Malise came down to watch her, asking her to come and have a cup of coffee with him afterwards.

Perhaps he’ll even send me home, she thought miserably.

But Malise merely wanted to tell her that she hadn’t been picked for the Nations’ Cup. Ivor Braine had pulled a back muscle, so the team would be Rupert, Billy, Driffield, and Griselda.

Hanging her head, Fen reminded Malise of a snowdrop.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so hopeless.”

“You haven’t. You won that class the first day.”

“You don’t want to send me back because you’ve made a ghastly mistake?”

“You have the self-confidence of a snail,” said Malise. “You obviously don’t rate me as a chef d’equipe if you assume I’d select someone who was no good.”

Fen sprinkled chocolate on her cappuccino.

“Wherefore rejoice,” she said moodily, “what conquests brings she home?”

“Oh, you will. Look, you’re a very, very good rider; better, dare I say it, even than Jake when he jumped that first earth-shattering double clear on Sailor in Madrid. But it’s all strange. Macaulay’s strange, you haven’t got Jake to mastermind your every move, Griselda’s bitching, and Rupert and everyone else are letching.”

Fen flushed and bit her lip.

“Rupert really wouldn’t do for you,” he said. “I realize he’s attractive. But Helen’s had so much of that to put up with, and you know how Jake detests him.”

“I didn’t want — it wasn’t like that,” stammered Fen.

“I don’t want excuses,” said Malise. “Rupert accepts full responsibility, but that still doesn’t alter the fact that you shouldn’t have been out of your room, in a party dress, an hour after you’d been sent to bed. Now, d’you want to come and have a look at the Sistine Chapel?”

There were two big classes that afternoon: the first a knockout competition, the second a puissance, sponsored by one of Italy’s leading car manufacturers.

“Macaulay’s in a foul mood,” Sarah told Fen when she got to the showground. “He’s just sulking in his box.”

“He’s fed up with not winning,” said Fen. “I’m going to jump him in the puissance.”

Sarah looked horrified. “Are you sure that’s wise? Jake’s never jumped him in a puissance, and high-jumping really isn’t his forte. The ground’s absolutely rock hard.”

“I don’t care,” said Fen. “Get him ready.”

The knockout competition before the puissance consisted of two U-shaped courses each of nine jumps, lying side by side. The riders raced up the outside of the U’s, then around the top and came side by side down the inside of the U’s. Riders going around the right-hand U had to wear a primrose yellow sash to distinguish them. Twenty-four riders started. Fen had a walkover in the first round. Apart from that, she had a tough draw, which included Guy de la Tour, Ludwig, and Rupert. In the other draw was Piero Fratinelli, son of the car firm and darling of the crowd.

Her first battle was against Griselda, whom she had great delight in beating by a couple of lengths. This was just Desdemona’s sort of class. She was nippy, lithe as a cat; her father hadn’t won the Cesarewitch for nothing.

Count Guy, whom she rode against next, had had rather too many glasses of wine at lunchtime and carelessly had the first fence down, so Fen was able to conserve Desdemona’s energy and coast to an easy clear. Ludwig put out Rupert; Piero Fratinelli sadly put out Billy. But Fen had no time to feel sorry before she had donned the yellow sash and was back in the ring, competing against Ludwig.

“He’s taken one prize off us this week, and he’s not going to do it again,” Fen said to Desdemona.

The handsome Ludwig was already in the ring, exchanging badinage with the rest of the German team who, already knocked out, were sitting in the riders’ stand. He turned, giving Fen a dazzling but slightly patronizing smile.

“Ah, Mees Fenella, I vill really haf to try. You look very nice in zat yellow sash.”

“Yes,” muttered Fen, “and I’m jolly well going to wear it again in the final.”

Ludwig got away a fraction after Fen, who streaked ahead, nibbling at Desdemona’s ears, racing her like a gymkhana pony, rocketing over the jumps without any regard for safety. On the U-turn her hat flew off.

Oh, Christ, thought Billy, in anguish. I hope she doesn’t fall on her head.

Ludwig, on his big striding horse, was gaining on her. Neck and neck they came down the center.

“Go on, Des,” screamed Fen.

Desdemona saw the collecting ring. Her blood was up. Flattening her pink ears in fury, she edged past the post a nose ahead of Ludwig.

“Photo feenish,” chorused the German team from the stands.

“It’s ours,” said Rupert, grinning and making a V-sign at them.

