Jilly Cooper - Riders

Count Guy followed suit, and suddenly all the British riders, except Rupert and Griselda, were shaking her hand and hugging her. She was home from Coventry at last.

Was it all worth it? wondered Fen, as she accepted her red rosette from the Princess, with the huge, silver cup sparkling even more dazzlingly as it reflected the lights. Was it worth the lack of sleep, the setbacks, the heartbreaks, for this moment of glory? She admired the Princess’s perfect ankles in flesh-colored tights as she walked back to the Royal box. Then there was a terrific roll of drums which nearly sent Snakepit and Rupert into orbit, leaving a gap between Fen and Billy, who was third. Turning, Fen looked him straight in the eye. With a supreme effort, far greater than winning the cup, she managed to smile. “I’m so pleased about your baby,” she said.

Then, before he had time to answer, the arena was plunged in darkness and Fen and the dappled gray Hardy were illuminated by the spotlight. She was aware that no one was leaving, there was no crashing of seats or banging of exit doors, or feet running down the concrete steps, just a long silence followed by the most almighty cheering, and, as the band struck up “I want some red roses for a blue lady,” everyone started singing and clapping in time. Then the other riders filed out and she was alone and spotlit in the ring, sending Hardy into his wonderful, effortless, long striding gallop, and the crowd cheered so loudly that she went round again. Billy may not love me, she thought, but they do. Why can’t I go on riding around this ring for the rest of my life?

Dudley captured her in the collecting ring, brandishing his microphone like a furry, black iced lolly: “Se-uper, absolutely seuper. You sorted out the girls from the boys today.” He roared with laughter. He’d had too many in the whisky tent. “And Harvey went seuperly. You must be pleased.”

“He did, and I am.”

“Must be a cert for L.A. now.”

“You can’t look beyond tomorrow with horses,” said Fen.

“Must be difficult to choose between him and Esmeralda.”

Fen looked broodingly at Dudley for a second.

“She’s called Desdemona, and he’s called Hardy, and why don’t you remove your silly hat when you’re talking to a lady, Dudley. Although, knowing you, you probably think I’m a gentleman.”

Oh, Christ, she thought, I shouldn’t have said that.

Out of the corner of her eye, beyond the Shetland ponies and the famous ex-racehorses who were lining up for the personality parade, she could see a pack of reporters hovering.

“Well done, Fen, wizard round. Let’s have a jar later in the week,” bellowed a voice, and there, leering above her, almost sending Dudley flying, was Monica Carlton bowling past with her Welsh cobs.

“One door shuts, another door opens,” said Fen, giving Monica a weak smile. Dudley was flapping around saying good night to the viewers and reminding them to switch on tomorrow for the puissance. Fen tried to dive behind a coster’s van, but the reporters were old hands. Next moment they’d ringed her like a lasso, blocking her escape on all sides.

“What d’you think about Billy Lloyd-Foxe’s wife having a baby?”

“I’m very pleased for him.”

“Nothing else to say?”

“If it grows up like Billy, it’ll be a wonderful child.”

“But not like Janey?”

“I didn’t say that.” Fen looked desperately round for help. “I hardly know Janey.”

“You were very fond of Billy, weren’t you?”

“It’s difficult not to be,” said Fen, bursting into tears. “He hasn’t an enemy in the world.”

All she could see was their avid searching eyes and their frantically scribbling pens.

“Why can’t you leave me alone?” she sobbed.

A shadow fell across the notebooks.

“Pack it in,” said Dino coldly and, taking the couple nearest Fen by their coat collars, he yanked them out of the way. “Bugger off and fuse your own typewriters with your lousy copy. You heard what the lady said — leave her alone.”

Back in the lorry, Dino peered unenthusiastically into the fridge. “One black avocado, half a can of beans, a pork pie that ought to be on superannuation. You have two choices,” he said to Fen. “You can cry yourself to sleep, right, or come out to dinner with me. I’m starving.”

“I’m not hungry and I ought to ring Jake.”

“Sarah called him. He said, what the hell were you doing risking Hardy’s neck, then exhausting him, showing off in that double lap of honor.”

Fen pulled a face. “And that’s all the bloody praise I get.”

