Riders

“Bitch,” said Fen, glaring at Griselda’s solid, departing back, with Georgie running after her, buckling under the cases. “We’re getting home some other way,” she added to Sarah, “even if we have to carry the horses.”

Having examined the loose boxes for sticking-out nails and jagged edges of wood, they put down wood shavings and fed and watered the horses. Macaulay, however, had a more pressing need. Dropping down, folding like a camel, he rolled and rolled.

“God, I’m so tired. I could sleep on a clothesline,” said Fen.

“Where shall we have supper?” said Sarah.

“There’s a nice trattoria round the corner,” said Dizzy.

“Can I come with you?” asked Fen.

“No, you can’t,” said Driffield, who’d been checking his horses. “You’re staying at the Apollo with the team and you’ll be expected to dine with them, too. Come on, we’ll share a taxi.”

“Pay for it, you mean,” said Fen under her breath, knowing Driffield’s meanness. “You can sleep in the hotel room alternate nights, and I’ll sleep in the lorry,” she said apologetically to Sarah.

“Malise won’t put up with that,” said Driffield. “You’ve made the grade now, dear, and you’ll have to behave like one of us.”

The Hotel Apollo was a sprawling yellow villa, its stuccoed walls peeling. The walls of the lobby were decorated with friezes of Apollo in various guises, cavorting with bathing nymphs, bemused maidens, and hairy- legged flute players. There was a rackety lift, but Fen preferred to climb a huge baroque staircase to her room on the second floor, which turned out to be the height of luxury.

* * *

Meanwhile, downstairs in the bar, Malise, hiding his disappointment that Helen hadn’t made the trip to Rome this year, was giving Billy and Rupert a pep talk. “I need your help, chaps,” he said, with unusual heartiness. “Fenella Maxwell’s not eighteen yet. Tory and Jake are in a panic she’s going to get seduced by some wop. I promised them we’d keep a close eye on her.”

“Tory’s overreacting,” said Rupert. “I can’t actually envisage Fen having to fight them off.”

“Poor old Jake,” said Billy, looking down at his glass of Coke. “Bloody bad luck when he’d just battled his way to the top.”

“I must send him a please-don’t-get-well card,” drawled Rupert. “He tried to kill me last year, remember?”

“Pity he didn’t succeed,” said Driffield nastily.

Billy thought wistfully of the old days, when predinner drinks were the nicest part of the day, to celebrate or cheer you up after a lousy round. You’d start with a pint of beer because you were thirsty, and after that you had several large whiskys, with increasing merriment in anticipation of some exotic food, heightened by plenty of wine and several brandies afterwards. Life had seemed framed in a halo, studded with buttercups. Now all meals had a terrible sameness, with people getting sillier or more aggressive. The first wild agony of losing Janey had given way to a dull numbing loneliness. He had become aware of the appalling sameness of the show-jumping circuit, the faceless bedrooms, the endless traveling. Before, it had been redeemed by hell-raising with Rupert, or living it up with Janey. Everywhere he went, he was reminded of her and the good time they had had, and every night he watched the other riders ring home to check up on their families and report the latest success. He had no one to ring now, no one who gave a stuff if he won or lost, except his creditors, whom he was gradually paying back. The money from each small win was sent to Mr. Block, who kept what was necessary for Billy’s livelihood, took his cut, and passed the rest on to the tax man. In fact, if he could get back on form and notch up about five really good wins, he could discharge the whole debt. Once Janey had filed for divorce, Billy’s mother, making no secret of her relief, had come to his aid, not giving him a huge sum, but enough to settle the most pressing bills. Rupert had been wonderful. Looking across at him, a fond father showing photographs of the twelve-month-old Tabitha to Malise, Billy felt a wave of passionate gratitude for his support and kindness. Never once had Rupert tried to persuade him to have a drink, as other people constantly did.

Malise’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Hope you don’t mind coming here again too much,” he said in an undertone. “I’m fond of this place, even if it is a bit quaint.”

Billy smiled. “Of course not.” That was all part of the act, to be cheerful, never to show the cracks in his heart.

He pointed to one of the more grotesque figures portrayed in the frieze round the walls of the bar.

“What did that poor chap do?”

“Raped Apollo’s mother. He was pegged down so that birds could peck continually at his liver.”

“Sounds like mine in the old days,” said Billy.

“Another Coke?” asked Malise.

“No, I’m fine.” Billy looked across at Griselda Hubbard, massive in a red track suit. What a disgustingly ugly pig she was, and already bad-mouthing poor little Fen.

“She’s a hopeless map-reader and kept making the most ridiculous fuss about stopping to graze and water the horses. If I’d listened to her we’d still be in France. Jake’s mad to let her ride the horses when she’s so soft. They’ll be walking all over her in a week or two, and she’s no sense of hierarchy, treats her groom like an equal, even a superior. She’ll have both her and the two horses tucked up in her hotel bedroom watching the telly at any minute.”

“I hope we can get English food here,” grumbled Driffield, brandishing an empty glass and looking around, hoping someone would buy him a drink.

Rupert was discussing declining television viewing figures with Malise. “They ought to sack Dudley; he’s such a pratt. What we need on the circuit is crumpet.”

“Who’s talking?” sneered Driffield.

“Not groupie crumpet, competing crumpet, some good-looking riders,”

“Like Lavinia,” said Malise.

“She was never good enough, or pretty enough,” said Rupert.

“Ahem,” said Billy.

“Anyway, she married a frog. I am talking about someone like Ann Moore or Marion Coakes; someone every little pony-mad girl can identify with. It’s the pony-mad girls that make up the audiences and bring in their parents.”

“What about Fenella Maxwell?” said Malise.

“Well, if she shed about a stone and a half, most of which is spots.”

“Thank you, Rupert,” said a shrill voice.

Everyone turned round.

“Mamma Mia,” said Billy.

“Christ,” said Rupert. “You have grown up.”

Fen stood staring at them, eyes widened like a faun, drained sea green shirt tucked into drained sea green Bermuda shorts, espadrilles on the end of her long smooth brown legs. Her spiky blond hair was still wet from the shower. Not a spot spoiled her smooth, brown cheeks, just a faint touch of blusher. She looked like a wary but very beautiful street urchin.

Oh, God, thought Malise, how am I going to chaperone that in Rome?

As it was very late, they went straight in to dinner. Ivor Braine and, amazingly, Driffield made concerted efforts to sit next to Fen. Ivor just crumbled Gristiks and gazed at her with his mouth open. All the team, except Griselda, who was obviously feeling upstaged, were incredibly nice, asking her about Jake’s leg and the horses and how the glamorous Sarah was settling in. The waiters, flashing teeth and menus, kept filling her glass with chianti. Not having touched a drop since she’d started dieting, she suddenly felt very light-headed.

“I’m starving,” she told Driffield. “I don’t think I could ever look at a grapefruit or a lettuce leaf again.”

“How much have you lost?”

“Not enough for Rupert.”

Across the table, Rupert laughed and raised his glass to her.

“I overestimated. You look delectable. Don’t lose an ounce more.”