Mount! (59 page)

‘I’m sick of working my butt off, and your brother wants us to get married.’ Baby spooned chocolate roulade into bowls for himself and Rupert.

‘What?’ exploded Rupert for a second time.

‘I admit he’s too old for me.’

‘Adrian’s three years younger than me.’

‘But you’re much more attractive – you ought to be playing the Duke.’

‘I know.’ They grinned at each other.

‘He wants to retire too. He’s fed up with flogging Old Masters and me singing my head off: my tiny assets are frozen. He wants us to be together and solvent.’

‘He bitterly resents Uncle Cyprian leaving me the Stubbs.’

‘He does – and he really wants us to get married.’

‘Where, for God’s sake?’

‘He’s set his heart on Cotchester Cathedral.’

‘That’s where Taggie and I got married,’ said Rupert in outrage.

‘They won’t have us. Church don’t do gay marriages so it’ll have to be some smart golf club. It’s terribly complicated,’ sighed Baby. ‘Do we come up the aisle together? And which is the bride? Does one of us get given away? Do we have bridesmaids?’

‘And what about a best man?’

‘I said I wanted Dancer Maitland as my best man and Adrian threw a hissy fit, said
he
was my best man.’ Baby giggled and helped himself to another chunk of chocolate roulade.

‘Dancer sang at our wedding,’ said Rupert. ‘He was madly in love with Ricky France-Lynch.’

Then he remembered Taggie coming up the aisle and how he’d so desperately wanted to be alone with her that he’d whisked her away from the reception even before the cake was cut. He must ring her.

‘I was hopelessly in love with Isa Lovell,’ Baby said. ‘And he’s so in with Cosmo now. You ought to get that pretty grandson out of that den of vipers. No good will come of it.’

He waved to the minion to give Rupert some more pudding wine.

‘I had better buy Dave back myself,’ said Rupert. ‘Don’t sell him to the Chinese. And I’m not sure you should marry my brother. He’s very dull.’

‘But you’ll be my sister-in-law,’ grinned Baby. ‘This wine is spectacular. Let’s hope we’ll be drinking it out of the Melbourne Cup on Tuesday night.’

Meanwhile, back at Penscombe, Taggie was going spare. The issuing of the invitations had been so cloak and dagger, and people had been so wary of ringing in to accept in case they got Rupert, that a huge number hadn’t answered at all. How could she possibly make a seating plan?

Presents, however, were beginning to pour in and Taggie was finding it impossible to keep track of them. Rupert’s friends, Basil Baddingham, Drew Benedict and Hengist Brett-Taylor, had sent him a rather good grey yearling called Jerry Hatrick.

At midnight Taggie was trying to find room for sixty candles on his cake, when Jan came into the kitchen.

‘Darling,’ he said, ‘you look shattered, go to bed.’

‘I’ve got too much to do and the Melbourne Cup’ll be on in a minute.’

‘Not until our five in the morning. I’ll wake you in plenty of time.’

Upstairs in her bed she found a hot-water bottle. No sooner had her head hit the pillow, than she was asleep.

Good as his word, Jan banged on her door half an hour before the race. Having cleaned her teeth, washed her face, put on some base, she splashed herself with Issey Florale, then washed it off again. She must behave. But Jan had called her ‘darling’ and lit a fire in the kitchen. Yawning dogs thumped their tails: what was going on? Jan then gave her a bowl of hot
stock from the venison he’d been marinating for days and insisted she sat down on the sofa. He then reported progress.

At least 300 filo pastry baskets, contained in muffin tins, had only to be filled with lemon and garlic prawns that had been tossed in melted butter. Goats’-cheese tartlets, mini-kebabs, sausage rolls and cheese puffs only needed heating up, so if Rupert were delayed, there would be enough canapés to keep everyone going.

As the choice of main course there was Beef Wellington, lamb shank encrusted with rosemary, venison and endless veg already prepared.

‘Then finally for dessert,’ said Jan, ‘we’ve got lemon meringue pie, cheesecake, sticky toffee pudding, fruit salad steeped in sloe gin, and,’ he added triumphantly, ‘because your husband went to school there, we’re having Harrow, rather than Eton Mess. We only need to add the cream and we are on course, or rather, three course.’

‘That is so brilliant.’ Taggie’s voice broke. ‘I used to try and learn a new word every day, but I could never find one good enough to thank you properly.’

For now, Jan had also made some toasties: fried cheese and tomato sandwiches tied up with string and served with some delicious mulled wine, which Rupert loathed. Taggie found she was really hungry.

