Riders

sofa in some maid’s room, which actually had a lock on the door. All she could think about was getting back to the Mill House to tell Dino what a fool she’d been.

Somehow she got herself together and to the BBC by ten o’clock in the morning. It was a children’s program; she couldn’t let them down. She was met by a very embarrassed producer who said that, as Doctor Seuss was in town, they’d had to completely rejig the program and, very sadly, wouldn’t be needing her after all. Of course, she’d be paid all expenses and her fee and she must come another time; they’d be in touch. Fen knew perfectly well he was lying, that he’d seen the story and the photographs of her breeches splitting in all the morning papers and was terrified she might corrupt the young.

All the way home in the train, Fen died of shame as she huddled behind dark glasses, coat collar turned up, watching businessmen glued to and gloating over her photograph. The headlines were predictable: “Bottoms Up” said The Sun; “Cheeky Fen” said the Mirror.

Tory met her at Warwick station, looking very red-eyed. Fen thought it was because she’d been behaving so badly.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ring,” she stammered. “I meant to, but I was so choked about my breeches splitting. When did the others get back?”

“About three in the morning,” said Tory, starting up the Land Rover.

Wolf, in the back, crept forwards, wagging his tail and putting his rough face against Fen’s cheek. At least she had one friend. For a mile or so they didn’t speak. It was a mean, gray day. The only color came from the last red beech leaves and the blond grasses edging the road.

“Was Dino in an awful state?” mumbled Fen.

There was a pause.

Then Tory said, “He’s gone.”

“Gone?” said Fen, “Where?” Suddenly she felt as if she’d jumped out of a plane and her parachute wasn’t opening.

“Back to America.”

“But he can’t have,” whispered Fen.

“He left this afternoon, loaded up the horses and everything.”

“But whatever for?” said Fen, aghast.

“He didn’t say,” said Tory, bursting into tears.

“Did he — did he leave any message for me?”

“Only to say he’d probably see you in Los Angeles.”

“Nothing else.”

“He gave me a dishwasher,” sobbed Tory. “It arrived half an hour after he’d gone.”

48

Back in November that same year, Helen Campbell-Black sat in James Benson’s waiting room, flipping through the houses for sale in Country Life, and idly wondering how much Penscombe was worth. Glancing at her gold watch, she decided there wasn’t really time before her appointment to rush to the john for yet another quick cleanup. It seemed ludicrous, after having two kids, that she was still desperately embarrassed by anything down there. She shifted slightly on the leather sofa. The irritation was really awful and not helped by her worrying about it all the time. Outside the waiting room, a group of starlings, ravenous after a week of hard frosts, were jostling each other around the bird table. A thrush darted forward, warily grabbing a crust that had fallen on the starched white grass and carrying it off to the safety of a nearby ash tree. Helen admired his speckled breast and bright eyes. How odd that the bird and the complaint between her legs should have the same name.

What a beautiful woman, thought the nurse, as she showed Helen into the consulting room. If there was one patient likely to make Dr. Benson flout the Hippocratic oath, it was she. He always insisted on seeing Helen on the last appointment before lunch, so he could spend more time with her. And although he was supposed to be a friend of the husband’s, he never referred to him in any other way than as “that shit Campbell-Black.”

This morning’s examination did nothing to revise Dr. Benson’s opinion, but as he ushered Helen back to her chair his face was as bland as ever.

“I’m afraid you haven’t got thrush,” he said. “It’s the clap.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The clap. Gonorrhea.”

For a second he thought she was going to faint.

“What!” she gasped.

“Gonorrhea,” he said gently.

“But I can’t have, I mean, I haven’t, I wouldn’t sleep with anyone but…” her voice trailed off.

“I’m sure not, but, whatever you’ve heard to the contrary, it really isn’t caught from lavatory seats.”

“So in fact…” she began.

“When did you last have intercourse with Rupert?”

She tried to pull herself together, trying to remember. “About a fortnight ago.”

“That was probably it, although it could have lain dormant longer. Don’t worry. It’s easy to cure.”

Helen started to cry. Benson went to the cupboard and poured her a large gin and tonic, even adding ice and lemon. It was several minutes before she could bring herself to drink it, as though she were terrified of contaminating the glass. Benson yearned to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he could still hear his secretary typing outside and, with four children at public school, he could ill afford to jeopardize a brilliant career.

“I can’t believe it,” Helen said in a choked voice. “I feel so polluted, and where can Rupert…?”

“Have got it from?” Benson shrugged. “Some passing scrubber on a trip abroad.” Then, seeing the anguish in her face. “You know — far from home, missing you, needing to celebrate a victory. Won’t have meant a thing to him. He’d better come and see me the moment he gets back. He’ll have to be off sex for a bit, too.”

“I can’t believe it,” Helen said again, gazing into space, shaking violently.

Benson was surprised. He only saw a reaction like this when he told parents their children had some fatal disease or had to break the news to a patient that they had cancer.

“You’ll need a course of penicillin injections. Nothing to worry about.” He turned to his desk. “And I’m going to give you tranquilizers and some sleeping pills to tide you over the next few days. Cheer up. It happens to the best people.”

“I feel so contaminated,” whispered Helen. “How could Rupert do it?”

“Probably didn’t know. Come on, we’ll organize the jabs and then I’ll buy you lunch.”

“No,” Helen leapt up, cringing away from him, “I couldn’t force myself on anyone, knowing this.”

Helen had to wait until late the following night to confront Rupert, although the entire household was aware something was up. The grooms, Mrs. Bodkin, Charlene the nanny, all knew that Mrs. C-B had gone off to see handsome Dr. Benson and had returned white-faced, had locked herself in her bedroom, and had given way to hysterical sobbing.

“Didn’t touch any lunch or dinner,” said Charlene. “Didn’t even come and say good night to the children.”

“Might be a hysterectomy, might be cancer of the womb,” said Mrs. Bodkin, in excitement.

“Might be another baby,” said Dizzy, “Which means she can’t walk out on His Nibs for another nine months.”

“If it is, I’m off. I’m not looking after three children,” said Charlene. “What d’you think it’d be like working in public relations?”

Rupert got back from Hamburg about nine o’clock. He realized something was up when Helen didn’t come down and say hello, although far off were the days she’d charged down the stairs to fling herself into his arms. He