by Jilly Cooper
Red borrowed a company jet to fly up to New York that afternoon. Grace was waiting for them in her apartment overlooking a now leafless Central Park. The sitting room was enchanting with rose-red lacquered walls and paintwork, sofas and chairs covered in white chintz splodged with huge, dark pink roses and embroidered cushions. There were dark red and pink roses in vases everywhere. Pictures included a Fragonard and a Watteau of charming lovers sitting on swings.
Leather-bound books rose to the ceiling on either side of the mantelpiece, which could hardly be seen for invitations. Below in the grate apple logs burned merrily. Nothing could have been prettier or more welcoming. But Grace, who had an impeccable clippings service and had familiarized herself with Perdita’s every misdemeanour from playing Lady Godiva to dunking Enid Coley and swearing at the future King of England, radiated disapproval. Perdita felt as though she’d come out of the bitter November cold and climbed into the deep freeze.
‘It’s Perdita’s birthday,’ said Red, kissing Grace on her rigidly unyielding cheek, ‘so she’s brought you a present.’
Acquired with one of Red’s cheques which would certainly bounce later, it was a red-and-white Staffordshire cow, so adorable Perdita could hardly dare to pack it up.
‘Thank you,’ said Grace, not deigning to open it. ‘How old are you, Perdita?’
‘Twenty.’
‘And what did Red give you?’
Red shot Perdita a look of warning, but it was too late.
‘Six ponies,’ sighed Perdita happily. ‘They’re amazing. One dark brown mare. Manuel says she’s a bit green, but she’s got a tremendous amount of speed, and a chestnut who evidently turns like a ballerina, and a bay who’s so pretty she must be clean bred, and two little Walers who are as tough as shit.’ She blushed. ‘I mean awfully tough.’
‘May I see your engagement ring?’
Perdita held out her hand. The sapphire trembled like a great blob of ink.
‘Pretty,’ said Grace. ‘Red has very good taste. I hope you don’t play polo in it.’
‘Good for blacking Shark Nelligan’s eye,’ said Perdita.
‘I’m drafting an announcement of the engagement for The New York Times,’ said Grace frostily, ‘and I need to know a little more about you, Perdita. I gather you started as a groom. I so admire people who work their way up. What part of England are you from?’
‘Eldercombe in Rutshire.’
If this was not a place that held very happy memories for Grace, she didn’t show it.
‘And what does your father do?’ Grace was writing in a rose-patterned notebook now. Perdita was beginning to sweat. She detested using Hamish, but Grace was looking at her as though she were a large dollop of French dressing that had fallen on a new silk dress.
‘He’s a lawyer, but now he works as a producer in Hollywood.’
Rackety, she could see Grace thinking.
‘I’m flying to Beverly Hills next week,’ Grace went on. ‘Perhaps I could meet him and your mother.’
Perdita went green.
‘My parents are divorced. My mother paints.’
‘And your grandparents?’
‘Mum’s father’s dead. My grandmother’s a lush.’
‘And where did the Macleods come from?’ asked Grace. ‘I know some Perthshire Macleods. There was a title somewhere.’
‘Not us.’ Perdita was fed up with being interrogated. ‘Grandpa was a hen-pecked old wimp, but good-hearted. Granny Macleod is a bitch. You wouldn’t need to be very tall to reach the drawer she came out of.’
Grace’s lips tightened. Her silver pen quivered. She expected humility from lesser mortals.
‘Which school did you go to?’
‘About eight, and I was chucked out of seven of them.’
‘You’ll certainly find Perdita’s name in the Rutshire Anti-Social Register,’ said Red, who was laughing himself sick.
‘Now you’re engaged to Red, I assume you’ll give up playing polo professionally.’
‘Certainly not,’ boasted Perdita. ‘I’m going to play for your ex-husband next season.’
Red was still laughing on the way home.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ moaned Perdita. ‘Go to Yale, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred pounds.’
‘I’m certainly not going to collect the half million I needed from her to settle a few bills. We’re going to have to put you to work, baby.’
Three days later Perdita came back from the barn at lunchtime, passionately relieved after an all-night session that Tero was at last eating and responding to treatment. Making herself a Hellman’s and Philadelphia sandwich, Perdita settled down to read an interview with Red in Esquire magazine.
