by Jilly Cooper
For a second he appraised Perdita’s back view as she poured herself a third vodka.
‘You’re losing too much weight.’
Moving forward, feeling for her breasts, he nuzzled the back of her neck. Perdita felt her stomach curling and missed the glass with the vodka bottle, wiping it off the polished table with her sleeve.
‘Your game may be off,’ murmured Red into her hair, ‘but you’re ace at making ponies.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Here’s the good news. Brad Dillon and Juan want me to play Tero tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Tero!’ Utterly outraged, Perdita tried to swing round, but, unwilling to meet her eyes, Red held on to her.
‘She’s hardly had a man on her back since Argentina. You know how fucked up she was when I went off to Singapore. She’ll be terrified.’
‘Terofied,’ mocked Red. ‘She went like a dream. I played a chukka on her this afternoon. Juan reckons she’ll do two chukkas. We saw a video of the Gold Cup this afternoon,’ he went on, trying to railroad her into submission. ‘Juan said I don’t mark closely enough. So, I’m not going to let you out of my sight in future.’ His hand slid down to her groin. ‘Let’s go to bed.’
‘Don’t get off the subject and don’t soft-soap me,’ stormed Perdita. ‘You’re not riding Tero. I’ve spent nearly a year getting her confidence back. I’m not letting you fuck her up just for one match.’
‘Don’t be so unBritish,’ teased Red, who was fast losing his conciliatory manner.
‘I am not letting you ride her in the parade, let alone a single chukka.’
Letting her go, he reached for his drink, then picked up her left hand and examined the huge sapphire.
‘After all I’ve done for you,’ he said softly. ‘And you deny me seven or at most fifteen minutes, when I’m playing for my country.’
‘Tero’s different,’ stammered Perdita.
‘You bet she is. With me on her back she’s a good pony.’
‘You bastard,’ yelled Perdita, drink fuelling her aggression, then jumped at the baying of Bart’s Rottweilers. ‘Oh, fucking hell, Chessie’s back.’
‘Look what I’ve got for your father’s big five O,’ said Chessie, sauntering into the room. Pulling the portrait out of its wrapping paper, she propped it up on a green and white striped sofa.
Red whistled. ‘Talk about a glow job. You look angelic, but kinda overdressed. Why didn’t you take off my father’s wedding ring while you were about it?’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Chessie, but not unamiably. Perdita’s hostility, however, could have frozen bread straight from the oven.
‘My mother painted that,’ she hissed. ‘That’s our sitting-room sofa.’
‘Needs re-upholstering, like your mother,’ said Chessie. ‘My cheque should help.’
‘It’s a bloody conspiracy. How did you get on to her? I bet she wrote smarming to you. What’s she been saying about me?’
Chessie looked at her meditatively.
‘She misses you,’ she said. ‘I thought she was rather a nice old thing. Quite charming really.’
‘Good at charming snakes like you.’
‘Ay, yay, yay.’ Chessie’s eyes widened. ‘What’s got into her?’ she said, turning to Red. ‘Obviously not you, or she wouldn’t be so bad-tempered.’
‘Red wants to ride Tero in the International. My pony,’ she added scornfully, when Chessie looked blank.
‘That’s great,’ said Chessie. ‘People fall over themselves to lend ponies for the International. You’ll sell her for three times as much afterwards, particularly with Red on her back, and, just think, the whole world will be watching her.’
68
The whole polo world – or rather 27,000 of them – gathered at the Guards Club next day for the Cartier International, the ritziest event in the polo calendar. The blustery weather seemed to be reflecting the tensions of the two teams. Clouds raced across the sky as a warm but frenzied south-west wind whipped off panamas, murdered hairstyles, stripped the petals from the red roses clambering up the clubhouse and fretted the fleet of hospitality tents that lined the pitch like yachts in a regatta. All morning, so their employers could get plastered, chauffeurs, driving everything from Minis to Rollers, edged into the parking lot where picnickers consumed vast quantities of quiche, smoked salmon and chicken drumsticks and drank Pimm’s out of paper cups.
