their pale heads in approval. Helen longed to dawdle. But there was no chance of wandering lonely as a cloud. Rupert, with his brisk military walk, set off at a cracking pace. Helen, her high heels pegged by the soft grass, was soon panting to keep up.
“Did you buy the horse you looked at this morning?” she asked.
“It was a retired racehorse,” said Rupert. “After flattening four fences it suddenly decided to stage a comeback and carted me halfway to London. Couldn’t stop the bugger and I’m pretty strong.”
“What happened?”
“Fortunately the London-Newbury express thundered straight across our bows, the horse decided he wasn’t ready to be strawberry jam and skidded to a halt. Must say I was shit-scared.”
Brought up that no gentleman swears in front of a lady, Helen wished he would not use such bad language.
“I’m starving,” he said. “Let’s go and have some lunch.”
“Will it be very smart?” asked Helen.
“Not until we get there,” said Rupert.
The restaurant, despite being sandbagged up to the gutters against IRA bomb attacks, was extremely smart inside with cane chairs and tables, a black and white check floor, and a forest of glossy tropical plants, emphasizing the jungle atmosphere. From the kitchen came a heady waft of garlic and herbs and from the dining room the same swooping my dear-punctuated roar of a successful drinks’ party.
The head waiter rushed forward.
“Meester Campbell-Black,” he said reproachfully. “You deedn’t book.”
“I never book,” said Rupert.
“But I ’ave no tables.”
“I’m sure you can find us one, nice and private. We don’t want people bothering us.”
“And you cannot bring dogs in ’ere. The health inspectors, they will shoot me.”
“Badger’s different,” said Rupert. “He’s a guide dog for the blind drunk. Now, buck up, Luigi, don’t keep us waiting.”
Sure enough, within half a minute, Luigi beckoned. It was quite an experience walking through a restaurant with Rupert and Badger. Every head turned, necks cricked, nudges were exchanged, as people looked first at him, then at Helen, trying to work out who she was, if anyone. The restaurant seemed to be packed with beautiful people, the girls all wearing fashionable flared trousers down to the ground with never a boot showing, their red nails tapping on their slim thighs, smoothing back their streaked hair and calling, “Hi, Rupe” as he passed.
Luigi installed them at a table divided from the rest of the restaurant by a dark green wall of tropical plants. Immediately Helen fled to the Ladies’. She felt so drab in her gray dress, with her pale church face gazing back from the mirror. Savagely, she ringed her eyes with pencil, added a coral splodge of blusher to each cheekbone, painted her mouth to match, and emptied so much Miss Dior over herself that it made her sneeze.
Back at the table, Rupert had ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon and removed his tie. Badger, lying at his feet, thumped his tail. Breathing in the newly applied Miss Dior, Rupert noticed the additional makeup. All good signs.
“I haven’t been in London on a Sunday for ages,” he said. “It’s nice, and it’s the first time I’ve had a chance to look at you properly — that’s even nicer. You’re really an astonishingly beautiful girl. What the hell were you doing with Nige?”
“We work together.”
“In publishing?”
“I read manuscripts and write blurbs. Actually,” she blushed, “I’m also working on a novel.”
“Can I read it?”
“It’s only in draft form.”
“Well, you must put me in it, then. I’ll be Prince Charming. Nigel can be the toad. You’re not really his girlfriend?”
“No, I am not,” said Helen with some asperity. “He just asked me out with the Antis yesterday. How did you get my phone number?”
“Well, Billy and I found Nigel letting down the tires of our lorry, so I shook him till his lentils rattled, then left him trussed up like a Christmas turkey and appropriated his address book. What did you think of your day out?”
“Very cruel. All those people tearing after a poor defenseless fox, ripping it apart for fun.”
“Have you ever seen a chicken coop after a fox has been, all with their heads bitten off and left? Foxes kill for the hell of it, too.”
“The fox doesn’t get a chance,” protested Helen, “with you blocking up their earths and digging them out with terriers after they’ve gone to ground.”
Rupert shrugged his shoulders. “Farmers wouldn’t let us hunt across their land if we didn’t.”
He filled her glass, although she’d drunk only half of it, looking at her meditatively.
“Hunting’s like adultery,” he said. “Endless hanging about, interspersed with frenzied moments of excitement, very expensive and morally indefensible.”
“Why d’you do it, then?” asked Helen primly.
“Hunt or commit adultery? Because I enjoy them both. I fancy other people’s wives from time to time. I enjoy riding hell for leather across country. It’s one of the best ways of teaching young horses to jump anything; or stop an older horse getting stale. Horses love it, so do hounds, so do the people doing it. You just don’t like to see people enjoying themselves.”
“It’s still wrong for people to get all dressed up for the pleasure of killing something,” said Helen, hotly.
“Darling love, the saboteurs had far more fun than we did yesterday. Billy, my mate, always says if ever they abolish hunting he’s going to join the Antis.”
Helen, remembering how she’d attacked Paul last night, had to concede he was right.
“But Nigel does have principles,” she protested. “He’s a strict Vegan.”
“Farts all day in the office, I suppose,” said Rupert, yawning.
Helen blushed, but refused to be deflected.
“Nigel,” she went on earnestly, “has not eaten anything that moves for ten years.”
“Not even jelly?” asked Rupert.
Helen tried to look disapproving and giggled. “You’re impossible.”
“Impassible, am I?” said Rupert, mocking her pronunciation. “Well, you certainly won’t get past me in a hurry.”
Luigi arrived with the menu. Helen noticed there were no prices.
“What are you going to eat? I’m sure Luigi can flambe you some nut cutlets, but why not be really decadent and have a large rare steak?”
Luigi particularly recommended the scampi served with a cream pernod sauce or the filets of wild duck with juniper berry sauce.
“No, I don’t want any of your mucked-about rubbish, Luigi. My guest would like…” He turned to Helen.
“Oh, pate, and a small steak and a green salad.”
“And I’ll have smoked salmon, and grilled lamb chops, very rare, with some fried potatoes, and can you bring an extra steak for Badger? He likes it well done, and we’ll have a bottle of Number Six, and another bottle of this while we’re waiting.”
While he was ordering, she admired the beautifully lean curve of his jaw. Unlike most Englishmen, and particularly ones who spent so much time out of doors, there was no red tinge to his complexion which, even without the suntan, would have been pale olive. Glancing around, he caught her gazing at him. “Well?” he said.
“You’re very tanned.”
“Skiing last month.”
“I hear you’re an expert at horseback riding.”
Rupert grinned. “You could call it that. The show jumping season’s about to start in earnest. It’s Crittleden next weekend. Why don’t you come down on Saturday?”
He was touched to see how thrilled she was.
