“Hasn’t done me much good so far,” said Rupert, adding a splash of water from the washbasin. “Need something to get me through what’s obviously going to be a fucking awful evening.”

Helen tried very hard to curb her elation. Rupert had told her Boyson was footing the bill this evening, which meant Jake must have got the sponsorship, which in turn must mean he could now afford to leave Tory and marry her.

“It should be fun,” she said. “I’ve never been to Ma Maison. Mother’s dying to meet all the team, and I know Malise will enjoy Mother.”

“Should do,” said Rupert. “He got enough practice driving tanks in the war.”

Helen had her back to Rupert, but her slender right arm was crooked over her back, wrestling with the zip of her dress, which was catching in her hair.

“Let me.” Moving towards her, Rupert pushed the newly washed hair aside and pulled the narrow gold zip up to the nape of the neck. He looked at her reflection in the mirror, breathing in the waves of Femme from her warm, newly bathed, hopelessly excited body. She was wearing a dress of dark gold silk, high-necked, long-sleeved, falling to the ankles, and clinging caressingly to every inch of her body. Her hair, long at the back, was drawn up at the sides by two gold combs. For a second, his long fingers clamped her waist, then they shifted up towards her breasts. He realized that, totally untypically, she wasn’t wearing a bra or even a petticoat. Feeling her tense and draw away, he tightened his grip.

“Haven’t seen that dress. When d’you get it?”

“Ages ago — not for a special occasion — I just liked it.”

“I’m sure — you look great in it — almost too great.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said defensively. “Ma Maison’s always crammed with movie stars and you’re always accusing me of looking too straight.”

“Not this time I’m not.” Rupert glanced at his watch. “In fact if we miss predinner drinks, we’ve got time to…” He began to pull down the zip.

“No,” gasped Helen, shrinking away from him, almost falling over the dressing table, knocking bottles on the floor in her desperate haste to get away.

“I’m all made up and ready,” she said, trying to make a joke of it, “and I promised Mother we’d meet at nine-thirty. We can’t leave her stranded at the restaurant.”

“How’s she getting there?” said Rupert. “On her broomstick?”

Ma Maison, thanks to Boyson’s munificence, had pushed out the boat. On the British team table there were silver plates, silver goblets for the never-ending bottles of Krug, white roses and lilies, surrounded by silver leaves, in the silver bowl at the center of the table, with two silver horses on either side rearing up from the silver, satin table cloth.

Jake was given a hero’s welcome when he arrived. It took him ages to get across the restaurant as people pumped his hand and wanted to touch his silver medal, glinting in the candlelight. A group of English actors who’d witnessed his victory that afternoon in Arcadia were now happily getting plastered, insisting that he sit down and have a drink.

“Who were those people?” he asked Fen, when he finally reached the British team table.

“Michael Caine, Susan George, Roger Moore, to name three,” said Fen.

“Oh. I thought they seemed familiar.”

At that moment a beautiful girl came up and, tapping Rupert on the shoulder, handed him a menu and a pen. “Would you very much mind?” She gave him a dazzling smile.

“Not at all,” said Rupert, picking up the pen.

“Asking Jake Lovell if I could possibly have his autograph?”

Jake was already very tight, cocooned in euphoria, acknowledging the accolades with one part of his mind, but with the other back in the ring, jumping every fence, feeling great waves of love for that tricky, brilliant horse who’d finally confounded the critics and come up with the goods.

Fen on the other hand wondered how much longer she could keep going. She’d been up since four, supporting Jake all the way, yet still praying Dino might turn up. Now, looking at Helen shining with happiness, aware that both Rupert and Jake were steadily getting drunk, she was filled with a feeling of terrible doom.

“Can I sit next to you and can we go to Disneyland tomorrow?” asked Ivor.

At that moment Suzy and Albie Erikson arrived to make up the party.

“Darling,” said Suzy, kissing Jake on the mouth, “you were just sensational. You’ve got no excuse to resist my advances now.”

Fen shot a glance at Helen. She was looking at Suzy with pure hatred.

“We’ve just had an earthquake warning,” said Albie cheerfully.

It’s going to start right here at this table, thought Fen.

The waiter poured out more champagne. “To Jake,” said Malise. Everyone except Jake and Rupert raised their silver goblets.

“To Hardy,” said Jake, half-draining his goblet. Then, looking across at Helen, his eyes not quite focusing, he raised it to her, blew her a kiss, and drained the rest.

