“She’s not coming!”

“Bloody is. According to Mrs. B., she’s been round a lot recently.”

Rupert, furious, stormed off to find Helen.

“Either that woman doesn’t come to the party or I don’t.”

“All your friends are coming,” said Helen. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t have one of mine.”

“She’ll bring that disgusting baby, and start whipping out a triangular tit in the middle of the party.”

“Hilary is not just a good painter, she’s a highly intelligent, concerned human being.”

“Crap,” said Rupert. “All right, I’ll ask all the grooms then.”

“You can’t,” said Helen aghast. “They can never hold their drink.”

A week before the party, while Rupert and Billy were in Amsterdam, the au pair, Marie-Claire, slipped on the yellow stone steps in the hall and landed painfully on her coccyx. The next day Hilary slipped carrying Kate but managed to keep her balance. Helen suddenly decided to carpet the hall and the stairs a pale avocado green, to match the pale pink and green peony wallpaper. The carpet men worked overtime, the dogs sat in a martyred row on the tintacked underfelt, and everything was finished and tidied away by the eve of the party, when Rupert and Billy were due home.

Helen had just got Marcus to sleep when they arrived and woke him up with all the din of barking, neighing, shouting, and the banging down of lorry ramps. Why the hell did they make so much noise? She had to spend a quarter of an hour soothing and rocking Marcus back to sleep, and went downstairs to the kitchen just as Rupert was coming in through the back door. There was snow in his hair.

“Hello, darling,” he said, kissing her. “You all right? I see the marquee’s up. Everyone’s coming: the Germans, the French team, the Italians, all the Irish — it’s a complete sellout.”

“Go and get a drink. There’s a surprise for you in the hall,” said Helen.

Rupert went out — there was a long pause. The new carpet was so soft, Helen didn’t hear him come back. His face was expressionless.

“Do you like it?”

“I didn’t know Marcus could be that sick,” said Rupert. “That carpet is exactly the same color as regurgitated Heinz pea and bacon dinner. What the fuck have you done?”

Helen bridled. “It’s called pistachio.”

“Pissed-tachio after everyone’s spilt red wine over it tomorrow night,” said Rupert.

“The steps were a death trap,” snapped Helen.

“Pity your friend Hilary didn’t fall down them more often. That’s Cotswold stone you’ve just covered up!”

“Those steps were dangerous. Marcus’ll be walking in a few months.”

“He’ll walk right out of the house when he sees that carpet.”

“Well, everyone thinks it’s very pretty.” Helen’s voice was rising. “Mrs. Bodkin, Marie-Claire.”

“That’s only because you pay them. Who else? Thrillary, I suppose. Expect it’s her idea: matches her complexion.”


* * *


It was, in fact, a great party. Rupert and Billy mixed a champagne cocktail to start off with, which, with one and a half hours solid drinking before dinner, got everyone plastered. Janey, looking sensational in see-through black, was such a hit with all the foreign riders that Billy put her on a leading rein and, screaming with laughter, towed her around after him. Their happiness was totally infectious. Even Driffield couldn’t find anything to grumble about.

Only Helen, in priceless ivy green silk, a boat-shaped neckline showing off her slender white shoulders, seemed tense. She was not a natural hostess and she was only too aware of all the Biancas and Granias and Gabriellas of Rupert’s past. Nor could she bear to see drink rings spreading like Olympic symbols on her furniture, and cigarette ash and wine stains on her new carpet.

Rupert tried to persuade her to enjoy herself. But once dinner was over, he felt he could relax his duties as host. People knew where they could get a drink. From then on, he was seen coming off the dance floor with one beauty after another.

Hilary arrived late. Armed with a carrycot, she marched down the hall, sending international show jumpers flying, and up the stairs.

“Straight up to my wife’s bedroom,” said Rupert sourly.

Next moment Helen went past with a baby’s bottle.

“Is that for Hilary?”

“Marcus is crying.”

“You should have sent him to Mrs. Bodkin. Where the hell’s Marie-Claire?”

“She disappeared into the shrubbery with one of the French team two hours ago and hasn’t been seen since,” snapped Helen. “I told you the drink was too strong.”

Upstairs, Helen collected Marcus and went into the bedroom, where she found Hilary combing her hair.

“Oh, you look beautiful,” she gasped.

Hilary had been to the hairdresser’s and had her dark hair set in wild snaky curls round her face. She had rouged her cheekbones and kohled her eyes and was wearing a red and black gypsy dress with a flounced skirt and hooped earrings.

