by Jilly Cooper
The next moment Rupert had hit her across the room. Then he picked her up and hit her again, so that she collapsed sobbing across the glass table, spilling Rupert’s whisky over the white sofa.
“And what the fuck are you going to live on? He’s got no money. He can’t give you anything but Lovell, baby.”
“He’s got the Boyson sponsorship,” croaked Helen.
“He had,” said Rupert, gathering up his car keys. “That was on the condition he kept his nose clean. It’s pretty murky now.”
“Where are you going?” whispered Helen through lips which were already beginning to swell up.
“To find your lover and beat him up till he sees stars and stripes. Then I’m going to string him from the Hollywood sign by his precious medal ribbon.”
“No!” screamed Helen, “No, please!”
But Rupert had gone. Next moment she heard the crunch of his car roaring off towards Los Angeles.
Trembling like a palsied dog she ran to the telephone, and after several false starts managed to get through to the Olympic village. One of the security guards answered. No, they couldn’t possibly wake Jake in the middle of the night. He’d gone to bed and he was sharing a room with two weight lifters, both of whom had a competition tomorrow and needed their sleep. There was a “Do not disturb” sign on the door.
“Please,” sobbed Helen. “It’s his wife. I must talk with him. There’s been a terrible accident.”
The security man hummed and hawed. “Okay, I’ll go and wake him.”
It seemed an eternity as she stood watching the remains of the whisky drip onto the oyster carpet, before Jake picked up the telephone.
“Tory, darling, what’s the matter? Are you okay? Is it one of the kids?” Helen could hear the terrible anxiety in his voice, which made her cry all the more.
“No, it’s not Tory, it’s me, Helen. It was the only way I could have them fetch you.” She was so hysterical it was a minute before he could discover what she was trying to say.
“Steady, pet. Calm down. Tell me what’s the matter.”
“Rupert knows everything. He’s suspected us for ages.” That wasn’t true, but somehow it made a better story. “We gave ourselves away this evening. He’s on his way to the village.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No—yes—well a little. I’m okay, but he says he’s going to kill you.”
As though in a dream, Jake watched a group of English cyclists, drunk and stark naked except for their security chains, being humored very kindly along the passage by some security guards. For a wild second he wondered whether to seek asylum. There were enough guards on duty even in the middle of the night to protect him from a regiment of Ruperts. But then Rupert would probably go back to Arcadia and kill Helen.
“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean to shop you. I was so frightened.”
“Sweetheart, you must keep calm.” It was as though he was speaking to a child and watching himself in a black and white film, cushioned by drink, yet curiously sober. This wasn’t happening to him.
“Are you still wearing that gold dress? Okay. Well, get out of it and change into some day clothes. Pack a case, put in clothes to last you for a few days, bring your passport, bankers’ and American Express cards, dark glasses, and as much spare cash as you can get your hands on. I’ll come and fetch you.”
“Jake, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, but hurry.”
Rupert stormed into the Olympic village twenty minutes later, and was held up by a further ten-minute hassle with the guards, because he was, if not completely drunk, obviously in a very wild, excitable state. Finally they let him through and he proceeded to search every room on the third floor, until he found Jake’s. The weight lifters, trying to get their beauty sleep, were not amused to be roused by Rupert, roaring around the room, searching under beds, in the shower, even in the fridge.
Then he looked in Jake’s chest of drawers. His passport and washing things had gone, and all his clothes, except his red coat, his breeches, white shirts, ties, and boots, which still hung in the wardrobe. On the chest of drawers were framed photographs of Tory and the children. It was as though he’d left the most important part of his life behind.
60
Rupert returned to the Eriksons’ house to find all the lights blazing and the place full of cops. Suzy and Albie, coming in tight and finding doors opened, chairs knocked over, whisky spilt, Helen’s room ransacked and the alarm unset, had promptly assumed that they’d been burgled. Rupert ran upstairs, took in the chaos of clothes, jewels, and papers. All his spare cash had gone. He went back to the drawing room.
