by Jilly Cooper
‘You love him, don’t you?’
‘Sure, he’s my kid brother. But I hope to Christ he gets back in time tomorrow.’
32
Red, however, did not get back in time. Perdita came in from stick and balling at midday the following morning to find Chessie had telephoned to ask her to lunch at the Players Club and then to watch the match. Perdita was livid.
‘I haven’t got anything to wear. I can’t wear shorts or a dress because my legs are so pale and I haven’t had time to shave them. And she only wants to pump me about Ricky, and I want to help you on the pony lines.’
‘I’d keep out of the way,’ advised Luke. ‘You’ll enjoy Chessie, and she needs some friends.’
Reluctantly Perdita did find herself liking Chessie. She was so unrepentantly bitchy, and even more ravishing today in pale pink Bermudas and a T-shirt to match her pale pink and perfect mouth. Perdita absolutely adored the Players Club, with its yellow and white striped awning and dark forest-green walls inside, which were covered with photographs of famous players. There were the Napiers looking thuggish, and Jesus very unholy, and Miguel and Alejandro conniving, and Juan younger before he grew his celebrated black moustache, and Bobby Ferraro and Shark Nelligan, the two great American players.
I’ll be up there one day, vowed Perdita.
‘They took Ricky’s picture down,’ said Chessie drily. ‘Probably because Bart offered them so much money.’
‘He’ll be back,’ said Perdita quickly. ‘Oh, there’s Luke.’
‘Made it for the first time this year,’ said Chessie.
They stopped in front of Luke’s photograph. He was so brown his freckles had almost joined up, and he was smiling so broadly his eyes had almost disappeared.
‘Lovely open face,’ mused Chessie. ‘And, goodness, he deserves to be up there. He works so hard, making those ponies night after night until he falls off with exhaustion. And Red just swans in and takes his pick of Bart’s ponies. I long to slip Luke the odd billion in his tea. Bart’d never notice. He spends that in a year on vets’ bills and Mrs Juan’s electrolysis.’
Perdita giggled. ‘She’s a horror, isn’t she? The umpires are more scared of her than Miguel.’
Chessie also showed Perdita the glass case full of trophies – the World Cup a towering three-foot samovar and the gold Jaipur horse on an ebony stand. Missing from its space on the green baize was the Fathers and Sons Cup to be contested in a couple of hours. Perdita wondered if Luke was getting nervous.
‘Where’s the Westchester?’ asked Perdita, without thinking.
‘Incarcerated in New York,’ said Chessie mockingly. ‘And I imagine it’s going to stay there.’
They lunched on Sancerre and lobster salad, served by beautiful blonde waitresses in dark green shirts the colour of the walls, and white shorts showing off their long, smooth, brown legs.
‘Red’s had most of them,’ said Chessie dismissively.
‘He’ll get some competition when he meets Angel,’ said Perdita. ‘Gosh, this lobster is wonderful. And the orange juice here is the best I’ve ever tasted. I had four glasses for breakfast. I went into a supermarket with Luke last night, and they were offering a free bottle of champagne for every bottle you bought.’
‘That’s Palm Beach,’ said Chessie bitterly. ‘When men get married, they offer them a free bimbo as well.’
‘Is Red really keen on Auriel?’ asked Perdita, forking up raw spinach.
‘Likes the publicity,’ said Chessie, ‘although he won’t admit it, and adores annoying his father. It’s also a wonderful coup for her. She may be the most famous forty-five year old in the world, but heterosexual men are like gold dust in America, and in Palm Beach non-existent. I promise you, the women round here are carnivorous. If I left Bart for a weekend some frisky bit of crumpet would snap him up, and it’s not just the bimbos. Every time he goes out to dinner he feels some crone’s claw on his thigh.’
‘Does Red really go through lots of women?’
Chessie nodded. ‘This afternoon at the match you’ll see legions of amazing girls enjoying the sunshine and loathing each other. They’re known as the Red Army. They turn up in droves to watch him play.’
‘Like Rupert Campbell-Black,’ said Perdita.
Chessie perked up. ‘He adored Ricky so much he bypassed me. I was very disappointed. They say there isn’t a marriage he can’t crack. Now he really is attractive. I can’t see what the girls see in Red. He’s so narcissistic. I mean he dyes his eyelashes. They aren’t that colour at all, and in the evening he wears eyeliner. And just you watch the way he takes off his knee pads and smooths down his breeches before the presentation.’