Was he going to stop oversleeping and get to matches on time? asked the interviewer.
‘I don’t need an alarm clock,’ Red had replied. ‘Who’d want to stay asleep in the morning if they had Perdita beside them?’
Perdita clutched herself with joy. Red really did love her.
Accompanying the piece was an incredibly violent photograph of Red riding off Shark Nelligan. His body bent at the waist, like the head of an arrow, swung two feet out of the saddle, hitting exactly the right pressure points as he drove Shark off the line. Red was smiling, Shark was scowling.
‘Lovely piece,’ she said, as Red walked in, ‘and a heavenly photograph.’
‘These are better,’ said Red, throwing a hard-backed envelope down on the kitchen table.
Inside were some black-and-white prints he’d taken of her in Kenya and had blown up. She was wearing a black polo shirt, breeches and boots. Her face was slightly shiny and her hair hanging in damp tendrils.
‘Wow! I look OK,’ said Perdita in amazement. ‘Perhaps you should give up polo and take up photography.’
Red ruffled her hair, which was now all black again.
‘You’re gonna take up modelling, angel, and start earning your keep. I spent the morning with Ferranti’s.’
‘Dino Ferranti?’ said Perdita in excitement. ‘The show-jumper? I had such a crush on him.’ Then, seeing Red’s face, ‘But that was yonks ago.’
‘Ferranti’s Inc. They’re a multi-national,’ said Red. ‘One of their big moneyspinners is cosmetics and perfume. Dino’s on the main board. We had lunch today. They’re launching a new perfume next year and thinking of calling it “Perdita”.’
‘After me?’ asked Perdita, delighted.
‘After you. I hope it’s better than “Auriel”. If it takes on, they’re thinking of sponsoring a polo team. Dino’s always wanted to play polo. It’ll be fun playing with Dad and Angel this season, but it might pall. We should keep our options open.’
Perdita always felt dizzy with happiness when he talked in terms of their future.
‘All they want you to do,’ went on Red, ‘if they choose you, is have your picture taken looking unbelievably glamorous and make a few personal appearances when they launch it in the spring. And they’re talking megabucks.’
A week later, when Perdita was practising cut shots into goal on Spotty and totally concentrating on the job in hand, Red, without warning, brought Dino Ferranti and two of his brothers to watch her. Next day she and Red lunched with the Ferranti Board in New York.
‘We better Scotchtape your mouth,’ said Red. ‘Don’t call anyone an asshole.’
Ferranti’s, however, were enchanted and promptly signed her up. Red said he’d handle the money side.
‘Dino is kind of attractive,’ said Perdita as they flew home.
‘Don’t be deceived. He’s very tough.’
Perdita looked down at the pastel houses and the yachts that dotted the hyacinth-blue ocean as the plane began its descent to Palm Beach Airport.
‘What about Venturer?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t I under contract to them?’
‘Winston Chalmers’ll get you out of that. No sweat,’ said Red.
‘Hum,’ said Perdita.
‘Dino doesn’t like Rupert Campbell-B
lack by the way, so he’ll be delighted to take Venturer out,’ said Red. ‘Dino once made a pass at Rupert’s first wife. And Rupert was very close to Dino’s wife, Fen, before she married Dino, so it makes both guys edgy. Rupert is convinced Dino slept with Helen. Dino swears he didn’t, but Rupert can never forgive a right.’
55
Back in Rutshire on an October afternoon, Ricky, having worked young ponies all day, by way of light relief was hacking Wayne through the Eldercombe woods. Little Chef, riding pillion on the pony’s plump quarters, bristled at rabbits and occasionally leapt down to chase them through leaves still starched by the morning’s frost. A sinking sun, like a day-glo grapefruit, caught the shaggy silver pelts of the traveller’s joy and gingered the last leaves of the turkey oaks.
In the distance Ricky could hear the mournful pa, pa, pa of the horn. The hunt must be on their last run of the day. He passed Daisy’s cottage. A few pale pink roses still clambered up the walls. Fuchsias drooped in tubs, clashing with the scarlet nasturtiums which splayed across the path. The lights were on in the sitting room and the first flickerings of a fire in the grate. Gainsborough, perched on the wall washing his orange fur, crashed fatly through the cat door at the sight of Little Chef. Ricky suddenly thought how comforting it would be to follow Gainsborough in for tea, crumpets and fruitcake. But he didn’t want to inflict his black gloom on poor Daisy who was unhappy enough over Perdita’s defection.