“There’s only been one burglary in this house. Jake Lovell’s walked off with my wife.”
“Are you sure?” said Suzy in amazement. “He didn’t seem remotely keen on her.”
“He’s a better actor than she is,” said Rupert. “It’s been going on since February. We’ve just had true confessions time.” He looked at the carpet and the sofa. “Sorry about the whisky.”
He was very pale, which gave the suntan an almost green tinge, but seemed totally in control.
“Annunciata seems to have pushed off, too,” said Albie, wandering into the drawing room and pulling off his tie.
“Oh, no,” said Suzy, far more upset by that than by Helen’s departure. “I’ve got fourteen people for lunch tomorrow.”
“Only thirteen without Helen,” said Rupert grimly.
After the police had gone he told them what had happened. In a way their flip, brittle approach helped him to cling onto his sanity.
“I must say she has been looking sensational since Jake arrived in L.A.,” said Suzy, “and she got mad whenever he talked to me. I’m sorry, Rupert. Being bored with your wife doesn’t necessarily mean you want someone else to take her off your hands, particularly when it’s your worst enemy.”
She was amazed Rupert was so calm. She found it rather chilling. Perhaps he was still in shock.
Then he said, “Can I use your telephone to ring a few people? It’ll be midday Tuesday morning in England now.”
“Of course,” said Suzy. “Go into the study.” She was dying to discuss the whole thing with Albie.
Hell-bent on vengeance like an army scorching the earth, Rupert rang Amanda Hamilton in Scotland. Fortunately, perhaps, he got Rollo and explained what had happened. Rollo was most sympathetic and fully appreciated that Jake and Helen might try to seize the children. He said it would be perfectly all right for Charlene to fly up to Scotland with Marcus and Tab until Rupert got back from L.A.
“I’m awfully sorry,” Rollo said again. “Have a word with Amanda.”
Even thousands of miles away Rupert could almost hear Rollo putting his hand over the receiver while he briefed his wife.
Amanda sounded extremely shocked. “Darling, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” said Rupert, “but they could have timed it better, with the team competition on Sunday. The press are going to have a field day. That’s why I want to get Tab,” he paused, “and Marcus, of course, out of the way.”
“Did you know yesterday? Was that why Rocky jumped so badly?”
“No,” Rupert interrupted her. “That was my fault.”
Then he rang his secretary, Miss Hawkins, and told her to put a red alert on all banker’s cards, Access and American Express, to order the bank to stop all checks and to close all Helen’s accounts at Peter Jones, Harrods, Hatchards, and Cavendish House in Cheltenham. Anyone at home, he said, particularly Charlene and Mrs. Bodkin, or any of the grooms or the gardeners, would be fired if they spoke to the press.
He went back into the drawing room with a grim smile on his face. “That should clip their wings.”
“I suppose I’ll have to wait till morning to try and trace Annunciata,” said Suzy petulantly. “I expect she’s moved in with that frightful boyfriend.”
Annunciata, in fact, was fed up with working for Suzy, fed up wi
th the long hours, the untidyness (Suzy just stepped out of her clothes) and the meals demanded at all hours. She never knew how many people to cater for.
It was only a summer job anyway and she’d hardly had time to see any of the Games, not even Mr. Lovell winning his silver. After being woken up by the frightful row between Mr. and Mrs. Campbell-Black, Annunciata had crept upstairs and heard the whole thing, including hearing Rupert hitting Helen and storming off into the night, and a hysterical Helen ringing Jake Lovell. Annunciata had then appeared and asked Mrs. Campbell-Black if she needed any help with packing.
“She even wanted to know if we had any tissue paper,” Annunciata told her beady American boyfriend on the telephone. “She was very frightened but she still remembered to take the hot tongs and heated rollers and her hair dryer.”
The beady American boyfriend, deducing that Rupert would come roaring back to the house in a towering rage, advised Annunciata to move out pronto. After all, it was only a summer job and he was cute enough to realize that here was a story which, if Annunciata lived up to her name, and related to a newspaper, would save her having to work for several years.
