by Jilly Cooper
‘Bloody Auriel, I suppose.’
‘My mother.’
‘Grace,’ said Perdita in amazement. ‘She told you how to do all that?’
‘No, no, but being a goddam intellectual snob, she insisted I learn the violin and the flute, and locked me into the playroom to practise. Little did I think, as I double-stopped and double-tongued how useful it would be later. I was also underwater swimming champion at school which is why I can go down for so long without taking a breath.’
Perdita giggled and spread apricot jam on a second croissant.
‘You are appallingly conceited,’ she said, kissing his shoulder, ‘and totally accurate. Do you think the maids will mind there being blood all over the sheets?’
‘We’re paying them fifteen hundred dollars a night not to,’ said Red, pulling her into his arms. He knew exactly the spot just an inch below her nipples where her breasts were most responsive. Was it his expertise or her desire that made it so unbelievably pleasurable?
‘I can’t think why I’ve done without sex for so long,’ she said, arching against him, desperate for him to go on.
‘There’s only one thing better than pussy in the world,’ said Red looking at his watch.
‘What’s that?’
‘Polo. Go and run me a bath.’
Red and Perdita had only one cataclysmic row during their first week. They had been driving round the island congratulating themselves on avoiding the press for so long. Looking at the monkeys swaying and chattering in the trees and the brilliantly coloured birds and flowers, and the hedges alight with fireflies and huge moths as big as bats, Perdita thought how much Luke would have loved it. She hoped one day they could be friends and perhaps, fingers crossed, he would become her brother-in-law.
They stopped for dinner at Pongool on the North Coast, and sat gazing over the Straits at the lights of Johore. Near by a boy calmly dismembered crabs for their dinner. Ten minutes later they were eating them.
‘God, they’re delicious,’ said Perdita guiltily. ‘I’m getting awfully hardened. I couldn’t have eaten them a week ago, having seen them killed like that.’
‘You need toughening up. You’re far too emotional.’
They ate with their fingers off banana leaves instead of plates. From all directions came dollops of rice, beans, squid, giant prawns, lobster and the recently dismembered crabs.
‘Christ, you need a fire extinguisher to eat the chillies,’ gasped Perdita, taking a huge slug of white wine. ‘No, thank you,’ she shuddered as the waiter offered her a large fish’s head.
‘Gourmets suck the eyeballs,’ said Red, lighting a cigarette.
‘Ugh,’ said Perdita.
‘It’s an acquired taste. You mustn’t be so squeamish.’
‘Beautiful stars,’ said Perdita dreamily. She longed to stroke his thighs, but he’d go berserk if she spread chilli sauce all over his white trousers.
‘Stars much bigger in Kenya,’ said Red, tipping his head back. ‘I’ll take you there one day.’
Perdita thought she’d never been happier in her life.
‘Can I have some brandy?’
‘You’ve had enough.’ Red beckoned for the bill. ‘Don’t want to dull your reflexes. I’ve got some amylnitrate and a couple of incredibly blue movies back at the hotel. They’ll blow your mind.’
The moment they were back in the Brunei Suite, however, the telephone rang.
‘OK, terrific, come on up,’ said Red. Then, turning to Perdita, ‘Go and have a shower, darling. I’ve got a surprise for you.’
Perdita was wary of Red’s surprises. It might be the twins, or even the News of the World. Anything for novelty.
But when she wandered into the drawing room ten minutes later in a pale pink silk kimono, she found sitting in one of the pale armchairs one of the prettiest Chinese girls she had ever seen.
‘This is Doris Chow,’ said Red.
Perdita giggled and wondered if Doris had a black tongue.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m mad about Singapore. Have you lived here long?’
‘All my life,’ said Doris.
‘Doris is a teacher,’ drawled Red.
‘Oh really. What d’you teach?’
‘Sex,’ said Red softly; then, to Perdita’s utter horror, he put out a hand and started to caress the Chinese girl’s neck just above her jade-green cheongsam. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ With the other hand he started pulling pins out of her black hair.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ whispered Perdita.
