“Aw c’mon, honey, come over here,” said the American boy, holding out long, sunburnt hands.

“Well, you’d better find somewhere else to put your donkeys,” said Rupert. “You haven’t met Dino Ferranti, have you?”

“No, nor do I want to,” said Fen, losing her temper. “Look,” she screamed, waving the papers under Rupert’s nose, “numero quatrevingt et un, deux, trois, quatre. It’s as plain as the nez on votre visage.”

“We didn’t realize they were your stables,” said Dizzy, pouting.

“I suppose you’re too thick to read, like most of Rupert’s grooms.”

“Temper, temper,” said Rupert.

“You bloody well come and shift them. If you’d had the decency to stop and help on the motorway, we’d have arrived at the same time as you and there wouldn’t be this stupid muddle. I’ve never met anyone so deficient in team spirit.”

“What d’you want me to do?” asked Rupert. “Start singing ‘Forty Years On’? Billy’s the singer, and he’s not been selected, thanks to your fucking brother-in-law.”

Fen didn’t rise. She turned and went down the steps.

“All right, if you won’t move your horses, I’ll let them out.”

“Don’t play silly games,” snapped Rupert. “You’ll regret it. Come on, Dino, it’s your deal.”

“Who’s that? She’s kinda cute,” drawled the American boy, taking a swig out of the whisky bottle and handing it to Ludwig.

“Jake Lovell’s sister-in-law,” said Rupert.

“Wass he like?”

“Hell. He’s got a chip or, as my wife would say, a french fry on his shoulder. His lack of charm seems to have rubbed off on her.”

Five minutes later, Dino lost the round and had to take off his jeans. Getting up to unzip his fly, he looked out of the window.

“Beautiful night,” he drawled. “Moonlight’s bright as day. Look, there’s the Big Dipper. Ah don’t know if Ah’m imagining things, but Ah just saw a gray horse trotting past the window.”

Ludwig got unsteadily to his feet and peered out.

“It’s Snakepit and zee other horse,” he said. “Zee leetle Maxvell ees taken zem avay. You better pull zee thumb out, Rupert.”

Dino Ferranti started to laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

In a flash, Rupert had tipped the brunette onto the floor and was out of the caravan, streaking across the grass in his bare feet.

“Come back,” he bellowed to Fen.

Fen trotted on, keeping a safe distance ahead of him. “Not till you promise to get your horses out of our stables.”

Despite the month off drink and two miles jogging every morning, Rupert couldn’t catch up with her. His language deteriorated.

“Tut-tut,” said Fen, “and in front of a lady, too. If you don’t promise, I’ll let them loose in the forest. They need a break. Can’t be much fun being owned by a revolting bully like you.”

For five minutes, which seemed an eternity to Rupert, she cantered slowly ahead until she was under the dark brow of the forest.

“Well?” she said.

Rupert agreed. “All right, we’ll move them. Now give them back to me, you little bitch.”

“And have you run me down? I’ll take them back and tie them up outside your stables.”

“I’ll sue you for this.”

“We could sue you for pinching our stables,” and making a wide circle, she galloped off, yelling over her shoulder, “I hope you sleep horribly.”

For grooms there is no lying-in. Two and a half hours later, Fen had to stagger out of bed to feed and skip out the horses. Having not eaten the day before, after being sick on the boat, she felt desperately hungry. On the way back to the lorry for some breakfast, she bumped into Humpty’s groom, Bridie. After swapping notes about their respective horses, they decided to go and have breakfast together.

“Going’s bloody hard,” said Bridie, gazing at the ground, which was splitting and cracking like a great brown jigsaw. “No sign of rain, either; not going to suit Lord Campbell-Black.” She lowered her voice. “He’s been overjumping all his horses. I saw them at Crittleden last week. They’d just come on from the Royal and from Aachen. Arcturus was lying down in his box, so exhausted I thought he was dead. It was sheer exhaustion. They haven’t had a break since January. Arcy can’t move unless he’s drugged up to the eyeballs. When the effect wears off he’s in agony.”

“Who’s Rupert going to jump in the Championship?”

“Snakepit,” said Bridie.

Fen groaned. “Trust Rupert to put in a sod.”

“Needs two people in the stable, one to groom, one to keep an eye on him. He’s got a terrible cow kick. Already killed one of Rupert’s Jack Russells.”

“Perhaps he won’t make the final.”

“On current form he can’t fail.”

They went into the breakfast tent. Fen was piling apricot jam onto her fourth croissant when Bridie asked her if she’d seen Dino Ferranti.