So, opening the gate, he turned right up the long, green ride to Robinsgrove. Bracken the colour of Red Alderton’s hair singed the sides of the valley, yellow ash wands clogged the stream and Ricky’s muddy, unrecognizable ponies, whisking their burr-filled tails, stood head to tail gently gnawing at each other’s withers. As he reached the top of the hill a sycamore was systematically shedding shoals of amber leaves, as if slithering out of a silk dress and, in the sunfired waters of the lake, the beeches rinsed their last red leaves.
The most beautiful autumn he could remember was coming to an end, and he was no nearer winning his bet and getting Chessie back. He had two painful cracked ribs from the hoof of a recalcitrant pony. He was worried about Dancer who had a cough that wouldn’t go away. He missed Luke’s endless good humour and reassuring solidarity since he had returned to America, and, although he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, he missed Perdita horribly – and so did Little Chef and the ponies, who had all responded to her passionate attentions. All the fun seemed to have gone out of the yard. And now he had to start welding a new team with the twins, who were charming but foxily unreliable, and the on dit was that Bart was spending so much on ponies that next year he really would be unbeatable. Ricky felt like Sisyphus whose boulder had not only rolled down the hill but squashed him flat as well.
As he rode into the yard, Louisa, having taken the geraniums out of the tubs, was planting wallflowers and forget-me-nots instead. He had not forgotten Chessie, but she had not left Bart.
The other grooms raced round the boxes of the ponies that were still inside, chucking wodges of hay into their mangers, anxious to get off and dolled up for Saturday night jaunts.
‘Don’t forget the clocks go back,’ said Louisa to Ricky as she took Wayne from him. ‘Heaven to have an extra hour’s sleep.’
Or an extra hour’s insomnia, thought Ricky wearily.
A second later a dark blue Ferrari roared up the drive scattering an appropriately red carpet of beech leaves and screeched to a halt. It was Bas and Rupert on their way home from hunting, their white breeches spattered with mud, jerseys over their shirts, red coats chucked in the back. Both were in tearing spirits. Ricky thought for the hundredth time how well being happily married suited Rupert. Suddenly the grooms seemed in not nearly such a hurry to slope off.
After a quick whirl round the yard to look at Ricky’s new ponies, they went into the house. Ricky, still not drinking, got a bottle out of the cellar.
‘Christ, this is priceless,’ said Bas, rubbing the dust off the label. ‘You sure you want to waste it on us? Why not flog it and buy a pony?’
Ricky shrugged and got two glasses out of the cupboard.
‘Black dog?’ asked Bas, handing Ricky a corkscrew from the knife drawer. Then, as Ricky nodded, he added: ‘You should have come out today. The last fox would have cheered anyone up.’
‘I seem to have gone off hunting.’
‘You ought to be hunting for a new wife,’ said Rupert.
‘If I could guarantee getting one like yours,’ admitted Ricky. ‘And why are you looking so bloody pleased with yourself?’
‘Taggie’s having a baby,’ said Rupert triumphantly. ‘I am absolutely knocked out, and I’ve never known anyone so delighted as she is. She’s adorable with children anyway. She’s so excited she keeps waking me up in the night.’
As the setting sun, now a blazing blood orange, lit up the long scar down the side of Ricky’s face, the corkscrew came out of the bottle with only half the cork.
‘Oh, Christ, I’m sorry,’ said Rupert. ‘I forgot about Will. Bloody tactless of me.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Ricky as Bas took the bottle from him. ‘I’m very pleased for you. Is Taggie feeling OK?’
‘Wonderful,’ said Rupert. ‘It’s me who had the morning sickness today. I got such a hangover celebrating.’
‘Now you’re forty, d’you think you’ll be able to cope with all those interrupted nights?’ said Bas slyly.
‘I’m not forty yet,’ said Rupert coldly.
To the left in the faded blue sky hung a slim, new moon like a ballerina on her points, so sweet, innocent and virginal beside the blazing orange sun in the west. Taggie and Chessie, thought Ricky. How much happier he’d be with someone like Taggie.
