Polo

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘By November I’d purchased nearly five per cent of American Airplanes. Do I hold on to the stock as investment, do I go for control of the company?’ went on Bart.

  ‘Dustin says he can’t wait to make a movie with me,’ confided Auriel, ‘about a beautiful sophisticated woman whose son’s college friend falls madly in love with her.’

  ‘Or do I sell out for a nice profit?’ asked Bart.

  ‘Traditionally, older men have always married younger women, right, like you and Francesca. But getting it on with younger guys is definitely a thing of the future,’ said Auriel.

  Bart forgot about American Airplanes. ‘Red needs sons,’ he said brusquely.

  Auriel smiled warmly into Bart’s eyes. ‘That’s ungallant, Mr Alderton. What makes you think I couldn’t give them to him? Why, the bellboy in the elevator this very morning was saying, “You don’t look a day over twenty-five, Miss Kingham.”’

  ‘I wonder if I ought to get my face elevated,’ said Chessie, examining herself in her spoon.

  Angel, who normally hardly drank, got very giggly. ‘Just looking at you geeves me zee duck bumps,’ he told Chessie.

  How dare he flirt so blatantly in front of Dad, thought Bibi. Looking at her stepmother, luminous skin like ivory in the candlelight, one beautiful bare shoulder so close to Angel’s lips, her hatred bubbled over. Look at those emeralds glittering like drops of crème de menthe. The new dinner service must have cost a fortune not to mention the blue silk dress. She was sure it was Ungaro. Chessie was fleecing Bart as she had fleeced Ricky. She was like bindweed that delicately but lethally winds itself round a delphinium until it snaps.

  ‘This Barsac is truly amazing,’ said Auriel, assuming Bart had chosen it. ‘You have as much a taste for fine wines as fine pictures.’

  ‘It is good,’ said Bart. ‘Ninety-four years old in fact.’

  ‘Older than both your ages put together, fancy that,’ said Chessie from the other end of the table.

  Red’s eyes slid towards Perdita. ‘Nice, isn’t she?’

  Perdita shrugged. ‘Auriel’s jolly boring. What d’you see in her?’

  ‘Very good in bed,’ said Red, picking up one of the polo ponies pulling Father Christmas’s sleigh and mounting it on the pony in front. ‘I’m learning a lot. You can never be too good in bed.’ He let his eyes run over her body. ‘The better you are the more you can manipulate people and I’m very expensive.’

  ‘But you’re rich,’ said Perdita, admiring his flawless cheekbones.

  ‘Ten million? That’s just a piece of chicken shit.’

  Perdita giggled in disbelief.

  ‘To exist here you need at least a hundred million,’ said Red.

  ‘You’re quite different from Luke.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Red. ‘I have no principles at all.’

  Bart came off the telephone from Tokyo again.

  ‘Now we can have pudding,’ said Chessie coldly.

  ‘Sorry, honey. You can keep the phone.’ Bart put the receiver down on the table beside her. Immediately the other telephone rang.

  ‘Sydney again, Dad,’ said Bibi.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Chessie. ‘Shut up, you utterly bloody thing,’ she added hysterically as the first telephone started to ring again. Furiously she snatched it up.

  ‘Go away!’ Then, suddenly, in the candlelight her face lost all its expression.

  ‘Hi,’ she drawled. ‘Did you ring here about two hours ago?’ It was as though a huge thorn had been tugged out of her side. ‘I thought not,’ she smiled luxuriously at Bibi who had turned an ugly maroon.

  Ricky, having mindlessly sat through Down and Out in Beverly Hills three times surrounded by other lonely people, was now at a party in Beverly Hills surrounded by blondes, but lonely as one can only be at Christmas. Ringing on the flimsy pretext of finding out how Perdita was getting on, ready to hang up if he got Bart, he had come through to the only blonde he had ever loved.

  ‘How are you?’ asked Chessie.

  ‘OK,’ said Ricky flatly. Then he was almost sobbing, ‘No, I’m f-f-f-ucking not. I m-miss you.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Are you coming to England this summer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I see you?’

  ‘Of course, whenever.’

  Then, aware Luke and Bibi were listening: ‘She’s fine. I’ll pass you on to her. Perdita – it’s Ricky.’

  Perdita turned away from Red like a dog who hears the crunch of his master’s car on the drive. ‘He’s rung to talk to me?’ she stammered.

