Rounding the corner, fifty yards away, they saw Nigel busily letting down the tires of Rupert’s horse box. Riding on the verge, he hadn’t heard them coming.
“Leave this to me,” said Rupert softly.
Sliding off the mare, throwing the reins to Billy, he sprinted down the road and, taking a flying leap, landed on Nigel with a crash, knocking the breath out of his body. Next minute he had dragged him up a grassy side lane and was systematically beating him to a pulp. It was Billy who dragged Rupert off.
“For God’s sake, that’s enough. You don’t want to be done for murder.”
At that moment Frenchie, the groom, woke up from sleeping off his lunch and appeared out of the front of the horse box, rubbing his eyes.
“Where the hell have you been?” snarled Rupert. “Getting pissed as usual, I suppose. Here, take the horses and get me some rope.”
Pulling off his hunting tie, he stuffed it into Nigel’s mouth, then systematically stripped off Nigel’s clothes, looking down with distaste at the white skinny body. As Rupert tied his hands and feet with spare head-collar ropes, Nigel gave a groan and started to wriggle.
“Think he’ll be all right?” said Billy.
“Sadly, yes, the little shit,” said Rupert, giving him a kick in the ribs. “It’ll take him half an hour to wriggle down the road. It’ll still be light; someone’ll pick him up. Pity it’s such a warm night.”
He picked up Nigel’s combat jacket and removed his address book from the inside pocket. As he flipped through it, they hitched a lift in the horse box back to the blue Porsche.
“How riveting,” said Rupert. “He’s got Fiona’s telephone number, and mine, the little bastard, and yours too. What did he call that girl? Helen, I think. Here’s one. Helen Macaulay, Regina House, W. Fourteen. Where the hell’s that?”
“Shepherd’s Bush or Hammersmith.”
“Frightfully unsmart,” said Rupert. “I wonder if that’s her.”
Helen got in around midnight. The walnut and cottage cheese pate and the vegetable curry had been disgusting. She’d hardly eaten anything, but, still dazed by Rupert Campbell-Black, had drunk more cheap elderberry wine than was good for her.
Maureen had glared at her all evening; Nigel had never turned up and Paul had somehow engineered that he drop her off at Regina House after dropping Maureen at her digs.
“I won’t come up for a coffee, Mo. I expect you’re tired,” he said.
Helen suspected that Maureen, standing in her furry coat like a disgruntled Pyrenean mountain dog, was no such thing. Outside Regina House Paul said, “May I kiss you, Ellen?” and lunged goatily. His beard tickled, he had B.O., and his breath smelled of curry. Helen lost her temper.
“You’re too sanctimonious for words, right. You had a glorious day playing cops and robbers and feeling smug to boot, and what’s more I’d like to report you to the RSPCA for being horrible to hounds.” Leaping out, she slammed the car door in his face.
Now she sat in her room feeling ashamed of herself and gazing at Harold Mountjoy’s photograph, which seemed to have lost all its appeal. She noticed the spoilt, slightly weak expression, the hair carefully combed forward to cover the lined forehead and crow’s-feet round the eyes.
“ ‘My only love sprang from my only hate,’ ” she whispered. She’d never see Rupert again. He obviously had millions of girls after him and, anyway, he was thoroughly spoilt. She looked at the primroses in the tooth mug with the ochre centers and pastel petals. She’d have to put him in her novel, then she could dream about him. Slowly she undressed, gazing at her body in the mirror. She’d never really studied it before, and yet he’d said it was beautiful. She found she’d put her nightdress on inside out; that was supposed to be lucky. She could do with some luck. She jumped at a sudden pounding on the door. It was the principal of the hostel in a camel hair dressing gown, hair in a net.
“Telephone,” she snapped. “Person says it’s an emergency. Can’t see how it can be.”
Helen sighed; it must be Nigel. Perhaps he’d been arrested and needed bailing out, or was grumbling because Paul had driven off without him. At least he couldn’t accuse her of getting off with Paul.
In the telephone booth someone had left a copy of Lorca. Helen picked up the receiver: “Hello.”
“May I speak to Helen Macaulay,” said a voice. She’d recognize that clipped, light drawl anywhere. Her palms went damp, her knees turned to jelly.
“This is she.”
“Well, this is the enemy speaking — Rupert Campbell-Black.”
“How did you get my number?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Is Nigel all right?”
“As right as he ever could be. What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Going to church in the morning.”
In the background she could hear the sounds of music and revelry.
“Shut up, you maniacs,” yelled Rupert. “Look, I’ll take you to church, then I’ll give you lunch. I’ll pick you up at half-past ten.”
She liked the way he pronounced it: “H’pp’st’n.”
7
Oblivious to the continued grumbling of the head of the hostel, who was still hovering in the hall, Helen fled upstairs to her room and rushed to the mirror, just to reassure herself that she was still there and that such a thing could have happened.
“He called,” she whispered, “he really called.”
With all those girls chasing after him, he’d bothered to get her phone number from Nigel. Then she buried her face in the primroses, breathing in their faint sweet smell, before collapsing onto the bed.
She must pull herself together. Rupert was a terrible rake, who attracted females far too effortlessly, no doubt leaving a trail of destruction in his wake, like Macheath. And what about the dreadful sexist things he’d said to Maureen, and what about married Gabriella, with whom he’d vanished for two hours at the ball? Perhaps she shouldn’t go; her heart hadn’t mended after Harold Mountjoy; a second break would be far more difficult to repair. But the thought of not seeing him made her faint with horror. She felt quite out of control, swept along like a branch chucked into a raging torrent.
Besides, there was no way she could get in touch with him to say she had changed her mind; and would she ever be any good as a writer if she didn’t experience life?
It had been a very long day. If she didn’t want black circles under bug eyes the next morning, she ought to get some sleep, but instead she sat down at her typewriter and covered six pages of foolscap describing the day. These she slotted into a folder marked “England 1973.” Then she cleaned her teeth for two minutes, using dental floss between each tooth, and sank to her knees to say her prayers. A convinced conservationist who believed in husbanding nature’s resources, she was horrified, when she got to her feet, to see that she’d left the tap running.
She woke in wild excitement. But elation soon gave way to panic as clothes littered the normally tidy room.
On and off, and on and off went the gray angora dress, which went best with her hair, but might be too hot if they went to a crowded restaurant. On and off went the crocus yellow silk shirt which brought out the color of her eyes, but, worn with a gray suit, made her look too much like an efficient secretary. The rust suit was too autumnal, the steel blue wool dress was lovely, but she was perspiring so much with nerves she might have great embarrassing dark circles under the arms. Finally she settled for the kilt and matching beret and green velvet coat she had bought from the Scotch House, worn with a frilly white shirt.
Then, what about makeup? She knew you shouldn’t wear much for church, but too much for God would be
