By the final night Fen was absolutely knackered. She hardly had the energy to wash her hair for the party that night. Living on junk food all week, her spots were worse than ever. She longed and longed to be a rider or at least one of the elite bunch of grooms who all knew each other, swapped endless gossip, and who had found time to go shopping and come back with pretty clothes from Biba and Bus Stop. She admired from afar the handsome Guy de la Tour, he who had so captivated Lavinia. Love had made Lavinia prettier than ever. She had cut off her long bubble curls and now, with her hair as short as a boy’s, looked the epitome of French chic. Already half the show-jumping groupies, who hung around the place in breeches hoping someone might mistake them for a competitor, had followed suit and lopped off their long rippling manes as well. Fen also noticed Billy looking absolutely miserable. She felt so sorry for him, although he had cheered up a bit earlier that evening when he and Rupert won the fancy dress relay. Billy with a pipe in his mouth and a Gannex mac had dressed up as Harold Wilson, while Rupert cavorted around in high heels, a red dress, and a blond wig, with orange peel in his teeth, as Marcia Falkender. It had brought the house down.

Now all the grooms were getting their charges ready for the last event, the Radio Rentals Grand Prix. Fen, with both Sailor and Revenge to do, had her work cut out. Cries of “Give me the body brush,” “Anyone seen my sponge?” “Christ, they’re calling us already,” were coming from all sides.

“In the bleak midwinter frosty wind made moan,” sang the loudspeaker. Now the band was playing “Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho” for the pony club demo. Rupert and Billy sat side by side in the riders’ stand, their long legs up on the backs of the seats in front, watching Grumpy.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” said Rupert smugly. “She’s coming out with me tonight.”

“How old is she?” asked Billy.

“Sixteen, or so she claims.”

“Shouldn’t be playing Grumpy, she’s grinning like a Cheshire cat,” said Billy, as Tiffany Bathgate cantered by, ponytail swinging. “I’ll report her to the district commissioner.”

“She’s bringing Dopey with her,” said Rupert. “Meeting me at the flat. Just imagine having the two of them.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” snapped Billy.

“Why don’t you come too?”

“I’m going to the party afterwards. I must talk to Lavinia. She’s been avoiding me all week. Her parents are wild about Guy because he’s a count.”

“A cunt,” said Rupert.

“That too,” said Billy.

“I wonder if Greenslade père realizes Guy hasn’t a bean,” said Rupert. “He needs the Greenslade cash to keep his place going in France. ‘I cannot afford to ’eat the underrooms,’ he told me last night. Do you think I should give Helen an English setter puppy for Christmas?”

“No,” said Billy.

Snow White and her entourage cantered out of the ring, with Grumpy blatantly grinning at Rupert, as the arena party put the finishing touches to the jumps for the Grand Prix. Now the rose red curtains which parted theatrically to admit each competitor were clashing with the scarlet coats of the riders, as they walked the course to a jazzed-up version of “Oh Come All Ye Faithful.”

The collecting ring was very hazardous. Belgians crashed their horses over the jumps crying “Numero Huit, Numero Sept” to their grooms and discussing where they were going for dinner. Rupert was having a row with an Irish rider (nicknamed Wishbone, because of his long bow legs) because they had both tried to jump the upright at the same time.

Fen walked her two horses around the outside, keeping out of trouble, Sailor calming Revenge, who looked as beautiful as Sailor looked ugly. Fen was still shaking from her first encounter with her mother and Colonel Carter since she left home. As owners, they’d come to the show to watch Revenge. Molly had been “absolutely livid” with Bernard when she discovered he’d spent £5,000 on a horse for Jake, behind her back. She’d denied him her bed for more than a month. But gradually she was beginning to appreciate the kudos of being a winning owner. Everyone was tipping Revenge as an Olympic probable. Molly was already planning her wardrobe for the next games in Colombia the following August. She enjoyed sitting in the riders’ stand and talking about “My horse” in a loud voice. Molly was also very relieved that Fen appeared to have totally lost her looks.