  ‘No-one but you,’ lied Chessie.

  Shooting round the table, Perdita picked up the cordless telephone like a baton in a relay race and hurtled into the night.

  Outside the frogs stepped up their croaking.

  ‘What a pity you can’t kiss one of those frogs and turn it into a prince, Bibi,’ drawled Chessie. ‘It might make you less bad-tempered. Ricky said he definitely didn’t ring earlier.’

  Perdita came back ten minutes later so insulated with happiness she put the glittering blue Christmas tree in the shade.

  ‘Ricky was on terrific form, really, really cheerful. Palm Springs must have done him so much good, he can’t wait till next season, nor can I. I can’t wait to get Spotty and Tero home.’

  Luke suddenly looked grey and exhausted.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Chessie softly, running a hand down his cheek. ‘You’re much nicer than any of them. Perdita’ll realize it one day.’

  With everyone on diets for the polo season, Chessie had decided against Christmas pudding or hard sauce or pecan pie, and then irrationally settled for something far more fattening: sweetened whipped cream shaped like a polo ball, rolled in melted chocolate, and then coated in coconut.

  ‘Oh, how darling,’ said Auriel. ‘Chessie must have known it was your favourite dessert, Red. They always make it for him at the club.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ snapped Red. ‘Suddenly I feel sick.’

  ‘Oh, poor baby,’ Auriel was all concern. ‘I better take you home.’

  The smaller of the Yorkshire terriers was sick.

  Chessie flushed. ‘I should have forgotten you weren’t on solid foods yet, Red, and provided you with a bottle of Cow and Gate.’ Then turning, spitting with rage, to Auriel: ‘It must be such a drag picking him up from play-group every day. Don’t forget to put the baby alarm on when he goes to sleep tonight. Revolting little toyboy.’

  Auriel, however, oblivious of the sniping and able to forgive a potential customer, was telling a deliriously happy Perdita about her new range.

  ‘You were saying you couldn’t wear a dress because of the bruises. In my range we’ve invented a cream which completely disguises them. I’ll mail you some.’

  ‘You ought to send some to Chessie,’ drawled Red. ‘Then she could use it on her ass – Mrs Regularly Beaten.’ There was a shocked pause.

  ‘Pack it in,’ snapped Luke.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ stammered Chessie.

  ‘Your little hang-up,’ said Red, ‘about having pain before pleasure. We’ve all heard smacks and screams coming from your bedroom.’

  He got no further. Seizing him by the collar, Bart had hauled him to his feet.

  ‘Don’t you speak to Chessie like that,’ he bellowed. ‘I won’t KO you, I’d probably kill you. But you get out of my house – now.’

  The glasses jangled, the rafters shook. Leroy shot trembling under the table. The second Yorkshire terrier was sick.

  ‘Don’t touch him,’ screamed Auriel.

  ‘I’m only stating facts,’ said Red laughing as he drifted towards the door. ‘Truth shouldn’t hurt – anyway I thought that was what turned Chessie on.’

  ‘Get out,’ yelled Bart, ‘and you can forget about playing on my team in England this summer until you learn some manners.’

  37

  Back in Rutshire, Daisy was dreading Christmas all on her own. Eddie and Violet were flying off
to LA to spend a week with Hamish, Wendy, little Bridget and a two-month-old addition to the family called Fergus.

  ‘I must keep cheerful until they go,’ Daisy kept telling herself as she took the bus into Cheltenham to buy them Christmas presents. ‘I mustn’t cling. I must stay jolly for Ethel and Gainsborough.’

  Her boss, the Caring Chauvinist, had sourly given her the afternoon off. After all, Christmas was his busiest time, but Daisy had managed to escape from the office party before he started chasing her round the desks. An added grievance was that she’d already had an afternoon off early in the month to show her paintings to a London gallery.

  ‘I really like your work,’ the owner had told her. ‘I could easily sell your paintings if you used brighter colours.’

