To Jake, who had never slept in a hotel, the bedroom seemed the height of luxury. There was a bathroom with a shower, and a bath and a loo, and free soap and bubble bath, and a bathcap, and three white towels. In the bedroom there was a television, a wireless, a telephone, and a huge double bed. He was dying for some coffee but he didn’t dare pick up the telephone in case they couldn’t understand him. French windows led out onto a bosomy balcony which looked over a park. To the left, if he leaned out, he could see a street full of shops and cafés with tables outside. Already smells of olive oil, pimentos, and saffron were drifting up from the kitchen. Drawing the thick purple curtains and only bothering to take off his shoes, Jake fell onto the surprisingly hard bed. The picture on the wall, of a matador in obscenely tight pink trousers shoving what looked like knitting needles into the neck of a bull, swam before his eyes and he was asleep.

Despite his exhaustion, however, he slept only fitfully. His dreams of disastrous rounds kept being interrupted by bursts of flamenco music or the screams of children playing in the park. By six the city had woken up and stretched itself after its siesta and Jake decided to abandon any hope of sleep. Outside, the streets were packed with cars rattling over the cobbles, hardly restrained at all by lights or frantically whistling policemen. Tables along the pavement were beginning to fill up, crowds to parade up and down. Looking across at the park, he saw a small child racing after a red ball, then tripping over a gamboling dog, falling flat on his face and bursting into noisy sobs. Next moment a pretty dark-haired mother had rushed forward, sworn at the dog, and gathered up the child, covering him with kisses. Jake was suddenly flattened with longing for Isa and Tory. He was desperate to ring home, but he didn’t know how to, nor did he dare pick up the telephone and ask for some tea.

Instead, raging with thirst, he drank a couple of mugs of water out of the tap, then unpacked, showered, and, wrapped only in one of the white towels, wandered out onto the balcony. Instantly he stepped back, for there on the next balcony was a beautiful girl painting her toenails coral pink and soaking up the slanting rays of the early evening sun.

She was impossibly slender, with long legs and arms, which, despite being covered in freckles, were already tanning becomingly to the color of weak tea. She wore a saffron yellow bikini and her hair was hidden by a big yellow towel. Beside her lay the catalogue of some art gallery, a Spanish dictionary, what looked like a book of poetry, and a half-finished glass of orange juice. Obviously she could make Reception understand her. The whole impression was of a marvelously pampered and overbred racehorse. As she stretched luxuriously, enjoying the sensation of being warm and alive, Jake felt a stab of lust. Why didn’t one ever see girls like that in Warwickshire? He wished she would pick her nose or scratch her crotch, anything to make her more normal and less desirable.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the corridor. The girl jumped up. A man’s voice could be heard shouting in the passage, “Okay, we’ll see you in the bar about nine.”

The girl in the saffron bikini could be heard calling out in an American accent, “Darling, it’s so good to see you.”

There was a long pause. Then he heard the man’s voice more clearly. It was a flat distinctive drawl which he would recognize anywhere and which made his knees disappear and the hairs prickle on the back of his neck.

“Bloody awful journey,” said the voice. “Lorry kept overheating. We’ve been on the road for nearly thirty-six hours.”

“Sweetheart,” said the girl, “I’m so sorry. You must be exhausted.”

Another pause followed, then the voice said sharply, “I don’t care how fucking exhausted I am, get that bikini off.”

The girl started protesting, but not for long. Next moment there were sounds of lovemaking, with the bed banging against the wall so hard that Jake felt he was back in the cattle truck. Mercifully it lasted only five minutes. Any more evidence of Rupert’s superstud servicing would have finished Jake off altogether. Almost worse was the splashing and laughter as later they had a bath together. It was still desperately hot. Jake made his bed neatly and, soaked with sweat, had another shower and changed his shirt, for something to do. He’d have liked to have washed some underpants and shirts and hung them out on the balcony, but he could imagine Rupert’s derisive comments. Later he heard them having a drink on the balcony.

“Better get a few quick ones under my belt, so Malise doesn’t think I’m alcoholic.”

By nine o’clock Jake was so crucified by nerves and waiting that he couldn’t bring himself to go downstairs, until Malise rang up from Reception saying they were all in the bar, and had he overslept? Malise met him as he came out of the lift. Noticing the set face, the black rings under the eyes, the obvious tension, he said, “Don’t worry, they’re all very unalarming.”

