Riders

else controlling Belgravia. And all that fuss about dressage, it was no more than bloody Come Dancing.

He was further irritated that Billy, despite having chucked away ?750 prize money without a thought, was behaving as though Malise had kissed him under the mistletoe. Rupert loved Billy, but he was constantly irked by Billy’s hazy assumption that the Lord or Rupert Campbell-Black would provide. Like many generous people, Rupert liked to have the monopoly of the expansive gesture. Billy’s ?750 could have gone a long way towards repainting the yard. It never occurred to Rupert that Billy might have beaten him.

After the competition, the heavens opened and journalists and other riders crowded into Rupert’s caravan to get out of the rain. But after drinking Rupert’s health in Rupert’s champagne out of the huge silver cup he had just won, they were far more interested in talking about The Bull’s amazing jump and Billy’s retirement. Rupert loved Billy, but he did not like playing second fiddle. He might have been indifferent to public adulation, but he liked it to be there, so he could be indifferent to it.

Leaving them all gassing together, he took half a bottle of champagne into the shower. As the drumming of raindrops on the caravan roof drowned the noise of the hot water, he was gripped by the lust that always overwhelmed him after a big class. Normally he would have screwed Marion in the back of the horse box, but he doubted if she would oblige with a quickie with Helen around. Anyway, he didn’t want Marion; he was amazed by his violent craving for Helen. He must get her into bed soon. Only that could restore his amour propre and remove the ache from his loins. He’d already told Billy to find somewhere else to shack up for the night as he needed the caravan for Helen and himself. But, although he knew she was hooked on him, he was by no means sure she was going to be a pushover. He’d have to make her jealous. He knew Grania Pringle would oblige.

Helen, in fact, was feeling absolutely miserable. She knew Rupert was busy, that this was his world, but he had this ability to be all over her one moment and virtually oblivious of her the next. Since he’d won the cup, he’d been completely withdrawn. And now all these people were guzzling his drink, talking shop, and ignoring her. Only the German, Hans Schmidt, who had rather mad arctic blue eyes, had made any attempt to chat her up.

But he hadn’t seen any of the German movies she so admired and when she got him on to writers it was even worse.

“I just adore Brecht,” she said with enthusiasm.

“I too am a great admirer of breasts,” said Hans, brightening perceptibly and gazing at her bosom.

“No, Brecht, the writer.”

“Ya, ya,” said Hans. “Small breasts, big breasts, it’s quite all right viz me for zee ladies to like other ladies’ breasts.”

Helen went pink and hastily started talking about Gunther Grass. She thought she was making progress. The German seemed most interested until he suddenly said, “Vot is zis grass? Is it some kind of hay which Rupert feed his horses?”

So she gave up and he turned back to Humpty Hamilton, who was having an argument with the man from the Daily Telegraph about dust allergy.

Billy still being interviewed by Joanna Battie from the Chronicle, who was showing all the intensity of someone who realizes they’ve stumbled on a really good story, could do little more than smile apologetically and shove the bottle in Helen’s direction from time to time.

Unaware of the taciturnity and habitual suspicion towards outsiders of all show-jumping people, Helen felt she must have lost her sex appeal. Nor did she realize they were too wary of Rupert to chat up one of his girlfriends.

She longed to be able to shower and change before Lady Pringle’s party. She’d never met a member of the British aristocracy before and wondered if she ought to curtsey, and how she should address her. Her mother always emphasized the importance of using people’s names when you talked to them. Was it milady, or your grace, or what? She’d liked to have asked Joanna or Marion, who had just returned exhausted from settling the horses, but they both looked at her with such hostility. To hell with them all, she thought, helping herself to another drink. I am a writer, I must observe life and listen to British dialogue.

One of the journalists was ringing his newspaper on Rupert’s telephone.

“I’m sure he was half brother to Arctic Prince,” said Humpty.

“He was own brother,” said Ivor sullenly.

“Half brother.”

“Own brother. I ought to know, I rode the horse.”

“I must use the telephone next to ring my news desk,” said the man from the Telegraph.

At this moment Rupert came out of the shower, a dark blue towel round his hips, blond hair dark and otter sleek. Helen felt her stomach give way.

“I want to change, so would you all fuck off?” he said coldly.

“Don’t mind us,” said Humpty. “You never have before. Wasn’t Polar Pete half brother to Arctic Prince?”

“I don’t care. Get out—all of you. And get off my telephone, Malcolm.”

He ripped the telephone wire out of its socket.

“I was on to the news desk, singing your praises,” said Malcolm indignantly.

“I don’t care. Beat it.”

Grumbling, they all dispersed into the sheeting rain, running with their coats over their heads, until only Billy and Helen were left. Rupert replugged the telephone. It rang immediately. At a nod from Rupert, Billy picked it up. Rupert came over and kissed Helen. He tasted of toothpaste and smelt faintly of eau de cologne. In the safety of Billy’s chaperonage, she allowed herself to melt against him, kissing him back until she could hardly stand. Rupert put a hand on her breast.

“I can feel your heart,” he said softly, “and it sure is racing.”

“Ahem,” said Billy. “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s Dick Brandon. He wants to drop in for a drink.”

“Hell! Oh, all right, tell him to come over. Go and have a shower, darling, the water’s baking.”

“Will it be very fancy tonight?”

“Not particularly.”

“Shall I wear pants?”

Rupert’s eyes gleamed. That was getting somewhere. “Certainly not,” he said.

Helen was relieved to find that the shower, unlike the showers at Regina House, gushed out constant hot water. But there was no lock on the door and Helen imagined Rupert barging in, so she showered with frantic haste. She put on a black silk jersey dress with a discreetly low back and pale gray tights which stuck to her legs because they were still wet.

Outside, she found that the double bed had been let down from the wall. Joining the two bench seats, it formed a huge area. On top of the dark blue duvet lounged Rupert, wearing a striped shirt and gray trousers. Perching on the edge of the bed were Billy and a man in a light check suit with an expansive red-veined face, bags under his eyes, and blond hair going gray. They were three-quarters of the way down another bottle of champagne. Rupert’s eyes were beginning to glitter slightly.

“Well, if the horse is so bloody good, I can’t see why you’re selling her,” said Brandon.

“She’s not quite up to my weight and she’s too sensitive for me. You know what I feel about mares.”

Suddenly they all noticed Helen standing there, white skin flushed from the shower, brilliant red hair falling over her forehead, the perfect contrast to the black dress. The man in the check suit whistled.

“Oh boy,” he said. “Come here, sweetheart.”

As she came towards him, he ran his hand down her pearly gray stockinged leg as if she were a horse.

“Now this I’m really prepared to offer for.”

Rupert laughed and, reaching out for Helen, pulled her down beside him, offering her his glass to drink out of. Then he ruffled her hair, gazing into the huge shy bruised eyes.

“I’m afraid this one’s definitely not for sale, Dick,” he said.

Christ, Rupe is a lucky sod, thought Billy. She gets more stunning by the minute.