politics and, possibly, Amanda’s arms. Now, the months of training and abstinence had gone for nothing. And although Rocky had jumped like a pig with chilblains, and Rupert had beaten the hell out of him afterwards, a small voice inside told him it was not Rocky’s fault.
When he had got back from Las Vegas, with the torn-up pieces of Amanda’s letter in his pocket, he shouldn’t have stayed up half the night talking to people at Suzy’s dinner party. He was thirty-one, not eighteen anymore. Finally, letting himself into the bedroom at two in the morning and finding Helen breathing specially deeply, pretending to be asleep, Rupert — king of the catnappers — had been unable to sleep himself, lying awake and thinking about Amanda.
Now he was expected to go out and celebrate that little jerk’s freak silver. Malise had rocketed him after the competition.
“These things happen with horses and the less said about your cock-up today the better. Now we’ve got to go all out for the team gold. You’ve got six days to get Rocky together, and I want you on parade at half-past nine tonight.”
“What for?”
“To celebrate Jake’s silver.”
“I’ve got a previous engagement,” said Rupert coldly. “I’m taking Helen and her mother to Ma Maison.”
“That’s where we’re all going.”
“Cost a bomb,” snapped Rupert. “Hardly imagine the Olympic fund will stretch to that.”
“It’s already been paid for,” said Malise, not without a certain quiet pleasure which he afterwards regretted. “Garfield Boyson rang from England and guaranteed the bill in advance.”
Rupert’s face took on that curiously dead expression that boded trouble. Garfield Boyson had already approached Rupert; in fact he was the only sponsor Rupert would have been prepared to work with. If Boyson had picked up his bills for the next two years, he would have been able to slack off and only enter for the big prestigious competitions, gradually devoting more and more time to politics. And now Jake had pinched the sponsorship from under his nose.
“I thought you weren’t going to drink until after the team event,” said Helen as Rupert, hair still wet from the shower, but already dressed in a gray striped shirt and white trousers, poured himself four fingers of whisky.
“Hasn’t done me much good so far,” said Rupert, adding a splash of water from the washbasin. “Need something to get me through what’s obviously going to be a fucking awful evening.”
Helen tried very hard to curb her elation. Rupert had told her Boyson was footing the bill this evening, which meant Jake must have got the sponsorship, which in turn must mean he could now afford to leave Tory and marry her.
“It should be fun,” she said. “I’ve never been to Ma Maison. Mother’s dying to meet all the team, and I know Malise will enjoy Mother.”
“Should do,” said Rupert. “He got enough practice driving tanks in the war.”
Helen had her back to Rupert, but her slender right arm was crooked over her back, wrestling with the zip of her dress, which was catching in her hair.
“Let me.” Moving towards her, Rupert pushed the newly washed hair aside and pulled the narrow gold zip up to the nape of the neck. He looked at her reflection in the mirror, breathing in the waves of Femme from her warm, newly bathed, hopelessly excited body. She was wearing a dress of dark gold silk, high-necked, long-sleeved, falling to the ankles, and clinging caressingly to every inch of her body. Her hair, long at the back, was drawn up at the sides by two gold combs. For a second, his long fingers clamped her waist, then they shifted up towards her breasts. He realized that, totally untypically, she wasn’t wearing a bra or even a petticoat. Feeling her tense and draw away, he tightened his grip.
“Haven’t seen that dress. When d’you get it?”
“Ages ago — not for a special occasion — I just liked it.”
“I’m sure — you look great in it — almost too great.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said defensively. “Ma Maison’s always crammed with movie stars and you’re always accusing me of looking too straight.”
“Not this time I’m not.” Rupert glanced at his watch. “In fact if we miss predinner drinks, we’ve got time to…” He began to pull down the zip.
“No,” gasped Helen, shrinking away from him, almost falling over the dressing table, knocking bottles on the floor in her desperate haste to get away.
“I’m all made up and ready,” she said, trying to make a joke of it, “and I promised Mother we’d meet at nine-thirty. We can’t leave her stranded at the restaurant.”
“How’s she getting there?” said Rupert. “On her broomstick?”
Ma Maison, thanks to Boyson’s munificence, had pushed out the boat. On the British team table there were silver plates, silver goblets for the never-ending bottles of Krug, white roses and lilies, surrounded by silver leaves, in the silver bowl at the center of the table, with two silver horses on either side rearing up from the silver, satin table cloth.
Jake was given a hero’s welcome when he arrived. It took him ages to get across the restaurant as people pumped his hand and wanted to touch his silver medal, glinting in the candlelight. A group of English actors who’d witnessed his victory that afternoon in Arcadia were now happily getting plastered, insisting that he sit down and have a drink.
“Who were those people?” he asked Fen, when he finally reached the British team table.
“Michael Caine, Susan George, Roger Moore, to name three,” said Fen.
“Oh. I thought they seemed familiar.”
At that moment a beautiful girl came up and, tapping Rupert on the shoulder, handed him a menu and a pen. “Would you very much mind?” She gave him a dazzling smile.
“Not at all,” said Rupert, picking up the pen.
“Asking Jake Lovell if I could possibly have his autograph?”
Jake was already very tight, cocooned in euphoria, acknowledging the accolades with one part of his mind, but with the other back in the ring, jumping every fence, feeling great waves of love for that tricky, brilliant horse who’d finally confounded the critics and come up with the goods.
Fen on the other hand wondered how much longer she could keep going. She’d been up since four, supporting Jake all the way, yet still praying Dino might turn up. Now, looking at Helen shining with happiness, aware that both Rupert and Jake were steadily getting drunk, she was filled with a feeling of terrible doom.
“Can I sit next to you and can we go to Disneyland tomorrow?” asked Ivor.
At that moment Suzy and Albie Erikson arrived to make up the party.
“Darling,” said Suzy, kissing Jake on the mouth, “you were just sensational. You’ve got no excuse to resist my advances now.”
Fen shot a glance at Helen. She was looking at Suzy with pure hatred.
“We’ve just had an earthquake warning,” said Albie cheerfully.
It’s going to start right here at this table, thought Fen.
The waiter poured out more champagne. “To Jake,” said Malise. Everyone except Jake and Rupert raised their silver goblets.
“To Hardy,” said Jake, half-draining his goblet. Then, looking across at Helen, his eyes not quite focusing, he raised it to her, blew her a kiss, and drained the rest.
Help, thought Fen. “Do you think the course’ll be as difficult on Sunday,” she asked Rupert, frantic to distract his attention. Glancing around, he saw how wan she looked.
“You okay, duckie?”
She nodded. “I’m sorry about Rocky today. You must be heartbroken.”
Rupert shrugged. “D’you know who I miss most of all?”
“Billy,” said Fen. “I miss him, too.”
Ma Maison came up with a special menu which Fen had patiently to explain to Ivor.
“Clear soup, that’s for Jake’s clear round, then Coquille St. Jake a la champagne — that’s scallops, then Gateau Hardy. For God’s sake, stop gazing at Goldie Hawn, Ivor.”
As dinner progressed Rupert’s anger channeled into anti-American asides to irritate both Helen and her mother. “The Olympics have become a shambles,” he was saying, “a laboratory war between East and West. The
