by Jilly Cooper
‘We shouldn’t have done that,’ he murmured, ‘but it was incredibly nice.’
‘Incredibly.’
‘Sauvignon’s asked me for a drink,’ crowed Eddie to both of them.
‘Which pub are you going to?’ asked Gala.
‘All of them,’ grinned Eddie.
But fame and tranquillity are seldom good bedfellows, fame being a spur which often sticks in the side. While Gala and Jemmy went home with the horses, Eddie stayed in Ascot and, having been off the booze for a month, got drunk very quickly.
‘What have you done to yourself?’ asked a horrified Gala when he finally made it back to Penscombe the following afternoon, with two black eyes and a badly swollen wrist.
‘I fell out of a helicopter.’
‘Good God.’
‘I was hammered – it was on the ground.’
‘Whatever happened?’
‘I don’t remember. There were lots of jockeys there, Manu, and Ash and Hammond Johnson. I went outside for a piss. Someone must have beaten me up.’
‘That someone must have been jealous – you’d done much too well. Trebles mean trouble. Did you get off with Sauvignon?’
‘I think I’d remember if I had. The saddest thing was, my glass horse got smashed.’
There were, however, compensations. Eddie was touched to receive a congratulatory text from Lark in Australia: ‘Well done you and Quickly.’
Darling Lark, how unutterably sweeter was she than Sauvignon?
There were also pictures of him in every paper as ‘Rupert the Second’ with Alastair Down in the Racing Post describing his win as a masterpiece, reminiscent of the time Rupert, the greatest rider of his generation, had won an Olympic Gold medal with a trapped nerve.
Even better, Quickly’s victory had pushed Love Rat above Roberto’s Revenge in the Leading Sire charts.
Rupert also apologized again to Taggie.
‘I’m sorry, darling, I was missing you. Gala’d done a fantastic job and I got carried away. I’d have kissed the vicar if he’d been there.’
56
After the King George, Declan O’Hara turned up to see his daughter Taggie. He was desperately broke and had just had a gruelling session with his bank manager, who chided him.
‘Do you realize, Mr O’Hara, your overdraft is larger than my annual salary?’
After a long pause, Declan had growled: ‘Then I suggest you get a better job.’
Feeling he had scored a cheap point, Declan, a sweet man, had sought comfort by dropping in on Taggie, to find her out for dinner. Rupert was at Windsor, so Declan had several drinks with Gala, who was dogsitting.
It was another exquisite evening out on the terrace. The air was heavy with meadowsweet, Traveller’s Joy rioted primrose-yellow over the hedgerows, green fields turning gold formed little triangles between gaps in the darkening treetops. Except for cooing pigeons the birds had fallen silent. The dogs sought shade and panted. Declan liked Gala very much, but suspected, having seen the clinch on Saturday, she was dangerously drawn to Rupert.
‘No grandchildren?’ he asked.
‘No, for once. Everyone uses Taggie as a hotel, although her food’s much better. She’s so kind she never says no to anyone. How’s your book going?’
‘Backwards,’ sighed Declan. ‘It’s on Irish literature. It’s a terrible confession, but I’m so bored with it.’
Then, unable to resist talking about Rupert, Gala asked: ‘Were you pleased when Rupert and Taggie got married?’
‘Yes. When we battled for and won the Venturer contract together I got to know him really well.’
‘Must be difficult,’ Gala was fishing, ‘for such a ravishingly attractive man to stay faithful when he’s away so much. So many beautiful women hang around the racing circuit and descend on him in droves.’
Declan laughed. ‘He’s always been lethally attractive. I’m amazed the entire Pony Club hasn’t come out of the woodwork and sued him for not sexually abusing them. My wife Maud was bats about him. He fucked for England,’ Declan refilled their glasses, ‘before and during his first marriage. Helen’s a pain in the arse, but he did give her a hard time.’
‘She’s convinced he’s still in love with her,’ said Gala, ‘and that explains his animosity.’