  Daisy gazed dolefully out of the bus on frost-bleached fields, bare trees, khaki stubble, beige houses and grey woolly sheep all blending in. She thought how hard it was to paint brightly in winter, particularly when all the money she’d saved to buy a car had been spent on mending the washing machine, and her hair needed cutting and she was seven pounds overweight. Even three years after Hamish had left her she still suffered from wildly ricocheting moods. Only that morning she’d wept to find a list – ‘Toads, Eddie’s tooth, Gainsborough’s mouse, sunset’ – which she’d once scribbled down as topics to keep the conversation going with Hamish at dinner. She had forgotten how demanding, bad-tempered, and intolerant Hamish had been. The breakdown of the marriage she now felt had been all her fault.

  Suddenly, out of a ploughed field, rose four magpies.

  One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a toyboy, thought Daisy longingly.

  ‘What d’you want for Christmas?’ her mother had asked the day before, and Daisy’s mind had gone completely blank, because all she wanted was a man. She’d tried going into pubs, but she always drank too fast out of nerves, then had to hide her empty glass in her skirt, so men didn’t feel they had to buy her a drink. There were a few party invitations, but without a car she had to rely on lifts. She’d even been to a Gingerbread meeting for single parents last month, but all the men had beards and kept insisting they weren’t remotely chauvinistic, but very caring. Daisy had got off with the only attractive man, who’d afterwards turned out to be married and only posing as single to take advantage of lonely women.

  Cheltenham was hell – absolutely packed with people grumbling about the difficulty of parking their expensive cars and spending fortunes. The post-Christmas sales were already on. I’m a marked-down dress no one wants, thought Daisy.

  She passed the record shop. She’d get the Wham record for Eddie and Beethoven’s fourth piano concerto for Violet on the way back. Out of the loudspeakers belched ‘Last Christmas’. The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight, she thought to herself. So many fears, so few hopes. Daisy bit back the tears and nearly got run over crossing George Street before plunging into the supermarket to buy a tiny turkey for Christmas dinner for her, Ethel and Gainsborough.

  ‘Fresh luxury bird,’ said a large sign of a fat turkey holding a piece of mistletoe, ‘with wishbone removed for luxury carving.’

  How awful, thought Daisy, when she’d got so much to wish for: Perdita forgiving her, Eddie and Violet wanting to spend Christmas with her one day, money getting all right, her paintings being good enough for an exhibition, Eddie and Violet passing their exams, Perdita not getting pregnant in Palm Beach.

  Would she ever have a man in her life to carve the turkey? Rubbing her eyes, she ran out of the supermarket. She was getting nowhere, Eddie wanted the new Adrian Mole book, Violet was taking Emma for A levels and wanted the complete Jane Austen, the Caring Chauvinist wanted the latest Jeffrey Archer.

  In the corner of Hammicks a beauty wafting a cloud of Jolie Madame was thumbing mindlessly through a biography of Wellington, constantly looking at her watch and checking her face in the mirror. She wore a wedding ring. Lucky thing, thought Daisy wistfully, to have a lover and a husband.

  Handing over the books to the assistant, she burrowed in her bag. It was only after the till had been rung up that she realized she’d left both her cheque book and her cheque card behind. She wished that the carpet would swallow her up, but it was such a hideous green it had probably swallowed several people before that day and was suffering from frightful indigestion.

  Her account was in Stroud and overdrawn, so there was no possibility they’d guarantee a blank cheque at a Cheltenham branch. There was no way she could buy anything now for Eddie and Violet, which Hamish and Wendy would construe as a further example of parental neglect and a reason to assume custody.

  Running sobbing out of the shop, she collapsed on one of the octagonal benches in front of the clock at the north end of the arcade. A drunk reeled up to her and offered her the remains of his whisky bottle.

  ‘Go away,’ howled Daisy. Then, conscious of being ungrateful, howled even louder.

  ‘Mrs Macleod,’ said a soft voice.

  Frantically wiping away the tears and the mascara, Daisy looked up. It was Drew Benedict, who seemed to have arrived from a different planet. He’d obviously been playing polo somewhere hot and he handed her his green-and-red Paisley silk handkerchief which smelt faintly of French Fern.

  ‘I got an afternoon off for Christmas shopping’ – Daisy blew her reddened nose noisily – ‘and I left my cheque book behind.’

  Taking her arm, Drew pulled her to her feet.

  ‘I’ll get you some money.’

  Waving aside her frantic apologies, he took her to his bank and drew out £150.

  ‘I’ve got to see my lawyer about a contract, have a pair of boots fitted, buy something for Sukey and some arsenic for her ghastly mother, who’s staying with us. I’ll give you a lift home in a couple of hours.’

