The days crawled by. Not eating properly, Fen was appalled to see that she was getting spots again. Not knowing where she was staying, Enrico sent flowers to her care of the BSJA tent and lots of giggling ex-debs carried them down to Fen’s lorry, which now, according to Dino, looked like a hearse.

At long last it was the final day of the show and Enrico was due that evening.

“What d’you think?” said Fen, teetering on one of the bunks in the lorry so she could see her bottom half in the mirror opposite. She was trying on a new pair of white sharkskin breeches, specially made for her.

“Brilliant,” said Sarah, who was cleaning Hardy’s bridle. “I’ve never seen anything so sexy. They make your legs go on forever, but you must wear panties underneath.”

“No. It’ll ruin the line.”

“It’ll ruin your reputation if they split.”

Fen bent down, straining the breeches to the limit, and extracted a riding coat from the tissue paper in the cardboard box.

“Now what d’you think of these together?” she said triumphantly, when she’d shrugged her way into it. The coat was dark purple instead of the regulation black or midnight blue, lined with rose-pink silk, tightly fitting, and only just skirting the top of her hip bones. It made the perfect foil for the white breeches.

Sarah whistled. “You’ll never get away with that. It’s a bum freezer. Colonel Roxborough will have another stroke.”

“You wait,” said Fen, “I bet it starts a trend. Everyone’ll be wearing them in a few months.”

“Not if you’ve got a bum Griselda’s size,” said Sarah.

“But it does look sexy!”

“Incredibly. But you look more like a page in Figaro than a show jumper, and I don’t think the BSJA will like it.”

As long as Enrico does, that’s all that matters, thought Fen. “I still think you ought to wear panties,” said Sarah, “What else did you get?”

Faintly embarrassed by such extravagance, Fen produced a pale blue flying suit with zips everywhere and a pair of matching pale blue leather boots.

“Gorgeous,” sighed Sarah enviously. “You must have spent your entire year’s winnings. Goodness, I must go and get Hardy ready.”

“Where’s Dino?” said Fen idly, suddenly wanting confirmation that her new riding clothes weren’t over the top.

“Playing poker with Ludwig, Rupert, and Billy. I don’t think he went to bed at all last night.”

Fen needn’t have worried. Her new clothes caused an instant sensation, setting every photographer snapping and all the riders wolf whistling; except Dino and Grisel, who both looked extremely disapproving.

“Playing Buttons in the Christmas pantomime?” was Dino’s only comment.

Just as she was walking the course for the last class of the show, in despair that he wasn’t going to turn up, Enrico arrived and caused an even bigger sensation. Wearing a red shirt, a black coat with a huge astrakhan collar, and half an inch of stubble on his chin, he was accompanied by a girl and a man. The girl, deeply tanned with her streaked blond hair scraped back into a bun, was wearing huge gold hoop earrings and the sort of long squashy fur coat destined to put her straight onto the hit list of the Animal Rights Movement. The man, also blond, was wearing dark glasses, a pale blue flying suit identical to Fen’s, and carrying a pale blue handbag.

Hell, thought Fen, that means I can’t wear my flying suit tonight — we’d look like hers and hers. Enrico, who had found the tickets Fen had left for him at the box office, was making a lot of noise settling in. All the fresh-faced pony club girls, the horsey ladies, and the fathers in their Barbours with three whiskys under their belts, were looking at him in amazement.

“Look, there’s Enrico Mancini,” said Rupert. “Who’s that bird with him?”

“Anna-Fabiola Caraccio,” said Dino. “She’s a friend of Mary Jo’s; and with them is that fag designer, Ralphie Walcott.”

E for Enrico, thought Dino. That was it. That explained the booming exhaust on the bridge. He watched Fen go crimson, giving Enrico a fleeting wave and mouthing that she’d be over to see him as soon as she’d jumped the first round.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, thought Dino, his heart twisting with misery.

For once, Fen was glad she was drawn first. Even though she’d hardly taken in the course when she walked it, she managed to transmit her elation to a rather jaded Hardy, who went around without touching a fence, to the noisy delight of the crowd. Hardly bothering to pat him, Fen threw her reins to the waiting Sarah and ran off. Dino, watching from the riders’ stand, saw Fen mounting the steps, her spiky blond hair gleaming, turning every head with those shiny tight white breeches. He saw Enrico get up and kiss both her hands and her lips and then, because the people behind were complaining they couldn’t see Driffield jumping, watched him sit down and pull Fen onto his knee.