Certainly it had been Jake’s show. Africa, Sailor, and Revenge had all won big classes. You couldn’t get into the lorry for silver cups. Sailor grew in popularity, the crowd were wild about the “Old Mule,” with his mangy tail and his drooping head, who caught fire in the ring. Whenever he left the lorry now Jake was mobbed by autograph hunters. And Fen told him someone had written “I love Jake Lovell” on the wall of the Ladies’, and underneath lots of people had written “Me, too.” Joanna Battie had interviewed Jake for the Chronicle, gushing over his romantic gypsy looks. Jake pretended to disapprove, but secretly he was delighted and had reread the piece several times. He had even been interviewed by Dudley Diplock as he came out of the ring. The fact that he hardly got a word out didn’t seem to matter. He smiled, and when Jake smiled publicly, which was about once every five years, the world melted.

The bell rang, the riders left the arena. In the distance you could still hear the mournful cry of the men on the gate trying to flog programs to last-minute arrivals. The arena was flooded with light for the television cameras. As Rupert mounted Belgravia, he spat out his chewing gum.

“I want it,” said a besotted teenager, rushing forward. A deafening cheer lifted the roof off as Rupert rode into the ring.

I can’t help it, thought Fen. He’s vile, but he is attractive. Rupert jumped an untroubled clear and rode out as Ivor Braine rode in. The collecting ring steward, who had a headache from drinking too much at lunchtime, was shouting at late arrivals.

“I’m going to report Rupert Campbell-Black to the BSJA for calling me a fart,” he grumbled. “And you’re late, too,” he said to Humpty, who was supposed to be jumping next.

“Get out of my way then, you little fart,” said Humpty. “You’re a worse nagger than my wife.”

Humpty also went clear.

Billy, waiting to jump, felt near to suicide. Lavinia was still avoiding him. Now Count Guy was in the collecting ring, crashing over the practice fence, pretending not to understand the collecting ring steward, who was now castigating him for being late.

“That man is a preek,” he drawled to Lavinia, as he rode towards the rose red curtains.

“Bonne chance, my angel,” said Lavinia, blowing him a kiss.

Count Guy’s dark brown stallion, however, took a dislike to the curtains and shied into a group of officials in pinstripe suits, dislodging for a moment the complacency of their smooth flushed faces, as they scuttled for cover. Then with a flurry of Gallic expletives, Guy rode into the arena and proceeded to lay waste the course.

“Oh, bad luck, darling,” said Lavinia as he came out, shrugging dramatically, reins dropped, palms of both hands turned to heaven.

“Fucking frog,” muttered Billy as he passed him on the way in. But he was so upset, he jumped badly and notched up twelve faults.

“I’ve got a splinter,” grumbled Marion.

Ignoring her, Rupert went back to the riders’ stand to watch the rest of the rounds. As he listened to a group of German riders chattering behind him, his thoughts contentedly drifted towards Tiffany Bathgate who, with her dumpy friend, would at this moment be washing themselves (as well as they could in the Olympia showers) for him. There were two bottles of champagne in the flat fridge. Perhaps he should offer them a proper bath when they arrived. Goodness knows where that might lead.

The next moment the two girls were forgotten, as Jake and Revenge came in, jumping unevenly but very impressively. Revenge was fooling around between fences, but when he jumped he really tucked his legs up.

I want that horse, thought Rupert grimly. He’s got everything I like: brains, temperament, good looks.

He was suddenly aware that the woman on his right was making a lot of noise.

“Do you remember me?” she said, turning to Rupert.

“I never forget a face like yours, but I’m terrible at names,” said Rupert. It was his standard reply.

“I’m Molly Carter, Maxwell that was. Tory, my daughter, was doing the season in 1970. You were such a deb’s delight. All the mums were in love with you, too.”

“Tory. Of course I remember. Very shy, treated every man as if he was going to chuck snowballs with stones in at her.”

“She married Jake Lovell, you know. It was a bit of a shock at the time, but he’s done awfully well.”

“Helped by Tory’s money, of course,” said Rupert.

“Oh, of course. He’d never have made the grade without her.” She gave a little laugh. “And my husband’s been helping him out recently.”

“Really,” said Rupert, his brain beginning to tick.

“Revenge is our horse.”

Not by a flicker of a muscle did Rupert betray how interested he was. “Your horse?”

“Jake was short of cash last June and desperate to buy Revenge in a hurry. Some other buyer was after him, so Bernard put up the money. I was livid at the time, but he seems rather a good investment. Won twice as much as he cost already. Jake is rather maddening, though.”

“Yes?”

Under Rupert’s blue gaze, Molly was becoming indiscreet.

“He could have won a lot more, but Jake keeps retiring the horse because he doesn’t want to push him. Feels he’s not ready to jump against the clock.”