“You’ve broken your duck. Brilliantly ridden.”
“Terrific,” said Billy, hugging her. “She went like a dream.”
“Not bad for a beginner,” said Rupert. “Are we friends again?”
“No,” said Fen, and stalked off to warm Macaulay up for the puissance.
That evening, when she got back to the hotel Fen rang Jake.
“I suppose you’ve won a class at last,” he said sourly, “or you wouldn’t be ringing.”
“Co-rrect,” said Fen. “I made such a cock-up of things earlier in the week, I didn’t dare. Desdemona won the knockout. I beat Ludwig, then Piero in the final.”
Jake grunted. “How’s Macaulay?”
“Wonderful. Actually I’ve got good news and bad news about him.”
“For Christ’s sake. He’s all right, isn’t he?”
“Well, the bad news is, I entered him in the puissance.”
“You what?” Even at a thousand miles away, she quailed.
“But the good news is, he won.”
For two minutes Jake called her every name under the sun. Then he asked, “How high did he jump?”
Fen giggled. “Seven foot, two, easy-peasy. He could have gone higher; and, oh Jake, he was so delighted to be in the money again. You know how he adores winning. He bucked after every jump and insisted on doing two laps of honor and ate the president’s carnation. But he’s really well,” she added hastily. “I hosed down his legs myself and put on cooling liniment, and I’ll walk him round in an hour or two, but it really bucked him up.”
“How much have you won?”
“Well, I haven’t worked it out yet; you know my maths. About ?3,000, I should think. But the best news is I won a little car as well, so I’ll be able to whizz you around all over the place when you come out of hospital. How are you, anyway?”
Jake didn’t want to talk about himself, but she could tell by the sound of his voice how thrilled he was.
40
There was a drinks’ party at the British Embassy that night, and for once the team weren’t under Malise’s ever-watchful eye. A complimentary ticket from the minister of the arts to hear Placido Domingo as Otello at the Teatro dell’Opera had been too much for him, but he’d had tough words with the team beforehand.
“This is the first Nations’ Cup in the series. If we win, it’ll be a colossal boost to morale. So there’s to be no heavy drinking and I want everyone in their rooms by midnight. You’ll be the only one completely sober,” he added to Billy, “so I’m relying on you to look after Fen and see she’s in her own bed and not Rupert’s by eleven o’clock.”
Billy shook his head. “If you honestly think Rupert’ll take any notice of me.”
Rupert arrived at the party in a new suit — pale blue and made for him by one of Italy’s leading couturiers, who normally only designed clothes for women, but who had succumbed because he rightly felt Rupert would be such a good advertisement for his product.
Anyone else would have looked a raving poofter, thought Billy, particularly wearing an amethyst-colored shirt and tie. But such was Rupert’s masculinity, and the enhanced blueness of his eyes, and the lean, broad-shouldered length of his body, that the result was sensational.
All the girls at the party were certainly falling over themselves to offer him smoked salmon and asparagus rolls and fill up his glass with champagne.
“They’re all convinced I’m an American tennis player,” he said, fighting his way through the crowd to Billy. “I’ve already been complimented three times on my back hand and my serve. The only thing I want to serve here,” he said, lowering his voice, “is Fenella Maxwell.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” snapped Billy.
“She wants it,” said Rupert softly. “She was like a mare in season last night. Besides I’ve a score to settle with Hopalong Chastity.”
“Poor sod’s in hospital with a smashed leg. Isn’t that enough for you?”
“William, he’s tried to kill me twice, once with a knife, once with Macaulay. I intend to get my own back.”
He glanced across the room to where Fen was talking to the Italian minister of the arts, who was about three times her age. She looked pale and tired.
“Look at her being letched over by that disgusting wop. I’ll just make her jealous by chatting up those two girls over there and I’ve got her on a plate.”
“Your conceit is unending. Christ, I wish I could have a drink.”
“Those two look as though they might have some dope at home. Come on.”
The girls were certainly very pretty — one blond, one redheaded.
“You must be tennis players,” giggled the redhead. “You look so incredibly healthy.”
“No,” said Rupert, unsmiling.
“What do you do then?”
“I ride horses,” said Rupert; then, after a pause, “extremely successfully.”
The conversation moved on to marriage.
“Billy is separated and gloriously available,” said Rupert. “I am married and ditto.”
“Doesn’t your wife mind?”
“No.”
“Does she work for a living?”
“No, nor does she smoke, drink, or fuck.”
The girls laughed uproariously. Billy turned away. Outside it was dusk. A stone nymph in an off-the-shoulder dress reclined in the long grass, set against a blackening yew tree. Fireflies flickered round a couple of orange trees in tubs. Water from a fountain tumbled down gray-green steps between banks of pale lilac geraniums.
I can’t bear it, he thought miserably, and toyed with the idea of asking Fen to come and have dinner with him alone. She didn’t look very happy, particularly now the blonde was obviously getting off with Rupert. She and her friend were secretaries at the embassy, the blonde was saying; they loved the life in Rome.
Her redhead friend joined Billy by the window.
“I’m sorry about your marriage,” she said. “I’m separated myself. No one who hasn’t been through it knows how awful it is.”
Billy mistook the brimming tears of self-pity in her eyes for pity of his own plight.
“When did you split up?” he asked.
“Six months ago,” she said, and she was off.
Fifteen minutes later they were interrupted by Driffield, looking like a thundercloud.
“Crippled lame,” he said in disgust. “Horse can’t put his foot down. Vet’s just had a look; thinks it’s an abscess.” He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “Where’s Malise?”
“Gone to the opera.”
“Bloody fairy.”
“My God,” said Griselda, joining them. “That means Fen will have to jump. That’s all we need.”
“She jumped bloody well this afternoon,” said Driffield.
“I’d better go and tell her,” said Billy. But, glancing across the room, he saw she’d disappeared. He tried the other rooms, fighting his way through the yelling crowd, then he tried the garden, hearing laughter from behind a rosebush.
“Fuck off,” said a voice as he peered around. Two elegant young men were locked in each other’s arms.
Fen’s coat wasn’t in the cloakroom. Yes, said the attendant, a girl in a pink dress and pink shoes had just left with the minister of the arts. He assumed she was his daughter.
“She isn’t,” said Billy bleakly.
