There they were — all his heroes. Humpty Hamilton, puce from the heat, drinking lager. Lavinia Greenslade, whom he remembered from the first Bilborough show. She was even prettier now that she’d lightened her hair, and wore it shorter and curlier. On either side, like two guard dogs, sat her mother, who wore too much cheap jewelry, and her father, who had ginger sideburns and a stomach spilling over his trousers. They didn’t smile. Lavinia was too recent a cap herself for them to regard any new member of the team with enthusiasm. Billy Lloyd-Foxe had filled out and broken his nose since prep school days, but looked more or less the same. He was laughing with a most beautiful redheaded girl, who was wearing black flared trousers and a white silk shirt tied under her breasts and showing off her smooth bare midriff. By her freckled arms and her coral pink toenails, Jake identified the girl on the balcony. Rupert had his back turned as he paid for a round of drinks and signed an autograph for the barman, but Jake immediately recognized the back of that smooth blond head and the broad blue striped shoulders. He felt a wave of horror and loathing.
“This is Jake Lovell,” said Malise. “I’m sure he knows who all of you are.”
Rupert swung round, smiling. In his brown face his eyes were as brilliantly blue as a jay’s wing.
“Hi,” he said. “Welcome to alcoholics not at all anonymous. I hear you had a worse journey than us, which seems impossible. What are you going to drink?”
Jake, who’d rehearsed this moment so often, and who was prepared to be icily aloof, found himself totally disarmed by such friendliness and muttered he’d like some Scotch. Billy got to his feet and shook Jake’s hand.
“You’ve been cleaning up on the Northern circuit. Don’t venture up there often myself, too easy to get beaten.”
“That was a good horse you were jumping at Birmingham,” said Humpty, patting the empty seat beside him. “What’s she called, Australia?”
“Africa,” said Jake.
“Looks almost clean bred. Who was her sire?”
“Don’t know.”
“And her dam?”
“Don’t know that either.”
“Oh, shut up, Humpty,” said Rupert, handing Jake a very large glass of whisky, which made Malise frown slightly.
Rupert lifted his glass to Jake. “Welcome to the British squad,” he said. “Hope it’s the first of many.”
“Thanks,” said Jake. He took a slug of his whisky, which was so strong it made his eyes water. He put his glass down at once, so they shouldn’t see how much his hand was shaking.
“Lavinia’s been capped for Great Britain six times,” said her mother defensively.
“Oh, please, Mummy.”
“You should be proud of the fact,” went on her mother. “The only girl in the team.”
“What about Driffield?” said Rupert. “I’ve always thought his sex was slightly in question.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Humpty. “I’ve shared a room with him.”
“That’s enough,” said Malise.
“Did you get to the Prado this afternoon?” Helen asked him.
Malise shook his head.
“I spent a couple of hours there,” she said. “The Velasquez are out of this world. Such power. I only managed to do two rooms, but I also looked at the cathedral. The nave is just wonderful.”
Rupert stifled a yawn. “I prefer navels,” he said, running his hand over his wife’s midriff. Then, pushing down her black trousers, he fingered her belly button. “Particularly yours.”
It was definitely a gesture of possession and he smiled across at Jake with that bullying, mocking, appraising look that Jake remembered so well.
Humpty turned back to Jake. “By the way, thanks for looking after Porky on the way down. Bridie said he might have damaged himself and her very badly if you hadn’t stepped in.”
“The train driver ought to be shot,” said Jake.
“Spaniards don’t like animals,” said Humpty. “Porky’s highly strung of course, but so was his dam.”
And Humpty was off on a long involved dissertation on Porky Boy’s breeding. Jake appeared to listen and studied the others. Mr. and Mrs. Greenslade were discussing what horses Lavinia ought to jump, across Lavinia, who was gazing surreptitiously at Billy. Billy was arguing fairly amicably with Rupert about whether a particular mare was worth selling and how much they’d get for her. Helen and Malise, having exhausted Velasquez, had moved on to Spanish poetry. She was an astonishingly beautiful girl, thought Jake, but too fragile for Rupert. Jake couldn’t imagine him handling anyone with care for very long.
“I just adore Lorca,” Helen was saying. “He’s so passionate and basic; that poem that starts ‘Green, Green, I want you Green.’ ”
“Sounds like Billy,” said Rupert, “only in his case it’s Gweenslade, Gweenslade, I want you Gweenslade.”
“Shut up,” hissed Billy, shooting a nervous glance in the direction of Lavinia’s mother.
“Not unless you buy me a drink,” said Rupert, handing Billy his empty glass.
“Okay,” said Billy, getting up. “Who needs a refill?”
“Jake does,” said Rupert.
Unable and not particularly wanting to get a word in edgeways while Humpty talked, Jake had had plenty of time to finish his whisky. Having not had anything to eat for at least thirty-six hours, he was beginning to feel very tight. But before he could protest, Rupert had whipped his glass away and handed it to Billy.
“Not as strong as the last one, then,” said Malise firmly. “That was a quadruple.”
“He’s not eighteen, you know,” said Rupert softly.
“How old are you?” asked Humpty.
“Twenty-six,” said Jake.
“Same as me and Rupe,” said Billy, hailing the waiter.
“It’s funny we haven’t heard of you before,” said Lavinia. “Awfully womantic, to be suddenly picked out of the blue like that.”
“I started late,” said Jake.
“But I’m sure I’ve seen you before,” said Billy, puzzled, as he handed double whiskies to Jake and Rupert.
“Pwobably in
No it wasn’t, thought Billy to himself. There was something about Jake that made him feel uneasy, layers of memory being slowly peeled back like an onion, not very happy memories, the kind you tucked into a corner of your mind and tried to forget.
They dined in a taverna a couple of streets away. The walls were covered in fans and castanets and pictures of ladies in mantillas. In a corner a fat tenor in a rather dirty white frilly shirt, and with greasy patent leather hair, was dispiritedly strumming a guitar. The owner rushed out, shaking hands with Malise, Humpty, Rupert, and Billy and showing them their signed photographs on the wall, then going into a frenzy of ecstasy over Lavinia’s blond beauty. Redheads were less rare in Madrid than blondes, and Helen was a little too thin for Spanish tastes.
Jake was beginning to feel distinctly odd. He must get some food inside him. He found himself with Lavinia on his left and Mr. Greenslade on his right. Bottles were put on the table and Rupert immediately filled everyone’s glasses. Completely incomprehensible menus came round.
“What’s gazpacho?” he asked Lavinia.
“Tomato soup,” said Rupert.
That sounded gentle and stomach-settling.
“And polpi?”
“Some sort of pasta,” said Rupert.
“I’ll have that,” said Jake.
Suddenly he noticed Billy’s hand caressing Lavinia’s thigh under the table, where her mother and father couldn’t see. The waiter arrived for their order. Firmly Jake said he’d like gazpacho and polpi.
“I’d like a large steak and chips,” said Humpty.
“So would I,” said Billy, “but not chips, just a salad — my trousers are getting disgustingly tight — and