Dino took her to an Italian restaurant off High Street, Kensington, which stayed open late. Outside, Fen could see dusty, yellowing plane trees fretted by raindrops, and lovers under pulled-down umbrellas hurrying to catch the last tube. Imprisoned in Wembley, with its heat, airlessness, and tensions, she’d forgotten an outside world existed. At the next-door table a couple were holding hands. Taking in the merry din, the bottles of chianti, the photographs of the Colosseum on the wall, the solicitous waiters, Fen was reminded of the night in Rome with Billy, when her face was all bruised and he’d fed her risotto with a spoon. She wanted him so badly it took her breath away.

“What are you thinking about?” demanded Dino.

“That I ought to be in the intensive care unit, not wasting your money.”

“It is my money,” said Dino, grabbing the menus. “I’ll order for you.”

“Grapefruit bolognese’ll do me fine,” said Fen, emptying half a glass of wine in one gulp.

“How come you speak Italian so well?” she said when he’d finished ordering.

“Because I am Italian, I guess.”

“You’re American.”

“Only by adoption. I’m just a simple, lousy, Latin lover at heart.”

“Why have you streaked your hair gray?”

“Well, hearing you were heavily into older guys, like Billy, I figured I stood more of a chance if I looked more mature. Besides,” he grinned, “I thought it suited me.”

“It does,” admitted Fen. “You look too bloody glamorous for words, but it’s too early to make jokes about my broken heart.”

Dino put a suntanned, beautifully manicured hand over hers. “How come you didn’t acknowledge my telegram?”

“I wasn’t sure it was from you.”

“It said it was, didn’t it?”

“You don’t know the terrible thing Rupert did to me in Rome.”

Just for a second his hand tightened painfully on hers.

“No, not that,” said Fen. “I’d been packed off to bed ludicrously early and was sitting there, dying of boredom, when Rupert rang up, pretending to be you, and asked me out to dinner.”

“Did you go?”

“Did I? I’ve never got bathed, washed my hair, and dressed quicker in my life. Then I found Rupert and Driffield killing themselves at the bottom of the stairs.”

Dino looked half-smug, half-sympathetic.

“That was a lousy trick. Were you disappointed?”

“Shattered. After that, I thought the telegram was probably one of Rupert’s vile little practical jokes too, so I never wrote and thanked you.”

“If you had, I’d have been over much sooner.”

“And I might never have got involved with Billy. D’you think I’ll ever get over him?” she added dolefully.

“Sure you will. Just stick around.”

The waiter arrived with their first course: half a dozen Mediterranean prawns each and a huge bowl of mayonnaise, strongly flavored with garlic.

Dino ordered another bottle, and started stripping the prawns with incredible dexterity, then dipping them in the mayonnaise and passing them to Fen.

“Mm, they actually are delicious. Do you undress women as expertly?”

“Far more expertly, and I don’t pull their heads and legs off, either.”

Fen paused for a minute, thinking how amazingly attractive he was; if you liked that sort of thing, she told herself hastily.

“Did you ever get Helen Campbell-Black into bed?”

Dino grinned. “We had lunch several times, but she never had more than one course and left half of that because she was always wanting to rush me off to some art gallery. I said, ‘Honey, I am not into culture, I’m only into sex.’ ”

“You didn’t manage to divert her into some large double bed?”

He shook his head. “She was running scared the whole time. Whenever I put my hand on her back to guide her across the road, she shot into the oncoming traffic. If you try anything further, a burglar alarm goes off.”

“In Rupert’s lorry?”

“No, in her head. She’s so beautiful you want to gaze and gaze, but I guess she’s like a Ming vase: beautiful but empty.”

“Goodness, I’ve eaten all those prawns,” said Fen.

“Good girl.” Dino ran his hand down the inside of her arm, caressing her gently, almost abstractedly as if she were a dog. “Funny, I fancy you. I always have.”

Fen jumped away. “You mustn’t say things like that. I’m not ready for propositions.”

“Wasn’t a proposition. Just a statement of fact.”

“Even though I’m not as beautiful as Helen?”

Dino looked at her meditatively. “You could gain some weight,” he said, “but you’ll do.”

Fen noticed he was beginning to squint slightly. He must be desperately jet-lagged.

“How’s Manny?”

“Awesome; much better than me. He’s grown so much and filled out. He was winning a lot earlier in the year. Then my daddy had a cardiac arrest in July. He’s better now, but I was off the circuit for some weeks.”

“Why have you suddenly come over here at the end of the season?”

“To work with this guy whom I reckon is the best coach in the world. I’m going to stable the horses at his barn for a few months, take in a few shows in Europe, then have a stab at the World Cup in April. Then back to the States for the run up to the Olympics. I guess I want a gold as much as you do.”