Helen hadn’t done anything except wash her hair and have a bath earlier. She’d learnt superstition from Jake. If she tarted herself up, he wouldn’t make it. Watching a half-moon sailing like a moth up the drained blue sky, she gave a cry of joy, for there, clearly visible, moving along the top road towards Penscombe above the honey-colored stone wall, was Jake’s car.

Rushing upstairs to the bedroom, she cleaned her teeth, splashed on cologne and, tugging off her panties, leapt into the bath. Holding up the skirt of the yellow dress, she’d worn the night he’d first made love to her, and which she knew he liked, she hastily showered between her legs, shivering with excitement as the hard jet of water flattened her bush and seeped into her vagina.

Leaving two dusty footprints in the bath, she leapt out and combed her hair. Since Jake had told her he liked her just as much without makeup, she felt secure enough not to bother with that all the time, either. Stretching voluptuously, she went to the window, and then stiffened with horror, for there, as usual coming too fast along the road and only five minutes behind Jake, was Rupert’s blue Porsche.

Next minute she heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel and the dogs barking and tore downstairs. Opening the door she collapsed gibbering into Jake’s arms.

“What’s the matter?”

“Rupert’s just behind you. I’ve seen him on the road. What can we do?”

“Nothing,” said Jake, his brain racing. “Go and wash that scent off. We have to brazen it out. Pretend I just dropped in.”

“Better come out onto the terrace,” said Helen. “It’s getting dark out there and he won’t be able to see how much we’re blushing.”

Jake followed her out, running his finger down her spine.

“Anyway, if he finds out, he finds out. He’s got to know sometime,” he said. Helen went very still. Turning around, she looked straight into Jake’s eyes. “Has he?” she whispered.

Jake gazed back at her steadily, no shiftiness in his eyes now.

“Yes,” he said. “You know he has to, sooner or later. It’d just be easier after L.A.”

Helen moved towards him. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes, I think I always have. I just haven’t said it.”

He only had time to hold her briefly before there was a second crunch on the gravel and more barking.

“I can’t face him,” said Helen, in sudden panic.

“I’ll sort him out. Just get me a drink — Scotch; a quadruple, and as soon as possible.”

Helen fled to the kitchen, her bare feet making no sound on the carpet.

Bang. Rupert slammed the front door behind him. He was not in a good mood. He’d specially come back to spend the night in London with Amanda and, after two admittedly splendid hours, she’d pushed off to Sussex, saying she had to drive her daughter to some dance.

“Helen,” he shouted, “Tab, I’m home. Where the hell is everyone?”

Jake waited on the terrace.

“Helen,” Rupert shouted again, more irritably.

“She’s in the kitchen,” said Jake.

“Who’s that?” Rupert came out onto the terrace, then stopped in his tracks, looking at Jake with slit eyes. His hair was bleached by the French sun, and he was wearing a blue T-shirt, with “I Love L.A.” in red letters across the front. Inspiration suddenly came to Jake.

“Beautiful place you’ve got here,” he said. “I’d only seen it from the road.”

“There are perfectly good gates at the bottom of the drive. I’m sure you don’t need me to show you the way to them,” said Rupert coldly.

“I dropped in,” said Jake, “on the off-chance you might be back. I got a letter from Malise this week. I decided, as we’ve both been selected and I want the team gold as much as you do, we’d stand a better chance if we buried the hatchet, at least temporarily.”

He held out his hand.

Rupert, for once at a loss for words, looked down at the hand, which was completely steady. He thought of his own humiliation in the World Championship. He thought of Fen defying him at the Crittleden strike. He thought of Jake in the dormitory at St. Augustine’s, a terrified little boy, cringing away from the lighted matches. Now, here he was waving white flags and offering peace initiatives.

The hand was still there. Briefly Rupert took it.

“All right. I don’t trust you a fucking inch, Gyppo, but for the sake of the team gold we’ll suspend hostilities till after the Games. Then,” he added, smiling, “I’ll smash the hell out of you! We’d better have a drink. Helen,” he yelled.

“Yes,” said Helen faintly.

“She was getting some ice,” said Jake. “Probably hovering to see if I was to be allowed a drink.”

“You were lucky to catch me. I wasn’t planning to come back tonight at all. What d’you want?”

“Scotch, please.”

