by Jilly Cooper
‘That’s terrific,’ said Luke, wishing he felt more enthusiastic. She seemed to be slipping away from him. Christ, he mustn’t be possessive. He took her hand. ‘It’s really great.’
There was a hammering on the door and the twins and Red burst in all wearing dark glasses.
‘Hi, baby boy,’ said Seb.
‘We are so ill,’ announced Red putting a hand on Luke’s shoulder.
But even Red’s hangover and no sleep couldn’t dim his beauty. Luke noticed how Perdita had whipped away her hand when he came in. Now she was surreptitiously removing the mauve plastic clip from her hair and raking it out with her fingers.
‘We brought you some booze,’ said Seb, plonking three bottles of Moët and one of Lucozade down on Luke’s bedside table. ‘We didn’t think you’d have time to get any in.’
‘How’re you feeling?’ asked Dommie. ‘It was your fault, you know. You mustn’t go round pulling Charles Napier off his horses. If I hadn’t loathed him so much I’d have blown a foul on you.’
‘He’s a bastard. Have you seen my bruises?’ Perdita lifted her T-shirt to show ribs dappled black and blue.
‘Higher,’ clamoured Dommie. ‘But we’ve brought you some porn mags to cheer you up, Luke.’
‘Thanks, and congratulations.’ Luke turned to Red, who was opening a bottle. ‘I hear you played great.’
Red laughed. ‘I intend to make headlines with my mallet rather than my cock from now on.’
As usual he was miraculously dressed in off-white trousers, a cream shirt and a yellow blazer braided with pale grey silk to out-fox the young bloods in Palm Beach who were all now wearing pale blue blazers with green silk braiding. Luke winced as the champagne cork flew out.
‘Blimey,’ said Dommie, who was deep in a porn mag. ‘It’s wicked the things that girl’s doing to that horse.’
‘Horse seems to be rather enjoying it,’ drawled Red, peering over Dommie’s shoulder and handing him a glass.
‘Better than being ridden by Charles Napier,’ said Sebbie, holding out toothmugs for himself and Perdita. ‘All his ponies will be queueing up for auditions.’
‘When are they letting you out of here?’ asked Red, sitting down on Luke’s bed.
‘I won’t make the Royal Windsor on Thursday,’ said Luke, taking a sip of champagne and nearly throwing up.
‘Don’t give it a thought,’ said Red. ‘Kevin already knows. He left a message on my machine asking me to stand in for you until you’re OK.’
‘I’m not OK,’ said Dommie, fretfully putting down the porn mag and pressing the bell beside Luke’s head. ‘I feel awful.’
‘How’s Auriel?’ asked Luke. The cigarette smoke clouding the room was making him feel even sicker.
‘Making a movie near Deauville,’ said Red. ‘She gave me a lift over here. How about that stupid bitch Chessie marching up to Ricky just before the game?’
‘Didn’t help,’ said Luke.
‘I wish she’d stop spending Dad’s money and I wish he’d go back to work. They had to close another plant last week. And he’s going to get a lot of flak over the Pegasus. That’s the third crash in three months.’
‘How’s Bibi?’ asked Luke, who was watching Perdita watching Red, frightened yet excited by him like a mare with a stallion.
Red shrugged. ‘Spending too much time covering up for Dad, which pisses Angel off. Like all Argies he expects her to wait on him hand and clay foot.’
‘You wanted something, Mr Alderton?’ It was Nurse O’Grady answering the bell.
‘I’d like some Fernet-Brancat,’ said Dommie, then, taking in her charms, ‘and a large, secluded, pay bed for two if you’ve got a tea-break coming up.’
‘I’ll get you some Alka-Seltzer, but you ought to put those cigarettes out,’ said Nurse O’Grady and, turning to Luke with gentle reproof, ‘and you oughtn’t to be drinking.’
‘He’s not,’ said Red, draining Luke’s glass. ‘Christ, you’re good-looking. Come and take my pulse.’
Grinning, he, Seb and Dommie all held out their hands like dogs’ paws.
‘I’ll go and get you some Alka-Seltzer,’ said Nurse O’Grady, backing hastily out of the room.
‘I’ll help you carry it,’ said Dommie, belting after her.
‘Talk about Florence Night-in-the-Sack,’ said Seb. Having eaten all the grapes Perdita had brought, he started on his own.
