Americans have better drugs, better computers to detect minor faults, better shrinks to psych out the athletes. The whole spirit of amateurism has gone.”
Mrs. Macaulay, who was discussing property prices with Albie, swelled like a bullfrog. Helen, toying with a piece of coquille, managed to engineer Malise on to the subject of Jake. “Naturally I’m disappointed Rupe didn’t get a medal, but if anyone deserved one, it was Jake.”
Malise nodded. “It’s a fairy tale, really, after that terrible fall.”
“You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”
Malise smiled deprecatingly. “He’s tricky and cussed, but you have to admire his integrity. Of course, he’s fantastically lucky in his home backup.”
“Isn’t Tory kind of dull?”
“God no,” said Malise sharply. “She keeps him calm. I must say I never expected him to get a silver. I thought he’d crack.”
“But he didn’t. He managed without her,” said Helen, kneading her bread into pellets in her agitation.
“She’s carried him through the last ten years,” said Malise gently.
A diversion had been created on the other side of the table. Joan Collins had arrived and was being embraced by Rupert.
“Helen, my dear.” Malise lowered his voice, “I’ve known you long enough to give you a piece of advice. Don’t play with fire — particularly Olympic fire. Cool it — until after the Games.”
Helen blushed furiously. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do,” said Malise gravely. “I’ve got enough headaches keeping this lot together, without you rocking the boat.”
Joan Collins, svelte in black lace, was progressing down the table. “Hi, Jake. We haven’t met, but what a round! I was stuck in the studio, but we suspended shooting to watch the second half. All the Brits went wild.”
She turned to Helen. “Darling, how are you?” Then her eyes lit on the gold dress. “You meanie. I had my eyes on that. Saw it at Giorgio’s yesterday. Then I found out the price. You’re lucky to have a rich husband to pick up the bills. Let me know if you ever get tired of him.”
Helen went very still.
“I think she already has,” said Rupert. He looked across at Helen, his fingers drumming on the table. “Oh, this old thing,” he said softly.
“Oh, shut up,” said Fen. “It does suit her.”
Suzy, who’d been flirting outrageously with Jake, got up to go to the loo. Mrs. Macaulay immediately took her place. Jake found himself getting the fifth degree. Her big red face seemed to have an extra pair of eyes in the middle of her forehead. Really, he must be extraordinarily drunk. As Mrs. Macaulay questioned him about Tory, the children, the yard, and the horses, it became plain to her that, despite the fact that Jake was obviously four parts cut and kept calling her Mrs. Campbell-Black, his marriage was a good deal happier than Helen’s was to that monster who was still bad-mouthing America.
“The television coverage is utterly one-sided,” said Rupert. “American viewers are totally unaware of any foreign competition.”
Helen turned to Malise helplessly. “Don’t you find L.A. fascinating?” she said. “It’s such an eclectic mixture of the functional and the bizarre.”
“Don’t talk crap,” snapped Rupert. Malise frowned. Mrs. Macaulay went purple. “That’s no way to address a lady.”
“What makes you think she’s a lady?” drawled Rupert. “Certainly not her parentage.”
Mrs. Macaulay rose to her feet. “I’ll not stay here to be insulted.”
“Why don’t you leave then?” said Rupert.
Only Malise’s blandishments, Helen’s pleadings, and the arrival of the Gateau Hardy, a splendid ice cream cake in the shape of a gray horse, induced her to stay.
Rupert returned to attacking the American team. “They’re all robots, Mary Jo’s a robot, Carol Kennedy’s a robot, Dino Ferranti…”
“He is not,” yelled Fen.
“Fancy him, do you? So does my dear wife. She is dear, too. At least you earn your keep. She’s a parasite.”
“Didn’t know Helen came from Paris,” said Ivor, in surprise.
Everyone laughed, which for a moment eased the tension.
“There’s a marvelous concert at the Hollywood Bowl tomorrow,” Helen said to Malise, “and tomorrow they’re doing
“Count me out,” said Rupert. “Why not
Fen resisted the temptation to giggle.
“There’s a very naughty movie on at the Rialto,” said Suzy, who, irritated to find she’d been ousted from her place next to Jake, wanted to get back in on the action. “Why don’t we all go tomorrow night?”
“My wife is not interested in sex,” said Rupert flatly.
Jake had been watching Rupert for some time. His eyes narrowed and his right hand played idly with the knife he’d been given to cut the cake.
“I’m not surprised,” he said, “being married to you.”
Rupert looked up. There was a long embarrassed pause. Then Fen said desperately, “Ivor and I are going on a tour of movie stars’ homes tomorrow. We’re going to see Rudolph Valentino’s grave, and…” Rupert put a hand on her arm. “Shut up, darling,” he said softly. “Jake was talking.”
“Why don’t you give her a break for a change?” said Jake.
“What kind do you suggest, a broken jaw, perhaps?”
There was another awful pause.
“Just because you rode like a costive chimpanzee today,” said Jake “and screwed up the chances of the best horse in the class, you don’t have to take it out on her.” He was quivering like a leopard about to spring.
“Oh dear,” drawled Rupert. “We have grown in status since we won our silver medal this afternoon, haven’t we?”
“Shut up,” yelled Jake.
“Been at the human growth hormone, have we?” taunted Rupert. “Little man has had a happy day and is now making a big big night of it. Gypsy, my arse! You’re just a little suburban creep whose mother screwed around so much she couldn’t remember who your father was.”
Jake picked up the knife.
“No,” thundered Malise.
Suddenly the whole restaurant had gone quiet.
“You little creep,” said Rupert gently. “The only thing I’d use you for is to measure my tennis net.”
Helen leapt to her feet, knocking over her wineglass.
“Stop it,” she screamed. “Just because you’re jealous as hell of Jake, you have to spoil everything.”
“St. Georgia to the rescue,” said Rupert.
“I’m going,” said Helen. “Thank you, Malise, I’m real sorry, everyone,” and she fled out of the restaurant, a shimmering column of gold, cannoning off tables, blinded by tears.
“Aren’t you going to cut that cake?” said Griselda.
Rupert caught up with Helen outside the restaurant. They stood side by side, not speaking, while the doorman conjured up their car. Helen was amazed that Rupert could be so charming, when Michael Caine stopped on the way out and asked them to a party the following night.
“Shut up,” he snarled on the journey back when she asked him to drive slower. “Let me get home in one piece. Then we’re going to do some straight-talking.”
At the Eriksons’ house the servants had gone to bed. Drunk though Rupert was, he managed to switch off the burglar alarm, before going into the drawing room and pouring himself a glass of neat whisky. Helen walked towards the stairs.
“Where are you going?”
“Bed. I’ve had enough of you for one day.” Careful, she told herself, careful. But all those things that Malise