‘She’s going to give you a few lessons,’ said Red as though he was explaining fractions to a seven year old. ‘You’re coming along nicely, but your technique lacks finesse. Wild Barry Bartlett says Doris gives head better than anyone else in Singapore.’
The next minute Perdita had picked up a vase and thrown it at Red.
‘You perverted bloody bastard.’
Maddeningly, Red caught it, putting it down on the glass table in the middle of the room.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said sharply as Perdita reached for an ashtray.
Bursting into tears, she fled to the bedroom.
‘I won’t do it, I won’t. D’you want to turn me into a fucking dyke? Don’t make me, please, please, Red. I’m sorry I’m not good enough. I’ll read sex books, I’ll watch blue movies. Can’t you tell me where I’m going wrong, not her?’
Most hearts would have melted, not Red’s.
‘Why are you making such a stupid fuss over something that’ll turn out so nice later? You’d think nothing of going to Hugh Dawnay or Peter Grace to learn polo. What’s so different about sex? A few practicals with Doris, and you’ll be almost up to Auriel’s standards.’
Wham, Perdita had slapped him across the face.
Wham, he slapped her back much harder.
‘I can’t. Red, truly I can’t.’
‘You will if you want to stay with me. If not, there’s a plane back to England leaving first thing in the morning.’
After Doris had gone hours later, Perdita cried herself to sleep on the sofa in the drawing room. Sometime towards dawn she woke to find Red standing by the window. He was smoking, with an untouched glass of whisky beside him on the table. In the pale light filtering through the net curtains, he looked ghastly, his shoulders hunched, his eyeliner smudged beneath sad, despairing eyes – the picture of desolation.
‘Red,’ she called out, forgetting the desperate humiliation through which he’d put her, ‘are you OK?’
As though he were continents away he looked at her for a second in bewilderment. They met halfway across the room, collapsing into each other’s arms.
‘I’m sorry.’ His lips were against her forehead. ‘I’ll never put you through anything like that again. I’ll make you happy, I promise. I don’t know what gets into me.’
‘I love you,’ mumbled Perdita, who only felt passionate relief he’d forgiven her. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’
‘I’ve got problems,’ said Red wearily. ‘I’ll tell you one day.’
‘Tell me now.’ They both jumped as the telephone rang.
‘You get it,’ said Red.
‘It’s The Scorpion,’ said Perdita in panic a second later. ‘They know we’re here.’
‘Give it to me.’ Red took the receiver. ‘OK, you bastards,’ he said coolly, ‘I’ve only got one thing to say to you and the rest of the world, right. Perdita and I are getting married. We haven’t fixed a date yet, but it won’t be long. Now, fuck off and leave us alone.’ Slamming down the receiver he took it off the hook, and added, turning to a gaping Perdita, ‘That should shut them up.’
‘But you didn’t mean it?’
Red laughed. Suddenly he was all sparkle and high spirits at the novelty of the whole thing.
‘Yes, I did. I’ve always been turned on by the idea of arranged marriages, so I arranged this one. Let’s go and consummate the engagement.’
54
‘Red to wed’ screamed wor
ldwide headlines. ‘Perdita steals Auriel’s toyboy.’ ‘Chukked her’, said the Sun in a huge front-page headline. Every member of the Red Army seemed only too happy to tell all about Red in bed. The press besieged the Goodwood Park Hotel. There were widespread rumours that James Whitaker, dressed as a monkey, had tried to climb into the roof garden of the Brunei Suite. But the tigerishly vigilant hotel staff only let in one person, the most expensive jeweller in Singapore, from whom Red bought an engagement ring for Perdita, containing a sapphire as big as a Victoria plum.
After a couple more days in Singapore they moved on to Thailand, by which time press interest had been considerably distracted by the wedding of another beautiful redhead to the Duke of York in Westminster Abbey. From Thailand they went to Hong Kong, India, then on to Kenya, and everywhere they were pestered.
Perdita secretly enjoyed the publicity. It excited her to be the other half of a beautiful couple with packs of reporters hanging on her every expletive and her photograph in every newspaper, sleek, exotic and shining with love. Lady Godivine, the press had nicknamed her. At last she had become a superstar.