As Jan turned on the television they could see musicians clad in red sitting in red armchairs, accompanying Baby Spinosissimo, Australia’s darling, singing ‘Here’s to the Heroes’ to thunderous applause and not a dry eye in the vast exuberant crowd of beautiful suntanned people.

‘I love this tune.’ Taggie sang along gruffly.

Then the camera showed the lovely racecourse in the middle of a town full of parks and wide straight roads, with the Prussian-blue sea idling in the distance, then panned in on the explosion of yellow roses swarming round the parade ring and over an archway through which the runners were being led.

‘Look at those crowds,’ sighed Taggie. ‘I hope Fleance won’t get too het-up.’

Fleance was 30–1: the Australian press had been pretty dismissive of his and Meerkat’s chances.

‘Not so Timon,’ said Jan, sitting down beside her and topping up their glasses, ‘who I found tugging out a front tooth, because he needed tooth-fairy money to bet on Fleance.’

Smelling toasted cheese, Forester wandered over and clambered on to the sofa between them with his head on Taggie’s lap, his quarters on Jan’s.

‘Forester the chaperone,’ grinned Jan. As they both stroked his silken body, their hands touched and retreated.

‘I’ve given Eddie a sleeping pill,’ he added.

‘That venison soup was heaven. You are a dear.’

‘No, the deer were dear.’

In Melbourne, the runners were coming into the paddock.

‘Oh look – there’s Lark leading up Dave. He is so like his mum, Cordelia,’ cried Taggie, ‘and Lark’s got so pretty. She was hopelessly in love with Young Eddie and led up Quickly after his first win with Eddie riding him. Eddie was so excited he whisked her upstairs to bed, missed a stewards’ enquiry and lost the race. Rupert was livid.’

‘Is he ever anything else?’

‘Rupert says she’s the best stable girl he’s ever had – adores her horses, working all hours.’

Jan ran his hand down her cheek. ‘No one works harder than you.’

Taggie tried to move her face away, but found she couldn’t. Then she jumped in guilt, as she saw Rupert in the paddock. Noticing all the women gazing at him and everyone holding up cameras, she wondered how could she possibly be married to so glamorous a man?

‘He’s not wearing his white suit,’ she said in surprise.

‘Probably doesn’t want drink spilt all over it.’

‘Probably doesn’t want to upstage Fleance.’ As a dazzlingly white Fleance sauntered into the paddock.

Leading him, falling out of a strapless flowered dress, was Marketa, who was promptly ordered by an official to cover herself up with the regulation red tunic.

A huge cheer went up as Baby, trailing an entourage of beautiful young men, arrived.

‘That’s Dave’s owner,’ explained Taggie. ‘He’s the boyfriend of Rupert’s brother Adrian. They haven’t answered the invitation to Rupert’s party. Baby’s an ex-lover of Isa Lovell, who was also a boyfriend of Tarqui.’ If Jan were really gay, she wondered, did he fancy any of them?

As Marketa led Fleance up to Rupert, who adjusted his bridle, Taggie noticed sadly yet again that he wasn’t wearing the Love Rat cufflinks on his latest lucky shirt. He must be really cross with her.

Dave was being ridden by Clay Roberts, Australia’s champion jockey, who was very good-looking. It was alleged that women’s legs opened as automatically for him as did gaps on the racecourse.

Down at the start, Meerkat was trying not to transmit his nerves to Fleance. Three minutes away, he could see sky-scrapers stabbing the bright-blue sky and the Promised Land of the stands and the winning post.

‘Look, there’s your friend Fleance,’ said Taggie, turning Forester’s brindle muzzle towards the screen.

Twenty-five rivals: French, German, American, Irish, Chinese, British, French and Australian, the best against the best hoping for the best – and they were off. Rupert had told Meerkat to track Clay Roberts and Dave, and follow them through their gaps. But Clay had changed tactics, lurking at the back, so it was hard to follow him, particularly as Fleance, upset by the ear-splitting roar of the crowd, tore off after the leaders, tiring himself, as Meerkat battled to restrain him.

Slowly, slowly Clay Roberts edged through a solid wall of horses, patiently waiting for the gap which Dave the brave now took him through, and surged away, with Meerkat and Fleance belting after them.

Hurtling side by side, Dave and Fleance drew away from the pack. Revved up by the multitudes yelling him home, Clay Roberts went berserk with his whip. But as Dave inched ahead, Meerkat knew Fleance the trier would be giving his all. During the final desperate stampede, few jockeys could have resisted
beating the hell out of his horse, but Meerkat didn’t touch Fleance, aware his gallant colt had done everything of which he was capable.

‘Come on, Fleance, come on, Dave!’ screamed Taggie.

