by Jilly Cooper
Bristling with hostility, Perdita picked up her parcels. Relinquishing Luke’s hand, the girl rose to her feet.
‘You must be Perdita,’ she said coolly. ‘I recognize you from the posters. Luke’s told me a lot about you.’
‘Funny, he’s told me absolutely nothing about you,’ said Perdita furiously. She turned to Luke: ‘Christ, I’m sorry! You poor thing! What the hell happened? Bloody Bobby.’
‘Wasn’t his fault.’ Even the deep, slow, husky drawl was weakened. ‘It was an airshot. I blocked it.’
‘The blow knocked Luke off his horse,’ said the girl. ‘When he didn’t get up the players formed a circle round him, but I could see he wasn’t moving. I was shaking and shaking. Alejandro, who was watching with me, put his arm round me. I sat beside Luke in the ambulance crying all the way, because I figured he was unconscious, but in fact he was in such agony he couldn’t talk. Then we had to wait three hours in casualty, because they had to look after some people who’d been in a car crash.’
Perdita looked at this cool girl, who’d suddenly gone as white as Luke’s sheets. What right had she got to cry over Luke and be comforted by Alejandro?
‘Who’s she?’ she asked Luke, nodding rudely in the girl’s direction.
‘Margie Bridgwater.’ Luke made no attempt at explanation. His hand swathed in bandages strapped up in the air didn’t seem part of him.
‘D’you want a drink? Vodka, white wine?’ he asked. ‘Margie’ll get it.’
Perdita shook her head. ‘Is it absolute agony?’
Luke shrugged. ‘The first night was the worst, all night on the hour, I was woken by a vast black lady, saying, “Roll over, Mr Alderton”, and then shoving a thermometer up my ass.’
Just for a second, he grinned and was the old Luke again.
‘I’ve bought you a biography of Robert Lowell.’ Perdita put it on the bed. ‘The one you were always quoting about the woods being snowy, dark and deep.’
‘Lovely, dark and deep,’ corrected Margie.
‘And I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. That’s Robert Frost not Robert Lowell.’ Then, catching a warning look from Luke, added more gently, ‘But The New York Times said the Lowell biography was terrific.’
‘I wouldn’t know, I’m not an intellectual,’ spat back Perdita. ‘And some freesias and a tape of Crocodile Dundee.’
‘Thanks,’ said Luke. ‘That’s really neat. How’s Spotty?’
‘Feeling his feet. Bute doesn’t seem to be working.’
‘Give him some stuff called Arkell,’ said Luke. ‘Makes the blood flow. And Tero?’
‘Bloody Miguel gave her such a bump last week, she’s lost her nerve. She won’t bump any more. She still gets the runs twenty-four hours before a big match and won’t eat for days afterwards. I can’t afford to let her lose weight. I ought to turn her away for the summer, but if I don’t take her to England she’ll pine, and so will I, I love her so much.’
She was so shocked by Luke’s appearance that she hardly listened to his answers. It was as though Big Ben or Westminster Abbey had suddenly been bombed. And, to cap it all, here was this bloody girl guarding him like a lioness.
Interrupting him, she said, ‘For the first time I can see how like Red you are.’
Luke smiled ruefully. ‘I guess there must be some plusses about getting sidelined. My brother’s an Adonis,’ he added to Margie.
‘I’ve seen pictures.’ Margie put her hand over his. ‘I like my guys more rugged.’
‘Red is the handsomest man in the world,’ exploded Perdita.
‘Not as good-looking as Rupert Campbell-Black,’ said Margie. ‘Wow! He came to see Luke this morning.’
Perdita felt sick. ‘Did he mention me?’
‘Only to say Venturer weren’t making a movie about you any more,’ said Luke. ‘He was over to finalize American sponsors for the Westchester.’
‘And you’re going to play in it,’ said Margie warmly.
Perdita clenched her fists.
‘Shame they lost the baby,’ went on Margie. ‘He and Taggie are going to adopt one, but they’re having problems in England. Rupert’s forty in the fall and the adoption societies don’t see him as ideal father material, so they’re putting feelers out in the States.’
‘He’s rich,’ said Perdita, who didn’t want to talk about Rupert. ‘If you’re rich you can buy anything. Who’s playing for Hal now?’
