Polo (83 page)

    `Well, at least let me draw a tiara on her bush. She's going hammer and hot tongs for David Waterlane at the moment.'

    `He kept ringing for her,' said Daisy. `At first I thought it was you using a false name.'

    She shivered and shut the window. `I must go and get dressed.'

    `Why bother?' Drew refilled her glass. `I'd forgotten how beautiful you are.'

    `Evidently,' said Daisy, unable to keep the acid out of her voice. Was Sharon amazing in bed?'

    Drew shrugged. `I wouldn't know. You know my heart belongs to you.'

    `My true love hath my heart, and I have about one twentieth of his,' said Daisy, and buoyed up by champagne, told him about Sukey's visit.

    `That's a pack of lies,' said Drew, gazing into her eyes with that unshiftingly honest look that convinced Daisy he wasn't telling the truth. `I promise you. I can only assume she got wind of us and decided to spin a story like that to put the boot in.'

    `Sukey isn't that subtle or conniving,' said Daisy. `Shewas absolutely devastated, and so touchingly grateful that I'd listened to her, I felt an absolute bitch.'

    `Honestly, don't,' begged Drew, starting to laugh. `And as for that ludicrous fantasy about Bibi Alderton. That consisted of one lunch at the Four Seasons in New York. Christ, the food's good! Bibi started crying about Angel. I put my arm round her to comfort her and unfortunately we were seen by Sukey's most indiscreet chum, who leapt for the telephone. The only woman I've ever adored since I was married, probably ever, is you.'

    `What about all those valentines?'

    `I can't help it if people send me valentines. I bet Red Alderton gets them by the sack. Catch!' He threw the half-f bottle at her. Stretching out both hands, Daisy fumblingly caught it, spilling champagne all over her breasts. The dark green towel slid to the floor.

    `God, you're pretty.' Drew moved forward. `You're the one who should be on Page Three.'

    Daisy didn't believe a word Drew had said about Bibi, but she was so suicidal over Ricky, and Drew looked so handsome, and it felt so nice having the champagne licked off her breasts and it was such a relief for a change being caught bathed and shaven and with clean hair that they ended up in bed.

    Having supervised the packing of everything for the horses, having started packing for himself, trying to avoid Little Chef's reproachful gaze, and suddenly feeling like a small boy about to go back to prep school, Ricky decided to drop in on Daisy. Ethel didn't even bark because she knew him so well.

    Finding Drew's car outside and a three-quarters empty bottle of Moat on the kitchen table and two of Ethel's puppies joyfully demolishing one of Drew's shoes, Ricky drove off in a fury.

    An hour later Drew rolled up asking if he could borrow a pair of shoes.

    `Talk about being caught on the hop,' he said, hopping after Ricky into the kitchen.

    Ricky slammed the kitchen door and shut the window so that the grooms, who had been amazed by the foulness of his temper for the last hour, couldn't listen in.

    `How long have you been screwing Daisy?'

    `I don't see what the hell it's got to do with you,' said

    Drew calmly.

    `I am her landlord.'

    `She's at least six years older than you. She can do what

    she likes, Dick.'

    `Don't call me that,' howled Ricky. `Daisy had a bloody

    awful marriage. She's just getting over it and getting her career together. The 1-1-last thing she needs is some holein-the-corner affair which could easily end in a m-m-messy

    divorce. She needs a proper relationship.'

    `Relationships that pass in the night,' sighed Drew. `Don't be fucking frivolous. With someone who's free to

    look after her.'

    `Like you I suppose. I've always thought you had the

    hots for her.'

    `I have not,' said Ricky coldly.

    `Oh, we all know your heart belongs irrevocably to

    Chessie, so stop snarling like a guard dog in the manger

    and give me a drink.'

    Little Chef whined querulously, unnerved by the shout

    ing. A new moon the colour of unsalted butter was untangling itself from the racing-fox weathercock over the stables. Furiously clashing decanters, Ricky asked how long it had been going on.

    `Nearly three years.'

    `Three years,' said Ricky, utterly aghast. `How often

    d'you see her?'

    `Whenever I can get away from Sukey and Daisy's bloody

    children aren't hanging around murdering each other. No

    ice, please.'

    `You're a disgrace,' roared Ricky. `No, not you boy,'

    he added, gently stooping to stroke Little Chef who was

    shivering with terror.

    `It's absolutely no business of yours,' protested Drew. `I only happen to be captaining the Westchester team -

    thank Christ I dropped you. I would now, if I hadn't - in which Daisy's daughter may well have to play. Perdita's

    impossibly near the edge at the moment. She's never been able to accept Daisy's sexuality. If she finds out about you

    two, she'll go through the roof.'

