putting it down again. No, it really didn’t hurt any more, nor, miraculously, did the other one. Then, joyfully, he was striding out, clattering up the cobbled yard, growing more and more confident, then out on to the gravel path until he reached the beech hedge round the tennis court. Swinging him round, with a Tarzan howl of joy, Lysander trotted him back, running backwards, nearly toppling over an uneven stone as he gazed in ecstasy at Arthur’s great platey feet, shooting out sparks as they flew over the ground.
‘Oh, Rupert, he’s sound, he’s fucking, fucking sound!’
A huge cheer went up from the crowd, which sent all the horses neighing and the dogs barking with excitement.
‘I cannot believe it.’ Lysander wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Just one more time, Arthur.’
Turning, he sprinted back to the beech hedge, and Arthur bounded after him, even putting in a gallumphing buck of delight.
‘Oh, thank you!’ Lysander kissed Bunny, all the grooms, ancient Mrs Bodkin and very nearly Rupert, before flinging his arms round Arthur, and kissing the bits of his great ugly face that weren’t green. Jack yapped excitedly round their feet, until Lysander plonked him on to Arthur’s back, where he balanced still yapping to even louder cheers and screams of laughter, as Lysander trotted him up and down one more time.
‘Arthur has a bilateral coffin joint problem due to poor foot balance,’ explained Bunny, as Rupert opened a bottle of champagne, ‘so he’ll need egg-bar shoes, which are closed up in a circle where the heel ought to be. Then the heel will grow. You’ll gradually be able to cut the toes back and his feet will become a normal shape again.’
Lysander hugged her again. ‘It’s a miracle! I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Could Arthur have a small glass of champagne, Rupert? He really likes it — ouch,’ he yelled as Tiny bit him. ‘And can this bitch have one, too?’
When he and Lysander were back at the house in Rupert’s office, Rupert got out the whisky decanter.
‘Let’s have a proper drink. It’s things like this that make the job worthwhile. I must say Arthur’s a sweet horse.’
‘He’s so clever.’ Lysander admired the sleek, Stubbs horses over the fireplace and hoped, as he smelt Taggie’s
Which is more than can be said for you, thought Rupert, as he reached for the soda syphon. Aloud he said: ‘If you’re on, let’s give him one more crack at the Rutminster.’
Lysander swung round. ‘D’you think there’s time?’
‘Course there is. He’ll need a month on the roads. Then we’ll start cantering and doing a bit of jumping by the end of the second month, then galloping for the last month, slowly building him up. We’ve got till the beginning of April.’ Rupert flipped back the calendar. ’6 April to be exact.’
‘Oh, my goodness.’
Gazing at Rupert’s wonderfully handsome face with the skiing tan heightened by the cold, the sleek blond hair darkened by melting snowflakes and the cornflower-blue eyes for once gentle and without mockery, Lysander felt a wave of adoration. Once again he wanted to kneel down and kiss Rupert’s hand and to win his approval almost as much as Kitty’s love. God, he was turning into a wimp.
‘D’you mind awfully if I ring Kitty?’ he said, reeling euphorically towards the telephone.
‘We’ll have to get the right jockey,’ said Rupert, handing Lysander a glass. ‘Arthur needs cajoling, but not too much.’
In horror, Lysander came reeling back again.
‘But I’m going to ride,’ he protested.
But Rupert was glancing from his diary to the list of horses on the wall and wondering who to send to Lingfield later in the week.
‘If you’re pouring out all this money for training, you might as well have an experienced jockey,’ he said, then added: ‘Christ, what a day. Tabitha, my daughter, is supposed to be going back to school this evening. And she’s buggered off with a ghastly, bearded, animal-rights tractor-driver who thinks trainers are something one wears on one’s extremely dirty feet. And Taggie’s already paid the school fees. Honestly, with children at boarding-school, you’re talking about wrapping a new BMW round a tree every six months and walking away from it.’
Glancing up, he saw Lysander was mouthing desperately, trying to get out the words.
‘Look, basically, Rupert, I think we’re at cross purposes. I honestly didn’t mean to mislead you, but I can’t possibly afford to put Arthur into training.’
It was as though the whisky was sliding right back into the decanter.
‘Basically,’ stammered Lysander, ‘I opened my bank statement this morning. It was surprisingly depressing. I thought I had seventy-five grand, but actually I don’t. Rather the reverse.’
‘So, what do you have in mind?’ said Rupert softly, his long fingers curling round his glass of whisky, eyes narrowed, every trace of friendliness gone from his face. Lysander was suddenly aware of the explosive menace of the man.
‘Arthur’s been staying here ten days,’ went on Rupert, ‘which is almost more expensive than the Hotel Versailles, not to mention that man-eating Shetland. The vet’s bills alone have been astronomical. This isn’t Donkey Rescue,’ he added bitchily.
‘I can see that.’ Lysander put up a placating hand. ‘But I have won point to points, and my uncle Alastair —’
‘That drunken lech.’
Lysander winced. ‘He knew about horses. He said I could ride anything.’
‘And take anyone for a ride.’
Rupert’s cold, dead face and icy, bullying voice reminded Lysander of his father and made him stammer worse than ever.
‘B-b-basically if you give me a job riding your horses at work and in races, I’ll do it for free. I’ll even clean tack although I’m not very g-g-good at it. I always put on too much saddle soap, and if we get Arthur sound, and I win the Rutminster on him, Kitty would realize I wasn’t just a playboy, and I could afford to marry her.’
It took a lot to silence Rupert. The clock ticked, the fax machine squeaked and regurgitated. His secretary rattled away next door. There was a faint whirr from the kitchen as Taggie turned on the mixer. A ginger tom crashed through the cat door. A car drew up outside, and a door banged, before Rupert said: ‘This is the top yard in the country and you expect me to train some clapped-out dinosaur for nothing and pay its entry fees?’
‘I thought you might.’ Lysander stared at his bitten-off toes. ‘A big win would be good for your yard. People will be impressed that you’ve got Arthur. He still gets Christmas Cards and he got a jar of humbugs only last week. I can ride, I promise you.’
‘You’ve got to be joking. There’s no way I’ll let an airhead like you loose on my horses. We’re busy,’ he added with unusual sharpness as Taggie popped her head round the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ she blushed, ‘but Tab’s home.’
‘Let me get my hands on her.’ Rupert drained his whisky. ‘No, you don’t,’ he howled, as a blue streak topped by ruffled blond curls hurtled past the door.
Catching his daughter as she reached the bottom of the stairs, Rupert dragged her snarling like a Jack Russell into the office.
‘I’m not going back to Bagley Hall,’ screamed Tabitha. ‘I hate you.’
‘How
‘If Ashley was the son of a duke you wouldn’t give a stuff,’ yelled back Tabitha. ‘You’re such a snob. When you were young you pulled everything: Dizzy, Podge, Marion, there wasn’t a groom unbonked in the South of England, and what about Perdita? The world must be strewn with your illegits.’
Tabitha had erupted into the room like a Catherine wheel, eyes narrower and bluer than Rupert’s, skin the thick creaminess of elderflowers, blond curls bouncing off the same smooth forehead, her face delicately modelled despite the huge screaming mouth. Lysander had never witnessed such rage, such bristling antagonism, such passion between two people. Any moment, they’d set fire to each other. Jack, allergic to rows, started yapping.
‘You ought to write your autobiography and call it
‘Shut up,’ yelled Rupert, ‘and don’t you start laughing.’ He turned on Lysander. ‘Get out, and shut that fucking