“I met him briefly last night,” said Fen coldly.

“Don’t you think he’s devastating?” sighed Bridie. “Those snake hips and those terrific shoulders, and that angelically depraved face. And he dresses so well.”

“He was half-naked when I saw him,” said Fen.

After that the whole story came out.

Bridie looked at Fen in awe.

“You didn’t let out Rupert’s horses?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And rode Snakepit.”

“Yes.”

“Probably didn’t play up because you weren’t frightened of him. Mind you, I think Rupert’s devastating, too. If he lifted a finger in my direction I’d go.”

“I wouldn’t. I think he’s hell.”

Four hours later Ludwig and Dino Ferranti, both in dark glasses and both with fearful hangovers not improved by the midday sun, tottered down to the stables to work their horses. They paused at the sight of Isa Lovell, not a day over six, cantering Macaulay round the practice ring.

“Okay, Fen,” he shouted in a shrill Birmingham accent, “put it up,” and, cantering towards the upright, cleared five-feet three-inches without any trouble.

Dino Ferranti had the puffy eyes of the heavy sleeper, but at this moment he couldn’t believe them.

“Look at that!”

“I’d rather not,” said Ludwig. “With kids zat good, I’m not going to be Vorld Champion much longer.”

They stopped and watched for a few minutes, as the child put the horse over several more jumps.

“That’s the girl from last night,” said Dino.

“Ha,” said Ludwig. “Mees Maxwell, Jake Lovell’s groom. Maybe that’s zee horse Jake’s going to jump. Looks very familiar. No, it can’t be.”

“Looks bloody well,” said Dino.

Les Rivaux is one of the most beautiful seaside ports in Brittany. The showground is about a mile outside the town, half-ringed, on the inshore side, by the forest in which Fen had threatened to let Rupert’s horses loose. In front lies the sea. On the day of the first warm-up class of the show, it lay like a film of mother-of-pearl on the platinum blond sand.

“Too many foreigners,” said a large English lady tourist disapprovingly, as two Italians nearly fell off their horses at the sight of Rupert’s groom, Dizzy, riding past in a tight turquoise T-shirt and no bra.

Les Rivaux was already swarming with Dutch riders in leather coats, Portuguese with hot eyes and chattering teeth, Argentinian generals, Americans in panamas and dark glasses, all gabbling away in different languages, all lending a Ritzy, illicit flavor to the showground. The weather was still muggy and hot and, although the swallows were flying low and the cows lying down, there was no sign of rain to soften the punishingly hard ground.

A large crowd gathered to watch this first event, a small speed class in which most of the riders had entered the horses they would later jump in the World Championship. In the big afternoon class, they would jump their second horses.

Rumors had already begun to circulate round the showground that Jake Lovell was jumping one of Rupert’s old horses. Jake was not to be drawn, nor was Fen, and when Rupert first saw Tanya leading Macaulay and Desdemona quietly round the collecting ring that morning, he stared for a minute at the familiar big black horse with dinner-plate feet and the ugly white face, but made absolutely no comment.

It was a mark of Rupert’s nerve that it had no effect on his riding. He continued to bitch and mob up the other riders, which was always his way of psyching himself up before a class, then produced a round that threw everyone else into a panic. Not only was his speed faster than light, but, from the way he had to exert every ounce of brute strength to keep Snakepit on course, the horse was obviously a devil to ride.

Guy de la Tour, the star on whom the French crowd had pinned their hopes, jumped a slower but stylish clear to a storm of bravos. He was followed by Ludwig, recovered from his hangover, but who, despite Clara’s long legs, couldn’t catch Rupert. Speed was not Macaulay’s strong point; he was too careful and jumped too high. Jake was very happy with a slow clear, putting him in eleventh place.

As the Americans were hot favorites for the Nations’ Cup, there was a lot of interest in how the horses would react to a French course. Neither the Number One male rider, Carol Kennedy, nor the Number Two, the redheaded Mary Jo Wilson, had found their form yet, and notched up eight and four faults respectively.

Interest was therefore centered on Dino Ferranti, riding a young liver chestnut thoroughbred called President’s Man. Dino had never competed in Europe before, but even Fen, who’d had another row with him in the practice ring because his groom dismantled the upright when she was about to jump it, had to admit he was a glorious rider. For the purist, he lounged in the saddle like a cowboy and sat a little too far back, but he was so supple he seemed made of rubber, and was able to throw his weight completely off the horse while it was in the air, yet somehow touch down smoothly as he landed.