  Embarrassed but cheered up, Daisy scurried around, managing to get everything done in time, and even buying a bottle of Polo aftershave for Drew because she felt so guilty dragging him out of his way when he must be so busy. She was also shocked to find herself going into the Ladies at Cavendish House to clean her teeth, redo her face and retie her hair back in its elastic band. It was too dirty to wear loose. As she went past the scent counter she sprayed herself with Jolie Madame. Outside the beauty who’d been reading Wellington was sobbing uncontrollably as an embarrassed but very good-looking man ushered her into a taxi.

  ‘Don’t cry, darling,’ he was saying, ‘I’ll ring you every day when Emma goes out to walk the dogs. If Patrick answers I’ll hang up. It’s only nine days.’

  ‘Oh, come all ye faithful,’ sang the loud speaker.

  ‘Daisy,’ yelled a voice. It was Drew in a dark green Mini. Between them they managed to fill up the back seat with their purchases. The temperature had dropped. The sun was setting in nougat colours, pale purple and cyclamen-pink.

  ‘Where have you been to get so brown?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘Middle East with the Carlisle twins, playing for Victor Kaputnik against the Sultan of Araby. Contrary to what people say, the country is not dry. Everyone was so drunk on Sunday afternoon that the ball stayed in the same place while everyone swiped at it.’

  ‘How lovely,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Pay was good,’ went on Drew cheerfully. ‘The twins have gone to Italy so they can ski into Switzerland next door and put all their loot into a Swiss bank. I’ll bank mine when I play snow polo at St Moritz in January. How the hell d’you manage without a car?’

  ‘Very badly,’ said Daisy gloomily.

  Drew had removed his coat and was wearing a light blue cashmere jersey, so new it still had the creases in and which matched his eyes. Rutshire, Cirencester and Guards polo stickers curled on the windscreen.

  ‘How did Perdita get on in Argentina?’

  ‘She adored it,’ said Daisy on the evidence of one letter, ‘but she found the Argentines a bit cruel.’

  ‘They train the best polo ponies in the world.’

  ‘And she’s spending Christmas in
Palm Beach with Bart Alderton’s son, Luke.’

  ‘Bloody nice,’ said Drew approvingly. ‘She couldn’t be in better hands, and a very good polo player. Might get her over Ricky.’

  ‘D’you think Ricky’ll mind her spending Christmas so near Bart Alderton?’

  Drew shook his head. ‘Ricky’s not small-minded. Bart’s the only person he’s got any fight with.’

  Like all polo players, Drew drove very quickly, overtaking much faster cars on bends with a centimetre to spare. He was so nice to talk to, Daisy wished he would slow down She longed to ask him in, and tried to remember if she’d drunk all that bottle of cheap white last night, and if she’d put it back in the fridge. It was only drinkable if it were cold.

  ‘That’s Declan O’Hara’s house – he’s just moved in,’ said Daisy, pointing to towers and battlements hidden by yew trees and huge Wellingtonias. ‘I think his telly interviews are so wonderful. Everyone’s going to Midnight Mass at Cotchester Cathedral to gawp at him.’

  ‘We’re going to a party there on New Year’s Eve,’ said Drew. ‘Promises to be the thrash of the decade. Rupert’s got a terrific yen for Declan’s daughter, Taggie. He’s coming back specially from Gstaad to have a crack at her.’

  ‘What’s she like?’ asked Daisy wistfully.

  ‘Ravishing, but too tall for me. I don’t like standing on tiptoe to kiss girls.’

  The setting sun was firing the windows of Snow Cottage as they bumped along the dirt track.

  ‘Ricky ought to do something about this road, it’s terrible,’ said Drew disapprovingly. ‘You need a snow plough rather than a car.’

  Weaving, singing, her eyes screwed up with sleep, Ethel temporarily distracted them from the mess left by the children. All the kitchen chairs had been pulled out. Orange juice cartons, bowls barnacled with muesli, overflowing ashtrays littered the kitchen table.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Daisy, writing out a cheque at once, then blushing furiously, ‘but would you possibly mind not cashing it until the New Year.’

  ‘Won’t be going near a bank before then,’ said Drew, getting a bottle of Moët out of a Cavendish House bag. ‘Let’s have a drink.’