The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

The crowds hanging over the paddock railings, studying their racecards and Sporting Life, laughed at Hopeless. Even wearing the thick blue rug with the initials RC-B on the side, which generally inspired terror in the most phlegmatic bookie, Hopeless looked like a child dressing up in her mother’s overcoat.

Lysander, weighing-out in the tiny chair beside the huge red clock, discovered he’d lost three pounds overnight, which was nice and light for Hopeless and meant he hadn’t anything left to throw up. He had spent last night pouring over videos of Hopeless’s earlier races. An inexperienced horse, she was not used to being in front and weaved all over the place. He must keep her straight and behind Turkish Hustler to the last moment. He wished he could wear his Donald Duck jersey instead of Marcia’s olive-green colours, which he supposed matched his face. He’d got to be brave for Kitty’s and Arthur’s sake. Even if he were only placed, it would help notch up his quota of races needed to qualify for the Rutminster.

In the paddock, Taggie put her coat round his shuddering shoulders as Rupert gave him last-minute instructions.

‘Start slowly. She’s most unlikely to last the distance, and build up,’ he added finally. ‘And I’d get down to the start as early as possible. She gets upset if horses come thundering past her.’

Rupert wants her out of the paddock as quickly as possible, poor old Hopeless, thought Lysander indignantly. We’ll show him.

Rupert turned to Bluey who was eyeing a redhead in a group clustered round the second favourite.

‘I don’t need to tell you anything, Bluey. Just sit on his back. Let’s go and have a drink,’ he added to Freddie. ‘This race is a foregone conclusion.’

‘I put two pounds on Hopeless,’ said Tab.

Rupert was busy discussing viewing figures with Freddie, who was also a director of Venturer, when he heard the flat, patrician voice of the course commentator echoing round the ground.

‘And Hopeless jumped that extremely well, and is moving up to join the leaders.’

Running to the balcony, choking on a turkey sandwich, Rupert looked through his binoculars at the shimmering garland of colours’ moving above the rails and the centipede of frantically galloping legs below, as they came to the second hurdle from home.

Hopeless was in fourth place, making it look really easy and Lysander was riding beautifully, his hands almost touching the horse’s flickering orange ears, urging her on, his body moving with her like a lover’s, encouraging her every inch of the way.

Only a grey gelding and a fence were between Hopeless and the finishing post as she caught up with Turkish Hustler and Bluey.

Together they cleared the last hurdle.

‘Hang on. You’re going a bit quick. Don’t want to wear her out,’ called across Bluey. ‘There’s a long run up.’

Wide and emerald-green, the course loomed ahead. As the grey gelding’s tail drew nearer and nearer, Bluey picked up his whip, only allowed ten whacks before the finishing-post.

Crack, crack, crack; down they came on brave Hustler’s heaving flanks.

‘Come on, Hopeless,’ shouted Lysander. ‘Good girl, go for it.’

Turkish Hustler hurtled forward, galvanized but frightened. Hopeless’s competitive spirit flared. She must keep up with her stable-mate. Scrawny mane and tail flying, spindly legs flailing, galloping her no-longer-timid heart out, she chased Hustler past the grey. Then Hustler seemed to tire and go backwards as Hopeless shot forward.

‘Go on, angel,’ begged Lysander.

‘Pick up your bat, you stupid fucker,’ yelled Rupert from the balcony.

Marcia, blue mascara streaming, was too excited to speak.

‘He’s going to do it,’ shrieked Tabitha. ‘I’ve won two hundred fucking pounds,’ as Hopeless slid past the post a quarter of a length ahead.

Down they all surged into the winner’s enclosure. A huge cheer and much laughter went up as Lysander rode in with a great grin spread across his face, leaving white stripes of foam on a bemused but happy Hopeless’s chestnut coat as he patted her over and over again.

Marcia couldn’t stop kissing Lysander, and only relinquished him when Taggie turned up to give him a big hug.

‘Oh, that was wonderful! I’m so proud of you, and darling Hopeless.’

Ecstatically, Lysander hugged her back.

There were photographers everywhere.

‘I made two hundred pounds,’ said Tab, feeding Hopeless a Polo. ‘It was a toss up between a bet and a packet of fags.’

Over Taggie’s shoulder, Lysander’s eyes met Rupert’s.

‘You didn’t obey a single instruction,’ he said coldly.

‘Basically,’ Lysander edged away from Taggie, ‘I thought she needed encouraging. I’m really sorry.’

But Rupert suddenly laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Fucking marvellous; only another nine races and you qualify for the Rutminster.’

‘And don’t go drinking champagne now,’ said Bluey, adding his congratulations. ‘If you’ve been wasting, you’re better off with a cup of tea.’

It was Rupert’s day. Meutrier won by three lengths, Penscombe Pride by ten. Mr Sparky came second, but only after a photo-finish. Afterwards Bluey took Rupert aside.

‘I don’t like competition, but that boy is bloody good. Meutrier’s improved out of all recognition since he’s been working on him. Mr Sparky’s a different horse. He’s loving it. He can see a stride.’

‘Marcia feels the same,’ said Rupert. ‘She wants to buy Lysander.’

Over at Valhalla the following morning, Rannaldini, who hadn’t liked Lysander having such a powerful ally as Rupert, delightedly handed The Scorpion to Kitty.

‘Your little friend’s up to his tricks again.’

On page three was a large picture of Lysander and Taggie embracing ecstatically.

HAS RUPERT TAKEN IN A TROJAN HORSE? said the caption.

Rupert pretended not to mind the picture in The Scorpion, but he was livid underneath and took it out on everyone, particularly Taggie. Lysander made himself as scarce as possible. Dusk saw Rupert howling round the house in search of yesterday’s Racing Post.

‘Some bloody idiot’s chucked it out. How many times do I have to tell you I need to keep them?’

‘It’s probably in the study,’ snapped Taggie, who was exhausted.

‘I’ve looked.’

‘Go and look again.’

Clenching his fists, Rupert stormed out, then paused in the hall in front of the huge oil of his beloved, late Labrador, Badger. Badger would have understood how he felt about The Scorpion, providing solid, silent, black sympathy.

Then Rupert heard the crash of the pedal dustbin, followed by a rustling noise, and sidled back towards the kitchen.

As he opened the door very slowly, he found Taggie frantically wiping baked beans off the front of yesterday’s Racing Post.

‘Gotcha!’ Rupert grabbed her from behind.

‘You startled me.’ Jumping like a kangaroo, Taggie turned crimson. ‘Someone must have, I mean, I must have thrown it away. We can’t keep everything,’ she said defensively.

Turning her round, Rupert glared down for a second.

‘Of course we can’t.’ He pulled her towards him. ‘If you weren’t here,’ he said roughly, ‘the entire house would disappear in a mountain of rubbish in a week. I’m only terrified you’ll throw me out one day.’

As he took her tired, dirty, unpainted face between his hands, her hair smelt of bonfire smoke. Looking down, he noticed blood all over her clothes.

‘What have you done?’ he asked in horror. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Taggie smiled proudly. ‘Passion went into labour, I pulled her calf out all by myself.’