by Jilly Cooper
I’m alive, they’re dead, thought Luke. He had hoped that seeing the setting for so much greater a tragedy than his might diminish his heartache, but tears kept embarrassingly filling his eyes. Facts had to be faced. He loved Perdita hopelessly. Even the brief few hours away from her today had been an agony. Her tantrums and indifference were better than being without her.
He bought a salami roll and a beer, sat on the front and wrote postcards to his mother and his grandmother telling them what he had seen. A big, black, stray dog wandered up, reminding him painfully of Leroy and he gave it most of his roll. If Leroy was in Europe he might miss Perdita less. At least he wouldn’t have to sleep alone every night.
He wished there was another war he could fight in, or that he could run away and lose himself visiting Chateaubriand’s house and Proust’s birthplace, then drive to Paris and on to the South of France and Italy. But his heartache would follow him.
He knew with a terrible foreboding, as the French must have waited for the Germans to sweep across Europe, that Red was going to sweep Perdita off her feet at any minute. He’d seen many, many girls fall in love with Red before and recover, but Perdita was so vulnerable because she was so passionate and uncompromising and he knew in the end it would destroy her.
As he walked to the edge of the cliffs the waters swirled below him. It would be so easy to jump. Would anyone really mind? Christ, he must get a grip on himself. There were grooms to be paid, horses to be fed, Leroy waiting patiently and probably with ebbing hope in Florida and there was Apocalypse to be steered to victory in the French Championships. He had promises to keep and miles to go before he slept.
Returning to the Normandie he felt that sick churning in the belly that was chronic these days. Perdita’s key wasn’t hanging downstairs and she wouldn’t answer her telephone. Ignoring the ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice, he banged on the door.
‘You OK? It’s Luke.’
‘Piss off. I’m trying to get some sleep.’
‘Let me in.’
‘I’ll see you at the party.’
‘How are you getting there?’
‘I’ll make my own way. For God’s sake, leave me alone.’
51
Two hours later Sharon Kaputnik’s Medieval and Mystery party, held in one of the big rooms of the casino, was well under way. The clatter of roulette chips and the cries of the croupiers could be heard from the gambling tables next door. Rich red velvet curtains blotted out an angry grey sea. Huge chandeliers lit up knights, kings, Black Princes, Robin Hoods, crusaders, wizards, friars and abbesses. Shrieks of delight greeted each new costume. Dommie Carlisle, with his blond hair brushed down into a pudding basin and a card round his neck saying ‘We thrashed the fuckers at Agincourt’, had come as Henry V. Seb, daggers sticking out of him like a hedgehog, was supposed to be Thomas à Becket. Ben Napier was wildly miscast as a jester. David Waterlane, too unimaginative to invent a costume and too mean to hire one, clanked round in one of his own suits of armour flown over from Rutminster Park. Luke, stripped to the waist, his face and massive torso streaked with grey paint and splodges of green for lichen, his hair turned metallic grey by spray, had come as a gargoyle.
‘Rather sexy,’ drawled Chessie, ‘but you ought to be spouting water rather than wisdom.’ For once free of Bart’s chaperonage, she was looking sensational in clinging dampened see-through green as Queen Guinevere.
‘I hardly think Bart has the moral rectitude necessary for Arthur,’ giggled Seb, bouncing up and grabbing Chessie’s waist from behind, ‘but bags I be Lancelot. My brother is so thick with that nurse I’ve got no-one to hunt with any more.’
Sukey, who had good legs, broad shoulders and not much waist, was looking unusually good as Joan of Arc.
‘Can I come and burn my cakes at your stake?’ said Bas who was dressed as Alfred the Great.
Juan O’Brien, who had misunderstood the word Mystery, had turned up as Miss Marple in a pull-on felt hat, a beige coat and skirt and a spy glass with which he was examining Chessie’s nipples.
With shrieks of restrained excitement, wearing a long blue dress and a wimple like an upended ice-cream cornet, Sharon was opening her presents.
‘What’s she supposed to be: Self-made Marion?’ Chessie asked Sebbie.
‘A damsel in distress.’
‘Not much to be distressed about with all those presents,’ added Chessie enviously, as Sharon drew a diamond necklace glittering like the Pleiades out of a red leather box. ‘Victor’s already given her an Ingres.’