There was such a jumble of colours, such a bellow from the crowd, they were not sure who’d won.

‘It’s Dave,’ yelled Jan, but so close, it was a photo – and a whole minute before they flagged up the placed horses. Taggie and Jan clutched each other. ‘Fleance’s second,’ shouted Jan. Taggie gave a cry of delight. Next moment, their eyes met and their clutching had blossomed into a blissful not-at-all-gay kiss, their hearts pounding louder than hooves thundering. Only a protesting groan from Forester finally parted them, as they turned back to find Meerkat and Clay Roberts shaking congratulatory hands.

Then the cameras picked up Baby, the crowd’s favourite owner, and his entourage erupting into a dance of ecstasy, hi-fiving, punching the air, all the glamorous gays taking the opportunity to hug Rupert, who’d bred first and second. Coming from first to last, Dave had won by half a length, pushing up Love Rat’s global earnings by several million.

Clay was enchanted. ‘Dave had to fight,’ he told the interviewer. ‘The pace was suicidal, exhausted a lot of horses. I’d like to say thank you to Baby, a wonderful owner, for letting me ride this wonderful horse.’

‘No wonder he gets a lot of rides,’ said Jan.

In democratic Australia, the cameras also concentrated on a joyfully sobbing Lark, racing up to Dave, hugging and kissing him, and pumping Clay’s hand until he broke off a yellow rose and handed it to her with a kiss. The crowd erupted.

‘Starp that,’ yelled Young Eddie, who had stayed up to watch the race at Valhalla.

During the endless speeches afterwards, special tributes were paid to Lark, whose birthday it was and who’d come all the way from England to work because she couldn’t bear to be parted from her beloved Dave. Lark’s radiant smile was not entirely due to being presented with a little gold horse. She’d just been
sent to heaven by a text: ‘Well done Dave and Lark, look homeward angel, all love, Eddie.’

Baby, surrounded by press, was holding up the trophy, a beautiful golden, long-stemmed, three-handled loving cup, patting his yellow curls and admiring his reflection. Then he made everyone laugh by saying he’d always admired himself, but this was the nicest mirror he’d ever had.

‘Plans for the future, Baby?’ asked the Melbourne
Age
.

‘I believe in stopping when you’re going good.’

‘Shut up,’ snarled Rupert.

Back at Penscombe, Taggie and Jan stared at the screen, trying to absorb what had happened to them. Had that magical kiss changed the world?

‘I guess I ought to walk you round for half an hour to cool you down,’ said Jan.

As hand in hand they took the dogs outside and presented a carrot to Love Rat, Leo was rising in the east to join brilliant Jupiter, Taurus lay on his side, the Pleiades shimmered. Orion was also taking his dogs for a walk above the Penscombe Road, yet no star blazed brighter than the one on Dave’s forehead.

But back home, Rupert hadn’t rung.

‘He wouldn’t want to wake me,’ said Taggie, then as Jan took her arm to lead her upstairs, she gazed up at him, overwhelmed with longing. Then, remembering that Rupert would be sixty now, and she had a vast party to orchestrate, she must try and be good. So she stammered, ‘I can’t spell the word “congratulations”, will you text him for me? “Darling Rupert. Well done, so proud of Fleance and Dave. See you later.”’ Adding firmly: ‘“Masses of love, Taggie.”’ And she reluctantly bolted upstairs.

Returning, not remotely sober, to his hotel to pack before the flight home, Rupert picked up a text from Taggie: ‘Dear Rupert, well done, Fleance and Dave, from Taggie.’

So he texted Gala: ‘Sorry I had to push off, keep yourself on ice till I get home.’

One of the joys of travelling first class with Emirates was you could have a shower on the plane, washing away jet lag and hangover before landing. Sluicing his body, Rupert reflected that even if he were sixty, he hadn’t run to fat, and there was no grey in his thick blond hair as he slicked it back from a smooth, suntanned forehead. The ebony half circles beneath bloodshot eyes, however, indicated a sleepless, churning night.

Packing his cases to fly home, he’d discovered, tucked far away in an inside pocket, two parcels: one containing seven dead leaves to give him happy days and the other, Theo Fennell’s cufflinks. Taggie must have gone to so much trouble to get the horse so like Love Rat.
Darling Rupert, I luv yoo from the bottom of my hart
, she had written on the card. He nearly wept. Extraordinary that in twenty-two years, he, the biggest ram in the world, had never been unfaithful to her until Friday night with Gala, which had been equally extraordinary. They had come and come and come until Gala had threatened to call the fire brigade. As he reached for a towel, he realized he had an enormous hard-on.