Jilly Cooper - Riders

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

“I’m so thin.”

“No, you’re perfect.”

After Tory’s bulk, he found Helen’s fragility incredibly erotic. For once he felt like a great hunk of man, all-powerful by comparison.

And she looked so unbelievably touching, with her damp cheeks and wide yellow eyes smudged with mascara, and her hair falling in a long red tangle over one shoulder. As he kissed her again, his hand slid downwards, caressing all the time, circling the pubic hair then sliding under the pants to find the clitoris, stroking it with the utmost delicacy. Helen tensed and then relaxed.

She’s not frigid, he thought in triumph. Slowly, slowly like a moth emerging from a chrysalis, she seemed to yield to him. Then she gave a deep sigh of contentment.

After a minute she opened her eyes and smiled.

“Frigid, eh?” he muttered into her hair.

“That was so lovely,” she gasped.

“Wasn’t it?” He grinned down at her, looking absurdly pleased with himself.

“But you haven’t had any sex at all,” she said, suddenly distressed.

“Doesn’t matter. I can wait till next time. It’ll be worth waiting for.”

The unselfishness, the insight, the kindness put the seal on her love for him.

“That was the most wonderful sex I’ve ever had,” she said.

“For me, too,” he said, kissing the hollows of her throat.

Three days later, he had her for the first time in a meadow on the edge of Bifield woods, near the old gypsy encampment, where his forefathers must often have taken his foremothers. A heavy shower of rain had flattened the grass for them and dispersed the regiments of insects, but it was still very hot. Their lovemaking was rapturous. They fitted together perfectly and despite anything he might say to the contrary to Helen, Jake experienced a feeling of pure triumph: that this was Rupert’s wife lying beneath him and reduced to a quivering jelly of ecstasy. Once again he had succeeded where Rupert had failed.

Meanwhile, in Rome, at almost the same time, Rupert Campbell-Black was experiencing an almost identical moment of triumph, as he lay on top of Amanda Hamilton for the first time. Rock Star had had a glorious double clear in the Nations’ Cup, making up for Fenella Maxwell’s indifferent form and clinching the victory for Great Britain. Today, Amanda was actually missing the final of the men’s doubles in order to play mixed singles with him. Full-breasted, narrow-hipped, long-legged, her body was superb for a woman of forty. Only a slight creping on thighs and breastbone betrayed her age. Her string of pearls was still round her neck. In out, in out, superbly in control, Rupert drove her towards orgasm.

Suddenly her face contorted with concentration, then she gave a cry of ecstasy.

“At last.”

“My darling,” said Rupert, smiling tenderly.

“I’ve suddenly worked it out,” said Amanda. “It was your cousin, Charlie Cameron, who was married to Rollo’s niece-in-law, Antonia Armitage. Before she was married to him, she was Antonia Luard.”

If it had been any other woman, Rupert would have hit her.

For the first four weeks Helen and Jake enjoyed an unnatural freedom. Rupert and Fen were traveling abroad with the British team, following the same route from Rome, Fontainebleau, Paris to Lucerne along which, the previous year, Fen had cavorted so joyously with Billy. Now Fen did no cavorting. She went to bed early, listened with both ears to Malise’s advice, worked her horses diligently, but still showed an alarming lack of form. Each day she grew more panicky that she wouldn’t be selected for L.A. and would never see Dino again. That was her sole ambition.

In England, however, Jake was on sensational form. Macaulay, blissful to have his master on his back again, was jumping superbly. Hardy, recovered from the operation and still erratic and cantankerous, had some brilliant days. Wherever Jake went, he annihilated the competition. But he was still nagged by the worry that the selectors had forgotten him because he’d been off the circuit so long. How much more would he have to achieve before they began to sit up and take notice?

Almost, but not entirely, taking the edge off his anxiety was his obsession with Helen. Traveling the British circuit, he was away from home three or four nights a week. Sarah was abroad with Fen. Hannah, Jake’s new young groom, had a convenient crush on one of the Irish riders, spending most nights sleeping under haycocks or in the back of the Irish boy’s lorry. Helen, with a Volvo at her disposal, whizzed up numerous motorways and spent as many nights as possible with Jake, stretched out in his lorry or on a duvet in the back of the Volvo. Sometimes they went to hotels. Often, despite Jake’s reluctance, Helen paid. If she had the money, why not? From the moment she committed herself to Jake she felt absolutely no guilt about being unfaithful to Rupert or spending his money.