As they drove over to Field Two Perdita felt despondent. Chessie was right; she’d never seen so many beautiful girls, mostly blondes with hair that looked as though it had been tossed in the tumble dryer. No one seemed to be looking at her. Perhaps it was because she’d come from Argentina, where men stared and whistled at anything remotely passable, that she felt so invisible in her old jeans and grey shirt.
‘Dearie me,’ said Chessie happily as they drove past the pony lines and heard shouting, ‘I suspect Ethel-Red the unready hasn’t turned up.’
She was right. Bart, Luke and Bibi and their opponents the Van Dorens – the father, once a great player and still with a nine-goal mind, and his three sons – were all waiting to play. Red’s pony for the first chukka was tacked up in his duck-egg-blue bandages and saddle blanket. The umpires were looking at their watches – but there was no sign of Red.
The Aldertons had won the Fathers and Sons match for the last three years, and with Bart on five, Red and Luke on six and seven respectively, and Bibi now a useful one, they should have walked it today. But without Red they were stymied. The paparazzi, out in force for Red, were enjoying listening to an apopleptic Bart yelling at Luke and Bibi.
‘I don’t know the shorthand for asshole or son of a bitch,’ grumbled a girl reporter. ‘I wonder if they’re grammalogues.’
The Van Dorens, who were cool and WASP, with very long arms to hook their opponents’ sticks, were much amused that Red hadn’t arrived. Like every other player in Palm Beach, they were fed up with Bart bringing in ringers and spending so much on ponies that he priced everyone else out of existence. Chessie, sitting in the aluminium stands with Perdita, was most amused of all.
‘The little shit,’ she remarked, not lowering her voice at all. ‘I warned Bart not to rely on him. And best of all his ghastly mother is sitting down below us: “Take my napkin, rub thy brow, Hamlet”. The silly old bag rolls up at every match, the spectre at the feast to drool over her baby. I’m afraid she’s going to be disappointed yet again.’
Having only seen Grace once a long time ago, Perdita couldn’t identify her at first.
‘The one in the scrambled-egg-yellow dress,’ said Chessie.
Perdita was shocked. It was though Medusa and Jack Frost had ganged up on Grace in a single night, turning her face to stone and her dark hair hoarfrost-white. She had aged twenty years. She looked grief-eroded and quite out of place on such a lovely day.
Rain all morning had given way to brilliant sunshine. Every leaf and grass blade glistened. Palm trees like unkempt, emaciated drunks lurched above the flawless, green field and the mushroom-brown houses. A large crowd had assembled on both sides behind the boards. The true polo addicts watched with the sun behind them. Those more interested in getting a tan, principally the Red Army, faced the sun. Pitch and ponies beckoned. Oh, I wish I could play, thought Perdita.
‘Bart will murder Red when he arrives,’ said Chessie with satisfaction. ‘Last year Red got so fed up with Bart shouting that he hit a ball straight into his ribs. The year before Bibi got knocked unconscious in a ride-off. Bart just bundled her into an ambulance and went on playing. Blood certainly isn’t thicker than polo.’
‘Why’ve they got three ambulances?’
‘One’s Bart’s, another’s the Van Dorens’, the third
belongs to the club. Good thing they’ve brought two fire-engines to put out the blaze when Red finally turns up. Look, Gracie is twisting her Hermes scarf to shreds,’ said Chessie gleefully. ‘Talk about Grace under pressure. We are not amused.’
Poor Grace was even less amused a second later, when a passing cameraman yelled up into the stands for Mrs Alderton.
‘Yes,’ called back Grace, rising regally to her feet.
But the cameraman was looking at Chessie. ‘Mrs Alderton?’
‘Yes,’ said Chessie silkily.
‘Can I get a picture of you on the pitch at divot-stomping time?’
‘Sure,’ said Chessie, ‘if there is one. Doesn’t look as though this match is going to get started.’ She added in an undertone to Perdita. ‘That will really wind up the old bag.’
Looking at Grace’s stricken face, Perdita totally understood why Red and Bibi loathed Chessie.