‘She’s distressed,’ said Seb, ‘because Perdita has pipped her to the post with Red.’
‘Shut up,’ said Dommie, filling up their glasses. ‘Luke’s coming. And I don’t like the way our patron’s fratting with the enemy.’
Victor, encased in a scarlet dragon’s costume which showed off his pot belly, was talking to Drew who, in black tights and a white tunic with a red cross painted on the front and back, had come as St George.
‘Perhaps St George will wrest Lady Sharon from Victor’s clutches,’ said Chessie.
Victor, very smug because his pharmaceutical empire had found a cure for scurf, was slagging off Bart.
‘Two more plants closed this week,’ he was saying gleefully, ‘and the families of the Pegasus crash victims are suing Alderton Airlines for reckless homicide. Bart’s in Frankfurt to effect a merger with Marcos, who must be the biggest aeroplane company in the world. Once they get a look at Bart’s balance sheets, they’ll pull out.’
‘He’ll recover,’ said Drew. It seemed ridiculous discussing high finance with a dragon, particularly as Victor’s breath from gazpacho at lunchtime was as fiery as any flames.
‘You can’t pour every penny into polo and stay on course,’ gloated Victor. ‘He’s ripe for take-over. Have you seen my new pony, Tiger Lily’s half-brother?’
‘Drew’s so fucking oily with patrons, I’m sure he’s going to pinch Victor,’ said Seb, grabbing an angel-on-horseback and hurling it at Drew. Drew, wishing Daisy were there, ducked to avoid it. That afternoon Victor had offered him serious money, three times what he was earning with David Waterlane, for a three-year contract to play in Palm Beach and England. He was very tempted. David was mean and capricious and wouldn’t commit himself beyond next year.
‘You’d enjoy Palm Beach, Drew,’ said Sharon, joining them. ‘You wouldn’t have to bring your waife and kiddies if you didn’t want to.’
Drew ignored the innuendo. He wished he could take Daisy. In a minute he’d make some excuse and go and ring her, but as he’d promised to keep an eye on Perdita, he’d better wait until she arrived. He didn’t trust Red an inch. The bastard had just rolled up looking very pleased with himself in a floppy white silk shirt, brown tights to emphasize his long legs, and brown suede thigh boots.
‘Who are you supposed to be, Doublet and Pantihose?’ Chessie, suddenly rigid with hostility, asked him.
‘Iago, I thought.’
Chessie shivered. ‘Inspired casting. Just keep away from me.’
‘Try and keep me near!’ Red drifted off towards the gambling tables. He had just bought $100,000 worth of chips and was planning to put the lot on noire deux, which was Perdita’s normal place in the Apocalypse team. If it came up he would make a play for her. It would irritate so many people: Ricky, Luke, his mother, his father, Auriel. He watched the colours merging as the wheel spun round. He’d always been turned on by stiff opposition, he’d make a play for her anyway.
‘Rien ne va plus,’ said the croupier.
Looking at his watch for the hundredth time, Luke was distracted by a spectacularly good-looking man, who’d just come in wearing a dark suit, and was talking to Cameron Cook, who was hovering with a film crew.
It had to be Rupert Campbell-Black. Luke, in his humility, was a passionate admirer of beauty, particularly in humans. Looking at Red had always given him intense pleasure, but there was something about the angles of Rupert’s face, the long, dark blue eyes, the ca
sual elegance of the body, the exquisite shape of the sleek, blond head and wide, smooth forehead, that set him apart from everyone else. Unlike Red, he was also totally unselfconscious. Luke felt his eyes drawn like a magnet.
‘How’s it going?’ Rupert asked Cameron.
‘Hairy. Sending Red off yesterday, getting into a clinch with him this afternoon. Christ knows what she’ll do next. The material’s god-given, but the press are getting all of it. She is under contract. We need something exclusive. I’m supposed to be interviewing her at dawn tomorrow.’
‘I’ll speak to her,’ said Rupert. ‘We’re not standing any shit.’
‘Having said that,’ admitted Cameron, ‘she does look superb in the rushes, and so natural, particularly when she’s mad.’
‘What about Red? Is he going to ditch Auriel for Perdita? He’s such a little shit.’