‘I’ve never subscribed to that “who never loves, that hated not at first sight” theory,’ reflected Declan. ‘Then he met Taggie, who was desperately insecure, dyslexic, never been able to read well, brother and sister both very clever and beautiful. But Taggie was like a gentle giraffe – she touched his heart. She was eighteen years younger than him but so vulnerable; he fell madly in love with her. For months he fought it, then, although he knew Taggie adored him, in one of the few sacrifices,’ Declan smiled, ‘of a pretty selfish life, refusing, as he said, “to foist his utterly bloody promiscuous nature on her”, he fled to America, but after a week was unable to stay away.
‘On his return, Taggie surprised him at the airport, declaring her love, and the rest is very happily married history. In The Faerie Queene, Una tames the fierce lion by sheer goodness. I think Rupert feels with Taggie as he did with Billy Lloyd-Foxe, that her loving him is a kind of reference that he can’t be that much of a shit. His very, very disguised insecurity,’ Declan bent to stroke Forester, ‘I think stems from multiple married parents and a succession of indifferent and antagonistic stepfathers and stepmothers. Old Eddie’s not particularly fond of Rupert. Just take, take, take. Never says thank you. Born in Scorpio, that most jealous passionate sign, Rupert is terrified of losing Taggie and going back to the anarchy of his old life, like Othello’s chaos coming again.
‘He is insanely jealous. Never got over Malise Gordon preferring Jake Lovell to him. He also had a perfectly frightful owner called Shade Murchieson, who had twenty horses and made a pass at Taggie. Roving Mike sneaked to Rupert, who told Shade to fuck off on the gallops, then loaded up all Shade’s horses and dumped them outside Shade’s office in St James’s Square. Never, ever underestimate his jealousy.’
‘Gosh,’ sighed Gala. ‘You are warning me off, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Declan. ‘The marriage is proof of a marriage working and gives security to so many people, staff, family, friends and each other.’
Declan’s gorgeous voice, deep, husky and Irish, softened everything he said.
‘I wish you were twenty years younger,’ said Gala.
‘Where’s Taggie?’ asked Declan.
‘Gone out to dinner with Jan.’ Gala burst out laughing. ‘He caused lots of talk bidding £750 for dinner with her at the village fete. And he picked the night Rupert’s away at Windsor. Are you going to warn Jan to back off as well?’ She’d had too many glasses of red.
Then, as Declan looked at her: ‘If Rupert’s jealous like Othello, Jan’s Iago,’ she said. ‘He’s much keener on Taggie than he is on Rupert.’
‘You don’t like him?’
Gala shrugged. ‘He tries to be all things to all men, but not dogs – he beat up Gropius once. He can be very kind. He tracked down lots of pictures of my husband Ben, because I lost them all in the fire in Zimbabwe. And he’s very good at his job and a huge help to Taggie – for her, it must be suddenly like having wheels to help you pull along a huge suitcase – but he acts as though he owns the place. Rupert can’t stand him.’
Seeing the bottle was empty, Bao brought them out another one and some pâté on toast.
‘Thanks, Bao, I need that to stop me getting completely indiscreet. He is such a sweet boy,’ confided Gala when he’d gone, then taking a deep breath: ‘Because some Chinese mafia warlord in Zimbabwe took out my husband and destroyed everything I loved, I was vile to Bao when he arrived, but he’s so good-hearted. He was even brave enough to ring up Rupert in Singapore and tell him he’d forgotten Taggie’s birthday.’
‘What was the name of the mafia warlord?’ asked Declan.
‘Wang. Zixin is his Christian name. He’s got houses in Beijing and Zimbabwe.
’
‘I’ll check him out,’ said Declan, noticing how much she was suddenly trembling, then wondered if Wang was actually the cause, as Rupert’s helicopter came chugging through wisps of clouds turned salmon-pink in the sunset.
‘Goodness, he’s back early. He’s not expected till tomorrow.’
Believing Rupert was spending the night in London, Taggie had guiltily put on Bao’s leopardskin dress, fluffed up her shining clean hair, taken great care with her make-up, drenched herself in Eau de Mandarine, her new birthday scent, and looked so gorgeous, all the diners at Calcot Manor clocked that Mrs Campbell-Black was dining out with a man much younger than, and almost as good-looking as, her husband.
Realizing how shy and nervous she was, Jan immediately ordered a bottle of Sancerre.