‘Alejandro.’
‘For ten times more than Luke was getting,’ said Margie bitterly.
‘The receptionist told me Dancer was here,’ said Perdita.
‘He is so charming,’ said Margie. ‘He wants Luke to see Seth Newcombe, the guy who sorted out Ricky’s hand.’
‘I know,’ snapped Perdita. ‘I was at the hospital when Seth operated. Of course Luke should see him.’
Seeing Luke absolutely wiped out, Perdita added to Margie, ‘Look, Luke and I go back a long way. Would you like to piss off and leave us alone for five minutes?’
Margie raised a thick dark eyebrow at Luke, who nodded.
‘Well, only five minutes. I’ll be outside if you need me.’
Bloody cow, thought Perdita, but she did have wonderful legs. She moved round to see the framed photographs on Luke’s bedside table, disappointed to see they were of Leroy and Fantasma and not of herself.
‘It was nice of you to come,’ he said.
‘I would have come sooner. The others were convinced I’d do more harm than good.’
Luke gazed at her steadily for a second. There was exhaustion but no reproach in his eyes, but he didn’t contradict her.
Lowering herself gingerly on to the bed, so as not to jolt him, she started pleating the white counterpane.
‘I’m sorry I buggered off at Deauville. I didn’t know how you felt.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine now.’
‘I just fell madly in love with Red. I couldn’t help myself.’
‘Sure. How is he?’
‘Doesn’t know I’m here. I hope it might make him a bit jealous. He’s wildly jealous of you, because everyone loves you so much, I guess. They fancy Red, but they don’t seem to like him, but then they don’t know him. Tell me, what’s the best way to hold him?’
‘Don’t get heavy,’ said Luke, then, on reflection, ‘He who bends to himself a joy doth the winged life destroy.’
‘I miss your poems,’ said Perdita. ‘Red’s almost illiterate. You should be nicknamed Well-Read and Ill-Red. Why are you staring at me?’
‘Because I’ve just twigged.’
‘W-what?’
They were interrupted by Margie the Martinet coming back with a doctor and a nurse, who asked Perdita to leave as they wanted to look at Luke’s hand. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead at the prospect of more debilitating pain.
‘But I’ve only been here a few minutes,’ stormed Perdita.
‘Visitation’s being restricted to quarter of an hour,’ said the doctor.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’
Once more the doctor, the nurse and Margie were confronting her as though she was a dangerous lunatic.
‘All right, I’m going.’ Perdita was fighting back the tears. ‘I hope you get better soon.’
Margie followed her out into the passage. Forcing her hands furiously into her trouser pocket, Perdita pulled out a bottle.
‘Give it to Luke,’ she said. ‘Morphine from Bart’s medicine cupboard in case the pain gets too bad.’
‘He needed that in August,’ said Margie, ‘when you shoved off with Red. Smashing up his hand and probably terminating his career was a day in the country compared with what you put him through last summer.’
As she went back into the room to grip Luke’s other hand as the doctor started to undo his bandages, he said through gritted teeth, ‘I’ve just realized who Perdita’s father is.’
59
Red�
�s temper was blazing like a forest fire when Perdita got home.
‘Where the fuck have you been? You were supposed to be at a Ferranti promotional lunch.’
‘I went to see Luke. I rang Dino’s secretary and said I couldn’t make it.’
‘Bullshit. You’re under contract. Buyers flew in from all over the world to meet you. Dino went apeshit. What in hell are you playing at? How was Luke anyway?’
‘Awful, simply terrible.’
‘You can’t have helped. I’ll go and see him tomorrow and you better call Dino and crawl or they’ll slap Winston Chalmers on you.’
Dino Ferranti was icy with rage. ‘You step out of line once more, right, and you’re fired, and we’ll sue you for breach of contract.’
All in all Perdita wasn’t in a very chipper mood to go to a barbecue that evening, particularly when Red was immediately collared by a comely female feature writer in a groin-level, blue suede skirt from Vanity Fair.