Only the jade-green statue of Prince Albert on his splendid charger gazed bleakly northwards, away from such manic guzzling and later from the play, as if he were blocking some distant shot.
Angel escaped into one of the lavatories in the players’ changing rooms, so no-one could muddle him with more advice. He was outraged that Guards Club officials, themselves outraged that the Yanks had put him in their team, had insisted on frisking him on arrival. He was livid he was playing Number One. What chance would he have of scoring with the ground drying unevenly and the wind whisking the ball in every direction? His heart blackened in hatred against Drew, the enemy, whom he now suspected of cuckolding him. How could he not kill him? He was about to play for a country belonging to a wife who had deserted him, against a country he loathed. He had spent last night painting a white banner with the words ‘The Falklands Belong to Argentina’, which he had smuggled in with the tack and intended to brandish during the presentation.
Perdita, even more miserable and isolated, huddled in the stands next to the Royal Box. She wore dark glasses to hide her reddened eyes and the fact that there was no sun in the sky or in her life. After rowing with Red all night, terrified of losing him, she’d let him ride Tero. Now he’d banished her from the pony lines.
‘You screwed my sleep. I don’t want you hanging around dispensing gratuitous advice.’
The wind was taking everyone’s skirts over their heads. Girls with good legs seemed less embarrassed, reflected Perdita. She tipped Angel’s sombrero further over her nose for there, arriving with Bas, were Rupert and Taggie. Taggie seemed to have solved the force ten problem by wearing a sand-coloured suit with shorts instead of a skirt, showing off her long, beautiful legs. Over her shoulders was thrown a huge crimson cashmere shawl. From her ears hung long silver earrings, both birthday presents from Rupert. He could give her everything in the world except a baby. With her dark hair lifting and her bright crimson lips as smooth as a tulip, she looked absolutely gorgeous. As usual Rupert never took his arm off her shoulders from the moment they sat down. Perdita’s heart twisted with envy and loneliness. Would he never recognize her?
Now the celebrities, who’d come to be looked at, vying to take their seats later than each other, were streaming out of the Cartier tent, replete with champagne, lobster, chicken supreme and peaches poached in Sancerre. As they looked for their seats, they flashed all-embracing smiles at their public.
‘I’ve just seen a Beegee go by,’ boomed Miss Lodsworth as Ringo Starr passed by her seat up the gangway.
‘Looked like a Monkey to me,’ said Mrs Hughie.
‘Who are the Monkeys?’ asked Brigadier Hughie. ‘Those chimps who have tea on television?’
‘No, no, a dance band,’ said Mrs Hughie. ‘You remember the Monkeys when the children were young?’
‘We had a monkey in Borneo,’ said Brigadier Hughie. ‘Dear little chap. Had to leave him behind when I was posted to Malaya.’
‘Expect it’s Prime Minister now,’ muttered Rupert.
A ripple of excitement went through the crowd as Juan O’Brien walked into the stands in a blazer of glory, hailing acquaintances.
‘Hoo-arn, Hoo-arn,’ cried Lady Sharon. ‘Welcome, welcome, or rather bienvenida, back to Inglesias. Are you going to be allowed to play next year? Dave’s mad about the idea.’
Several members of the Guards Club turned purple and started muttering about Bluff Cove. Rapping out commands on his walkie-talkie, covering a field as flawless and as expectant as a newly laid carpet, strode Major Ferguson. The buttons on his blazer gleamed brighter even t
han the brass instruments of the band of the Irish Guards in their blood-red tunics.
Suddenly the photographers abandoned the celebrities and shot off to concentrate on the Prince and Princess of Wales, who’d just arrived and were shaking hands in the Royal Box. Only a couple of wagtails looking for worms took no notice.
