Riders

both men stared stonily ahead, not exchanging a single word, as they lined up for their rosettes.

Helen drove home with Rupert. “I really do think Janey should look after Billy better. All his boots need heeling. He was wearing a filthy shirt and Kevin said she made him really late today.”

Rupert shook his head. “There’s no doubt that William has made a marriage of inconvenience.”

31

Billy went abroad again. He was very loath to leave Janey when she was so depressed, and also miss the opportunity of sleeping with her in the middle of the month when she was at her most fertile. He was tempted to fly back for the night, but he simply couldn’t afford it. Janey promised him she’d try not to worry and would concentrate on her book.

Concentration was not easy. The tax man dropped in, so did the builders and the VAT bully boys, all wanting money. Janey explained that Billy was away and that she wasn’t entitled to sign checks unless he was here, but fear came in great waves. She hadn’t liked the way the VAT-man looked at her furniture. The days were so long, too. She got up early, which meant she was starving by midday, and started misery-eating. Having worked until six in the evening, she was shattered and ready to dive into a quadruple vodka. Evenings yawned ahead.

She went to see Helen and grumbled how bored she was. Helen suggested she did something for charity. Why didn’t she join the local Distressed Gentlefolk’s Committee? Janey went sharply into reverse, saying that that would be carrying coals to Newcastle, and she was bored only because she had so much work to do.

The third day after Billy left, Janey tried and failed to write a chapter on schoolboys. She didn’t know any schoolboys; all her brothers were older. She ought to go to Eton or Harrow or the local comprehensive and talk to some, but research took time and was invariably expensive.

She wrote down all the men she’d been to bed with, rather too many of them, hoping this might give her inspiration. It didn’t. Then she tore the list up in case Billy found it and was upset. The house looked awful. She went from room to room trying to find some free table space. She’d written in the bedroom and the kitchen and the drawing room and even the dining room, and left them all in a mess — everywhere except the future nursery. She was not going in there; it made her cry.

The garden looked so pretty, full of hollyhocks and roses, and honeysuckle hanging heavy on the warm June air. The lime trees were in yellow flower, filling the air with sweet heady scent. The lime tree bower my prison, she thought to herself. She looked again at her contract and trembled: 70,000 words, it said. She hadn’t really produced any of them, and her publisher kept ringing and saying he’d be only too happy to come down and discuss what she’d already done.

She wished she were in Athens with Billy. It was no good trying to work. She’d go out and weed the front garden and think about married men. But after she’d weeded up two snapdragons she decided she’d better just think about weeding. Perhaps her subconscious would start working overtime.

Mavis sat, aggrieved and shivering ostentatiously, behind her. Going outside meant walks, not weeding. Harold Evans came out and rolled in the catmint. Mavis gave halfhearted chase, and Harold shot up a tree, tail flushed out like a lavatory brush.

After half an hour, Janey peered in at the kitchen clock. Two minutes past six. Hooray, it was drinks time. She went in and poured herself some vodka. An inch up the glass, two inches? Oh well, it was mostly ice. She couldn’t be bothered with lemon, but splashed in some tonic.

God, what a wasted day. She tried to think about men in a two-career family. Not easy, really. She and Billy could do with a wife each to look after them. She looked round the kitchen and shuddered at the mess. She’d really clear up before Billy came home. She picked up the paper. There was a brilliant piece by one of her rivals, which depressed her even more. At least there was a Carry On film on television to cheer her up.

She heard the sound of voices, but it was only two farm laborers going past the gate, tired and red from the sun, returning home to supper and a pint of beer, perhaps, because they’d earned it. How lucky they were. The despair of another wasted day overwhelmed her.

After three vodkas, she was starving. She made a herb omelette with six eggs, throwing the eggshells into the cardboard box which she still hadn’t emptied. She meant to share the omelette, which turned into scrambled eggs, with Mavis, but Mavis didn’t like herbs, so Janey ended up eating the lot. The boring pan had stuck; she’d clean it late. She ran her hands through her hair. A snow of dandruff drifted down. She hadn’t washed it since Westerngate. God, she was going to seed. She bolted all the doors and, having poured herself another vodka, was just about to turn on the television when the doorbell rang. Who the hell would call at this hour of the night? It was bound to be some rapist out in the woods or, even worse, the bailiffs. She’d ignore it. Mavis was barking her head off and and the bell rang again. Terrified, she unbolted the door and opened it an inch on the chain.

“Who’s that?” she said, peering through the gap. Next moment she was assailed by Paco Rabanne.

“It’s me, Kevin.”

She could see his medallion catching the light.

“Come in,’ she said weakly. “I thought you were the VAT-man or a rapist. Probably both, knowing my luck.”

Relief that he was neither gave way to panic. Which was the least sordid room to take him into?

“I’m working,’ she said, plumping for the drawing room. “I’m afraid I only tidy up before Billy comes home.”

“So I see,’ said Kevin.

The drawing room faced north and was cold. There were dead flowers, the skeleton of a three-month-old fire, coffee cups, and dog and cat plates. Janey shivered.

“Let’s try the kitchen.”

Kevin followed her, wrinkling his nose. He looked quite amazing in a black velvet suit, a white silk shirt slashed to the navel, three medallions, and his blond hair newly washed.

“You look different,” she said.

“I’ve shaved off my mustache.”

“That’s right,” muttered Janey fuzzily. “It’s right that a goalpost mustache should come down in the summer.”

“I’ve just left your husband in Athens this morning. I had to attend a function in this area. Thought I’d look in.”

“How is he?” said Janey, her face brightening.

“Bit choked. Moggie Meal Al seems to have lost his confidence since he hit the wing at Westerngate. Moggie Meal Dick keeps four-faulting.”

“Which one’s he?”

Kevin frowned. The frown deepened as he saw the mess of cups and dirty milk bottles, the sink full of dishes.

“I’ve been working so hard,” Janey explained again.

Kevin looked pointedly at the half-full glass, still with unmelted ice cubes.

“What would you like to drink?” she said.

“A dry white wine, please.”

“Well, be a duck and get it from the cellar. I must go to the loo.”

Upstairs she looked at herself in despair. Her hair looked like a mop, her face was red, her eyes tiny from drinking and lack of makeup. Old trousers and a shrunk T-shirt made her bum and boobs look huge. Scraping a flannel under her armpits, spraying her crotch with scent, she slapped on some liquid foundation and failed to pull a comb through her tangled mane. She went to the typewriter and wrote: “Men shouldn’t drop in,” with one finger.

Downstairs, Kevin, up from the cellar, was holding a bottle and looking bootfaced. “I gather you don’t like our wedding gift.”