Cameron laughed. ‘He rather reminds me of you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Rupert coldly.
‘I’d better go and see what’s happened to her,’ said Cameron, going towards the door.
Immediately her place was taken by Chessie, but as she kissed Rupert, his face was even colder and he almost flinched away.
‘It’s been so long,’ Chessie flushed slightly. ‘I never see any of Ricky’s old friends these days. Drew, Bas, you, Billy, Ronnie Ferguson. None of you ask us to dinner any more. You might have asked us to your wedding. I haven’t even met Taggie yet. No-one could be as divine as everyone says she is. Bart’s due tomorrow. Why don’t you and Taggie have dinner with us?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Rupert curtly. Then, lowering his voice: ‘Chessie darling, have you no idea of the animosity you aroused when you ran out on Ricky?’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ hissed Chessie, ‘you ran out on enough people.’
‘Not wives I didn’t. Helen walked out on me.’
‘Aren’t you glad she did?’
‘Of course. I never dreamed such happiness existed. But you’ve totally fucked Ricky up. You never wrote to him when Will died, never forgave him.’
‘Why should I? It was all his fault.’ Chessie was getting hysterical. ‘He was dead drunk.’
‘Having been deliberately wound up by you. Then you abandon him to the most ghastly prison sentence, then to coming back to the loneliness of Robinsgrove. I was there when he came out. It was crucifixion. I know what it was like being on my own at Penscombe.’
‘You had women coming out of your ears.’
‘I hadn’t met Taggie then. Ricky’s a one-woman man, and did you know he’s never worn anything but a black tie since Will died? Not a week passes without him putting flowers on Will’s grave, or getting Daisy Macleod to do it.’
‘That frump,’ said Chessie sharply.
‘She’s sweet,’ said Rupert, ‘and that’s a typical reaction. Bloody bitch in the manger. You want to carry on shored up by Bart’s billions and at the same time dangle Ricky on a string. All this stupid business about the Gold Cup and winning the Westchester is carving him up. Let him go. He’ll never be rich enough for you.’
‘You’ve never been poor,’ said Chessie furiously. ‘You get used to living in a gilded cage.’
‘You could fly out, but you’re too fucking spoilt, so you go on prick-teasing.’
Chessie burst into tears. Suddenly realizing that everyone was listening to them, Rupert put an arm round her shoulder.
‘Ha, I like that,’ said Red, who’d just come out of the roulette room. Tapping the Sunday Mirror photographer on the shoulder, he whispered, ‘Get some close-ups of Rupert and my stepmother.’
But even as the photographer sidled up and surreptitiously started snapping away, some sixth sense made Rupert turn and reach out a long arm. Practically garrotting the photographer, he removed the film from the camera and pocketed it.
The photographer was livid.
‘I ’ad some nice pix of Lady Shar and Pouf the Magic Dragon on that roll. Give it back. He put me up to it,’ he added sulkily, nodding at Red.
‘I’m sure,’ said Rupert. ‘You can still fuck off.’
Wiping her eyes on her flowing green sleeves, Chessie pulled herself together.
‘This is my stepson, Red,’ she said bleakly.
‘A step in the wrong direction,’ said Rupert witheringly. ‘What were you going to do with that film?’ he asked Red. ‘Brandish it in front of your father or my wife? With stepchildren that evil, Chessie, I’m even more amazed you stay with Bart. This one’s more anxious to make a fast buck than a gay rabbit. I’m staggered he’s allowed himself to be prised away from Auriel’s bank balance for a second.’
Red, who was seldom lost for words, was frantically thinking up a devastating reply when suddenly Rupert’s face lost all its animosity and contempt. In the doorway, moving from foot to foot with shy pleasure like an Irish wolfhound, stood a very tall, slim girl with dark hair and huge, grey eyes.
‘Taggie – I must go,’ said Rupert, dropping a kiss on Chessie’s cheek. ‘Sorry I gave you a hard time, angel. I just don’t want Ricky screwed up any more.’
Leaving a spitting Red, desperate for reassurance Chessie sought out Luke.
‘You OK?’ he asked.
‘Yes, no. Where the hell’s Ricky? Isn’t he coming?’
‘I guess not. Chessie, Dancer didn’t tell me about your bet with Ricky. I’d never have played for him, if I’d known. I wouldn’t do that to Dad.’
