Jilly Cooper - Riders

“About three in the morning,” said Tory, starting up the Land Rover.

Wolf, in the back, crept forwards, wagging his tail and putting his rough face against Fen’s cheek. At least she had one friend. For a mile or so they didn’t speak. It was a mean, gray day. The only color came from the last red beech leaves and the blond grasses edging the road.

“Was Dino in an awful state?” mumbled Fen.

There was a pause.

Then Tory said, “He’s gone.”

“Gone?” said Fen, “Where?” Suddenly she felt as if she’d jumped out of a plane and her parachute wasn’t opening.

“Back to America.”

“But he can’t have,” whispered Fen.

“He left this afternoon, loaded up the horses and everything.”

“But whatever for?” said Fen, aghast.

“He didn’t say,” said Tory, bursting into tears.

“Did he — did he leave any message for me?”

“Only to say he’d probably see you in Los Angeles.”

“Nothing else.”

“He gave me a dishwasher,” sobbed Tory. “It arrived half an hour after he’d gone.”

Back in November that same year, Helen Campbell-Black sat in James Benson’s waiting room, flipping through the houses for sale in Country Life, and idly wondering how much Penscombe was worth. Glancing at her gold watch, she decided there wasn’t really time before her appointment to rush to the john for yet another quick cleanup. It seemed ludicrous, after having two kids, that she was still desperately embarrassed by anything down there. She shifted slightly on the leather sofa. The irritation was really awful and not helped by her worrying about it all the time. Outside the waiting room, a group of starlings, ravenous after a week of hard frosts, were jostling each other around the bird table. A thrush darted forward, warily grabbing a crust that had fallen on the starched white grass and carrying it off to the safety of a nearby ash tree. Helen admired his speckled breast and bright eyes. How odd that the bird and the complaint between her legs should have the same name.

What a beautiful woman, thought the nurse, as she showed Helen into the consulting room. If there was one patient likely to make Dr. Benson flout the Hippocratic oath, it was she. He always insisted on seeing Helen on the last appointment before lunch, so he could spend more time with her. And although he was supposed to be a friend of the husband’s, he never referred to him in any other way than as “that shit Campbell-Black.”

This morning’s examination did nothing to revise Dr. Benson’s opinion, but as he ushered Helen back to her chair his face was as bland as ever.

“I’m afraid you haven’t got thrush,” he said. “It’s the clap.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The clap. Gonorrhea.”

For a second he thought she was going to faint.

“What!” she gasped.

“Gonorrhea,” he said gently.

“But I can’t have, I mean, I haven’t, I wouldn’t sleep with anyone but…” her voice trailed off.

“I’m sure not, but, whatever you’ve heard to the contrary, it really isn’t caught from lavatory seats.”

“So in fact…” she began.

“When did you last have intercourse with Rupert?”

She tried to pull herself together, trying to remember. “About a fortnight ago.”

“That was probably it, although it could have lain dormant longer. Don’t worry. It’s easy to cure.”

Helen started to cry. Benson went to the cupboard and poured her a large gin and tonic, even adding ice and lemon. It was several minutes before she could bring herself to drink it, as though she were terrified of contaminating the glass. Benson yearned to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he could still hear his secretary typing outside and, with four children at public school, he could ill afford to jeopardize a brilliant career.

“I can’t believe it,” Helen said in a choked voice. “I feel so polluted, and where can Rupert…?”

“Have got it from?” Benson shrugged. “Some passing scrubber on a trip abroad.” Then, seeing the anguish in her face. “You know — far from home, missing you, needing to celebrate a victory. Won’t have meant a thing to him. He’d better come and see me the moment he gets back. He’ll have to be off sex for a bit, too.”

“I can’t believe it,” Helen said again, gazing into space, shaking violently.

Benson was surprised. He only saw a reaction like this when he told parents their children had some fatal disease or had to break the news to a patient that they had cancer.

“You’ll need a course of penicillin injections. Nothing to worry about.” He turned to his desk. “And I’m going to give you tranquilizers and some sleeping pills to tide you over the next few days. Cheer up. It happens to the best people.”

“I feel so contaminated,” whispered Helen. “How could Rupert do it?”

“Probably didn’t know. Come on, we’ll organize the jabs and then I’ll buy you lunch.”

