win more money. To do that he needed another Grade A horse to fall back on when either Sailor or Africa were unfit. There’s a hole in your bank balance, dear Jake, he told himself.
So deep was he in thought on the way home that he suddenly realized he’d taken the wrong turn and was driving through Bilborough. There was Bilborough Hall, russet and mellow in the evening sun, scene of his first show on Africa. If he competed there now, as a member of the British show-jumping team, would he be invited to lunch up at the house with the nobs? There was Brook Farm Riding School. He felt a sick churning relief that he no longer worked for Mrs. Wilton. There was the village green, and the church and Molly Maxwell’s house.
Molly Carter she was now, the colonel’s lady. Diplomatic relations had been resumed between Molly and Tory after Isa was born, but they were still uneasy. Jake had never forgiven the colonel for firing his guns. Molly had never forgiven Jake for running off with her daughter and, even worse, making her happy.
Molly’s marriage to Colonel Carter had not been happy. He was hardly back from his honeymoon at that hotel in Brittany that served English food, before he realized what a bitch she was. Too old and too proud to split up, they were locked together in mutual enmity. The colonel’s retirement from the City had thrown them even more into one another’s company. Molly took refuge in endless bridge. The colonel tried to control Molly’s spending and dickered with the stock market. Fen had been shunted off to boarding school when she was eleven, and was discouraged from visiting Jake and Tory in the holidays because of Molly’s quite unfounded suspicions that Jake would probably seduce her.
Driving slowly past the house, Jake could see his mother-in-law playing bridge with three other harpies in the drawing room. The house had a burglar alarm now, and a yellow rose growing over the porch, and a swimming pool round the back, so the colonel could do his ten lengths every morning, like an old walrus.
Jake suddenly felt hungry. He hadn’t had any lunch and, with a hundred and fifty miles to drive home, he decided to drop into the next pub. Being early evening, he found it half-empty, but as he ordered a pint of beer and a pork pie, he heard a familiar bray of laughter. Not turning, he edged down the bar. There, in the mirror behind the bottles, he could see his stepfather-in-law, arched rather like a golden retriever over a brassy blonde, who certainly wasn’t his mother-in-law.
In amusement, Jake watched the colonel putting his hand over the blonde’s hand and lifting it with a clash of bracelets to his lips. Stupid old goat, he thought. Picking up his pint, he catfooted towards the table.
“Hello, Bernard,” he said softly.
Colonel Carter dropped the blonde like a wasp-filled pear and turned puce. Suddenly the ring on his paisley scarf seemed very tight.
“Hello, Jake,” he said with a great show of heartiness. “Long time no see. What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”
“Looking for a horse.”
“You’ve been doing very well this year. Getting your name in the papers. Even saw you on the box the other night. Going to Crittleden, are you? Sailor still going strong?”
“Of course he is,” said the blonde. “He did well in Madrid, didn’t he? Double clear indeed, and Billy getting concussed, naughty boy. Macaulay was off form, though. I think that Rupert Campbell-Black’s dead cruel.”
Jake found himself gazing into the heavily blue-mascaraed eyes of the true show-jumping groupie. She was showing a lot of crinkly bosom in a shiny blue and white dress, her shoe straps were biting into her fat ankles, and she enveloped Jake in wafts of cheap scent, but her face was kinder than Molly’s.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Bernard?” she said.
“Well, as you obviously know, this is my son-in-law, Jake Lovell,” said the colonel even more heartily, “and this is Vivienne, a great friend of my late wife, Jennifer.”
Vivienne didn’t look as though she’d be the great friend of anybody’s wife, thought Jake.
“Aren’t you going to join us?” she said.
“All right, just for a minute, as long as Bernard doesn’t mind,” said Jake maliciously. “How’s Fen?”
“Not too good really,” said the colonel. “Very moody, never brushes her hair, fights a lot with Molly, litters her clothes around the place. Moll sold her pony last week.”
Then, seeing the expression on Jake’s face, he added defensively, “Wretched animal kept jumping out of the field. Had to go and collect it in the middle of the night.”
“Probably lonely. Does Fen know?”
“Not yet.”
“Break her heart,” said Jake.
“Poor little soul,” said Vivienne.
“How’s she getting on at school?”
The colonel shook his head. “Refuses to work. Just draws horses and gazes out of the window. Wrong place for her, really. They don’t have riding there. But Molly insisted.”
“Don’t know why people have kids, then send them away,” said Vivienne, enjoying her disapproval of Molly. Then, turning to Jake: “Pity she can’t live with you if she’s so horse mad.”
Jake, who’d been thinking the same thing, was biding his time. Fen was only thirteen, but was already showing distinct promise. If he could get her under his wing, he could mold her the way he wanted to, and she’d be very useful helping with the horses. They might even be able to avoid getting a second groom.
“What d’you like to drink?” he asked.
“My round really,” said the colonel, not getting up.
“I’d like a gin and Cinzano, Jake, with lots of ice, thanks,” said Vivienne, seizing the opportunity, used to the colonel’s meanness.
“If you twist my arm, I’ll have a whisky and soda,” said the colonel, who’d been drinking a half-pint before.
“Attractive, isn’t he?” Jake heard Vivienne say as he went to the bar.
“Shame about the little girl. Ought to go and live with them.”
“Molly worries about what her friends think,” mumbled the colonel. “Likes to appear the devoted mother.”
“On the other hand,” said Vivienne slyly, “Fen’ll soon be old enough to be competition. Won’t be much fun when Molly’s menopause clashes with Fen’s adolescence.”
The colonel didn’t think so either.
“Tell us about this horse,” said Vivienne, when Jake returned with the drinks.
“He’s called Revenge,” said Jake, “and he’s got acceleration like a Ferrari, and Christ he can jump, but he’s got a very bad temper and has learnt some bad habits.”
“How much do they want?” asked the colonel.
“Five thousand. I’m just wondering how the hell to raise it.”
He looked speculatively at the colonel and then at Vivienne.
“That’s awfully cheap,” said Vivienne: “Three good wins and you’ll get your money back.”
The colonel suddenly felt heady. His masculinity had been badly dented by Molly; she was always accusing him of being an old woman about money. He’d show her. It was time the lion roared.
“I’ll buy it for you, Jake,” he said. “Fun to have a flutter.”
Vivienne clapped her fat hands together with more jangling.
“Oh, what a good idea. You can split the prize money.”
Jake didn’t react, determined not to betray his excitement. “Horse’ll take a bit of sorting out; not going to hurry him; probably won’t see any return for your money for a year or so.”
“Go on, Bernard, it’ll give you an interest. You’ve always wanted to own racehorses.”
“What’ll we tell Molly?” asked Jake flatly. “She wasn’t ecstatic last time a member of her family bought me a horse in a pub.”
“That I bumped into you,” said the colonel, “decided to help you out.”
For a quarter of an hour they discussed technicalities. Rupert might well go higher. If so they’d scrap the whole idea.
Jake looked at his watch. It had Donald Duck on the face, and had been a birthday present to Isa that Tory had thought the child was too young for.
“Ought to get back; Tory’s keeping supper.”
“Bye-bye, Jake. Can I have your autograph?” said Vivienne.