Conversely, for the first time in her life, she was forced to be unselfish. Like a prince, Red expected her to do everything. Mix his drinks, tidy up after him, ring up the Singapore tailor, who arrived in a quarter of an hour quivering with excitement to receive an order for twenty suits and twice as many shirts, jackets and trousers. And Red gave the fitting of the suits – the slant of a pocket, the position of a button – the same total concentration he’d given Wilbur Smith on the plane or to a game of polo when he’d suddenly decided to win it.
He had incredible stamina. When they moved to India and Africa she found it difficult to keep up with the endless round of night-clubs and parties. And, like all wildly unpunctual people, he hated to be kept waiting because he wasn’t used to it. If Perdita wasn’t ready, he left without her.
Often sadistic, keeping her for ages on the brink of orgasm until she was screaming for it, he was in fact very like a tiger who’d been reared by humans, beautiful, playful, purring, rubbing against you, falling asleep in your arms, but liable at any moment to turn savage and wounding.
But if he had a wicked temper, he didn’t bear grudges, even after the most violent rows. Apart from the occasional sniping at Ricky, the only person he hated was Chessie. ‘The moment Dad dies of a coronary, there’ll be a taxi outside Alderton Towers to take her to the airport.’
Best of all, like a plant brought out of the winter frosts into a warm greenhouse, Perdita adored being rich, having fistfuls of notes to buy what she liked, ordering whatever she wanted to eat. One evening she ate so much caviar she was sick. The same tailor making suits for Red plucked the most amazing silks and cottons out of the rainbow and, strictly supervised by Red, transformed them overnight into a wildly flattering wardrobe.
‘I’m going to turn you into a great beauty,’ said Red, taking endless photographs of her both dressed and nude. ‘Within six months every girl in the world is going to want to look like you.’
Having refused to speak to any of her family or fellow polo players because she was frightened of getting an earful, Perdita finally rang Seb Carlisle to test the water and found it extremely icy.
‘Christ, you bitch, Perdita. Have you any idea how many people you fucked up?’
‘Who?’
‘Your sainted mother for a start.’
‘Let her sweat.’
‘Don’t be a cow. She’s sweet. And you’ve completely screwed up Apocalypse and Venturer. And poor Auriel actually cried in public last week. And your future mother-in-law is tearing her snow-white hair at the thought of Red chucking himself away on a nobody.’
‘Bitch,’ screamed Perdita.
‘Dancer and Ricky will certainly never speak to you again.’
‘I don’t care. I’ve never been so happy in my life.’
‘It won’t last. Red sheds women like cardigans in summer.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk, pinching your brother’s girlfriend.’
‘Dommie’s dyed his hair black, so she won’t mistake us in the future.’
‘All twins look grey in the dark,’ snarled Perdita. ‘And what about both of you going to bed with Sharon?’
‘That was the best thing we ever did. Hearing Victor’d fired us, Dancer’s hired us to play for Apocalypse next year.’
Perdita felt an appalling stab of jealousy, then steeled herself to ask the most difficult question of all.
‘How’s Luke?’
‘Very unallright,’ said Seb bleakly. ‘That’s why everyone really hates you. You’ve broken Luke’s heart.’
Ecstasy at an autumn spent playing not very serious polo in Zimbabwe was tempered by the prospect of returning to Palm Beach in the middle of November and facing Luke. Perdita didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed on getting back to Red’s house to learn that Luke had taken all his ponies and Leroy off to Argentina, wouldn’t be back until after Christmas, and by then would be playing out of Boca Raton, so they’d be far less likely to bump into each other.
Any worries next morning that Red might have forgotten her birthday were dispelled when he told her to look out of the window. On the lawn below were three of Red’s grooms, each holding two of the most beautiful ponies Perdita had ever seen.
‘Happy birthday, darling,’ said Red, amused at her speechlessness. ‘When you shacked up with me, I told you there’d be strings attached.’
Breaking the rule that one should always approach horses quietly, Perdita flew downstairs in her pale pink silk kimono and, screaming with delight, flitted from pony to pony, two chestnuts, a couple of Barry Bartlett’s tough little Walers from Singapore, and a bay and a dark brown from Argentina, who were head-shy when she tried to hug them.
