“Have one on the house,” said the landlord, putting another bottle in the carrier bag. “I’ve just heard it on the radio. Congratulations.”
They pulled up on the edge of a field and drank the Muscadet out of mugs, allowing the horses to graze, and watching the sun set.
“Here’s to you,” said Sarah. “I’m so proud of you both.”
Next moment Fen had stumbled to her feet and was hugging Desdemona.
Jake saw that her shoulders were shaking. He put an arm round her. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’m just so happy.”
“There’s no need to cry then.”
“I’m going to see Dino again.” Half-laughing, half-crying, she rubbed away the tears, streaking her face with grimy hands. “I expect he’s got a million other girlfriends by now, but at least I’ll get the chance to say I’m sorry.”
“Missed him that much, have you?”
Fen nodded. “There’s never a moment when I’m not missing him. But you wouldn’t understand that, never having been in love.”
After the team announcement Malise wrote to all the five riders, confirming their selection. They would be expected to jump together once more as a team at the Dublin Horse Show, the first week in August, then rest their Olympic horses until they flew them out to Los Angeles at the end of the month.
Leaving Rocky at home to rest, Rupert flew the rest of his Grade A horses over to France for the Deauville and Dinard shows, and was due home on Monday night. He had been deeply scathing of the rest of the Olympic team.
“A schoolgirl, a cretin, a rip-roaring dyke, and a crippled gypsy. I’ll have to carry the lot of them,” he told Amanda Hamilton.
Nor was he particularly pleased when Helen decided that she would be coming to Los Angeles after all.
Helen sat on the terrace, drinking white wine, breathing in the night-scented stock, and reading George Herbert in the fading light:
Who indeed? She had never believed, after Kenya, that she would ever be happy again, that she would be totally wiped out by love for Jake, that the only person she wanted to be in the world was the second Mrs. Lovell. Not that Jake was showing any inclination to make her so. She knew that he loved her, except in her frequent moments of panic, and with that, until after Los Angeles, she would have to be content.
As Rupert was not due back from Dinard until the next day, and Charlene and the children were away for the night, Jake said he might pop in — but only might — she mustn’t expect him. On the eve of departure for Dublin, he was frantically busy loading the lorry. Rupert, taking the easy way, was flying over and letting the grooms do the driving.
Helen hadn’t done anything except wash her hair and have a bath earlier. She’d learnt superstition from Jake. If she tarted herself up, he wouldn’t make it. Watching a half-moon sailing like a moth up the drained blue sky, she gave a cry of joy, for there, clearly visible, moving along the top road towards Penscombe above the honey-colored stone wall, was Jake’s car.
Rushing upstairs to the bedroom, she cleaned her teeth, splashed on cologne and, tugging off her panties, leapt into the bath. Holding up the skirt of the yellow dress, she’d worn the night he’d first made love to her, and which she knew he liked, she hastily showered between her legs, shivering with excitement as the hard jet of water flattened her bush and seeped into her vagina.
Leaving two dusty footprints in the bath, she leapt out and combed her hair. Since Jake had told her he liked her just as much without makeup, she felt secure enough not to bother with that all the time, either. Stretching voluptuously, she went to the window, and then stiffened with horror, for there, as usual coming too fast along the road and only five minutes behind Jake, was Rupert’s blue Porsche.
Next minute she heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel and the dogs barking and tore downstairs. Opening the door she collapsed gibbering into Jake’s arms.
“What’s the matter?”
“Rupert’s just behind you. I’ve seen him on the road. What can we do?”
“Nothing,” said Jake, his brain racing. “Go and wash that scent off. We have to brazen it out. Pretend I just dropped in.”
“Better come out onto the terrace,” said Helen. “It’s getting dark out there and he won’t be able to see how much we’re blushing.”
Jake followed her out, running his finger down her spine.
“Anyway, if he finds out, he finds out. He’s got to know sometime,” he said. Helen went very still. Turning around, she looked straight into Jake’s eyes. “Has he?” she whispered.
Jake gazed back at her steadily, no shiftiness in his eyes now.
“Yes,” he said. “You know he has to, sooner or later. It’d just be easier after L.A.”
Helen moved towards him. “Do you really mean that?”
“Yes, I think I always have. I just haven’t said it.”
He only had time to hold her briefly before there was a second crunch on the gravel and more barking.
“I can’t face him,” said Helen, in sudden panic.
“I’ll sort him out. Just get me a drink — Scotch; a quadruple, and as soon as possible.”
Helen fled to the kitchen, her bare feet making no sound on the carpet.
Bang. Rupert slammed the front door behind him. He was not in a good mood. He’d specially come back to spend the night in London with Amanda and, after two admittedly splendid hours, she’d pushed off to Sussex, saying she had to drive her daughter to some dance.
“Helen,” he shouted, “Tab, I’m home. Where the hell is everyone?”
Jake waited on the terrace.
“Helen,” Rupert shouted again, more irritably.
“She’s in the kitchen,” said Jake.
“Who’s that?” Rupert came out onto the terrace, then stopped in his tracks, looking at Jake with slit eyes. His hair was bleached by the French sun, and he was wearing a blue T-shirt, with “I Love L.A.” in red letters across the front. Inspiration suddenly came to Jake.
“Beautiful place you’ve got here,” he said. “I’d only seen it from the road.”
“There are perfectly good gates at the bottom of the drive. I’m sure you don’t need me to show you the way to them,” said Rupert coldly.
“I dropped in,” said Jake, “on the off-chance you might be back. I got a letter from Malise this week. I decided, as we’ve both been selected and I want the team gold as much as you do, we’d stand a better chance if we buried the hatchet, at least temporarily.”
He held out his hand.
Rupert, for once at a loss for words, looked down at the hand, which was completely steady. He thought of his own humiliation in the World Championship. He thought of Fen defying him at the Crittleden strike. He thought of Jake in the dormitory at St. Augustine’s, a terrified little boy, cringing away from the lighted matches. Now, here he was waving white flags and offering peace initiatives.
The hand was still there. Briefly Rupert took it.
“All right. I don’t trust you a fucking inch, Gyppo, but for the sake of the team gold we’ll suspend hostilities till after the Games. Then,” he added, smiling, “I’ll smash the hell out of you! We’d better have a drink. Helen,” he yelled.
“Yes,” said Helen faintly.
“She was getting some ice,” said Jake. “Probably hovering to see if I was to be allowed a drink.”
“You were lucky to catch me. I wasn’t planning to come back tonight at all. What d’you want?”
“Scotch, please.”
At that moment Helen came through the door, clutching a tray with one already poured glass of whisky, the whisky decanter, a second empty glass, and the ice bucket. She looked at them both with terrified eyes, like a
