Janey fell asleep immediately afterwards. Billy lay awake and fretted. Mandryka had put in a nasty stop yesterday. He must get to Westerngate early and sort it out. Janey woke up in the morning with a hangover, feeling Billy’s prick nudging her back, his hand stroking her shaven flesh.

“What time ought we to leave?”

“Ten at the latest. I haven’t declared and I promised Kev we’d be there for prelunch drinks.”

Janey didn’t want sex but, to get herself in a more receptive mood, she fantasized she was a schoolgirl in a gym tunic, being ticked off by a very strict headmaster in a dog collar. Next moment the headmaster’s wife walked in and they both decided to have her.

“Shall I tell you a story to excite you?” asked Billy.

“I’m fine,” said Janey, who was deep in headmasters. “Nearly there.” The next moment, pleasure flooded over her. She longed to go back to sleep.

“You look so fantastic,” said Billy, “how about soixante-neuf?”

Janey couldn’t face a huge cock down her throat. “I can’t Billy, not with a hangover. Please stay inside me. I want to feel you coming.”

Afterwards they both fell asleep. When they woke it was five to ten.

“What are you doing?” said Billy, when he went into the bathroom five minutes later.

“Washing my hair.”

“But you can’t, we’ve got to leave now.”

“You’ll just have to drive a bit faster, or go without me.”

“I can’t,” he said, aghast. “They’re expecting you. Your hair looks fine. It’s only a show. It’s you they want to see, not your hair.”

“I know what they’ll all say, ‘Not as attractive as her photograph, nothing to look at in the flesh,’ ” snapped Janey, who was now upside down, head in the bath, rubbing in shampoo. “I do have a public image to keep up. It was you who wanted bloody sex.” They didn’t leave until after eleven.

“Revving up is actionable,” hissed Janey, coming out of the house.

“So is being an hour late,” snapped Billy.

“And my fringe has separated.”

Billy didn’t think that a striped rugger shirt with a rather dirty white collar, flared jeans, and an old denim jacket were suitable, but he didn’t complain, as he would have had to wait another twenty minutes. Rancid with ill temper, they drove all the way to Westerngate with Janey trying to do her face, snapping at Billy every time he went round a corner. The traffic was terrible. They were held up for thirty-five minutes by a couple of gays unloading some carpet into an antique shop in Broadway High Street.

Billy kept looking at his watch. “Kev’s going to flip his lid. I’m going to be too late to declare.” His stomach was killing him.

They arrived at half-past one. Billy went straight off to try and square the secretary, leaving Janey to park the car in the sponsors’ car park. There was the Moggie Meal tent. There was the awful cat winking on the flag. Oh God, here was Kevin Coley, coming towards her, wearing a suit the color of a caramel cupcake. He looked simply livid.

“Hi, Kev,” she said casually. “The traffic was awful.”

“Where the hell is Billy? He’s been late once too bloody often and they’ve put their foot down. They’ve closed the declaration. They’re already walking the course. That means he’ll probably be dropped for the Royal and for Aachen, and it’s too bloody near the World Championships.”

“He’s gone to talk to the stewards now. They’ll let him in. The crowd have come to see The Bull.”

“Don’t you bank on it. Everyone’s been waiting for you, too. We held lunch until a quarter of an hour ago. It’s not bloody good enough.”

It was with great difficulty that Janey stopped herself shouting back at him. Matters were hardly improved when Billy turned up, abject with apologies, and said they were going to allow him to jump, and he had better go and walk the course.

“See you later, darling,” he said to Janey. “Go and have some lunch.” Face set, she ignored him.

Kevin Coley took her arm, none too gently. “You’d better come along to the tent and repair some of the damage. And smile, for Christ’s sake. You’re being paid for it.”

In the tent, they found customers and staff stuffing roast beef and lobsters. Most of them were already tight. Kevin clones were everywhere, with thatched hair and lightweight and light-colored suits. The wives also all seemed to wear beige or pastel suits. Many wore hats on the back of their heads, with too much hair showing at the front, and high heels which kept catching on the raffia matting and sinking into the damp earth beneath.

Enid Coley, in a brown check suit and yellow shirt with a pussycat bow, was not the only one who looked disapprovingly at Janey’s jeans and rugger shirt. I don’t care, I don’t care, thought Janey. I’m eleven days late, and I’m going to have a baby. The little Coley children or the Sprats, as Billy called them, had all been at the bottle and were rushing around being poisonous. I’ll never let my children grow up like that, Janey thought to herself. Kevin put her between two directors’ wives who were eating strawberries and cream.

