cling on to and perhaps one day emulate. Now her whole world seemed to be crumbling. What about Tory? What about Isa and Darklis? And more to the point, what the hell was Rupert going to do when he found out? Nothing short of murder.
55
Everyone, albeit a little pale and shaking, was on parade for Malise’s meeting next morning. No one was asked to sit down. Malise, immaculate as usual, in an olive green tweed coat and cavalry club tie, glared at them as if they were a lot of schoolboys caught smoking behind the pavilion. Yesterday’s blaze of temper had given way to a cold anger.
“At least we can go to the Games knowing we haven’t peaked yet,” he said. “I have never seen such an appalling demonstration. You rode like a bunch of fairies. I doubt if any of you had more than an hour’s sleep beforehand. You’ve made complete idiots of the selection committee.”
“Three days in the glasshouse,” muttered Rupert.
“And you can shut up,” snapped Malise. “Your round, bearing in mind the horse you were riding, was the worst of the lot. They say a lousy dress rehearsal means a good first night, but this is ridiculous.”
Then he smiled slightly, and Fen suddenly thought what a fantastically attractive man he was for his age.
“Now,” he said, “if you can find somewhere comfortable to park yourselves, I’ll show you some clips from earlier Olympics.”
Refusing a seat, Jake lounged against the door so he could look at Helen, who was sitting in one of the chairs, with Dizzy perched on the arm. She was pale and heavy-eyed, with her red hair drawn off her face and tied at the nape of the neck by the blue spotted handkerchief. To Jake, she had never looked more beautiful. He felt simply flattened by love. He could hardly concentrate on the clips of straining javelin-throwers, and sprinters crashing through the tape, and muddy three-day-eventers, and Ann Moore getting her silver.