    `The leaking roof,' corrected Drew. `You should reallyfix that before winter comes, particularly in the bedroom. Talk about raindrops falling on one's cock.'

    `Stop taking the piss,' yelled Ricky. `You ought to pack her in. It can't lead anywhere.'

    `It's not meant to. I can't divorce Sukey. That dog must be the father of Ethel's puppies. It just gives Daisy and me an enormous… ' he lingered over the word mockingly, `amount of pleasure, and you've completely drowned that whisky. Christ, it's worse getting a drink here than the bar at the club.'

    `What happens if Sukey finds out?'

    `She won't if you lend me a pair of shoes.'

    `I hope they cripple you,' snarled Ricky.

    He was insane with rage, but he decided not to say anything to Daisy, who somehow managed not to cry when she and Little Chef bade him and Perdita goodbye and good luck the following morning. Just as they were leaving, Perdita ran back and hugged her mother tightly.

    `I love you, Mum. I'm sorry I've been such a bitch.'

    But, as the car crunched away over the conkers and acorns that littered the drive, Daisy didn't think she'd ever been more unhappy.

    `I wish we could climb into his suitcase and go too,' she said to a drooping, desolate Little Chef. `You could nip Chessie's perfect ankles for me.'

    Five minutes after they'd gone a truck rolled up and out jumped one of Ricky's gardeners.

    `Mr France-Lynch said you were nearly out of logs, so I've brought you another load.'

    Then Daisy really did go upstairs and cry. If only it were Ricky not his logs keeping her warm. Please God, she prayed, I'm sorry to be so indecisive. I know I asked you to get me over Drew, and you did. Now could you please get me over Ricky.

72

    From the moment she landed in California, Perdita had felt like a patient waiting for the morphine to wear off and the serious, unbearable pain to take over. In England she had been numb with shock. Now the certainty that Red

    would swan in at any moment had reduced her to crawling, churning, hepped-up, bowel-opening panic.

    She found herself leaving half-drunk cups of coffee and glasses of Perrier everywhere, starting sentences, forgetting what she was going to say, asking questions and not being able to take in the answer, putting on deodorant twice or not at all, fussing around trying on a hundred T-shirts before she went out, jumping out of her skin everytime she saw a red-headed man or a red Ferrari.

    In fact, she had a three-week wait because the prick-teasing American Polo Association refused to announce the team until the eve of the first match. Their ponies had arrived, however, and were evidence that Bart had snapped up every Best Playing Pony in North and South America. Never had a US team been better mounted.

    The English were pleased to find their own ponies in excellent spirits after their rest. Under Rupert's supervision they had been slowly put to work and were now fully acclimatized to the dry, desert heat which soared into the nineties in the afternoon. With the grooms watching like hawks for dehydration, they had also adjusted to different hay, grain and water. Perdita had to hand it to Rupert. Never had England taken the field with a fitter team of ponies.

    All the ponies were stabled at Eldorado Polo Club where the Westchester was being staged. It was a friendly, homely place with palms, orange groves and a little wooden clubhouse where no-one minded you putting your boots on the table. The polo, on the other hand, was so good that members jetted in at weekends from Calgary and New York and movie stars drove down in their hordes from LA. Surrounded by mountains, the Club was set in an oasis of green polo grounds hewn out of the desert.

    The American team were booked into La Quinta Hotel which had a golf course and tennis courts, fifteen miles drive from the polo ground. Rupert, insisting on a strict policy of non-fraternization and particularly not wanting Chessie to wind up Ricky, was determined to keep the teams apart and had rented a condominium on the Quinta estate, but well away from the hotel.

    A little, pink-roofed, white-walled house, it was called the Villa Victoria, which they all hoped would be symbolic.

    Reached through lush avenues of brilliantly coloured hibiscus and bougainvillaea, it had a jacuzzi, a swimming-pool, a garden filled with stephanotis, orange and lemon trees and overlooked a beautifully landscaped golf course, interspersed with palm trees and lakes, which was caressed all day with sprinklers. To Perdita it was beautiful, but as totally unreal as a Hollywood set.

    There was plenty to do, though. The fresh, dry, desert air and the mountains were very invigorating and encouraged them to get up at six to jog, play tennis and work the ponies. The twins played endless golf with Ricky and Mike Waterlane to sharpen up their concentration and help them relax. Rupert was frantically dealing with sponsors and television networks. Taggie kept herself amused cooking for everyone. The wonderfully friendly Californians invited them to dinner parties and barbecues and all Ricky's old movie-star pupils, whom he'd coached in Palm Springs the first winter after he'd come out of prison, rang up and invited them to parties in Beverly Hills and took them on trips to Disneyland and round Hollywood. The twins were in their element. Mike Waterlane, on the other hand, who got frightfully excited by all the beautiful girls and then didn't know what to do with them, wasn't sleeping and was getting increasingly terrified about the first match.

