Jilly Cooper - Riders

“Telephone,” she snapped. “Person says it’s an emergency. Can’t see how it can be.”

Helen sighed; it must be Nigel. Perhaps he’d been arrested and needed bailing out, or was grumbling because Paul had driven off without him. At least he couldn’t accuse her of getting off with Paul.

In the telephone booth someone had left a copy of Lorca. Helen picked up the receiver: “Hello.”

“May I speak to Helen Macaulay,” said a voice. She’d recognize that clipped, light drawl anywhere. Her palms went damp, her knees turned to jelly.

“This is she.”

“Well, this is the enemy speaking — Rupert Campbell-Black.”

“How did you get my number?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Is Nigel all right?”

“As right as he ever could be. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Going to church in the morning.”

In the background she could hear the sounds of music and revelry.

“Shut up, you maniacs,” yelled Rupert. “Look, I’ll take you to church, then I’ll give you lunch. I’ll pick you up at half-past ten.”

She liked the way he pronounced it: “H’pp’st’n.”

Oblivious to the continued grumbling of the head of the hostel, who was still hovering in the hall, Helen fled upstairs to her room and rushed to the mirror, just to reassure herself that she was still there and that such a thing could have happened.

“He called,” she whispered, “he really called.”

With all those girls chasing after him, he’d bothered to get her phone number from Nigel. Then she buried her face in the primroses, breathing in their faint sweet smell, before collapsing onto the bed.

She must pull herself together. Rupert was a terrible rake, who attracted females far too effortlessly, no doubt leaving a trail of destruction in his wake, like Macheath. And what about the dreadful sexist things he’d said to Maureen, and what about married Gabriella, with whom he’d vanished for two hours at the ball? Perhaps she shouldn’t go; her heart hadn’t mended after Harold Mountjoy; a second break would be far more difficult to repair. But the thought of not seeing him made her faint with horror. She felt quite out of control, swept along like a branch chucked into a raging torrent.

Besides, there was no way she could get in touch with him to say she had changed her mind; and would she ever be any good as a writer if she didn’t experience life?

It had been a very long day. If she didn’t want black circles under bug eyes the next morning, she ought to get some sleep, but instead she sat down at her typewriter and covered six pages of foolscap describing the day. These she slotted into a folder marked “England 1973.” Then she cleaned her teeth for two minutes, using dental floss between each tooth, and sank to her knees to say her prayers. A convinced conservationist who believed in husbanding nature’s resources, she was horrified, when she got to her feet, to see that she’d left the tap running.

She woke in wild excitement. But elation soon gave way to panic as clothes littered the normally tidy room.

On and off, and on and off went the gray angora dress, which went best with her hair, but might be too hot if they went to a crowded restaurant. On and off went the crocus yellow silk shirt which brought out the color of her eyes, but, worn with a gray suit, made her look too much like an efficient secretary. The rust suit was too autumnal, the steel blue wool dress was lovely, but she was perspiring so much with nerves she might have great embarrassing dark circles under the arms. Finally she settled for the kilt and matching beret and green velvet coat she had bought from the Scotch House, worn with a frilly white shirt.

Then, what about makeup? She knew you shouldn’t wear much for church, but too much for God would be too little for Rupert. Really, it was very hard dressing for both, like having God and the Devil to dinner. Perfume was wrong for church, too Delilah-ish, so she settled for pouring half a bottle of cologne over herself instead. Much against her principles, she’d taken one of the tranquilizers she’d been given when she split up with Harold Mountjoy. It was having no effect at all. When she found herself rubbing deodorant into her cheeks and moisturizer under her arms, she realized she was really over the top.

She was ready by ten-fifteen, waiting in the dark polished hall. Various dowdy lady academics were milling around, getting ready for outings to museums or galleries. If only one of them would tell her she looked nice; but lady academics don’t notice such trivialities.

She took a surreptitious glance in the full-length mirror and suddenly decided that she looked ludicrous in the matching tartan beret and kilt, just like an air hostess. Racing upstairs, she changed back into the gray angora dress. Oh God, there was lipstick on it. She covered the mark with a pearl brooch, which looked ridiculous just above her left nipple. Her newly washed hair was all over the place from so much dressing and undressing. She rammed it down with a gray velvet hairband.

She couldn’t stop shaking. It was now twenty-five to eleven. At first the minutes crawled by, then they started to gallop. He couldn’t be coming; it was ten-fifty. Perhaps she’d heard him wrong, but she was sure he’d said half-past ten. She tried to read a long analysis of the Watergate crisis in the Sunday Times, but the words kept blurring, so she gave up and gazed at some horrible shocking pink hyacinths that were twitching outside in the cold wind.

Perhaps, in her state of cardiac arrest, she’d given him the wrong directions to Regina House, saying left when she meant right. It was two minutes to eleven; she musn’t cry, it would make her mascara run, but what did it matter when he obviously wasn’t coming anyway? It was just some diabolical plot to raise her hopes and then dump on her from a great height because she was part of the saboteurs.

The club secretary had just pinned the lunchtime menu on the board and several of the inmates surged forward, trying not to look too eager, watering at the mouth at the prospect of roast beef and treacle pudding to liven up their uneventful lives. In utter despair, fighting back the tears, Helen turned to stumble upstairs, but just as the hall grandfather clock struck eleven the front door pushed open and Rubert walked in, coming towards her with that lovely loping athlete’s stride. Unlike most people, he didn’t automatically lower his voice when he entered an institution.

“Darling, darling, I’m desperately sorry. I had to look at a horse in Newbury on the way up; the traffic was frightful,” he lied. “Are you all right? Did you think I wasn’t coming?”

He walked up to her and, taking her hand, kissed her on the cheek.

Helen gazed up at him, unable to get a word out. Overnight, she’d changed him, in his red coat, into some kind of devil, and here he was turning up, looking just the sort of preppy young man of whom her parents would approve. The severity of the impeccably cut dark suit, striped shirt, and blue tie only served to set off the dazzling good looks. A shaft of pale sunlight coming through the window gilded the smooth blond hair. It was as though a light had been turned on in the dark hall. Even the dingy academics gathered around the notice board changed the object of the salivating, gazing at him unashamedly.

“You want to go to church, don’t you?”

Helen nodded, still speechless.

“Well, it’s not too late. We’ll probably miss the B-film and the ads, but get in for the big picture,” he said, putting his arm through hers.

“I’ve never been to Hammersmith before,” he said, opening the car door for her.

“It’s a fascinating ethnic cross section,” said Helen earnestly.