Tory, after the victory celebrations, fell into bed at five in the morning, but still couldn’t sleep for happiness. After all that struggle, Jakey had got his silver. She’d never seen him as happy as he’d been at the press conference. And now, with the Boyson sponsorship, he’d be able to have the horses he wanted; he and Fen wouldn’t have to work quite so hard and he’d have more time with the children, which he’d always longed for, and they wouldn’t have to scrimp and worry all the time about where the next penny was coming from. She didn’t even feel tired when she had to get up at seven and take the sleepy, grumbling children to school. All day, people kept ringing up to congratulate her and Jake. Flowers and telegrams arrived constantly. The village was in a state of total euphoria, already planning the Welcome Home celebrations.
Tory watched clips of Jake’s silver four times on breakfast television, and in Olympic roundup, and played it back on the video, as she washed up all the glasses from last night. She didn’t bother with lunch. She’d been on a diet and had lost ten pounds since Jake left.
Singing at the top of her voice, she went to collect the children. Jake would be getting up soon, she thought fondly, with a terrible hangover.
On balance, she’d decided not to fly to L.A. By the time she’d got everything organized it would be Friday. Then, after a night flight, there’d be only half a day before the team event. Then they’d be coming home again. There’d be other occasions.
Her mother had rung up and Tory’d been so happy she’d forgotten to be cool with her. After all, it was a long time since Colonel Carter had taken Revenge away. Surely yesterday’s medal proved Jake was the greater rider than Rupert?
She even found time to go and give Macaulay two apples and tell him about his master’s great triumph. Housework could go by the board today. It was a beautiful September afternoon. Just a touch of wind ruffled the millpond and the hanging green willow curtains.
The children were very fractious when she picked them up from school. Darklis had lost one shoe, but at least it was better than two, she said. Isa had been beaten up in the playground for boasting about his father. Tory sent them off to watch television. Suddenly as she was cutting the fat off the lamb chops for their supper, she felt very tired. She’d have a large vodka and tonic when she’d put the children to bed. Then perhaps Jake would ring. Another wave of happiness overwhelmed her.
Then she heard the noise of argument from the sitting room. Isa, to Darklis’s rage, had switched on Ceefax over The Sullivans so that he could see the Olympic results.
“Mummy,” screamed Darklis. “Isa’s hitting me.”
“Stop it, Isa,” yelled Tory.
“I always get the blame,” shouted Isa. “Mummy, come quickly. There’s something about Daddy.”
Shoving the chops under the grill, Tory ran into the sitting room.
“Silver medalist Jake Lovell,” she read over the soothing tones of The Sullivans, “has disappeared from the Olympic village. Not seen since last night, he is alleged by the Los Angeles Times to have gone off with Helen Campbell-Black, wife of Rupert Campbell-Black, a fellow member of the British team and a bronze and silver medalist in 1976.”
Tory thought she must be dreaming. It couldn’t be true. They’d made some mistake. Jake had only rung her last night and told her he loved her. There was a moth bashing against the television screen.
“What does it mean, Mummy?” asked Isa. “Where’s Daddy gone?”
“Nowhere, darling,” said Tory in a strange voice. “It’s some mistake. Daddy wouldn’t do that.”
She canceled the Ceefax titles with the norm button then, after a few seconds, switched on the Ceefax Olympic report again.
“Mummy,” complained Darklis. “I want to watch The Sullivans.”
“Silver medalist Jake Lovell,” Tory read again, “has disappeared from the Olympic village.”
It was a few seconds before she realized that the telephone was ringing. She rushed to answer it. It must be Jake to say it was a hideous mistake.
“Mrs. Lovell?”
“Yes.”
“It’s the Sun newspaper here.” It was that thickened voice again with which they announced trouble or asked difficult questions. “Just wondered if you’ve got anything to say about your husband running off with Helen Campbell-Black.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Tory, and slammed down the receiver.
The telephone rang again. It was the Mirror with the same question. Then it was the Sun again. Tory took the receiver off the hook. She started to shake violently.