    Ricky, too, was becoming increasingly edgy. Usually he went into himself twenty-four hours before a game. Twenty-one days to wait was much too long. It all boiled up in a blazing row in which he tried to persuade Rupert to be less bloody to Perdita. Taggie, when Rupert eventually came spitting to bed, had more effect. `She's so desperate for your approval, Rupert, and trying so hard to behave and be brave about Red. If you could just be a bit gentler with her.'

    So Rupert had stopped bitching at Perdita and merely ignored her.

    The media, of course, were everywhere - the freedom of the press extended even to the manger. Each time Perdita put a foot outside the door, or ventured down to the stables, a notebook, a camera or a microphone would be stuck into her face. How was she getting on with Rupert? What did she feel about seeing Red? How much more weight was she

    going to lose? Was she quite sure she wasn't anorexic?

    On the eve of the first match she took refuge in Spotty's box. The ponies were restless and excited, knowing something was up after their long, long wait. Poor Spotty so loved showing off to the crowd, but, as Perdita was only reserve, he probably wouldn't get a chance to play at all. Rupert had flown to New York for the day and Perdita was surreptitiously sneaking him a packet of Polos when a car drove up in a cloud of dust. Terrified it might be Rupert, who'd smell peppermint and catch Spotty crunching, Perdita shot out of his box only to find Ricky looking boot-faced.

    `The Americans have announced their team.'

    `What is it?' croaked Perdita, feeling as if the cloud of dust had blown straight down her throat.

    `Ben, Angel, Red,' said Ricky.

    Oh, thank God, thought Perdita, I'll see him again.

    `But they've dropped Shark and put Luke in instead,' went on Ricky. If Luke had been tuning up all the American ponies, he was thinking bleakly, they'd be unbeatable tomorrow.

    `Oh, how wonderful!' Perdita was overjoyed. `How wonderful for Luke!'

    A pungent waft of sweet scent from the nearby orange grove reminded her poignantly of that day at Bart's barn when Luke had first introduced her to Red. How comforting if he were there tomorrow to hold her hand when she saw Red again.

    Another perfect afternoon followed next day with a gentian-blue sky arched over a field of bouncy, jade-green Bermuda grass. As the crowd poured into Eldorado Polo Club from all over the world, Perdita had never seen more ravishing sunkissed blondes in shorts and sundresses, or more handsome healthy-looking men. Here was polo at its most relaxed and friendly. Yet beyond the mountains, which ringed the oasis like wrinkled, sleeping elephants, lay the desert where coyotes and rattlesnakes lurked, where dust devils swirled round the creosote bushes and Jacob trees held up their strange, spiky branches like hands praying for an American victory.

    In the pony lines Rupert was winding up his final pep-talk. `All that matters is marking. You've got to unnervethem early on.' Then, turning to Perdita, who was sweating in breeches, boots and her dark blue England shirt, `Don't think you've got the afternoon off, duckie. Your job is to watch your eyes out, assessing every American pony and player, and I don't just mean Red Alderton.'

    Perdita went scarlet.

    `Talk of the devil,' said Seb. `Ouch,' he yelled as Perdita clutched his arm.

    For a second she thought she was going to black out. For there, getting out of a brand-new, dark blue Lamborghini to a chorus of female shrieking, was Red wearing the pale amethyst American shirt which went so perfectly with his conker-red hair and his smooth, brown face. Immediately, like cats on raw liver, the press fell on him.

    `Whaaddya chances, Red?'

    `Pretty good,' drawled Red, then, catching sight of the English team, he started to laugh. `I guess the Brits aren't exactly weighed down by the responsibility of false expectations. Seeing as how they're fielding a has-been and three new caps, including Mike Waterlane, who's about as thick as a Clydesdale's dick.'

    `I say, that's a bit steep,' said Mike, going brick-red. `Don't rise,' snapped Rupert. `That's what he wants.' But Red was still wandering, smiling, towards them, as

    malicious as he was seductive.

    `I cannot imagine there's ever been an English side quite so unfancied by the bookies,' he told the battling, frenzied swarm of reporters. Was it necessary to underplay your hand quite so obviously, Ricky? And hi, Rupert.' Another flash of white teeth beneath the coldly calculating, fox-brown eyes. `I'm surprised you're not wearing your paternity suit. I hope you've got a hot line to the BPA because re-inforcements are sure going to be needed.'

    Motionless, the English team watched him. The press were writing avidly, adoring every moment, shoved by television and radio reporters desperate to get their mikes within earshot.