“The gardens aren’t as good as the ones at Buckingham Palace,” said one.

“No,” said the second, “although I didn’t really notice the ones at Buckingham Palace the first time I went.”

Next moment Helen walked into the tent looking like a million dollars in an off-white canvas suit and flat dark brown boots.

“I’m real sorry I couldn’t make lunch. You did get the message, didn’t you? But with young kids, it’s so difficult to get away,” she said to Kevin and Enid, who looked as though they’d been kissed under the mistletoe. Enid, pink with pleasure, took Helen on a tour of the more important clients. Helen was so nice to all of them. Then suddenly she saw Janey and her face lit up.

“Janey, how lovely. I didn’t know whether you’d be able to get away.”

“We were just saying the BSJA ought to club together and buy you a bra, Janey,” said Enid Coley.

Later, Janey sat in the riders’ stand with Helen watching the big class. She had been pleased with her rugger shirt and jeans until she saw Helen’s suit, which was French and cost at least £300. When they had walked through the crowds earlier, all the men had stared at Helen, so Janey had taken her dark glasses off, so people could see her sexy, slanting eyes, but they still looked at Helen, so she took off her denim jacket to show off her splendid bosom, but they still looked at Helen. Why the hell couldn’t Billy be as rich as Rupert, so she could afford decent clothes? She was still furious with Kev, who was sitting on her other side. In the next-door stand, he had booked seats for all his frightful clients, who clapped and shrieked when riders fell off, and cheered before rounds were finished, and stood up and took pictures all the time, to the rage of the people sitting behind them.

“Isn’t Kev hell?” she whispered to Helen. “I bet he streaks his chest hair.”

“I think he’s charming,” said Helen, in surprise.

Billy’s stomach was killing him, like a giant clenching a huge fist in his gut. The only answer, as Kevin was safely in the riders’ stand, was to nip into the bar for a couple of quick doubles.

“Those hangover pills you gave me aren’t doing much,” he grumbled to Rupert, when he got back to the collecting ring.

“I should think not,” said Rupert. “They’re for backache. D’you know, I really think Tab is very bright. She smiled at me today. They don’t usually smile till three months.”

“Lucky you. Janey’s not smiling at me.”

Suddenly, Billy thought of the shaved bush under those jeans and, overwhelmed with lust, he waved at Janey. Janey ignored him.

It was a tough course. Ludwig went clear. Two Americans, just arrived and accustoming themselves to European fences in anticipation of the World Championships, went clear. The usual mighty roar of applause went up as Billy and The Bull rode into the ring. All Kevin’s guests stood up to take photographs.

“My husband may not be the most successful, but he’s certainly the most popular rider in England,” said Janey, shooting a venomous look at Kevin, who was tugging at his goalpost mustache and twisting his initial bracelet.

“Come on, Billy. Come on, The Bull,” yelled the crowd. They too refused to adopt Moggie Meal Al.

“I can’t bear to look,” said Janey, and didn’t, continuing to talk to Helen about straight-legged jeans.

Billy was clear and jumping beautifully, until he came to the penultimate fence, when a great cheer went up from the Moggie Meal contingent and distracted The Bull, who jumped the wing instead of the fence and, catching his front leg, went head over heels. The Moggie Meal supporters let out piercing shrieks and started clicking their cameras frantically.

Billy was unhurt and managed to hang on to the reins, getting up and running like mad after a thoroughly rattled Bull. Nearly crashing into a flag, Billy picked it up and waved it in mock fury at The Bull, who backed away in terror. Billy started to laugh, threw down the flag, snatched up a handful of grass, and gave it to The Bull, reducing the crowd to fits of laughter. Vaulting onto The Bull’s back, he cantered out of the ring, grinning broadly.

That’s two grand up the spout, thought Janey. I don’t know what he’s got to look so cheerful about.

Billy came into the stand, kissed Helen hello, and sat down between her and Janey.

“Sorry, Kev,” he said.

Janey caught a waft of whisky and hoped it didn’t reach Kevin. After two minutes, Billy got to his feet.

“Who’d like a drink?”

“Not for me,” said Kevin Coley pointedly.

“Nor me,” said Helen, standing up. “I must go and ring Bergita. Has anyone got any change?”