staggered off to the loo. She looked pretty abandoned; her hair was all over the place. Overwhelmed by frantic excitement, she tipped half a bottle of Diorissimo over her body and wandered back to the table, to find Garry having a frightful row with Enrico for stealing his seat. Fen collapsed into hers as the lights dimmed. Garry, who was even more drunk than Fen, was removed, complaining bitterly, to a chorus of shushes. Enrico poured Fen another glass of wine.
“What does hedonistic mean?” she asked the shotputter.
“Haven’t a clue.”
“Nor have I, but I think I’m about to be it.”
She hardly heard a word of the speeches as, in the dim twilight of their corner, she felt Enrico’s hand running all over her back, firm, warm, powerful hands with splayed flat fingers and pudgy balls to the thumbs. Now they were inching round underneath the front of her dress.
“You mustn’t.”
“I must,” he said, leaning across her to stub out his cigar.
“Ouch,” squealed Fen as he bit her shoulder.
Now his free hand was moving downwards, slipping into the cleavage of her buttocks. She leapt away as the lights blazed on. The Princess, to thunderous applause, was presenting the award for the Male Personality of the Year to yet another famous footballer, who was saying he was “absolutely over the moon, definitely” and holding up his prize like a football cup.
When the Princess started reading out the female nominations Enrico started kissing Fen. Enjoying the frantic swordplay of tongue and saliva, she could feel the stubble of his cheeks. He had a zoolike, unwashed smell. He was just like a stallion. Unheeding, she kissed him back. His hand was between her legs now. If the lights hadn’t blazed on again she had a feeling he would have taken her there and then in that dark corner.
The huge cheers seemed to be getting louder. Someone was tapping her on the shoulder.
“You’ve been nominated,” whispered the shotputter.
“Fuck off,” growled Enrico.
Fen wriggled away from him just as the spotlight found her.
“Come here,” said Enrico.
Next moment there was a burst of cheering and Dudley Diplock was crying, “Well done, Fen. Go on. You’ve won.”
Everyone seemed to be helping her through the tables as she frantically straightened and pulled down her dress and wiped away the mascara, smudged under her eyes.
“Oh, she’s crying, bless her,” said a fat woman. “She’s only eighteen and so unspoilt.”
Fen fell up the stairs and was picked up by Dudley.
“Hello again. Congratulations,” said the Princess, laughing.
Fen clutched the trophy, which was a model of a silver pen writing on a silver page. Finally the deafening cheers were silenced. Fen took the microphone, grinning fatuously.
“Honestly, I had no idea. I can’t tell you how knocked out I am. Thank you, sports writers, for this stunning award. It was all due to the horses. I’ve just got good ones and my brilliant brother-in-law, Lake Jovell,” no, that wasn’t right, “I mean Luke Jovell,” she opened her hands despairingly, “I’m sorry, I’m a bit over the top. It’s excitement and all your wonderful hospitality.”
Everyone laughed and cheered.
Dudley collared her for an interview, but all she could think about was being in bed with Enrico. She could see him at the table, fingers drumming impatiently. He was not a man who would be kept waiting very long.
As she left she tapped one of the BBC minions on the shoulder.
“Could you tell the car that’s supposed to be taking me back to Warwickshire that I won’t be needing it.”
“Right ho, dearie.”
“Should I ring home? They’re expecting me back by one o’clock.”
“No,” said Enrico.
His flat was all white, with shagpile carpet as thick as a hayfield, huge white sofas, and walls lined with mirrors. Everywhere there were photographs of Enrico, winning races or being photographed with presidents and kings.
“This is small place,” he said, adjusting the dimmer switches. “In Rome I haf really nice apartment.”
In the drawing room he took off her dress, then her tights and her panties. Then he turned the spotlights on her, so that she was reflected a hundred times in the mirrored walls, as though taking part in some vast orgy. She wished her face wasn’t so pink and weathered rather like a toffee apple compared with her slender, white body. At first she covered her breasts and her bush with her hands, but she was too drunk really to mind.
“I’m awfully rusty,” she mumbled. “Can we have a long warm-up first?”
Enrico shook up a bottle of Moet Chandon, then opened it, spraying it all over Fen’s body and into every crevice. Then he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom where, on a huge oval bed, he proceeded very slowly and thoroughly to lick every drop off until Fen was a squirming, ecstatic bundle of desire. God, she thought, he had a cock like a salami. A lot of junk is talked about the size of the male member having no importance in sex. And when a man is as magnificently endowed as Enrico, as skillful in manipulation, and of such unquestionable sex appeal, and the girl in question is as well lubricated as one of Enrico’s engines, the result is bound to be ecstatic. For Fen it was the most glorious hour of her life. “Talk about a one night stunned,” she muttered afterwards.
Hazily she looked at the clock beside the bed, red eyes flickering like hers. “My God, it’s a quarter to three. We must go,” she said, leaping to her feet.
Enrico put out a hand. “Stay with me. Give Amsterdam a miss.”
“I can’t. The lorry’s loaded. The tickets booked. I must go.”
Enrico leaned over, kissing her and running his hand down her body.
“You are like little schoolboy, no? Next time I bugger you.”
“Not sure,” muttered Fen, wriggling away. “I
The motorways were deserted. She was almost more turned on by his handling of his Ferrari and the subdued dragon roar of its engine. He didn’t seem to be driving fast at all and it was only as he overtook other night flyers that she looked at the speedometer and realized they were traveling at more than 120 mph. They hardly spoke. One big hand rested between her thighs.
How long would she be in Amsterdam, he asked, and where was she staying? He would be in New York when she got back, but he would be back in London for the last day of the Olympia show, when he would come and watch her. She was to leave some tickets at the box office.
He had her home by five past four; it would have been four o’clock if he hadn’t spent five minutes parked on the bridge, with the engine growling, leisurely kissing her good night, his tongue tickling her epiglottis.
“ ’appy treep, my darling,” he said as he dropped her off at the front gate. Thank God Jake’s still away, thought Fen. As she walked up the path, high heels crunching on the frozen grass, the owls were hooting and the dog star was just sinking into his kennel behind Pott’s meadow.
All was activity in the yard. She could see Sarah and Louise putting on bandages and tail guards, changing rugs. In the lorry Tory was making a last-minute check.
She crept unnoticed into the kitchen and went slap into Dino, still wearing the same check shirt, jeans, and sweater he’d had on when she left. He plainly hadn’t been to bed and was absolutely white with anger.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I haven’t been to hell at all; rather the reverse.” She realized she was still tight. “I’ve just been finding out what hedonism is and I do agree it’s much better than celibacy.”
For a second, she thought he was going to hit her.
“Why the fuck didn’t you call? All the kids, Tory, and the grooms saw you winning the award. They were so excited they had a bottle of champagne ready to welcome you when you got back. Not that you looked as though you needed it from the way you fell up the stairs. Then you just disappear. Don’t even bother to cancel the car.”
“I did. I told a BBC man.”
“Probably pissed, like you. Anyway he never passed on the message. No one got any sleep or knew whether to load up the horses. We were all worried stiff.”