On came the skewbald drum horse and his Life Guards rider in his gold coat, followed by the American team, the Stars and Stripes streaming out behind them. Angel, his face still as a gold coin, sulked because he’d just been sharply ordered to put out his cigarette. Big Bobby Ferraro, on a wall-eyed sorrel, his hat on the back of his head, had his mouth open at all the pomp. Bart was in a state of ecstasy at achieving two ambitions: to ride for his country and meet the Princess of Wales. Red, aware of the crowd’s adulation, was the only one grinning broadly – and he’s riding Tero, thought Perdita in fury. How dare he? Tero looked petrified, her pewter coat lathering up like a washing machine primed with too much Daz, big eyes darting, ears disappeared against her pretty head as Red held her in an iron grip. Nor did Perdita know that four grooms, as well as Angel, Bart and Bobby, had had to hold her in the pony lines to enable Red to get on her back.
The British team followed: Ricky very pale, Drew very red from hangover and jet lag, the Napiers very ugly and saturnine. At the clash of cymbals in ‘God Save the Queen’, the drum horse took off. Only Red sawing savagely at her mouth stopped Tero following suit.
Up in his glass box the commentator, Terry Hanlon, failed to make the boot-faced English team laugh by pulling faces at them, then thanked Cartier for sponsoring the Coronation Cup. As each member of the teams cantered forward to take a bow, Red got five times as many screams of excitement as all the others. I should never have let him ride Tero, thought Perdita bitterly. Not even Terry Hanlon thanking Sir David Waterlane, Sir Victor Kaputnik, Kevin Coley and Perdita Macleod for lending ponies to the Americans could placate her.
The first chukka went straight into polo history because, at the end of it, the Americans were 7-0 up with six of the goals scored by Red, the contemptuous smile hardly leaving his face. It was as though he’d already seen a video of the match and knew exactly where the ball was going, he and Tero achieving one of those miraculous fusions between rider and pony that happens once in a lifetime. Fear had given wings to Tero’s oiled hooves as she streaked after the ball, a blue greyhound chasing an Arctic hare, but at the same time her stopping and turning were so automatic, her positioning near the ball so exact that she seemed hardly to need a rider on her back except as a scoring machine. Perdita was torn between pride and utter humiliation, particularly as the crowd seethed with speculation around her.
‘Juan brought that grey over.’
‘No, he didn’t. Bart brought it for $100,000 from Jesus’s brother.’
‘She’s worth it,’ said Bas. ‘Christ, look at that acceleration.’
‘Isn’t that Perdita’s pony?’ asked Taggie.
‘Couldn’t be,’ said Bas dismissively. ‘She was never that good.’
‘It is,’ said Rupert. ‘Just needed a decent rider on her back.’
While America settled into a smooth rhythm, England were in total disarray, a quartet of prima donnas each used to captaining his own side, totally deficient in team spirit, marking badly, never in position. Ricky, in despair, was resorting to his old tricks, doing too much and exhausting his ponies. Drew was just tired. The Napiers barged about, bullies in china shops, bellowing with frustration.
By half-time the score was 12-2 and the crowd were reading their programmes. As the Americans rode back to the pony lines their knees bumped. The Brits rode apart, four thunderclouds symbolizing their alienation.
A square of pitch in front of the Royal Box, where the presentation would later be made, was temporarily roped off so the crowd could close in and gaze at the Prince and Princess of Wales. Babies in prams were wheeled over from the opposite stand. Two Jack Russells, a pug and a cairn in a green scarf were held aloft by their owners to have a good look.
After half-time the English steadied. Red, riding Tero again, stepped up his game and in his enthusiasm had three fouls blown on him. He redeemed himself by galloping across goal and blocking the penalties with a couple of amazing tennis volleys and, finally, with Tero’s head, just below the eyes.
‘Bastard,’ screamed Perdita as, in anguish, she watched Tero shaking her head frantically back and forth.
But her protests were drowned by the roar of the crowd as Angel picked up the ball and took it upfield, riding Drew off with unnecessary violence.
‘That’ll teach you to seduce my wife,’ he hissed.
‘Fucking gigolo,’ howled Drew, wondering whether Angel’s elbow had broken his rib. David Waterlane, who was umpiring, gave England another penalty.
‘And what can Red Alderton do this time?’ said Terry Hanlon.
