wrestling with a piece. She was convinced her breath smelt from her all-meat diet. She hadn’t shaved her legs since she’d last seen him, her hair was filthy, she was sure she had dandruff and she couldn’t meet his eyes because he’d caught her with unplucked eyebrows and no makeup. Also her ginger cat, Harold Evans, had been sick in the bathroom that morning and she hadn’t had time to clean it up. The flat looked a tip because her cleaner had walked out while she was away and the neighbor who’d come to feed Harold Evans had failed to change his litter box — hardly a lovers’ bower.
Janey knew she ought to go back and wrestle with Jack Nicholson. Instead she reread the proof of the piece on Billy. She had actually lied to him and had only telephoned the corrections through the previous night. It really was rather good, and he looked even more gorgeous just now in a battered Barbour. He must have masses of girls after him. She mustn’t seem too keen. She’d lusted and lost too often over the last ten years. She was, in fact, twenty-nine. That was another lie she’d told Billy. Would he ever trust her when he found out?
Janey Henderson came from a respectable upper-middle-class family. Her father had been in advertising, her kind easygoing mother had stayed at home, brought up the children and encouraged them to have careers, but never taught them how to do anything around the house. Janey, the baby of the family, had been the most successful. She possessed a strong sex drive which led her into trouble, but was bourgeois enough to be paranoid about being talked about. Used to adoration at home, she expected it from her lovers and in order to keep them happy she would tell lies and, when they rumbled her and grew angry, she tended to move on to another one, who could be fooled for a few weeks that she was absolutely perfect. Her father doted on her and, if she had any troubles with landladies or bills or angry bosses, she’d run to him. In the old days he had always bailed her out, but since his advertising agency had folded in the economic collapse of 1973, he suddenly found himself very short of money.
Janey Henderson was attracted to power. As a journalist, she had racketed around and met endless stars. She had mixed with the rich and famous and longed to live like they did. She was a good, if sloppy, writer, an inspired listener who was able to sift out the minutia that mattered. A teenager in the swinging sixties, she had enjoyed the fruits of the permissive society and benefited in her career from the rise of the women’s movement. She had also seen her girlfriends trying to do their own thing, raising their consciousness and their husbands’ blood pressure, finally walking out on these husbands and then being absolutely miserable as single parents. At twenty- nine, Janey realized there was nothing one needed more than a good man. She wanted to settle down and have children. She had seen Rupert’s beautiful house and assumed that servants and land and unlimited Pimm’s were all the normal perks of a show-jumper’s life. Janey also longed to be a more serious writer. If she married Billy, she could be more selective, producing one piece a month instead of two or three a week, and could even write books.
Janey Henderson pondered on these things. The sight of the blank page in the Olivetti and the mess in the flat brought her back to earth. There was no MP to be interviewed tomorrow night. If she had to hand in copy at lunchtime, she reckoned it would take her till late evening to clean the flat and make herself look ravishing.
Harold Evans was weaving furrily round her ankles, demanding lunch.
“I must take you away from all this squalor, Harold,” said Janey, picking him up. “How would you like to live in Gloucestershire?”
Back at Wembley, Billy was inconsolable, despite the fact that Rupert had good news of a possible sponsor. “He approached me to test the water. I said you’d need at least ?50,000 a year to stay on the road.”
“What a lot of money — what does he make?”
“Cat food.”
“The Bull won’t have to eat it, will he?”
“No, but he might have to change his name to Moggie Meal Charlie, or something.”
“Christ, what’s this sponsor like?”
“Oh, frightful. Thatched hair, jangling initial bracelets, frilled duck egg blue evening shirts, firm handshakes, fake American accent, and calls you by your Christian name every second sentence.”
“What’s his name?”
“Kevin Coley. Rather suitable under the circs. Puts a lot of himself into his products.”
Billy grinned. “What’s in it for him?”
“Social mountaineering. He’s made his pile and now he wants upmarket fun and some smart friends. He thinks you have tremendous charisma.”
“Glad someone does,” said Billy gloomily. “He won’t much longer if The Bull goes on knocking down fences.”
“I think you should talk to him,” said Rupert. “Fifty grand a year’s not to be sniffed at. Your mother’s not likely to croak for at least twenty years. And I thought you wanted to marry that girl?”
“After today, I don’t think she’ll have me.”
Billy was sure that Janey wouldn’t turn up the following night. Even his horoscope was ambiguous: it warned Pisces subjects to watch out for fireworks, and make travel plans in the evening.
It had been the Germans’ Wembley. Hot-foot from the Olympics and their double gold, they had jackbooted their way through the week, winning every big class except the
They had given him and The Bull a colossal welcome whenever he’d come into the ring that week. But each time Dudley Diplock had announced them as “that great Olympic combination — Billy Lloyd-Foxe riding The Bull” the little horse had raised two hoofs at the commentary box and knocked up a cricket score. He was tired after a long season. Tonight, however, he felt more bouncy. “You’ve got to win,” Billy urged him, “to impress Janey, if she comes.”
Now Billy sat in the riders’ stand, biting his nails, watching Rupert jump his second round. Revenge was also a bit tired. He flattened twice and had eight faults at the combination and a brick out of the wall. As he came out of the ring, Rupert patted Revenge consolingly, determined to refute any charges of cruelty, knowing the television cameras were still on him.
Billy met him in the collecting ring.
“Just wait till I get this bugger back to his stable,” said Rupert. “I’m going to beat the hell out of him.”
“He’s had a long year,” protested Billy. “Think how well he did in the
As he mounted The Bull to warm him up over a couple of practice fences, he could hear Dudley Diplock waxing lyrical over “Ludwig’s second clear.”
“That’s that Dudley Moore,” said a fat woman who was leaning over the rail to her friend. “He’s done the commentary here for years.”
Billy felt desperately low; Janey was obviously not coming. His mind was a complete blank. He couldn’t remember the course, or how many strides there were between any of the fences. The Bull clouted the practice fence.
“For God’s sake, pick your bloody feet up,” snapped Billy with unusual irritation. The Bull looked martyred and limped a few paces. As Billy turned him to jump it again, he heard a voice calling: “Hello, William.”
And there she was. Her lovely hair all tortoiseshell and lionlike as it had been at Penscombe. She was wearing a black and gray striped silk rugger shirt with a white collar and very tight black trousers.
Billy found it impossible to wipe the silly grin off his face as he trotted across the collecting ring towards her. “You made it! God, that’s wonderful! And you look bloody marvelous. Was the MP furious you ditched him?”
“Livid.”
“I don’t blame him.”
“I heard Rupert’s out already,” she said. “I’ve just passed a stand absolutely hung with whips, spurs, boots, and strange leather devices, exactly like a tart’s store cupboard. I don’t know
Billy laughed.
Janey patted The Bull. “I’m sorry I was a bit offish yesterday, I’m always awful when I’m working.”