At that moment Helen came through the door, clutching a tray with one already poured glass of whisky, the whisky decanter, a second empty glass, and the ice bucket. She looked at them both with terrified eyes, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, not knowing which way to bolt.

“Hi,” said Rupert. “We’ve decided not to kill each other. You’ve met Helen before, haven’t you?”

As Jake took his glass from Helen to stop the frantic rattling, he wondered for a second if Rupert was speaking ironically. Then decided that such was his egotism and contempt for Jake that he couldn’t possibly envisage anything between him and Helen. All the same it was a good thing there was only Helen’s glass, half-full, on the terrace wall.

Jake took a huge gulp of whisky and nearly choked. Christ, it was strong, and thank God for that.

Rupert poured two fingers into his own glass.

“I’m giving up after Dublin,” he said. “I want a stone off before the Games.”

“I can’t afford to lose it,” said Jake. “How was Dinard?”

“Bloody good.”

“And Rocky?”

“Bloody good, too. I keep thinking he’s going to jump off the top of the world. I’m scared he’s going to peak too early.”

In a daze, Helen poured herself another glass of wine. I cannot believe this, she said to herself. Here are two men, who I know detest each other beyond anything, talking not just politely but with enjoyment. Not by a flicker of an eyelid did Jake betray any nerves or the slightest interest in her, but continued to discuss the team, their weaknesses, the strength of the opposition at the Games, and which riders they had to watch. He asked Rupert’s advice about the L.A. climate, and possible breathing and fitness problems. After Dublin, Rupert explained, he was flying Rocky straight out to L.A. to give them both time to get adjusted to the climate. This would certainly give him the edge over the other British riders, who wouldn’t be leaving until a fortnight later.

If Rupert’s in L.A., thought Helen, that’ll give Jake and me a safe fortnight. She marveled at his quick-wittedness. She never dreamed he would use the excuse of coming to make peace. She was overwhelmed with gratitude that he had averted a scene. She wished she could remember his exact words before Rupert arrived, but she’d been in such a panic. When he said Rupert would have to find out sometime, did he mean that he was going to commit himself to her and leave Tory; or merely that, by the law of misfortune, Rupert would rumble them sooner or later? She felt sure he had meant the former. Watching his face, dark, intense, growing more shadowed as the sun slipped behind the beeches, yet suddenly illumined gold as a chink was found between the leaves, Helen could read only one emotion; passionate interest in what Rupert was saying. Bloody, bloody horses, she thought; will I ever get away from them?

Jake tried to leave after the second drink. He was already slightly tight and, on an empty stomach, might easily make some false move. He glanced at his watch and put his glass down: “I must go. Sorry to barge in on you like that. Good-bye, and thanks,” he added casually to Helen.

Rupert went to the door with him. A desire to show off overcoming natural antipathy, he said, “Like to see the yard?”

“Okay,” said Jake, “Just for two minutes.”

An hour later, Helen heard his car drive away and Rupert came through the front door.

“I’m starving. Shall I go and get a take-away?”

I want to be taken away, thought Helen in desolation. She had been so happy when Jake had turned up and now she had no idea when she’d see him again, particularly as he was going to Dublin first thing in the morning.

She couldn’t resist discussing him with Rupert.

“Wasn’t it amazing his coming here?”

“He was certainly impressed by the setup,” said Rupert, picking up his car keys. “Said he’d come to bury the hatchet; bury it in my cranium more likely. Don’t trust the bugger an inch. Suspect he came to have a gawp, as much as anything; to see if he could pick up a few tips. Asked me the way back to Warwickshire. Hadn’t a clue where he was. I told him the Sapperton way. He was so pissed, with any luck he’ll run into a wall. Do you want Chinese or Indian?”

The following Friday, Helen slumped in total despair at the breakfast table, two hands gaining warmth from a cup of black coffee. She had heard from Jake only once since he’d been in Dublin and that was only a two-minute call before someone interrupted him. He said he’d ring back and hadn’t. He’d obviously got cold feet.

“Letter for you, Mrs. C-B,” said Charlene, handing her a bulky envelope: “Postmarked Dublin. You’d better watch out it’s not a letter bomb.”

Helen was about to tell her not to be nosy, then she recognized Jake’s black spiky handwriting. Inside the envelope was folded a large, dark blue, silk spotted handkerchief.