Red was opening the second bottle of Moët when the door opened and Daisy walked in. She was looking incredibly pretty, thought Luke, with her dark hair shiny and loose, her rosy cheeks just beginning to break through the layers of Clinique’s Basic Beige and her mascara smudged under her eyes. She was wearing jeans and a man’s blue and white striped shirt and reeked of Je Reviens.
‘That’s all I bloody need,’ snarled Perdita.
Daisy blushed. ‘I’m sorry to barge in,’ she faltered. ‘I just came to see how Luke was. How are you?’ She handed him a bunch of roses as pink as her face. ‘They don’t smell much, I’m afraid. Violet’s doing her A levels, but she’s sent you a card and some poems by Kingsley Amis, and some Lucozade as a joke.’ She plonked them down on the bed.
‘Wow, that’s kind,’ said Luke, taking her hand and kissing her cheek. ‘You are an incredibly nice lady.’
My mother, thought Perdita furiously, has a thumping great crush on Luke.
‘What the fuck are you doing here anyway?’ she asked Daisy.
‘I went to London to see the Annual Exhibition of the Royal Society of Portrait Painters. Marvellous stuff,’ mumbled Daisy, then, changing the subject, she turned to Luke. ‘We were all so worried about you. Have you got a ghastly headache?’
‘Not nearly as bad as ours,’ said Seb, putting down the porn mag and pouring Daisy a glass of champagne. ‘You look stunning today, Mrs Macleod.’
‘This is my brother Red,’ said Luke.
Oh, what a beauty, thought Daisy in wonder – that staggering perfection of feature allied to that rain-soaked red setter colouring.
‘This is Perdita’s mother,’ added Luke.
‘Jesus!’ Red was shaken out of his habitual cool. ‘You kidding? She must be Perdita’s daughter.’
Strolling over to Daisy he idly zipped up her jeans and removed a buttercup petal from her hair. Then, grinning down at her, he murmured, ‘I always figure the best way to see paintings is lying down,’ as he poured her a toothmug of champagne.
‘I shouldn’t,’ said Daisy, who’d gone absolutely scarlet. ‘I’m driving.’
‘Why don’t you come to Paris with us?’ said Red, realizing in a trice that Perdita was wildly jealous of her mother and such an invitation would irritate the hell out of her. ‘If we leave in twenty minutes we can have an hour at the Louvre before it closes. My father’s lent a painting to the Renoir exhibition. We can book in to the Ritz, dine at Maxim’s and I’ll take you to Montmartre tomorrow.’
‘Come on, Mrs Macleod,’ urged Seb. ‘If we can’t show you a good time, no-one can. We’re coming back tomorrow lunchtime. We’ve got a four-thirty match at Cowdray.’
Seeing the two of them so brown, carefree and handsome, Daisy suddenly thought how heavenly it would be to take off.
‘I can’t leave Ethel and Gainsborough,’ she stammered.
‘Course you can,’ said Seb. ‘Perdita’ll look after them. Haven’t I been trying to seduce your mother for ages?’ he added over his shoulder to an absolutely spitting Perdita. ‘Dommie’s been a long time with that nurse. This must be him.’
But instead Drew walked in. Taking in the number of bottles and people, he went straight up to Luke’s bed.
‘You poor sod, how you feeling? Besieged, I should think. You don’t want this mob here, do you?’
‘They’re OK,’ Luke grinned weakly.
‘I’ll get rid of them in a minute. I’ve just spoken to Ricky. He’s had another look at Fantasma. She’ll be fine. If it’s any comfort, we had five ponies lame after the second match. We’re all going t
o be out of horses by the Gold Cup.’
Putting more grapes and a new book on polo pony management down on the bed, he nodded to the others.
Daisy, who’d gone as red as a peony, again pretended to gaze out of the window. She’d popped in on Luke to establish an alibi and her blood froze at the thought that Perdita might have decided to go for a walk in Windsor Park and disturbed Drew and her in the bracken.
Drew, following her, removed more buttercup petals from her hair.
‘That was heavenly,’ said Daisy faintly.
‘It always is with you, my love,’ whispered Drew. Then, more loudly: ‘D’you need a lift back to Rutshire?’
‘No, I’ve got the car,’ said Daisy, which Drew already knew.
‘Oh my God,’ howled Red as Chessie swanned in carrying two bottles of Dom Perignon, a vast box of chocolates and a new translation of Dante’s Inferno. ‘How you’ve got the gall to barge in here, having nearly screwed Luke’s match yesterday?’