“I though you weren’t coming,” said Fen.

“Carissima,” purred Enrico, sounding rather like one of his own engines, “the traffic was terrible; all those stupid peoples looking at the lights. Then we have to queue at the entrance. Ralphie ’ere ’ad his ’andbag searched. ’Ave we missed a lot? That was a beautiful round; you look so sexy in those trousers.” He ran his hand up her inner thighs till it came to rest on her crotch.

Noticing disapproving glances from all around, particularly from the Royal box, Fen wriggled away.

“We’re going to a party,” said Enrico. “Don’t change. Just come like that. Can you leave now?”

“Not really,” said Fen, feeling flustered, “I’ve got another round to jump and I might be in the jump-off.”

“Give it the miss,” said Enrico, putting his hand back onto her groin.

“I can’t, really,” said Fen, thinking of the money she’d spent that morning. “Too much at stake.”

“Don’t be seely, Enrico,” said the beautiful girl. “Haff some self-control. You wouldn’t stop in the middle of a Grand Prix.”

“Those trousers — they turn me on so much,” complained Enrico.

Wishbone had just come in, but no one sitting near Fen and Enrico was watching him at all. Crimson with embarrassment, Fen escaped back to the riders’ stand.

“Vroom, vroom,” teased Rupert. “You are flying high. Enrico’s got an even worse reputation than I have. Watch out he doesn’t give you the big E.”

Dino, having kicked Manny with unaccustomed viciousness as they went into the ring, jumped appallingly and knocked up such a cricket score that he didn’t even qualify for the second round. Only sixteen riders went through. Fen, going first, went clear again. Instantly she went off to placate Enrico. She was appalled to find him creating yet another disturbance, infuriating everyone by coming out in the middle of Billy’s round.

“You have finished, no,” he demanded.

“No, I’m terribly sorry, not yet. I should be through in about three-quarters of an hour, but I’ve got to jump off and then change.”

“Don’t change a theeng. I want you like that,” said Enrico, stopping to give her a lingering kiss.

“For Christ’s sake, get a move on, Rico,” snapped Ralphie, who was still trapped in the row and being told from all sides to sit down.

“You go on to the party,” said Fen. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Ees better,” said Enrico. “Give her the address, Ralphie.”

“Are you sure it’s not smart and I can wear this?” asked Fen.

“Si,” said Enrico, his hand on her crotch again. “Come and come and come as you are.”

In a turmoil, Fen went back to the collecting ring. The second round over, the arena party rushed on with brushes to smooth the tan. The band played carols.

“Oh, come all ye unfaithful,” sang Rupert.

“Where’s Dino?” said Fen. Looking at the jump-off course, she suddenly felt nervous and uncertain, needing his advice.

“Disappeared somewhere,” said Sarah. “He seemed terribly choked about his round.”

Fen cantered Hardy around the collecting ring, trying to get him on his toes. It was like sitting on a log. For once he wasn’t even fighting for his head. As her number was called, she saw Dino go into the riders’ stand. He was wearing a suit, his hair wet from the shower. He must be angry if he didn’t even come and wish her good luck. There was £10,000 at stake.

Going first, her only answer was to put in such a fast clear she’d frighten the others into making mistakes. There was no doubt Hardy was exhausted. For once she had really to push him on for all her worth. She cleared the first four fences without too much difficulty, then pulled him too sharply into the triple. Unable to make it, and to avoid crashing into the wing, he ran out. Yanking him back, she rode straight at the jump from three yards away and just cleared it. Only the combination was left, but Hardy was all to pieces now. He took off too early at the first element and Fen had to hurl herself forward in a supreme effort to keep her weight off him and not jab him in the mouth. Alas, the effort was too much for her new breeches. As she flew through the air she was aware of a dreadful ripping sound and the sharkskin split right down the back. There was nothing she could do; she was going too fast. She had to jump the remaining two elements, splitting the breeches further each time until her entire backside was exposed with no long coat to cover it.

As she whipped through the finishing line, the entire riders’ stand stood up, cheering. The crowd was in an uproar, half drunken guffaws, half wails of embarrassment and sympathy. The photographers had no such scruples and rushed forward, an excited, snapping, leaping pack.

Frantically tugging Hardy to a standstill in front of a bank of pink chrysanthemums, Fen put her hands down to assess the damage and, encountering so much bare flesh, clapped her hands over her eyes, leaving Hardy to trot around the ring, reins flapping.