She did feel guilty about neglecting the children, but she was so happy whenever she returned, radiant and talkative, and so loaded down with guilt presents, even choc drops for Badger, that everyone flourished. Helen, being an emotional tyro, was blissfully unaware that everyone in the household knew someone was up and were having bets on who he was.

On the twenty-eighth of May Jake returned to the Mill House, having spent three days at the Great Cheshire show, where he had won every big class by day and spent his nights making love to Helen. In three days’ time, which was also the first day of the Lucerne show, the Olympic committee would announce ten short-listed riders from whom the final five would be selected in mid-July. Jake arrived home absolutely shattered. His mended leg ached badly, but that was probably due more to an excess of sex than to show jumping. As he climbed out of the lorry, the sun was setting. Tory ran out of the house to welcome him. With her bulk and her round shining face, she seemed, after Helen’s slenderness, like a Matrioska doll that has suddenly gone two sizes up. He hoped her elation might be due to the news that he’d been selected, but it was purely because she was so thrilled to see him. He was so tired, he kept giving the wrong answers to her questions. As he went into the kitchen, the children surged forward in their pajamas to welcome him, hugging and kissing him, bombarding him with questions about the trip. Realizing he couldn’t cope with the din, Tory sent them off to watch television. Jake poured himself a drink.

“How did Fen do in the Nations’ Cup?”

Tory had prayed he wouldn’t ask. She didn’t want him upset so soon after he’d got home.

“They dropped both her rounds.”

“Shit. What happened?”

“She was in floods when she rang. I don’t think it was anything Desdemona did wrong. Fen said it was her fault. She’ll probably ring you after the Grand Prix.”

Jake dropped a couple of ice cubes in his whisky and went out into the yard, watching the horses being put to bed. Macaulay, having rolled and wolfed his dinner, was already dragging up the straw, preparing to lie down. Hardy was still restless. It always took him a long time to settle back, even into his own box. As Jake progressed down the line, each horse came to the half-door to welcome him. Tonight, for once, they didn’t cheer him up. Why hadn’t he heard from Malise?

He went into the tackroom.

“Supper,” called Tory from the kitchen door.

“Won’t be a minute,” Jake called back. Next moment he’d picked up the tackroom telephone. As he waited for Helen to answer he noticed the peeling paint on the door. If Charlene answered, he would put the telephone down.

“Helen, it’s Jake.”

“Darling.” It was worth the risk to hear the ecstasy in her voice. “Where are you?”

“At home. I can’t talk. I just want you to know I miss you like hell.”

Suddenly he saw Tory appearing in the doorway. “I’ll call you tomorrow, bye.”

“Darling,” said Tory, “I could have made that call for you.”

“Think I left my wallet in Humpty’s lorry. I had a drink with him at lunchtime.”

“Your wallet’s in the kitchen, silly,” said Tory. “You must be tired. It’s so sweet you’ve got that photograph of me from the color supplement tucked inside it. It’s an awful picture. I look so fat. D’you really miss me when you’re away?”

“ ’Course I do.”

The photograph in fact was part of a feature on show-jumping wives that had just appeared in the Sunday Times color magazine. On one side of the page were two photographs: one of Tory looking fat, pink, and eager, nailing up rosettes in the kitchen, the other of Janey Lloyd-Foxe, managing to look absurdly sexy in a maternity smock. The other side of the page was devoted entirely to a photograph of Helen on the terrace at Penscombe, gazing wistfully down the valley, looking unbelievably beautiful. It was taken before she met Jake and was the reason he had sloped up to the newsagent to scrounge another copy.

In the kitchen, Jake thanked God that Hannah, Isa, and Darklis were having dinner with them. The children, allowed to stay because it was Sunday tomorrow, were arguing who was going to sit next to him.

“You can both sit next to Daddy,” said Tory, putting a long loaf of garlic bread on the table.

Darklis had painted a picture at school which she showed proudly to Jake.

“It’s you and Macaulay at Los Angeles, Daddy.”

Both he and Macaulay were standing on the rostrum wearing gold medals with balloons coming out of their mouths saying “God save the Queen.”

“I think you’re being a bit premature, but thank you,” said Jake.