‘How’s Venturer?’ he asked as Bas extracted tiny bits of cork from the two glasses of wine.
‘Fantastic. Advertising’s terrific. We’ve flogged loads of programmes to the network and abroad. Cameron Cook may be a bit vocal, but she’s bloody good at her job. The only problem with Rupert’s new fidelity kick is that the most influential programme buyers in America are women. Once Rupert could have screwed them into submission. Now he has to use his powers of persuasion and he gets frightfully bored.’
Rupert grinned. ‘Tell it not in Gath, but I have actually been faithful to Tag for a whole year, and I want to get home to her,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘but first – Christ, this claret is good – we’ve got a proposition to make to you. We’re definitely going to revive the Westchester in America next year. We want you to act as consultant.’
Ricky went very still; the colour drained from his face.
‘The plan,’ added Rupert, ‘is to transmit it in America, the UK, Europe, certainly Australia and the Argentine, and God knows where else in October. The English team would have to rest their horses after the Gold Cup, then fly them out in September to acclimatize them. You’ll captain the English team.’
‘American sponsors are crazy about the idea,’ chipped in Bas. ‘Revlon, BMW, Cartier, Cadillac, Michelob, Peters Cars, they’ll all take air time. The network’s mad about it, too, and are talking about prime time if we get the Prince and Princess of Wales to present the cup.’
‘Polo doesn’t work on television,’ said Ricky flatly.
‘We’ll have to edit,’ said Rupert. ‘The plan is not to change ends until half-time, shorten the pitch a little, play with a yellow ball and have cameras overhead. We’ve got to capture the excitement and the glamour and the snob element. It’ll be like a walking Tatler crossed with Chariots of Fire.’
‘Sounds hell,’ said Ricky.
‘If properly promoted,’ went on Rupert, ignoring the jibe, ‘it’ll create as much interest as the Ryder Cup or even the America’s Cup.’
Ricky’s hand shook as he put two heaped spoonfuls of coffee in a mug and filled it up with cold water from the tap.
‘That won’t taste very nice,’ said Bas, removing the cup, throwing the contents away and starting all over again.
�
�We are utterly pissed off with Perdita for buggering off,’ said Rupert, ‘but Cameron’s got some incredible footage already.’
‘She’s a disgrace,’ snapped Ricky, ‘and should be left to stew.’
‘She’s still under contract,’ said Rupert, who liked making money. ‘Now she’s living with Little Red Riding Hood, she’s an even hotter property. Cameron’s going to follow her in Palm Beach when she comes up against some really tough opposition, then transmit the film as a teaser just before the Westchester.’
‘She’ll never hold Red,’ said Ricky, sitting down on the window seat with his cup of coffee and patting his knee for Little Chef to jump up.
‘Bart’s signed up both of them to play with him and Angel Solis de Gonzales in Palm Beach and England,’ said Bas.
Now Bart’s got Chessie and Perdita, thought Ricky savagely.
The whole west had turned a brilliant rippling vermilion. Silhouetted black against it, a poplar copse looked like Daisy’s paintbrushes neatly stacked in a jamjar after a day’s work. The little moon had turned gold.
‘Well,’ said Bas, ‘are you going to come in with us or not?’
If Chessie had really loved him, reasoned Ricky, she would have come back by now. Rivers of blood had flowed under the bridge since she had left him. On the other hand he could go to ten, he could win the Gold Cup, and now there was a possibility to win the Westchester. He was still utterly obsessed with burying Bart. It was worth a try.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘But Venturer putting so much money in scares the shit out of me. You sure you can afford it? The Americans are virtually unbeatable on their own territory.’
‘Well, that should please the Americans if they’re putting up most of the money,’ said Rupert sensibly.
‘Well, I wouldn’t waste money on Perdita,’ said Ricky harshly. ‘Her form’s going to plummet once she starts playing with Bart and Red. They’re both so hooked on winning, they’ll gee her up rather than calm her down, and she’ll get more and more explosive.’
‘Great,’ said Rupert rubbing his hands. ‘Tantrums fill stadiums. Look at Nastase. Look at McEnroe and Botham.’