The crowd was getting restless. Down on the pony lines Bart and Luke were still arguing about a substitute. Luke had tried to ring Angel, but he’d pushed off to spend the day with some Argentine players and couldn’t be traced, which did not endear him to Bart. He wanted a six-goal substitute, which would enable Red to play if he turned up. Luke, who wanted Perdita, was arguing that they’d never find a six as good as Red, and with a lower handicapped substitute at least they’d get a four- or five-goal start, which they’d be more likely to hold on to because the Van Dorens were chiefly strong on defence. Bibi was backing up Luke. Leroy, who disliked rows because they reminded him of his former home in Miguel’s yard, came to his master’s aid by biting Bart sharply on his booted ankle, causing Bart’s security guards to reach for their guns. Luke called Leroy off. The row escalated.
Up came the umpire, Shark Nelligan, a rough-tough cowboy with crooked teeth, who repeatedly claimed he was not going to kiss anyone’s butt. Shark hated Luke because Hal Peters had been Shark’s patron in medium-goal matches last summer, but, fed up with being ripped off and bawled out, Hal had switched to Luke for the high-goal Palm Beach season.
‘You’ll have to forfeit, Bart,’ said Shark with some relish, ‘if you’re not on the pitch in five minutes.’
‘You can hear the Aldertons rowing three continents away,’ said Chessie. ‘At least you’re sitting in the best part of Palm Beach to hear all the latest scandal – whose horses are unsound, whose are for sale, which pros are about to be dropped, who’s made the latest hot-horse deal.’ Chessie’s eyes sparkled wickedly. ‘Who’s screwing who. You’re the latest gossip.’
‘Me?’ gasped Perdita.
Chessie lowered her voice only a fraction.
‘Luke bringing you back from Argentina. Cassandra Murdoch, his girlfriend, is shattered.’
‘But I’m not his . . .’ began Perdita aghast.
‘That’s her down there.’ Chessie pointed out a tall brunette in a rust-coloured shirt and white sawn-off jeans. ‘Luke’s levelled with her, wrote to her some weeks ago, saying it was over and how desperately sorry he was. They’ve been together for three years. She’s wiped out, even more cut-up than the pitch is going to be if they ever start playing.’
‘But Luke and I aren’t having an affair,’ said Perdita, deeply shocked. ‘He’s my friend.’
‘Faithful and just to me,’ mocked Chessie. ‘Rumour has it you’re sharing his bed.’
‘I am not. I may be sleeping in his bed, but he’s sleeping in one of the grooms’ caravans.’
Chessie shrugged. ‘I’m only passing on what’s being said.’
Perdita was so shaken it was a few seconds before she realized Luke was yelling at her. ‘Perdita, move your ass. You’ve gotta play.’
Frantic desire to escape from Chessie’s interrogation overcame any nerves Perdita might have had. She shot down the steps and, only for a second as she raced along the boards, was she aware of the hollow-eyed anguished face of Cassandra Murdoch.
One of the grooms had picked up her knee pads, gloves, boots and stick from the back of Luke’s car. Keeping on her jeans, she dived behind a trailer and swapped her grey T-shirt for the Alderton Flyer’s duck-egg blue with the streak of dark blue lightning down the front and back, and borrowed a band from a groom to tie back her hair. There was no time to discuss tactics.
‘With a weak Number Four, you could leave him,’ advised Luke, ‘but Chuck Van Doren’s very solid, so stick around.’
‘We’re going to be a fucking laughing stock,’ snarled Bart, glaring at Perdita. ‘Two broads for Chrissake.’
‘Knock it off, Dad,’ said Luke curtly, zipping up Perdita’s boots. ‘We’ve gotta five-goal lead. Let’s bloody well hang on to it.’
Next moment he had shoved Perdita up on to Red’s pony for the first chukka, a skewbald with a broad white face and a jaunty walled eye.
‘This horse is called Spotty,’ said Luke, adjusting her stirrups. ‘He couldn’t outrun a fat man, but he gets everything done, because he’s so handy, and he never runs out of gas. He also counts the crowd and shows off accordingly. Today he’ll shift faster than the lightning down your back.’
Vaulting on to the dark brown Ophelia, he cantered beside her on to the field where the Van Dorens, Bart and Bibi were waiting. News sizzled round the pitch that this was the English girl Luke had brought back from Alejandro’s. The crowd relaxed happily in anticipation of slaughter. At last Bart was going to be taken out.