Then, leaping on to one of the chestnuts, Perdita cantered her through the dew, executing such a perfect figure of eight in and out of two orange trees that she earned herself a round of applause from the grooms.
‘Thank you,’ she screamed up at Red. ‘It’s the most wonderful, wonderful present I’ll ever have.’
He must love her to spoil her like this, and it meant that now, with Spotty and Tero, she’d have eight ponies. She gave a start of horror. She’d come back so late last night and been so knocked out by the splendour of Red’s house that she hadn’t even asked after them.
‘Spotty and Tero are OK, aren’t they?’ she asked the grooms, who all looked shifty.
When they had driven down to El Paradiso she understood why. Spotty had dropped a lot of weight, but actually looked splendidly fit and well muscled.
‘You spoilt him. He was always much too fat,’ said Red in answer to Perdita’s furious complaints.
Spotty was sulking so much that Perdita had deserted him that for the first few days he stoutly refused to acknowledge her presence, even spurning Polos.
Tero was a different matter. Perdita found her standing alone in one of the paddocks – a caricature of her former, sleek self. Her lustreless coat hung from her jagged backbone. You could have stacked plates between her ribs.
Her two-inch-long mane and tail were sparse and moth-eaten, her once tender, glowing eyes now sunken and dull, as she shivered in the burning sunlight, unsteady on her legs, the picture of despair. But at the sound of Perdita’s wail of horror the little mare pricked up her ears, stared for a second, whickered incredulously and then went as crazy with delight as her desperately weak condition would allow. Perdita was motionless and speechless with shame as Tero staggered forward. Then, as she frantically cuddled the pony, Tero proceeded to nudge her feebly in the ribs trying to comfort her.
‘What happened to her?’ Perdita screamed later at Manuel, Red’s headgroom.
‘She pine. She wouldn’t eat nothing. Eef anyone ride ’er, she shake, then bolt. So we let ’er out, no good. We keep ’er in, no good. So we geeve up.’
‘Fucking useless idiots. Why didn’t you ring me?’
Man
uel shrugged. ‘You didn’t leave a number.’
And would she have listened, wondered Perdita, appalled. Red had bewitched her. She was humiliated, shattered at what she had done. Sobbing, she vowed never to leave Tero again, not to rest until the pony was better.
Red thought Perdita was making a most awful fuss. It was only a pony. Even a letter and a birthday present from Bart, waiting when they had driven back from the barn, didn’t cheer her up.
‘Dear Perdita,’ he had written, ‘Glad you’re back in time for the season. I’ve fired the Napiers, and I can’t play with Miguel and Juan any more because the sonofabitch APA have put me up to six. The good news is that Angel’s about to get US citizenship, so with him, you and Red, we’ve got a world-class team to play in the States and the UK next year. First date: Fathers and Sons next month. Happy Birthday. Yours, Bart.’
The present was a diamond necklace.
‘We’ll have to hock that for a start,’ said Red.
Having ignored a mountain of fan mail, final reminders and unopened bills, and remarked how quiet it was for Palm Beach, Red checked his three telephones and found they’d all been cut off. When he sent Perdita into the kitchen to make him a cup of coffee, she found the gas and electricity had been cut off too. The maid, when she came in, announced she would give Red notice unless he paid her for the last five months. Red gave her a wad of notes and told Perdita they’d better go and tap Grace.
‘Mom always chews me out, but she coughs up in the end.’
And puts her hand over her mouth while she’s coughing, thought Perdita remembering Grace’s obsession with good behaviour.
‘I can’t leave Tero. I’ve got to get back to the barn,’ she snapped.
‘We’ll only be gone half a day.’
‘And I can’t meet her with roots like this.’ Mutinously Perdita examined her piebald hair. The white-blonde now growing half an inch into the jet-black looked deliberately aggressive and punk.
‘Mom’s interested in different kinds of roots. She’s a godawful snob.’
‘What shall I wear?’
‘The Crown Jewels. She’d only be happy if I was marrying the Queen of England, so you might as well settle for disapproval.’