Riders

“Why don’t you look where you’re going, clumsy oaf?” snarled Fen.

“Because I don’t like what’s in my way,” snapped Rupert, “and if Svengali Lovell can tell you how to beat that time, I’m a Dutchman.”

“Unfair to Dutchmen,” Fen shouted back over her shoulder. “Some of them are rather nice.”

“Remember, if you’re going too fast, accelerate,” Dino called after her.

Suddenly, Fen remembered Rupert in Rome sneering at her disastrous performances in the Nations’ Cup, saying that women always crack under pressure.

To hell with Rupert, she said to herself, to hell with Janey Lloyd-Foxe and her beastly baby. If I’m going to commit suicide this is as good a way as any.

Having bowed briefly to the Princess in the Royal box, she turned Hardy round and thundered through the start at a gallop. Hardy, who was used to being checked all the time and fighting for his head, was puzzled for a minute, then rose to the challenge. Over the first fence she was up on Rupert’s time, throwing herself over, her hands nearly touching Hardy’s noseband. Over the parallel bars and, with an amazing flying change, she jumped the gate almost sideways.

God, thought Dino, suddenly terrified, she’s taking me literally. Scorching over the upright, bucketing over the walls, Fen was already looking ahead to the combination. She was coming in too fast; she was going to crash. She knew a terrifying moment of fear, then Hardy took over and executed a trio of perfect jumps and hurtled Fen through the finish. From the earsptitting cheers of the crowd, who had risen to their feet, she knew she had beaten Rupert’s time. The problem now was stopping. At the side of the arena a bank of blue hydrangeas came to meet them. Hardy skidded to the right, sliding along on his back legs for five seconds before coming to a halt.

Fen sauntered out of the ring, pleased that for once even Dino seemed shaken out of his customary cool.

The next moment Ludwig clapped his hand on her back.

“Brilliant. I haf never seen a round like zat.”

Count Guy followed suit, and suddenly all the British riders, except Rupert and Griselda, were shaking her hand and hugging her. She was home from Coventry at last.

Was it all worth it? wondered Fen, as she accepted her red rosette from the Princess, with the huge, silver cup sparkling even more dazzlingly as it reflected the lights. Was it worth the lack of sleep, the setbacks, the heartbreaks, for this moment of glory? She admired the Princess’s perfect ankles in flesh-colored tights as she walked back to the Royal box. Then there was a terrific roll of drums which nearly sent Snakepit and Rupert into orbit, leaving a gap between Fen and Billy, who was third. Turning, Fen looked him straight in the eye. With a supreme effort, far greater than winning the cup, she managed to smile. “I’m so pleased about your baby,” she said.

Then, before he had time to answer, the arena was plunged in darkness and Fen and the dappled gray Hardy were illuminated by the spotlight. She was aware that no one was leaving, there was no crashing of seats or banging of exit doors, or feet running down the concrete steps, just a long silence followed by the most almighty cheering, and, as the band struck up “I want some red roses for a blue lady,” everyone started singing and clapping in time. Then the other riders filed out and she was alone and spotlit in the ring, sending Hardy into his wonderful, effortless, long striding gallop, and the crowd cheered so loudly that she went round again. Billy may not love me, she thought, but they do. Why can’t I go on riding around this ring for the rest of my life?

Dudley captured her in the collecting ring, brandishing his microphone like a furry, black iced lolly: “Se-uper, absolutely seuper. You sorted out the girls from the boys today.” He roared with laughter. He’d had too many in the whisky tent. “And Harvey went seuperly. You must be pleased.”

“He did, and I am.”

“Must be a cert for L.A. now.”

“You can’t look beyond tomorrow with horses,” said Fen.

“Must be difficult to choose between him and Esmeralda.”

Fen looked broodingly at Dudley for a second.

“She’s called Desdemona, and he’s called Hardy, and why don’t you remove your silly hat when you’re talking to a lady, Dudley. Although, knowing you, you probably think I’m a gentleman.”

Oh, Christ, she thought, I shouldn’t have said that.

Out of the corner of her eye, beyond the Shetland ponies and the famous ex-racehorses who were lining up for the personality parade, she could see a pack of reporters hovering.

“Well done, Fen, wizard round. Let’s have a jar later in the week,” bellowed a voice, and there, leering above her, almost sending Dudley flying, was Monica Carlton bowling past with her Welsh cobs.

“One door shuts, another door opens,” said Fen, giving Monica a weak smile. Dudley was flapping around saying good night to the viewers and reminding them to switch on tomorrow for the puissance. Fen tried to dive behind a coster’s van, but the reporters were old hands. Next moment they’d ringed her like a lasso, blocking her escape on all sides.

“What d’you think about Billy Lloyd-Foxe’s wife having a baby?”

“I’m very pleased for him.”

“Nothing else to say?”

“If it grows up like Billy, it’ll be a wonderful child.”

“But not like Janey?”

“I didn’t say that.” Fen looked desperately round for help. “I hardly know Janey.”

“You were very fond of Billy, weren’t you?”

“It’s difficult not to be,” said Fen, bursting into tears. “He hasn’t an enemy in the world.”

All she could see was their avid searching eyes and their frantically scribbling pens.

“Why can’t you leave me alone?” she sobbed.

A shadow fell across the notebooks.

“Pack it in,” said Dino coldly and, taking the couple nearest Fen by their coat collars, he yanked them out of the way. “Bugger off and fuse your own typewriters with your lousy copy. You heard what the lady said — leave her alone.”

44

Back in the lorry, Dino peered unenthusiastically into the fridge. “One black avocado, half a can of beans, a pork pie that ought to be on superannuation. You have two choices,” he said to Fen. “You can cry yourself to sleep, right, or come out to dinner with me. I’m starving.”

“I’m not hungry and I ought to ring Jake.”

“Sarah called him. He said, what the hell were you doing risking Hardy’s neck, then exhausting him, showing off in that double lap of honor.”

Fen pulled a face. “And that’s all the bloody praise I get.”

Dino took her to an Italian restaurant off High Street, Kensington, which stayed open late. Outside, Fen could see dusty, yellowing plane trees fretted by raindrops, and lovers under pulled-down umbrellas hurrying to catch the last tube. Imprisoned in Wembley, with its heat, airlessness, and tensions, she’d forgotten an outside world existed. At the next-door table a couple were holding hands. Taking in the merry din, the bottles of chianti, the photographs of the Colosseum on the wall, the solicitous waiters, Fen was reminded of the night in Rome with Billy, when her face was all bruised and he’d fed her risotto with a spoon. She wanted him so badly it took her breath away.

“What are you thinking about?” demanded Dino.

“That I ought to be in the intensive care unit, not wasting your money.”

“It is my money,” said Dino, grabbing the menus. “I’ll order for you.”

“Grapefruit bolognese’ll do me fine,” said Fen, emptying half a glass of wine in one gulp.

“How come you speak Italian so well?” she said when he’d finished ordering.