    `Any message for Perdita?' yelled the
Sun.

    `Oh, there you are, Perdita darling,' Red's voice softened. `I couldn't see you for assholes. You're looking good. Your new Daddy must certainly have pulled every string to get
you
on the team.'

    Stung and humiliated, Perdita stumbled away, frantically rubbing away the tears.

    `I've nothing to say,' she howled to the swarm of reporters. `Leave me alone.'

    Then, suddenly, ahead of her she saw a big, blond man with blacksmith's shoulders and lean, cowboy hips moving down the American pony lines, checking tack and bandages, joking with the grooms, outwardly utterly relaxed, • keeping his fears to himself.

    `Luke,' called out Perdita desperately.

    Swinging round, catching sight of her tearful, anguished face, he was beside her in an instant. His sheer size made the reporters back off.

    `I'm really sorry about Tero,' were his first words. `It blew me away when Red told me.'

    She had remembered him slumped with pain, green-faced, pouring with sweat. Now his hair was bleached the colour of faded bracken, and freckles merged in his suntanned face. Pale amethyst wasn't the best colour for him, but he looked great, and Perdita thought once again what a lovely open, generous face he had.

    `I'm sorry about Fantasma,' she stammered. `Have you heard how she is?'

    Just for a second the pain flickered in his eyes.

    `She's fine,' he said firmly. `Winning a lot of matches for Alejandro.'

    `Luke,' yelled Bart impatiently, `For Chrissake, stop yakking. Come and take a look at this fetlock.'

    `I gotta go,' said Luke.

    `Good luck,' whispered Perdita.

    The press surged forwards. `How was Red? Any chance of a reconciliation?'

    Perdita had behaved well for too long. `Why don't all you bastards fuck off?' she screamed.

    She was further jolted when she climbed up into the packed stands to the seat Taggie had kept for her and found herself knocked backwards by a huge, juddering, black, rubber bullet. It was Leroy who'd slipped his lead and, bashing his tail back and forth like a hooked salmon, was frantically licking her face.

    `Oh, darling,' she moaned, clutching his wonderfully solid body. Then, on his forehead she breathed in a scent,sharp, sophisticated with musky overtones which unsettled her far more than the waft of orange blossom had yesterday. She got a sudden vision of Luke in hospital doubled up with pain.

    `Leroy, you're incorrigible,' said a cool voice. `If you're going to assault the opposition, you'll have to stay in the truck.' Perdita found herself looking up into the lean, olive-skinned face of Margie Bridgwater, the beautiful girl who'd been sitting on Luke's bed in hospital. She was wearing white jeans, loafers and a red shirt and the brilliant sunshine bounced joyfully off her blue-black hair.

    `Hi, Perdita,' she said drily. `Congratulations on making the team.'

    `Thanks,' muttered Perdita, collapsing beside Taggie.

    `Yes, congratulations, Perdita,' called Chessie and Bibi, who were sitting above Margie, both looking thoroughly over-excited.

    `I do hope you win,' added Chessie in a much-too-audible whisper. `I'm knocked out Luke's been picked,' she added to Margie. `About bloody time.'

    `What's Luke doing now?' asked Bobby Ferraro's wife.

    `Running a green pony clinic in Florida,' said Margie proudly. `He's managed to pay off all his debts. That sonof-a-bitch Hal Peters has run away to Chile so he can't be extradited.'

    `I'd have helped Luke out if I'd known,' said Chessie, `but he's so proud he never told anyone until it was too late. Where are you staying?'

    `Luke hates hotels because they won't take Leroy,' said Margie, stroking Leroy's panting shiny head, `so we've rented a condo.'

    `He's so lovely, Luke,' said Chessie.

    `Why d'you think I'm with him?' said Margie.

    Looking down, Perdita found her nails had drawn blood in the palm of one hand. How dare they discuss Luke as if he was a new biography they were all enjoying?

    `Oh, look,' said Taggie, as a burst of band music echoed round the mountains. `Here come the teams.'

    The first match, as Red and the entire polo world had predicted, was a massacre. From the moment Bob Hope threw in the ball from the back of a Cadillac, Ricky knew it would be a tough game and that he, as the most dangerous

    player in the English team, would take the punishment. For six chukkas it seemed the Americans took positive pleasure in harassing the hell out of him. Particularly violent whenever he got the chance was Red, who seemed less interested in scoring, which he should have been doing from the number two position, than in paralysing Ricky. Time and again Ricky found himself forced off the ball, crushed between the explosive, unpredictable Angel and the sleek, viciously smiling Red, who jabbed his elbows into Ricky's ribs as though he intended to puncture his heart.