‘You’ll have to drink most of it, mam, as I’m driving, and I’m going to sit opposite you, so I can really gaze for a change. You look so beautiful.’
They were dining in the conservatory with lilies everywhere and a lovely view of the garden. Knowing she’d have trouble reading the menu, which was full of delicious refinements like truffle-mashed potato, quails’ egg and fig dressing and seared turbot with bacon, Jan chose her a starter of crab mayonnaise.
‘Then why don’t we share salmon en croute with a champagne and caviar sauce?’
The only problem was that carers, worried about abandoning their clients, eat very fast, and Jan had wolfed two thirds of the salmon en croute, before Taggie confessed she was full up after a couple of spoonfuls.
‘I’m so sorry, such a waste.’
‘I’ll finish it up, mam, and we’re going to share a sweet.’
Only halfway through a mouth-watering passion fruit and banana soufflé with mango sorbet did Taggie realize they were using the same spoon, and he was feeding her.
‘Do you miss South Africa?’ she asked.
‘Not when I’m with you, and I don’t miss the danger. There’ve been three murders in our area this week. And people broke in to my father’s barn and smashed all the windows. The police won’t do anything about it. My father knows who the thieves are. They’ll even hail him in the street.’
‘How awful.’
‘They only attack during a full moon because car lights turned on would give them away. I worry about my kids. It’s a strange country. Black police tend to be lenient with blacks but when I applied for a new passport before coming to England, black queues were going twice round the building, but the white passport lady gave me a stamped one straight away.’
‘You must miss your children so much.’
Jan shrugged. ‘I married to please my parents, and give them grandchildren to boast about at the golf club and bridge parties.’ He felt guilty, he added, about his wife, Matilda.
‘Did she marry again?’
Jan shook his head. ‘That’s why I’ve got to support her.’
Taggie felt bad that he’d blued so much on the auction and now on dinner. She’d also had three glasses of Sancerre.
‘Marcus, Rupert’s son, has got a lovely boyfriend. Do you think …’ then went crimson as Jan took her hand, caressing the inside of her wrist with his fingers.
‘I’m feeling less gay by the day, mam.’
The other diners, many of whom had seen pictures of Rupert and Gala’s clinch after the King George, were utterly riveted.
‘You must bring your children over for a long visit,’ said Taggie.
‘I don’t think Mr Campbell-Black would like that very much.’
Any more than Rupert liked getting home from Windsor to find his wife out to dinner with Jan. Particularly when he then picked up a call from Helen to thank Taggie for the weekend; predictably, she told him about Jan’s massive bid for dinner with Taggie.
‘The vicar was so delighted. It’s so nice too, for Taggie to have someone her own age who can talk about something other than horses.’
If his father-in-law hadn’t been there, Rupert would have been tempted to sweep Gala out to dinner. Instead he worked himself up into a fury with Taggie, who had refused to come to the King George for the most important race of Quickly’s life, but could find time to go out on the toot with Jan. But when she came home, she looked so bloody gorgeous, he couldn’t resist taking her to bed instead.
As a result, he liked Jan even less, and clocking that Jan didn’t like Bao, deliberately cultivated the boy, taking him shooting on August the twelfth, where Bao shot everything out of the sky.
Meanwhile, Cupid continued to fire arrows at Penscombe. Taggie couldn’t sleep the night following the dinner at Calcot Manor. Rupert was away again and she couldn’t stop wondering if Jan would have kissed her on the way home, if he hadn’t seen the Green Galloper parked in the field. Suddenly she heard Old Eddie’s bell, and leaping out of bed in her short pink nightgown, met Jan on the landing just in pyjama bottoms. As they rushed to attend to Eddie, Taggie noticed Jan’s sleek brown shoulders only flawed by a scar from a crocodile bite.
Eddie then grumbled that he’d been looking everywhere for a VD called Horny Housewives.
You’ve got one here, thought appalled yet amused Taggie.
As she and Jan tucked Eddie back in bed, their hands brushed, and as Jan’s crept upwards to stroke her face, Taggie couldn’t stop herself kissing his fingers.
‘When am I going home?’ asked Eddie, putting a hand on Taggie’s breast.
‘You are home, sir,’ said Jan, removing it.
‘Lovely girl, give me a kiss.’