Piero beat Wishbone, to the delight of the crowd. The stadium was like a cauldron. Fen kept the primrose yellow sash and the right side. She had to wait, riding Desdemona around and around, while Piero got his breath back.

“Number Thirty-one,” said the collecting ring steward.

“Good luck,” said Rupert, handing her her hat. “At least we know you’re not swollen-headed.”

Ignoring him, Fen rode into the ring, where Piero was sitting on the huge, dark bay thoroughbred, Dante, who had been purchased for millions of lira and who was hardly sweating.

How ever much she polished Desdemona’s coat, she’d never got her that shiny, thought Fen wistfully, but the little mare stepped out proudly, ears pricked and flickering at the cheers.

David and Goliath, thought Billy, as Piero looked down at Fen, and smiled as he took off his hat to the judges. Fen bowed beside him. Then with a supremely Latin gesture, Piero picked up Fen’s hand and kissed it.

“Bella bella bella,” roared the crowd.

“She’s gone scarlet, bless her,” said Driffield fondly.

Billy looked at him in amazement. Christ, even Driff was smitten.

Piero and Fen lined up, Desdemona snatching at her bit and casting disapproving glances at Dante: don’t you dare cheat now. The red flag dropped: they were off.

“Come on, angel,” cried Fen, as they threw themselves over the first three fences. Reaching the bend, she saw a huge black shape already swinging around. He was ahead of her.

“Go on, Des,” screamed Fen, bucketing over the fences like a runaway Ferrari. The crowd were going berserk. “Piero, Piero, Piero,” the cry rose to a tremendous roar. Piero, ahead by a fence, looked round to make sure of his lead. Fen picked up her whip and gave Desdemona a jockey’s swipe down her steaming flank. Outraged, the mare shot into overdrive. At the same time, the dark bay, Dante, caught a pole with his off hind. As it fell Fen drew level. She was over and clear; she’d made it. Desdemona, livid at being whacked, went into a succession of outraged bucks which nearly unseated Fen.

“I’m sorry, angel,” she said, pulling her up. “I needn’t have done it but I daren’t risk it. You are a total star.”

She hoped the crowd weren’t going to lynch her for beating their hero, but Malise’s face told her everything.

“You’ve broken your duck. Brilliantly ridden.”

“Terrific,” said Billy, hugging her. “She went like a dream.”

“Not bad for a beginner,” said Rupert. “Are we friends again?”

“No,” said Fen, and stalked off to warm Macaulay up for the puissance.

That evening, when she got back to the hotel Fen rang Jake.

“I suppose you’ve won a class at last,” he said sourly, “or you wouldn’t be ringing.”

“Co-rrect,” said Fen. “I made such a cock-up of things earlier in the week, I didn’t dare. Desdemona won the knockout. I beat Ludwig, then Piero in the final.”

Jake grunted. “How’s Macaulay?”

“Wonderful. Actually I’ve got good news and bad news about him.”

“For Christ’s sake. He’s all right, isn’t he?”

“Well, the bad news is, I entered him in the puissance.”

“You what?” Even at a thousand miles away, she quailed.

“But the good news is, he won.”

For two minutes Jake called her every name under the sun. Then he asked, “How high did he jump?”

Fen giggled. “Seven foot, two, easy-peasy. He could have gone higher; and, oh Jake, he was so delighted to be in the money again. You know how he adores winning. He bucked after every jump and insisted on doing two laps of honor and ate the president’s carnation. But he’s really well,” she added hastily. “I hosed down his legs myself and put on cooling liniment, and I’ll walk him round in an hour or two, but it really bucked him up.”

“How much have you won?”

“Well, I haven’t worked it out yet; you know my maths. About £3,000, I should think. But the best news is I won a little car as well, so I’ll be able to whizz you around all over the place when you come out of hospital. How are you, anyway?”

Jake didn’t want to talk about himself, but she could tell by the sound of his voice how thrilled he was.


40


There was a drinks’ party at the British Embassy that night, and for once the team weren’t under Malise’s ever-watchful eye. A complimentary ticket from the minister of the arts to hear Placido Domingo as Otello at the Teatro dell’Opera had been too much for him, but he’d had tough words with the team beforehand.

“This is the first Nations’ Cup in the series. If we win, it’ll be a colossal boost to morale. So there’s to be no heavy drinking and I want everyone in their rooms by midnight. You’ll be the only one completely sober,” he added to Billy, “so I’m relying on you to look after Fen and see she’s in her own bed and not Rupert’s by eleven o’clock.”

Billy shook his head. “If you honestly think Rupert’ll take any notice of me.”