‘Good girl,’ said Seb, relieving her of the bottles. ‘We’ve just run out of drink.’
Having nodded fairly coolly to everyone else, Chessie kissed Luke. ‘So sorry you had a shunt, angel, bloody bad luck.’ Then, lowering her voice: ‘Has Ricky been in?’
‘First thing this morning,’ said Luke.
‘Hell, I missed him,’ said Chessie furiously. ‘How was he?’
‘Tired,’ said Luke, lying back on his pillows. The snowstorm was whirling in front of his eyes again. He couldn’t handle all the cross-currents.
Chessie departed almost immediately but no-one else showed any signs of shifting.
‘Your taxi’s arrived, Red,’ announced Seb, who’d started on Luke’s chocolates as Auriel’s pink helicopter landed on the lawn outside, sending patients on crutches and in wheelchairs leaping for safety.
As everyone crossed the room to have a look, Daisy noticed how green Luke had gone. Getting an envelope out of a carrier bag she timidly handed it to him.
‘I thought you might like this.’
Opening it, Luke had great difficulty in not breaking down.
‘Wow, it’s terrific, beautiful!’ he said finally in a choked voice. ‘Thanks a million.’
It was a miniature of Fantasma standing fetlock deep in Ricky’s watermeadows, faintly rose-pink in the rising sun, ears pricked, lovely eyes slightly suspicious and with ash woods soaring up like organ pipes behind her.
‘It is good, isn’t it?’ said Drew, who’d already seen it in several stages, trying to subdue the pride in his voice as he ran a hand up the back of Daisy’s jeaned thigh.
‘It’s very good,’ said Red, topping up Daisy’s glass. ‘How much d’you want for that pony?’
‘She’s not for sale.’ Luke was still gazing in wonder at the painting.
‘She will be,’ said Red arrogantly. ‘Everyone’ll be after her after yesterday.’
‘They already are,’ snapped Drew, who didn’t like Red, ‘and we ought to leave Luke alone.’ Then, as a couple of nurses staggered in buckling under more bunches of flowers, ‘Christ, you’re popular.’
Just for a second Red’s face tightened. Then he turned to Daisy: ‘Did you say you’d just been to an Exhibition of the Royal Society of Portrait Painters?’ he asked softly. ‘What did you think of Auriel’s portrait?’
‘I’m afraid there was so much to look at I didn’t get round to it,’ said Daisy, going crimson again. Mercifully Perdita was nose to nose with Seb on the other side of the room.
‘Hardly surprising,’ drawled Red, just above a whisper. ‘The exhibition closed yesterday. Nice one, Mrs Macleod!’ Then, laughing at her discomfort, added, ‘What’s it worth not to tell your cantankerous daughter?’
‘Oh, please don’t,’ begged Daisy.
She was saved by the arrival of José the Mexican brandishing a huge bunch of clashing mauve and salmon-pink gladioli, and by the return of Dommie and Nurse O’Grady with more flowers and her white cap on back to front.
‘Rosie’s coming to Paris with us,’ said Dommie joyfully. ‘She’s off duty in ten minutes.’
‘That’s great,’ said Seb. ‘You can tell us apart, Rosie, because I’ve got a scar on the inside of my right knee and I’m the one Decorum loves best.’
‘He bloody doesn’t,’ howled Dommie, brandishing an empty bottle.
‘I very sorry.’ José the Mexican handed Luke the gladioli and accepted some champagne in a teacup. ‘I hop you very better now.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ said Luke, trying to sound really grateful. The snowstorm had become a blizzard. For a second he closed his eyes.
‘Hello, Luke. Ayve brought you some Lucozade and some Penhaligon’s Bluebell to remaind you of Rutshire.’ It was Sharon Kaputnik wafting graciousness and Jolie Madame. ‘Hello, boys, hello, Red. Victor’s absolutely delaighted you’re goin’ to be on our team. He’s convinced he’s got a winning formula at last.’
‘Not if he’s part of it,’ murmured Red.
But Sharon had turned to the Mexican, feigning amazement, ‘Well, hello, Hosé. Fancy seein’ you here.’
Dommie giggled. ‘We’ve got a hosé-pipe ban in Rutshire. You better keep your willy under wraps when you play down there, José.’
