She steeled herself not to mind when Rupert was away. She missed him, but subconsciously she built up other resources. She spent a fortune on baby clothes and another fortune on a new nursery suite, decorating the baby’s room daffodil yellow and white and putting in an oven, a washing machine, a dryer, and a small fridge next door, with a room for the nanny, all done up in Laura Ashley, beyond that.
She also liked being able to watch all the egghead programs she wanted on television, to listen to classical music all the time, and not to have to cook huge meals when she was feeling sick.
Then Rupert would come home, bringing not tenderness but silver cups and suitcases of dirty washing. Invariably on his return he wanted a sexual marathon, and although her gynecologist had reassured her that sex couldn’t harm the baby, Rupert’s lovemaking was so vigorous that she was terrified she’d miscarry and found herself tensing up and going dry inside.
She also had the feeling Rupert wasn’t being supportive enough. He flatly refused to go to prenatal classes or be present at the birth.
“It’s too Islington for words,” he said, by way of excuse. “I’ve pulled calves, I’ve pulled foals, but I’ll be buggered if I’ll pull my own baby. I’ve found you the best gynecologist in the country, booked you into a private room at Gloucester Hospital. Let them get on with it.”
He also laughed his head off when he found her listening to Beethoven and Vivaldi in order to stimulate mentally the baby in the womb.
“D’you want to give birth to a string quartet?”
Throughout November and December he’d been away on a successful but punishing round trip to Geneva, Vienna, and Amsterdam, which left only a hectic twenty-four hours at home before setting out for Olympia. Even so Rupert found time for sex. He’d won a Polaroid camera as one of his extra prizes at Amsterdam and was determined to take photographs of Helen in the nude.
“Your boobs are so fantastic since you got pregnant.”
Helen, conscious of her swelling stomach, couldn’t get into the swing of things at all. Nor did she like being photographed first thing in the morning without any makeup on.
“It’s not your face I’m interested in,” said Rupert, laying each photograph on the dressing table so they gradually took on color and shape, until he got so turned on he had to make love to her.
Afterwards she came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, to find a naked Rupert joyfully poring over the photographs.
“For goodness’ sake put them away. Mrs. Bodkin might see them,” she pleaded.
“This one’s much the best. Come and look.”
Helen approached cautiously; then embarrassment turned to rage as she realized he was admiring not her naked beauty but a photograph of Badger, lying grinning upside down in his basket, now banished to the landing.
“I must show Billy,” said Rupert.
“Why not take one of Mavis, too?” snapped Helen.
She was fed up with those wretched dogs and horses. It wasn’t a question of playing second fiddle; she wasn’t even in the orchestra.
Later Rupert and Billy had a session with their secretary, Miss Hawkins, catching up on the mail and checking that entry forms had been sent off for the next few months. When Helen came down with some washing she found the dark blue diary for the next year on the kitchen table. They must have been working out the first six months’ show dates. Fondly she turned to March 7, the most important entry of all, the expected date for the birth of the baby. But instead, to her fury, she found Antwerp, Dortmund, Milan scrawled across the first eighteen days in March, with red marker arrows stretching from page to page indicating they wouldn’t be returning to England between shows. Helen couldn’t believe it. Rupert intended to be away for the most momentous event of his life. She stormed into the drawing room, where Rupert was pouring himself and Billy prelunch drinks.
“Billy, will you please leave the room,” she said in a dangerously quiet voice. “I want to speak with Rupert.”
“Yes, sir, certainly sir,” said Billy, grinning and making himself scarce.
“What on earth’s the matter?” asked Rupert. “Not sulking about Badger’s picture, are you? D’you want a drink?”
“You know I haven’t touched liquor since I became pregnant. I’d like to know the meaning of this.” She flung the diary at Rupert. “Look at March.”
Rupert opened it. “Well? Oh, I’m sorry to be away three weeks on the trot, but they’re all good shows and I’ll be home a lot in January and February.”
“Haven’t you any idea what else is happening in March?”
Rupert look blank. “Can’t think.”
“Our baby is to be born.”
Rupert grinned in dismay. “Oh, Christ, angel, I’m frightfully sorry. It completely slipped my mind. Don’t worry, I can hop on a plane the minute you go into labor, or if you really think it’ll arrive on the seventh,” he glanced at the diary, “I could fly out late to Antwerp. They don’t have the big prize money there till the third day.”
Helen, for the first time since they were married, went berserk, screaming abuse at Rupert, her red hair flying like a maenad, her face scarlet.
Rupert looked at her in amazement. “Are you sure you haven’t been drinking?”
The next minute she was hurling ornaments at him. The altered Augustus John went flying through the air and hit the wall with a splintering crash. Then she started on the bookshelf.
“Was there anything else?”
“Yes,” said Helen. “Bring me a jug of orange juice, please.”
Two minutes later Mrs. Bodkin puffed in with the jug and two glasses on a tray.
“Thank you. That’ll be all, Mrs. B. See you tomorrow,” said Helen, firmly shutting the door on her. Then, picking up the jug of orange juice, she hurled it in Rupert’s face and collapsed sobbing on the sofa.
Nothing Rupert could say would placate her. If he wasn’t going to be with her when the baby was born, she wasn’t coming to his bloody show. She still refused to speak to him when he and Billy set off to London that afternoon. Rupert, who’d always believed that a room full of roses and a gold bracelet could placate any woman, was slightly surprised.
21
Olympia, the last show before Christmas, always has an end-of-term atmosphere. Most of the riders have a break afterwards until the middle of January. All the glamour of the sport is concentrated and enhanced by an indoor show. The collecting ring stewards and the stable manager in charge of the one hundred and fifty loose boxes have increasing difficulty keeping high-spirited riders in order as the excitement mounts. Practical jokes and parties go on all week.
Neither Billy nor Rupert, however, were in a particularly festive mood as their lorry rolled into the horse-box park on the eve of the first day. Billy was fretting because he suspected Lavinia Greenslade had transferred her affections to a handsome French count named Guy de la Tour. Rupert was still smarting over Helen’s intransigence. Christmas shopping traffic jams were driving him wild.
“Fuck the plebs, fuck the plebs,” he screamed, leaning on his horn.
Billy was further depressed to see a huge lorry carelessly parked like an acute accent, with Guy de la Tour, Republique Francaise in huge letters across one side.