Help, thought Fen. “Do you think the course’ll be as difficult on Sunday,” she asked Rupert, frantic to distract his attention. Glancing around, he saw how wan she looked.

“You okay, duckie?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry about Rocky today. You must be heartbroken.”

Rupert shrugged. “D’you know who I miss most of all?”

“Billy,” said Fen. “I miss him, too.”

Ma Maison came up with a special menu which Fen had patiently to explain to Ivor.

“Clear soup, that’s for Jake’s clear round, then Coquille St. Jake à la champagne — that’s scallops, then Gâteau Hardy. For God’s sake, stop gazing at Goldie Hawn, Ivor.”

As dinner progressed Rupert’s anger channeled into anti-American asides to irritate both Helen and her mother. “The Olympics have become a shambles,” he was saying, “a laboratory war between East and West. The Americans have better drugs, better computers to detect minor faults, better shrinks to psych out the athletes. The whole spirit of amateurism has gone.”

Mrs. Macaulay, who was discussing property prices with Albie, swelled like a bullfrog. Helen, toying with a piece of coquille, managed to engineer Malise on to the subject of Jake. “Naturally I’m disappointed Rupe didn’t get a medal, but if anyone deserved one, it was Jake.”

Malise nodded. “It’s a fairy tale, really, after that terrible fall.”

“You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”

Malise smiled deprecatingly. “He’s tricky and cussed, but you have to admire his integrity. Of course, he’s fantastically lucky in his home backup.”

“Isn’t Tory kind of dull?”

“God no,” said Malise sharply. “She keeps him calm. I must say I never expected him to get a silver. I thought he’d crack.”

“But he didn’t. He managed without her,” said Helen, kneading her bread into pellets in her agitation.

“She’s carried him through the last ten years,” said Malise gently.

A diversion had been created on the other side of the table. Joan Collins had arrived and was being embraced by Rupert.

“Helen, my dear.” Malise lowered his voice, “I’ve known you long enough to give you a piece of advice. Don’t play with fire — particularly Olympic fire. Cool it — until after the Games.”

Helen blushed furiously. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” said Malise gravely. “I’ve got enough headaches keeping this lot together, without you rocking the boat.”

Joan Collins, svelte in black lace, was progressing down the table. “Hi, Jake. We haven’t met, but what a round! I was stuck in the studio, but we suspended shooting to watch the second half. All the Brits went wild.”

She turned to Helen. “Darling, how are you?” Then her eyes lit on the gold dress. “You meanie. I had my eyes on that. Saw it at Giorgio’s yesterday. Then I found out the price. You’re lucky to have a rich husband to pick up the bills. Let me know if you ever get tired of him.”

Helen went very still.

“I think she already has,” said Rupert. He looked across at Helen, his fingers drumming on the table. “Oh, this old thing,” he said softly.

“Oh, shut up,” said Fen. “It does suit her.”

Suzy, who’d been flirting outrageously with Jake, got up to go to the loo. Mrs. Macaulay immediately took her place. Jake found himself getting the fifth degree. Her big red face seemed to have an extra pair of eyes in the middle of her forehead. Really, he must be extraordinarily drunk. As Mrs. Macaulay questioned him about Tory, the children, the yard, and the horses, it became plain to her that, despite the fact that Jake was obviously four parts cut and kept calling her Mrs. Campbell-Black, his marriage was a good deal happier than Helen’s was to that monster who was still bad-mouthing America.

“The television coverage is utterly one-sided,” said Rupert. “American viewers are totally unaware of any foreign competition.”

Helen turned to Malise helplessly. “Don’t you find L.A. fascinating?” she said. “It’s such an eclectic mixture of the functional and the bizarre.”

“Don’t talk crap,” snapped Rupert. Malise frowned. Mrs. Macaulay went purple. “That’s no way to address a lady.”

“What makes you think she’s a lady?” drawled Rupert. “Certainly not her parentage.”

Mrs. Macaulay rose to her feet. “I’ll not stay here to be insulted.”

“Why don’t you leave then?” said Rupert.

Only Malise’s blandishments, Helen’s pleadings, and the arrival of the Gâteau Hardy, a splendid ice cream cake in the shape of a gray horse, induced her to stay.

Rupert returned to attacking the American team. “They’re all robots, Mary Jo’s a robot, Carol Kennedy’s a robot, Dino Ferranti…”

“He is not,” yelled Fen.