‘I know you wouldn’t,’ said Chessie softly. ‘Doesn’t your arm ache from holding a torch for Perdita?’
‘I guess I’ve got strong arms.’
Chessie smoothed a blob of grey-green paint on his chest. ‘You’re strong everywhere. Has anyone ever told you quite how attractive you are? I could get you over Perdita.’
Luke laughed. ‘That would really complicate things. But thanks for the offer.’
‘I love complications,’ sighed Chessie. ‘They make everything so much more exciting.’
The party roared on. A huge amount of champagne was drunk. Soon the best costume would be judged and it would be time for dinner.
Sharon, having got no change out of Drew, was nose to nose on a window seat with José the Mexican, whose whale of a wife had been left at his hotel and whose English had improved dramatically in the last month.
Seb Carlisle, high as a kite now, was also sitting on the window seat, pretending to read Horse and Hound, but actually translating for Dommie and Rosie everything Sharon was saying.
‘Ay’m not prepared to be serious, Hosé,’ he mouthed to his audience. ‘Ay’m so muddled, you must gave me tame. Yes, I would adore to live in Mehico.’ Seb grinned wickedly, ‘But not all the year round.’
The others were in hysterics. Rosie, as Robert the Bruce’s spider, was wearing a black body stocking and hood. Out of her blacked-up face, her white teeth sparkled and her green eyes gleamed.
‘I love you,’ she told Dommie softly.
‘I love you,’ said Dommie fingering the square box with the emerald, which had cost every penny from the sale of Tiger Lily’s putative half-brother.
‘I don’t know what got into you this afternoon.’ Rosie ran her hand over his chest. ‘It must have been because I was half-asleep and not expecting you that I was so relaxed. Being a good Catholic girl, I suppose I’ve always felt guilty about sex before marriage. But I never dreamed it could be as wonderful as it was this afternoon.’ Lifting his hand, she kissed all Dommie’s fake rings. ‘I have to confess, I lied to you about coming before, just hoped it would get all right. I’m so glad you missed me, and couldn’t keep away. You were so in control and yet so sensitive, and your cock.’
But she didn’t get any further. Dommie had pulled Seb off the bench beside Sharon and José and hit him across the room.
‘You bastard,’ he yelled. ‘You didn’t go near any bloodstock sale this afternoon.’
‘I bloody did, too,’ yelled back Seb. ‘I bought a grey three year old.’
‘You b
loody didn’t. You went to bed with Rosie and pretended to be me.’
‘Ouch,’ yelled Seb, stubbing his toe on David Waterlane’s armoured foot, as he scrambled to his feet. ‘I’m not dancing with him later.’
‘Don’t send me up,’ roared Dommie. ‘She’s the only girl I’ve ever loved.’
‘I can understand why,’ said Seb.
Dommie was about to hit him again, when suddenly Seb said, ‘Kerist, look at that.’
‘Don’t change the subject, bloody John Thomas à Becket.’ Dommie grabbed Seb’s cassock.
‘No really, it’s worth a break,’ protested Seb.
For a second Dommie swung round.
‘Jesus.’ He let go of Seb.
A clatter of hooves was greeted with whoops of excitement, laughter and shrieks of joy and horror as, ducking her head to avoid the top of the door, Perdita rode side-saddle into the room on Spotty. Dressed – or rather undressed – as Lady Godiva, her flowing blond hair concealed very little.
‘Christ, what a body,’ said Bas in wonder. ‘No wonder Ricky kept it under wraps.’
‘Disgraceful,’ spluttered Sukey.
‘I always suspected she was a natural blonde,’ said Seb, sidling away from Dommie.
Miss Marple, eyes on stalks, stalked across the room, spyglass poised.
‘I think Lady Godiva was a relation of mine,’ said David Waterlane.
‘The dollar has absolutely no defence against the controlled yen,’ said Victor, still encased inside his dragon’s head.
I have an uncontrolled yen for that girl, thought Red.
‘Thank you,’ said Perdita, accepting a glass of champagne from a drooling waiter.
Spotty, incurably greedy, buried his red-and-white nose in a large plate of sausage rolls, raising his upper lip like a camel when he encountered the sausage. The photographers were going berserk.