‘Have a look at Tatler,’ said Seb, handing Sharon a porn mag. ‘I’m sure you’ll find yourself in it.’ But Sharon was gazing deep into José’s black eyes.
Drew was talking in an undertone to Daisy. Seb and Dommie were making plans with Nurse O’Grady.
‘We’ll buy you something to wear,’ Dommie was saying.
I want to go to Paris, thought Perdita furiously. I want to go to Maxim’s and the Ritz and the Faubourg St Germain. I want to deplete some man’s cheque-book.
Red was getting restless. ‘We oughta go. Are you coming with us, Daisy?’
‘Don’t be fatuous,’ said Drew sharply. ‘Daisy’s got a family to look after and all her painting commitments.’
‘Let Daisy answer for herself,’ said Seb, dabbing Penhaligon’s Bluebell behind his ears.
‘I really can’t,’ giggled Daisy.
She was saved this time by the arrival of Matron, six foot high and breathing fire. ‘A pink helicopter has just landed on the lawn seriously jeopardizing the lives of the patients,’ she thundered. ‘I assume it belongs to one of you.’
‘You suspected right, Lofty,’ said Red, gathering up Daisy’s roses. ‘These are nice. They’ll do for Auriel.’
‘They’re Luke’s,’ protested Daisy.
‘Any more flowers and he’ll get hay-fever. Come on, you guys.’
Matron, who’d been mouthing ineffectually, found her voice.
‘Where are you taking that nurse?’ she demanded.
‘To Paris.’ Dommie handed Matron two empties as he sauntered out.
‘She’s off duty,’ said Seb, handing her two more.
‘See you,’ they chorused to Luke.
‘Where are you living?’ he called after Red.
‘With Seb and Dommie. I’ll call you, and I’ll certainly call you.’ Blowing a kiss at Daisy, Red vanished, grinning like the Cheshire cat.
Daisy was not sure who was angrier – Perdita, Matron or Drew.
Perdita disapproved of everything about Red. He shouldn’t have stolen the job of his friend and fellow American, Bobby Ferraro. He shouldn’t keep trying out horses, laming them, playing the hell out of them in a couple of chukkas, then handing them back saying they were no good. His grooms worked for him for next to nothing because he was so handsome, and, even worse, on the field he was the soul of dishonesty, endlessly manufacturing fouls, and avoiding a sixty, if a ball crossed the line, by tapping it back and claiming it hadn’t gone over.
The twins were wild enough, but in the company of Red they became impossible, whooping it up all night, with groupies coming out of their ears.
In the weeks running up to the Gold Cup one prank followed another. The twins, for example, pinched Victor’s helicopter just as he was about to fly to F
rankfurt for a Board Meeting in order to scour the countryside for a missing Decorum whom they were convinced had been stolen for pit-bull fighting.
Then there was the Saturday afternoon they all got drunk round the pool and set off in Victor’s open Bentley with Red lolling naked between the twins and using a road map as a figleaf. Stopping an old lady by a T-junction they asked her to show them the way to Rutminster on the map, which she did until the map slipped upwards and she ran shrieking into the nearest beechwood. Next they passed a deaf old man on a bike and asked him the way to Rutminster. When the old man, who was deaf, didn’t answer immediately Red shot him with a starting pistol, whereupon the old man had a mini-heart attack and fell off his bike. A yokel taking Victor’s car number reported the incident to the police, who needed a lot of hush money. Victor was absolutely furious.
Even worse, Red held his birthday party in Victor’s house. Victor had expected two dozen people. Nearly two hundred turned up and all treated Red as the host. Decorum ate one of Victor’s toupees, mistaking it for a hamster.
‘This is a genuine surprise party,’ Red kept saying, ‘because I asked everyone when I was looped and I have no idea who’s coming.’
Apocalypse boycotted the party and went to bed early. Perdita, who longed to go, felt incredibly cheated. She was fed up with working long hours for a measly salary. At nineteen she wasn’t getting any younger and she wanted some fun. It further irked her that she must be the only girl in the South of England whom Red hadn’t made the slightest pass at.
The afternoon after the party Apocalypse met the Tigers in the opening match of the Warwickshire Cup which was played at Cirencester and was, after the Queen’s Cup and the Gold Cup, the most prestigious tournament of the year. It was Luke’s first match back and he was still feeling groggy. Ricky, laid low by a vicious bout of flu, was also very weak and a lot more of their horses had fallen by the wayside in the Royal Windsor.