The party was held in a copse near one of the polo barns. Coloured lights hung from the trunks of the pine trees, which soared upwards like pillars blotting out the stars. The still air was heavy with the smell of charcoal, pine needles, long-marinaded hunks of lamb, pork and chickens which sizzled and spat as they turned on the barbecue. Rather like me, thought Perdita as she looked across at Red working his magic on the sexy journalist. He’d given up his yellow blazer because all the young bloods in Palm Beach had slavishly copied him. Now he had reverted to his pale blue one braided with emerald green. A lock of hair had fallen over his forehead; his eyes were dreamy; he looked like Rupert Brooke.
‘I prefer to ride mares, in and out of bed,’ he was saying. ‘They’re more competitive.’
The girl smiled and arched her lean and hungry blue suede pelvis towards him.
There’s no point being jealous, thought Perdita echoing one of Red’s commandments, it hurts only yourself.
Away from the fire was a large wheelbarrow, stacked with drink people had brought. Perdita was mixing herself a Green Devil when Angel came up.
‘You saw Luke. ‘Ow was he?’
‘Not brilliant. He looked dreadful.’
‘I ’ear Alejandro is being paid $20,000 a match to play for Hal. Is crazy.’
Perdita took a slug of her Green Devil and choked. It was nearly neat vodka. ‘He had a girl with him called Margie. Jolly bossy, but horribly attractive.’
‘Bibi say she’s very nice.’
Perdita leant against a pine tree. ‘Is it serious?’
‘She looking after Leroy for Luke so it must be.’
Perdita experienced a jab of jealousy so bad it winded her. Some of the younger players had started a food fight. Wham was pounding round the pine trees. Angel ducked to avoid a flying sausage roll.
‘You pick the wrong guy,’ he said.
‘I did not,’ snapped Perdita. ‘Red and I are just like that.’ She held up two crossed fingers.
‘So it would seem,’ said Angel, glancing across at Red who was dancing under a gum tree with the Vanity Fair reporter. The same height, they touched in the most interesting places.
‘You picked the wrong wife,’ said Perdita.
From the nearby barn the occasional stamp or snort of the ponies could be heard. Red-and-silver heart-shaped balloons tied to each box bobbed up to the roof.
‘If someone cut the string your heart would float away like one of those balloons.’
‘Not yet.’ Angel’s face was in shadow. ‘I ’ave promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.’
‘Oh, for Chrissake, I’m sick of that bloody poem.’
The inevitable polo dogs wandered around crunching bones and being tripped over and sworn at. Shark Nelligan’s white bull terrier, confined to his master’s truck because he tended to kill other dogs, leant genially out of the window, his elbow resting on the ledge, being fed pieces of meat and petted by passers-by.
Mixing herself another drink, Perdita couldn’t remember when she had last eaten. She could see Juan coiled round a blonde. To make up his days and avoid paying tax a reluctant Victor had had to leave the party and fly out of Palm Beach before midnight, leaving Sharon to chat up the latest beefcake from Brazil. Jesus was ringing England on Sharon’s car telephone. ‘I weel play for you, Sir Waterloo, eef you pay me $200,000. Veector already offer me that much money. And pay my airplane fare, and a ’ouse. No, I don’t need to breeng my wife – you save on that.’
‘Is Bibi coming?’ Perdita asked Angel.
‘She’s working,’ said Angel flatly. ‘Don’t drink too much, Perdita. Go ’ome before you do anything silly.’
‘Come and dance with me,’ said Perdita.
But at that moment Innocenta emerged from the lilac shadows bringing a plate piled with lamb chops, potato salad and barbecue sauce which she proceeded to share with Angel. Red was necking openly as he danced now. If she hadn’t been scared of his temper, Perdita would have hurled the greasiest pork chop she could find at the girl’s gyrating blue suede bottom.
‘They’re called barbecues because you queue up to receive barbs,’ she said to no-one in particular as she finished her drink.
‘How’s Luke?’ Shark Nelligan came up to her with a plate piled disgustingly high with food. He was interested because he and Luke both played back and would be competing for the same place in the US team, particularly for the Westchester which would mean serious money.
‘I hear his career’s washed up and Hal Peters is paying Alejandro $50,000 a match,’ he went on. ‘I want to get my hands on Fantasma.’
‘Luke won’t sell and he’ll recover,’ said Perdita, filling her glass yet again.
