Riders

“Lucky chap,” said the attendant.

Billy returned to Rupert and told him what had happened. Rupert, who’d already drunk a bottle and a half of champagne, shrugged his shoulders. “Oh well, she won’t come to any harm with him. He looked past it. Anyway these ’ere,” he jerked his head in the direction of the two secretaries, “look very accommodating. We’ll all have dinner, then go back to their place.”

“I don’t want to,” protested Billy. “I must find Fen.”

“She’ll go back to the hotel early,” said Rupert. “She heard Malise’s pep talk. She was as contrite as anything this morning.”

At dinner, the girls got sillier and sillier, and Billy’s despair deeper. Back at their flat he went to the bathroom to have a pee. The spilt talcum powder, the chaos of makeup, the tights and pants dripping over the bath, the trailing plant gasping for water, and the half-drunk gin and tonic reminded him poignantly of Janey. He longed to go back to the hotel. The redhead was pretty, but it was obvious she would much rather be in bed with Rupert. “Your friend’s a one, isn’t he?”

On the walls of her room were posters of Robert Redford and Sylvester Stallone. The bed was very narrow.

“I don’t usually do this on the first night,” she said, slipping out of her pale yellow dress with a slither of silk. Her body wasn’t as good stripped; her breasts drooped like half-filled beanbags.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Billy said later, looking down at his flaccid, lifeless cock.

“Don’t you find me attractive?” said the girl petulantly.

“It’s because you’re so beautiful you’ve completely overwhelmed me,” lied Billy. “And I’ve got a big class tomorrow, which never helps.”

With his hands and his tongue he had given her pleasure, but, rejected by her husband, she needed confirmation that men still found her irresistible. Billy could feel her being “frightfully understanding,” but he could imagine the whispering round the embassy tomorrow.

“My dear, he couldn’t get it up at all. No wonder his wife walked out.”

By a quarter to twelve Rupert was ready to go home too.

“We’d love tickets for tomorrow,” said the blonde as they left. “You will ring, won’t you?”

“I nearly couldn’t perform,” said Rupert in the taxi. “She just lay back stark naked on the bed and said, ‘Come on Campbell-Black, let’s see if you’re as good as they all say you are.’ Must be hell to be impotent.”

“I hope to God Fen’s back,” said Billy.

But to his horror her key, Number Eighty-eight, was still hanging at the reception desk.

“Jesus,” said Rupert, “there’s Malise getting out of a cab. Go and tell him about Driffield. I’ll get the key and whizz up and wait in her room. You join me when the coast’s clear.”

“Good opera?” Billy asked Malise.

“Magical,” said Malise. “I cried nonstop through the last act.”

He didn’t even seem to notice that the hall clock said half-past twelve.

“First Edition’s unfit,” said Billy. “Vet says it’s an abscess.”

“Hell,” said Malise. “Fen’ll have to jump. Does she know?”

“We didn’t tell her,” said Billy, “in case we raised her hopes and you wanted Driff to jump Anaconda.”

Malise shook his head. “Macaulay’s the better bet. You saw Fen safely into bed, did you?”

Billy nodded, blushing slightly. “Must be asleep by now.”

“Good man. I’ll tell her in the morning.”

With a growing sense of outrage, Billy and Rupert sat in Fen’s room, Rupert drinking weak brandies from Fen’s untouched duty-free bottle, Billy drinking one disgusting cup of black coffee from the sachets after another.

At three-thirty, they heard a commotion outside.

“J’ai perdu mon clef, key, you know; what St. Peter, the one with the kissed foot, had in abundance,” said a shrill voice, “so if you’d be so very kind as to let me into my room.”

In a flash Rupert was at the door, where he found Fen and a sleepy-looking maid in a dressing gown.

“Grazie,” he said to the maid, and pulled Fen inside. “What the bloody hell have you got to say for yourself?”

Fen’s hair was tousled, her brown skin flushed. Her eyes glittered, red-irised, and out of focus. She was wearing an exquisite, gray silk shirt which just covered her groin, and carrying her pink dress.

She gave a low bow.

“Buona notte, senors; or should it be buon giorno, I forget. I sheem — hic — to have got myself into the wrong room.” She backed towards the door.

“Come here,” hissed Rupert. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Do you really want to know? I’ve been having fun. When in Rome, get done by the Romans.” She opened the door into the passage, swinging on the handle.

Rupert caught her by the scruff of the neck, frog-marched her back into the room, and sat her down on the bed. Then, locking the door, he pocketed the key.

“Now, come on. Out with it.”

Fen looked at them owlishly. “I’ve been out with the minister of the arts, such charm and such finesse. He said I was a work of art myself and he bought me thish lovely shirt from Pucci.”

She stood up, pirouetted round, and collapsed onto the bed again.

“And I regret to tell you I lost my virginity. And it’s no point going to look for it at the Loshed Property Offish; it’s gone for good. One should be in the hands of an eckshpert the first time, don’t you think? ‘I jumped seven foot two this afternoon, so it’s but a tiny leap into your ancient four-poster, Mr. Minister,’ I said.”

Billy felt a great sadness.

“You little slut,” said Rupert slowly. “You just picked him up and went to bed for a sixty-thousand-lire shirt.”

“Better than nothing, which I’d have got from you lot. Anyway,” said Fen, suddenly furious. “If I’m a slut, what the hell d’you think you are, going to parties, picking up awful typists, and all those horrible things you said about Helen? How can you behave like that when you’ve got a beautiful wife and lovely children? You’re the most immoral man I’ve ever met.”

There was banging on the next-door wall. Someone shouted in German.

“Oh, shut up,” said Fen, banging back again.

Her eyes lit on the brandy. “I want another drink.”

Billy got to his feet. “You’ve had enough,” he said flatly. “Come on, get to bed. I’ll help you undress.”

Fen swayed away from him. “No, no, I can’t be undressed twice in an evening.” Then she swayed back towards him.

“Darling Will-yum, don’t look so sad. True love will suddenly come to you as it hash to me.” She stood on tiptoe trying to kiss him, but the effort was too much for her. She collapsed back on the bed and passed out.

“It’s not funny,” said Rupert.

“I know it isn’t,” said Billy.

“What the hell are you doing?” said Rupert, as Billy started unbuttoning the shirt.

“Shame if she puked over her Pucci,” said Billy.

“Lovely body,” said Rupert. “Reminds me of Saville Minor. I suppose we can’t take advantage?”

“No, we can’t,” said Billy, tucking her into bed.

Through nightmares of pain and torture — was someone acupuncturing her brain with red hot pokers? — Fen could hear bells. They must be ambulance bells, taking her to hospital to die.

But it was the telephone. She reached out, dropped it, and picked it up.

“Morning, Fen, sorry to wake you,” said a brisk voice. “Have you had a good night?”

“Yes,” she croaked.

“Congratulations, anyway, on your first cap. Driffield’s out. You’ll be jumping today.”

“I what?” stammered Fen in horror.

“Makes you speechless, does it?” Malise laughed. “See you down at the stables in about an hour. Then we can put Macaulay over a few practice fences.”

Fen put the telephone down and groaned. She got up, rushed to the loo, and was sick.