“I never dreamed you could look so wonderful,” Helen said in genuine amazement.

“I wanted to prove to your bloody husband I wasn’t a complete frump,” said Hilary. “I’ve even shaved under my armpits.” She held up her arms, showing not a trace of stubble. “And I absolutely hate myself.”

“Well, I sure appreciate you,” said Helen.

Hilary, drenching herself in Helen’s Miss Dior, said, “How’s it going? Sounds wild enough.”

“I’m not great at parties.”

“Rupert shouldn’t subject you to them. What did he say about the carpet?”

“He hated it.”

Why did the conversation always return to Rupert? wondered Helen.

The excitement had stepped up when they went downstairs. Ludwig was blowing a hunting horn. Billy, plastered and blissful, was necking on the sofa with Janey, Mavis curled up beside them, looking resigned.

“Come and dance, Helen,” said Humpty Hamilton, who was wearing one of Rupert’s tweed caps back to front.

“You haven’t met Hilary, have you?” said Helen.

At that moment Rupert came off the dance floor with a ruffled blonde.

“Evening,” he said to Hilary without any warmth.

“Doesn’t Hilly look lovely?” said Helen.

Rupert looked her up and down. “Rather like one of Jake Lovell’s relations.”

Next moment a very drunken Hans staggered up and bore Helen off to dance. “What a beautiful place you have ’ere, Mees Helen. What a beautiful woman you are,” he sighed. “Lucky Rupert.”

In front of them, in the crepuscular gloom, she could see Count Guy, wrapped like a wet towel round Marie-Claire. So it was that member of the French team, she thought, wondering if she ought to stop them.

“Poor Laveenia.” Hans shook his head. “I bet she weesh she marry Billee now. But what a beauty he’s got heemself. What a beautiful girl.”

“Yes, she’s very nice.”

“Did you know Ludwig’s geeving Billee a horse as a vedding present? A very good one: Mandryka.”

Count Guy’s arm was up to his elbow down Marie-Claire’s dress. Really, she couldn’t be a very suitable person to look after Marcus, thought Helen. Over in the corner, she saw Hilary dancing with Malise. They were talking intently. That was good; they’d get on together.

The party ground on. The local MFH, trying to find his way home, drove over the ha-ha. Podge was sick in the flower bed. Helen was dancing with Billy, his hair all over the place.

“It’s a wonderful party, Angel. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. You’ve made Janey so welcome, she can’t get over it. I say, there’s Hilary doing the tango with Ludwig. She’s looking really very sexy this evening, and you know I’m not her greatest fan.”

Billy went back to Janey. As an excuse to escape from the party for a second, Helen decided to check if Marcus was okay. There were wine stains all over her beautiful carpet. Why couldn’t they all go, so she could get the place straight again? In the hall Rupert was talking to Hans and a couple of Italians. When he’d drunk too much, he seldom betrayed it, but his eyes tended to glitter. Now they were like sapphires under a burglar’s flashlight.

“Where are you going?” he said, not turning around.

“Just to check Marcus.”

“If he doesn’t shut up, I’ll come upstairs and ram a cricket stump up his arse.”

Quivering with rage, Helen fled upstairs. How could Rupert say terrible things like that, just to get a laugh, when Marcus was so darling? Despite the din, he was still fast asleep.

Whoops and yells from downstairs made her rush out onto the landing. Hanging over the stairs, she heard Rupert saying to a rather pale Podge, “Go on darling, go and get him.”

“Mrs. C-B won’t like it.”

“She’ll have to lump it.”

Podge opened the front door. Helen could see a flurry of snowflakes and she was gone.

“You can’t, Rupert,” said Janey, half laughing. “Don’t be a sod, not on Helen’s new carpet. It’s taken quite enough punishment as it is.”

Helen went back and turned off Marcus’s light. What could they be talking about? She powdered her nose and combed her hair. Oh God, she was tired. If only she could go to bed and read Mansfield Park. Then she heard more cheers and a commotion downstairs. For a minute she thought she must be dreaming, for there was Revenge in the hall, and Rupert was jumping onto his back, riding into the drawing room to colossal cheers and screams of laughter. Blazing with fury, she ran down the stairs.

“What the hell are you doing?” she screamed. Over the laughter, no one heard.

“Twenty-five pounds you can’t jump that sofa,” said Count Guy.

“Done,” said Rupert and the next moment he’d cleared it, narrowly missing the chandelier.