There they were — all his heroes. Humpty Hamilton, puce from the heat, drinking lager. Lavinia Greenslade, whom he remembered from the first Bilborough show. She was even prettier now that she’d lightened her hair, and wore it shorter and curlier. On either side, like two guard dogs, sat her mother, who wore too much cheap jewelry, and her father, who had ginger sideburns and a stomach spilling over his trousers. They didn’t smile. Lavinia was too recent a cap herself for them to regard any new member of the team with enthusiasm. Billy Lloyd-Foxe had filled out and broken his nose since prep school days, but looked more or less the same. He was laughing with a most beautiful redheaded girl, who was wearing black flared trousers and a white silk shirt tied under her breasts and showing off her smooth bare midriff. By her freckled arms and her coral pink toenails, Jake identified the girl on the balcony. Rupert had his back turned as he paid for a round of drinks and signed an autograph for the barman, but Jake immediately recognized the back of that smooth blond head and the broad blue striped shoulders. He felt a wave of horror and loathing.

“This is Jake Lovell,” said Malise. “I’m sure he knows who all of you are.”

Rupert swung round, smiling. In his brown face his eyes were as brilliantly blue as a jay’s wing.

“Hi,” he said. “Welcome to alcoholics not at all anonymous. I hear you had a worse journey than us, which seems impossible. What are you going to drink?”

Jake, who’d rehearsed this moment so often, and who was prepared to be icily aloof, found himself totally disarmed by such friendliness and muttered he’d like some Scotch. Billy got to his feet and shook Jake’s hand.

“You’ve been cleaning up on the Northern circuit. Don’t venture up there often myself, too easy to get beaten.”

“That was a good horse you were jumping at Birmingham,” said Humpty, patting the empty seat beside him. “What’s she called, Australia?”

“Africa,” said Jake.

“Looks almost clean bred. Who was her sire?”

“Don’t know.”

“And her dam?”

“Don’t know that either.”

“Oh, shut up, Humpty,” said Rupert, handing Jake a very large glass of whisky, which made Malise frown slightly.

Rupert lifted his glass to Jake. “Welcome to the British squad,” he said. “Hope it’s the first of many.”

“Thanks,” said Jake. He took a slug of his whisky, which was so strong it made his eyes water. He put his glass down at once, so they shouldn’t see how much his hand was shaking.

“Lavinia’s been capped for Great Britain six times,” said her mother defensively.

“Oh, please, Mummy.”

“You should be proud of the fact,” went on her mother. “The only girl in the team.”

“What about Driffield?” said Rupert. “I’ve always thought his sex was slightly in question.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Humpty. “I’ve shared a room with him.”

“That’s enough,” said Malise.

“Did you get to the Prado this afternoon?” Helen asked him.

Malise shook his head.

“I spent a couple of hours there,” she said. “The Velasquez are out of this world. Such power. I only managed to do two rooms, but I also looked at the cathedral. The nave is just wonderful.”

Rupert stifled a yawn. “I prefer navels,” he said, running his hand over his wife’s midriff. Then, pushing down her black trousers, he fingered her belly button. “Particularly yours.”

It was definitely a gesture of possession and he smiled across at Jake with that bullying, mocking, appraising look that Jake remembered so well.

Humpty turned back to Jake. “By the way, thanks for looking after Porky on the way down. Bridie said he might have damaged himself and her very badly if you hadn’t stepped in.”

“The train driver ought to be shot,” said Jake.

“Spaniards don’t like animals,” said Humpty. “Porky’s highly strung of course, but so was his dam.”

And Humpty was off on a long involved dissertation on Porky Boy’s breeding. Jake appeared to listen and studied the others. Mr. and Mrs. Greenslade were discussing what horses Lavinia ought to jump, across Lavinia, who was gazing surreptitiously at Billy. Billy was arguing fairly amicably with Rupert about whether a particular mare was worth selling and how much they’d get for her. Helen and Malise, having exhausted Velasquez, had moved on to Spanish poetry. She was an astonishingly beautiful girl, thought Jake, but too fragile for Rupert. Jake couldn’t imagine him handling anyone with care for very long.

“I just adore Lorca,” Helen was saying. “He’s so passionate and basic; that poem that starts ‘Green, Green, I want you Green.’ ”