Pecking him on the forehead, Taggie stumbled back to bed, past the nude of Rupert on the landing. A moment later, Jan knocked on the door.
‘I know you’re married, but I want to tell you you’re the sweetest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.’
‘Oh gosh, thank you, but we truly mustn’t,’ stammered Taggie, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed when Jan smiled regretfully, said OK and went back to his room. Out of the window she could see a fox, silver in the moonlight, wolfing the badgers’ food.
A week later, getting out of the bath, she discovered a peacock butterfly fluttering dangerously near a light bulb and managed to cup it in her hands. Unable to dress or cover herself up, she ran downstairs to release it out of the front door. ‘There, darling.’
Returning, she went slap into a laughing Jan, holding out her white dressing gown.
‘I w-w-was just setting it free.’
‘If I were a butterfly, mam,’ Jan whispered, ‘I’d rather stay in your room than be turfed out into the cold.’
57
September approached. The willows were already streaked with yellow. The sun shone golden instead of silver, particularly in the early mornings, and the moon grew larger. Rupert’s ailing chestnut avenue was turning a warm brown, his beechwoods tinged with orange. The constellation Pegasus reared out of the east as Quickly, coached by Gav, was rearing out of the starting stalls. All Rupert’s horses in fact were flying.
Ahead lay the gilded highway of the richest races: the St Leger, the Arc, the Champion Stakes at Ascot, the Melbourne Cup, Breeders’ Cup in America, on to Japan and Hong Kong, leading to Dubai and the World Cup in March – opportunity knocking for Love Rat’s children, chasing each other down the corridors of the world with a real chance at last to topple Roberto’s Revenge.
The St Leger, oldest and longest of the classics, held at Doncaster, drew near. Although the Triple Crown had eluded Quickly, Rupert was hell bent on emulating Rupert Black and Third Leopard and nailing the race.
Dora, back from a summer in France, where Paris was still filming Le Rouge et Le Noir, was intoxicated by a wonderful PR opportunity. She promptly concocted a press release, reproducing Stubbs’ portrait of the divinely handsome Rupert Black alongside equally glamorous photographs of Rupert and Young Eddie. She then pointed out that 230 years ago, Rupert’s ancestor had triumphed in the Leger with mighty Third Leopard, who became Leading Sire for years afterwards. Now it was Master Quickly’s chance to repeat his
tory, and carry Rupert Black’s descendants to victory.
‘What a story,’ she crowed to Taggie who was making moussaka in the kitchen for another descending horde of grandchildren. ‘And Channel Four are interested in making a feature film. Paris can play both Ruperts and Young Eddie; he’s the only actor handsome enough.’
‘Have you run this past Rupert?’ asked Taggie in alarm.
‘He’ll love it – you know how privately knocked out he was when Alastair Down described him as one of the greatest riders of all time. Now he can prove he’s as good a trainer as Rupert Black.’
‘Fuck!’ exploded Jan, who never swore, but had cut himself chopping aubergines.
‘I hope the Stubbs doesn’t get stolen,’ sighed Taggie.
Publicity opportunities grew even better for Dora. On the first day of the Leger’s meeting, a Legends charity race was held in which stars of the past would compete not only to win but to see who could raise the most money for charity. The competitors were chiefly ex-flat and jump jockeys, but Rupert was such a crowd puller, the organizers begged him to take part.
Learning Isa Lovell was entered, Rupert’s competitive streak was aroused. In a weak moment – after all, Billy had died of cancer – he agreed to take part. Instantly he regretted it, as the fundraisers weighed in, led by Etta’s perfectly dreadful son Martin who, unannounced, barged into his office.
‘Congrats on riding in the Legends race, Rupe! What charity are you supporting?’ shouted Martin over the furiously barking dogs.
‘Cancer,’ snarled Rupert. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Cancer’s excellent, perfect for your image. Just give me the names of all the wealthy folk you know. I’ll message them for sponsorship, and they can follow you on your dedicated website, which’ll be even better for your image.’
‘Get out,’ howled Rupert. ‘Out!’
Next moment, Weatherbys Stallion Book flew through the air, far faster than any of the stallions it featured, missing Martin’s left ear by inches.