Riders

“Dear God,” she prayed, “what have I done? I told Janey about Fen, not because I wanted to reassure her, but because I wanted to put her down.”

42

Next day the rain came, stripping off the last pastel frivolity of the blossom, segregating the fluffy white heads of the dandelion clocks, bowing down the cow parsley, muffling the cuckoo, and turning every showground into a quagmire. To Fen, it seemed she was permanently soaked to the skin, always cold, shivering with misery, particularly at night without Billy to love and warm her. Lester, the teddy bear, was reinstated and soaked with tears, like her pillow, as, night after night, she cried herself to sleep. By day, work was the only anodyne. She begged Malise to excuse her from the huge nine-day show at Aachen on the grounds that Billy would be in the team, probably with Janey in tow. Instead Malise left Billy out, giving him a few weeks’ sabbatical to sort out his marriage. Billy, after all, had turned professional and was no longer eligible for Los Angeles, and Malise was determined to get his Olympic squad into shape in plenty of time. On present form, Fen, Rupert, and Ivor Braine were certain to be part of the team. The fourth place he still hoped to keep open for Jake, provided his leg mended in time.

Fen tried to hide her heartbreak from Jake when she visited him in hospital on her return from Lucerne.

“Look what we won,” she said brightly, tossing a carrier bag full of rosettes onto the white counterpane.

Jake took one look at her face.

“Who is it, that bastard, Campbell-Black? I said it would happen. I’ll bloody kill Malise when I see him.”

Fen went over to the window, fighting back the tears.

“It wasn’t Rupert at all. It was Billy.”

“Billy!” For a moment Jake was dumbfounded.

“What happened? You’re not…?”

“No, nothing like that. Janey came back.”

“Christ. I suppose the bitch found out he was going well and didn’t want to miss out.”

“Something like that.”

Jake loved Fen, but so angry was he with Billy and Janey, and so horrified to see Fen’s haggard face, that he took it out on her. He hated himself. He wished he had words to comfort her, but he just wanted to hit out at a world that seemed so manifestly unfair to both of them.

Fen let him rage until he’d run out of reproof and expletives, then collapsed sobbing on the bed.

“I couldn’t help it, Jake. I didn’t mean to fall in love.”

Jake patted her shoulder. “Sorry I came on so strong. I just hate you being hurt. Should never have let you go.”

“Haven’t you ever been in love or hurt by a woman?”

“Never — by a woman.” (Not since his mother had committed suicide, anyway.)

“Not even Tory?”

“Tory couldn’t hurt a fly button.”

Gradually the rosette board filled up the kitchen, as one show followed another — Aachen, Calgary, Wolfsburg. Funnily enough, it was Rupert who saved her in those first weeks. In the evenings abroad, he wouldn’t let her slink back to the lorry to cry her eyes out, but dragged her out to dinner with the team. In his mind she was part of Billy, and therefore to be protected, cherished, and occasionally bullied. He had never really had a woman friend before. Women in his book were to be pursued, screwed, and discarded. Repeatedly, he was on the brink of taking her to bed, because he wanted to and he thought it might blot out the pain, then some rare altruism stopped him.

Fen was confused. Accustomed to hate Rupert, she now discovered in him an unexpected gentleness, particularly in the way he talked about Tabitha.

Billy tackled Rupert the moment he came back to England.

“How’s Fen?” was his first question.

“I took her out to dinner last night.”

“With the team?”

“No, by myself.”

“What the bloody hell for?”

“She needed cheering up.”

“What form did the cheering up take — horizontal?”

“She wanted to talk. She’s still mad about you.”

“Oh, God,” said Billy, trying not to feel pleased.

“But the only way out of this stupid impasse is for her to find someone else.”

Billy was appalled how much the thought upset him, but he said, “You may be right.”

“Damn sure I’m right. Particularly if you persist in this bloody-fool belief that Janey’s the best thing for you.”

Billy wasn’t sure. The night he’d got back to the cottage and found Janey there, they had screwed all night, blotting out all feelings of guilt and remorse. Next day, he’d insisted on driving Fen, white, silent, stunned, back to the Mill House, feeling her almost disintegrating in his arms as he said good-bye to her, saying he’d always adore her — which was a different word than love.

When he got back, Janey’d been through his wallet and found Fen’s photo and was in hysterics.

Billy tried to reason with her. “I never looked at another woman the entire time we were married. Then you file for divorce. I was trying to get over you.”

“Why didn’t you come round and murder Kev?”

“I’m not like that. I missed, the only time I took a slug at him.”

“Was she better in bed than me?”

“She was different,” said Billy tactfully.

“Did you screw her in our bed?”

Billy shook his head.

“But you were coming back to.”

“Look, you’d have thought I was a frightful drip if I hadn’t.”

Billy had changed, thought Janey. The drink blotches, the red face, the sour whisky breath had gone. He was brown, lean, well muscled, tougher, more irritable, but infinitely more attractive.

“You mustn’t see her anymore,” said Janey, pouring herself another glass of vodka, hardly graced by tonic.

“How can I not see her? We’re in the same team. If I worked in an office, or was an engineer or an architect, I could try and find another job in another part of the country, but show jumping’s the only thing I can do. I was totally impotent after you left me. She picked me up from the gutter. She gave me back my confidence, my nerve, my sexuality. I’ve won ?20,000 in the last month.”

“What d’you want me to do, ask her to move in?”

“I’m just trying to say it isn’t as simple as that. You can’t just waltz out of my life for nearly a year and expect things to be exactly the same.”

“I’ve finished my book,” said Janey, “and I’ve been offered ?30,000 for the serial rights. And my publisher has commissioned another book, so you won’t have to struggle quite so hard, darling.”

She’s not listening, thought Billy in despair. She never listens, except when she’s on to a good story.

Hysterical scenes followed. Janey steamed open letters, counted the Kleenex—‘Perhaps she’s used one’— examined the hairs in the bath: “That’s thicker and curlier than mine.”

“That’s pubic hair, for Christ’s sake,” said Billy.

Janey’s attitude was totally irrational. On endless occasions she had deceived him, betrayed him, made a fool of him, but it was part of her abyss of insecurity that she simply couldn’t believe that he wasn’t sloping off to see