“Mummy, Mummy, the oven’s on fire.” Darklis, having wandered into the kitchen in search of a biscuit, found the neglected chops ablaze under the grill. The frozen peas had boiled down to a green scum.
“Mummy, Mummy,” yelled Isa, starting to cry, “they’re talking about Daddy.”
Martin Bell, gazing sternly out of the television screen, his light brown curls whipped by the Los Angeles breeze, was confirming that Jake had indeed disappeared from the Olympic village; so had Helen Campbell-Black from the house in Arcadia, where she had been staying with her husband. According to the Los Angeles Times, whose reporter had interviewed the maid, Helen had left after a row with Rupert, directly after a dinner at Ma Maison restaurant, held to celebrate Jake’s silver medal. Malise Gordon, the British chef d’equipe, had appealed to Jake to return for the team competition.
Tory was brought back to earth by the doorbell. It was a neighbor, Mrs. Irvine.
“I heard it on the radio,” she said. “I’m so sorry for you. I’ll get the children’s supper and answer the telephone. You’ll not want to be bothered.”
“I’m sure it’s some mistake,” said Tory.
“The poor little soul didn’t seem to have taken it in,” Mrs. Irvine told her husband later, “so I got the doctor.”
At that moment the doorbell went. It was the local stringer for the Daily Mail. After that they came like locusts, with their long-range cameras, trying to get in through the front door, the back door, even the windows, swarming through the village, attempting to bribe grooms, neighbors, trades people, desperate for information.
Tory tried to put a call through to L.A., but all lines were engaged.
It’s a bad dream, she kept telling herself. Jake wouldn’t go off like that, not when he’d asked her to come out to L.A., not with the team event on Sunday, which meant almost more to him than the individual, and which he knew meant infinitely more to Malise.
Alarmed by her calmness and refusal to accept the facts, the doctor gave her a sedative. It was not that Jake wouldn’t leave her, she kept saying, but he’d certainly never leave the horses, or the children, particularly in the middle of the Olympics. It was a belief she had to cling on to.
Malise, however, rang at ten o’clock. “I’m afraid we know noth
ing more at this end. What I imagine happened was that Jake and Helen may have walked out together; at least that’s what she told Rupert. Tempers flared. Rupert was absolutely livid at not getting the gold. He’d been simply poisonous all evening, threatening to beat Helen up. She appealed to Jake for help and he probably felt he ought to remove her somewhere safe until Rupert cooled down.”
Malise, reflected Tory, as the truth began to sink in, sounded like a gynecologist telling her she’d got a stillborn baby.
“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” he went on. “I’m convinced he’ll come back for the team event.”
But Jake did not come back. The Games were into their second week. The public was slightly bored with tales of derring-do and mega-achievement; they wanted a good scandal. Rupert, his beautiful American wife, and her romantic gypsy lover were the perfect answer.
“For just a handful of silver she left him,” quipped the New York Times.
Everyone who knew Jake and Rupert rekindled the old feud. Jake had been bullied at school by Rupert and had got his revenge twenty-two years later by trouncing Rupert at the Olympics and then running off with his wife.
It was the same in L.A. as at the Mill House. Once the Los Angeles Times had led on Helen’s row with Rupert and her running off with Jake, the reporters were everywhere. Like some horror army of killer ants, they crept through seemingly locked doors, through windows, haunting the Olympic village, the Eriksons’ house, the stables, and the exercise rings.
Fen, as their prime target, had been absolutely knocked sideways by the news.
“I must go to Tory,” she pleaded with Malise on the Wednesday morning. “She sounds absolutely terrible now it’s really sunk in. The English papers are crucifying Jake. I can’t leave her to face it on her own. Let me fly home.”
“You can’t,” said Malise, surveying his shambles of a team. “Unless Jake comes back you’ll have to jump Hardy.”
Everywhere Fen went, people were bad-mouthing Jake. Everywhere, the press swooped on her. Every time she worked Hardy the exercise ring was crowded with photographers and curious onlookers.