“No,” Helen leapt up, cringing away from him, “I couldn’t force myself on anyone, knowing this.”

Helen had to wait until late the following night to confront Rupert, although the entire household was aware something was up. The grooms, Mrs. Bodkin, Charlene the nanny, all knew that Mrs. C-B had gone off to see handsome Dr. Benson and had returned white-faced, had locked herself in her bedroom, and had given way to hysterical sobbing.

“Didn’t touch any lunch or dinner,” said Charlene. “Didn’t even come and say good night to the children.”

“Might be a hysterectomy, might be cancer of the womb,” said Mrs. Bodkin, in excitement.

“Might be another baby,” said Dizzy, “Which means she can’t walk out on His Nibs for another nine months.”

“If it is, I’m off. I’m not looking after three children,” said Charlene. “What d’you think it’d be like working in public relations?”

Rupert got back from Hamburg about nine o’clock. He realized something was up when Helen didn’t come down and say hello, although far off were the days she’d charged down the stairs to fling herself into his arms. He dumped his case in the kitchen.

“All dirty washing,” he said to Charlene, who had positioned herself at the kitchen table, it being the best place to hear any excitement, and was reading the Daily Mail and eating a yogurt.

“Look what I bought for Tab,” said Rupert, proudly producing an exquisite German doll in national costume. “According to the instructions on the box she does almost everything except say ‘Oooh’ at the moment of orgasm.”

“Beautiful,” said Charlene. “What did you get Marcus?”

“Sweets,” said Rupert blandly. “I must have left them in the lorry. I suppose I better give them to him in the morning.”

“Bastard,” Charlene said to herself.

“Where’s Helen?”

“In her room.”

“She all right?”

“Not in carnival mood.”

“Know what it’s about?”

“She’s been a bit jumpy all week. Went to see Dr. Benson yesterday and came back in a frightful state.”

“Oh dear,” said Rupert pouring himself a large whisky, “I’d better go and see her.” Then his eye was caught by a recipe on the corkboard in Helen’s writing entitled: How to make Prawns and Kiwi fruit in Pernod-flavored Mayonnaise. Getting out his fountain pen, he wrote “Oh, please don’t.”

Charlene giggled, so Rupert proceeded to tell her how his new horse Rock Star had gone. “He really is world class. If I can’t get a gold with him I might as well retire.”

When he went upstairs an hour and several whiskies later, he found the bedroom door locked.

“Let me in.”

“Go away,” screamed Helen.

“I’ll break the door down, or shoot it out if you’d prefer.”

After a long pause she unlocked it.

“Christ, you look as if a train’s hit you.” He’d never seen her so gray.

“I went to James Benson yesterday.”

“So I hear. Are we expecting quads?”

“Don’t you dare be flip,” she hissed. “I’ve got gonorrhea.”

“Really,” drawled Rupert, his dark blue eyes suddenly taking on that opaque look. “You must be more careful who you leap into bed with in future.”

“Stop it, stop it,” screamed Helen. “You know perfectly well I haven’t slept with anyone but you.”

“I don’t know that at all,” said Rupert coldly. “I see little enough of you, and your extreme reluctance to come on any of my trips abroad would rather suggest the contrary.”

“You bastard,” yelled Helen. “You caught it from one of your disgusting whores.”

“Oh, come on. You’ve got absolutely no proof. I’ve certainly got the clap. I was treated for it in Hamburg — those German clinics are like Sainsbury’s on a Saturday morning — but I caught it from you.”

“Don’t put that number on me. I’ve never looked at another man since I married you.”

“What about Dino Ferranti?” said Rupert softly. “He’s been in England for six weeks. Rumor has it he spends most of his nights on away fixtures.”

“I haven’t been near Dino or anyone else,” said Helen. “You gave it me and you know it. I’m leaving you and I’m taking the children.”

“You can take Marcus,” yelled Rupert, “but if you lay a finger on Tab, I’ll fight you in every court in this country.”

This was the final straw. Maddened, Helen tried to lash out at him, but Rupert dodged back and only the ends of her long colorless nails caught his cheek. The next moment the door opened.

It was Marcus, red hair ruffled, eyes huge with terror, pajama top falling off.

“Thtop thouting, Daddy, please thtop thouting.”

Tabitha toddled in after him, wearing only the top half of her pajamas, nappy discarded.