Tempers tend to get up a lot on the polo field – but never as much as when the most united families play together. Bart, determined to play better than both Luke and Bruce Van Doren, swore at his team non-stop.
‘How dare you call me an asshole, you stupid dickhead,’ screamed back Bibi as she missed an easy under-the-neck shot at goal. ‘I’ve never been so insulted in my life. I’m not a fucking board meeting, Dad, do not address me as a board meeting.’
‘Leave her alone,’ Luke shouted at his father. ‘Can’t you see she plays doubly horrible when you yell at her all the time?’
At first Luke refused to be rattled, which annoyed Bart even more.
‘I don’t know why the fuck I asked you to come back from Argentina,’ he howled.
‘Can’t you be more constructive in your criticism?’ said Luke sarcastically.
‘Don’t give me that lip,’ yelled Bart. ‘Leave it, leave it,’ he added, thundering down the pitch, and, seeing Perdita in front of him about to attempt a nearside forehand, ‘for Christ’s sake, leave it to me, you stupid bitch.’
‘Don’t call her a bitch, you evil fucker,’ roared Luke.
The crowd, straining to hear every expletive, were highly edified. The Van Dorens were so amused they failed to stop Bart from scoring. Six-love to the Aldertons.
Perdita, used to playing with Ricky, was unfazed by the abuse, but was amazed, on the other hand, by how much Bart had improved. Having been coached regularly by Miguel, he now played well up to his five handicap, a far cry from the ball-chasing traffic hazard of three and a half years ago. And with a polo helmet covering his greying hair and lined forehead and softening the crows’ feet round his sexy, slanting eyes, he looked virile, handsome and much younger than his forty-seven years. Perhaps Chessie might have trouble holding him.
After a dicey start herself, as she frantically adjusted to the vastly superior acceleration and handiness of Red’s ponies, Perdita played gloriously. Spoon-fed by Luke, who was desperate for her to do well, and used to playing with him anyway, she scored three goals.
Finding themselves playing against two women and expecting a walk-over anyway, the Van Dorens initially behaved like gentlemen. When they came in for a ride-off against Bibi or Perdita, they just brushed them. But after Bibi and Perdita had crashed back into them like a flying ton of bricks several times, they sharpened up.
Perdita, too, loving every moment of riding these wonderful ponies and turned on by the crowd who whooped at every good shot or goal scored and groaned at every miss, had never enjoyed a game more in her life.
Gradually
, however, the Van Dorens, the better side on paper, gained the ascendancy. At half-time, when Chessie was photographed pretending to tread in divots, the score was tied at seven all. By the middle of the sixth chukka the Van Dorens were running out the winners at 11-9 and the heavens opened. Up went the tailgates, like seats after a ball game. Off along the boards drove the Lincolns, the Bentleys and the Cadillacs of spectators anxious to get away before the mass exodus and assuming the Van Dorens had won. Bart had yelled himself almost hoarse when Perdita lost her temper.
‘Stop screaming and muddling us all,’ she screeched at him, and, crashing off like a dodgem car with a Ferrari engine, sent the youngest Van Doren flying and scorched off to score a goal. Then, almost before they’d changed ends and thrown in, Luke had got the ball out and handed it to her. Picking up her whip, Perdita belted down the field and scored again, tying the score.
Despite the downpour, the Lincolns, Bentleys and Cadillacs stopped in their tracks and started hooting encouragement. Spurred on by Perdita, Bibi scored as well. 12-11 to the Flyers.
A minute to go, Chuck Van Doren got the ball out this time and, leaving his back door open, raced down the boards looking dangerous. One glorious offside forehand took the ball well within striking distance, another would find the flags.
Luke, pounding back to defend his goal, desperately attempted to hook Chuck. The sight of the ball bouncing past, however, was too much for Leroy. Barking joyfully, he shot on to the pitch, and, just avoiding being trampled to death by Chuck’s pony, bore the ball triumphantly off into the pony lines.
The crowd whooped and screamed with laughter. Up went the Van Dorens’ sticks. It had, after all, been an Alderton dog who had crossed Chuck. Shark Nelligan, who in the past had been bitten several times by Leroy, awarded a penalty three to the Van Dorens.