Shark grinned evilly. ‘I’m not sure Hal will. Myrtle, his ex, is taking him to the cleaners. And his new bimbo’s making so free with his Amex he’s praying for it to get stolen. And Luke’s medical bills will be even more astronomical if they call in Seth Newcombe.’
‘But Hal must be insured?’ said Perdita anxiously.
‘Sure he is,’ said Shark with his mouth full, ‘but he’s overstretched. He’s the best car man in Detroit, but he’s so off the wall he exported a thousand Peters’ Cheetahs to the UK last week with left-hand drive.’
‘But Luke’ll be all right, won’t he?’ persisted Perdita.
‘He’s got Bart to fall back on.’ Shark gave a piece of lamb to his slavering bull terrier.
Perdita shook her head. ‘He’s too proud.’
‘And he’s got a pretty sharp new girlfriend,’ added Shark spitefully.
‘Who?’ said Perdita, fishing, though it hurt her.
‘Margie someone. She’s a lawyer. She won’t let him starve.’
As Perdita turned away stricken, Angel emerged from the gloom with Innocenta looking a lot less innocent. Red was still talking to his journalist.
‘Lots of guys won’t have sex the night before a big game,’ Red was saying caressingly, ‘but I always do, and the following morning, although I might try less hard.’
One more drink, thought Perdita, and I’ll make a scene and separate them. She didn’t think she’d ever been more miserable in her life.
‘Hi. Aren’t you Perdita Macleod?’ said a soft voice.
A man with white-blond hair was smiling down at her. He was wearing a cream suit, a buttoned-down, pale blue shirt and a blue spotted tie. He appeared mercifully civilized compared with all these polo hicks, thought Perdita. He was nice-looking rather than handsome and had very light eyes in a beige face like Ricky’s pony, Sinatra.
‘Who are you?’ she asked aggressively.
‘Simpson Hastings.’
If Perdita had been less drunk she would have heard warning bells. Simpson Hastings appeared to know a lot about polo and particularly about her.
‘They say you’re a phenomenon beyond genius.’
‘Not to my face they don’t,’ said Perdita sulkily.
‘It’s a beautiful face. That’s your problem. If you were butch and ugly they could slag you off for being
almost a man. They find your sex appeal disturbing.’
‘Not tonight, they don’t. I’ve got as much appeal here as a mink coat at an Animal Rights meeting.’
‘Where did the skill come from? D’your parents ride?’
‘My mother’s never been on a horse in her life.’
‘And Hamish?’
Simpson Hastings did know a flattering amount about her.
Swaying slightly, Perdita clung on to the truck. ‘Hamish wasn’t my father.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Simpson Hastings didn’t bat a pale-lashed eyelid. ‘He certainly didn’t look like you.’ Then, with the utmost gentleness, ‘Who was?’
‘I don’t know.’ To hell with everyone. Suddenly an Ancient Mariner compulsion to tell all swept over her. ‘My mother went to an orgy in the sixties given by her art master. He was called Jackie Cosgrave. Everyone screwed everyone, particularly my sodding mother. She has no idea which one was my father.’
‘Difficult for you,’ murmured Simpson Hastings without a trace of excitement. ‘Hard to know who to relate to. But he must have been a very good rider.’
Back in Rutshire, Daisy had had a long day finishing off a painting, which Ricky said she’d never get paid for, of Billy and Janey Lloyd-Foxe’s children. As the two-year-old daughter had nearly smashed up Ricky’s house on the first sitting while Janey got happily plastered, Daisy had worked thereafter from photographs and had just painted Billy’s late mongrel, Mavis, as a dog cherub up in the sky. As a background she’d used the particularly tranquil view from Ricky’s balustrade of perpendicular woods and jade-green fields dotted with ponies grazing westward towards the setting sun. Not wanting to disturb Ricky, she slipped out of Robinsgrove by a side door. There was an air of tremendous bustle and excitement about the yard because practice chukkas were starting at the Rutshire tomorrow. She paused for a second to watch the twins, Mike Waterlane and Ricky working out fiendish strategies to fox the opposition.
The twins, back from Palm Beach, were dazzlingly blond and brown and shouting their heads off as usual. Despite the high spirits, however, they’d been training incredibly hard together. No-one was going to take the Gold Cup away from them this year.