Once more Red flew out, blocking the shot with Tero’s shoulders and bringing Perdita screaming to her feet.
Rupert and Bas were almost as upset. With England putting up such a pathetic performance, their collossal investment in the Westchester was looking increasingly precarious.
‘Come on, England, you’re playing like assholes,’ yelled Rupert. ‘Get your fucking fingers out.’
‘Ben and Charles Napier are supposed to be nine,’ said Bas, ‘but when they play together they’re about four. They’re not putting their backs into it because you don’t get paid for an International.’
‘God, he’s handsome,’ said a beauty behind Perdita, as Red scored again, a lovely sweeping shot under Tero’s neck. ‘If he’s really chucked Perdita Macleod, could you introduce me?’
Perdita gazed across the field to where a shining shingle of parked cars seemed to stretch to infinity. I want to die, she thought. Hell will be as welcoming as a log fire on a cold day compared with this. And now Red and Charles Napier were hurtling towards the boards inside which the ball was nestling. Red must bring Tero down.
‘Careful, Red, for God’s sake!’ she screamed.
But the next second Tero had hopped over the boards at full gallop and somehow, straining every tendon, had turned right in midair, positioning Red perfectly for an offside forehand, enabling him to scoop the ball out and blast it to safety. The crowd gave a sigh of ecstasy as the bell went for the end of the fourth chukka. Tero’s part in the match was over. Passionately relieved, shoving protesting onlookers out of the way Perdita raced down to the pony lines by which time Red and Glitz were back on the field.
She found Tero heaving and gasping for breath as she’d only seen ponies doing in the sweltering heat of Palm Beach, with four-inch weals from Red’s whip dividing the sweat on her nearside flanks and quarters.
‘Oh, my poor baby,’ moaned Perdita. ‘What has that bastard done to you? And you played so brilliantly, I’ll murder him when I catch him.’
But although apparently sound, the little mare seemed utterly shellshocked, not even responding to her mistress when she covered her with kisses. Perhaps it was total exhaustion. Perdita helped dry her off.
‘Give her a polish and put on a couple of rugs. She might win Best Playing Pony,’ she told Bart’s groom, Manuel, before going back to the stands for the last chukka, where America, still leading 12-4, were beginning to get complacent. Red, trying to block another shot, leapt out before Ricky had hit the penalty and a free goal was awarded to England. Ricky then scored two goals and Angel missed an easy one. Furious with himself, he swung his pony’s head round inadvertently straight into Drew’s face.
Drew, who was far more jet lagged than he had realized, conscious of playing like a geriatric and fed up with Angel histrionically twirling his stick above his head at every real, contrived or imagined foul, lost his temper.
‘You fucking grease-ball,’ he howled.
‘It was a meestake,’ howled back Angel, the gold St Christopher glittering in the damp bronze curls on his chest. ‘I teach you to race after my wife,’ he hissed, lifting his
stick.
‘Bad luck for her getting tied up with a gigolo,’ snapped Drew, also raising his stick.
‘Pack it in,’ said David Waterlane, riding between them, ‘or I’ll send you both off.’
‘Tempers getting up on the field,’ explained Terry Hanlon. ‘Polo’s been called a game for gangsters played by gentlemen, or a game for gentlemen played by gangsters. They say you need a cool head and hot blood to play it, and David Waterlane’s made the decision. Penalty to England.’
While Ricky converted the penalty Red belted off to change ponies. Looking eastwards Perdita noticed that the frantic activity in the pony lines had subsided and most of the grooms were lined up behind the scoreboard, holding spare ponies and cheering on their respective sides. Then she stiffened. It couldn’t be! Snatching Brigadier Hughie’s binoculars and nearly strangling him, she saw that Red was actually galloping back on Tero, riding her for the third time which was against the rules. Crashing along the row of protesting spectators, she tore down the steps, sending a returning B. A. Robertson flying.
‘Red, you can’t! Please not,’ she screamed from the second step. ‘She’s exhausted. You’ll kill her.’
But once again, as Red thundered past, her protests were drowned by the ecstatic screams from the crowd.
12-8 to the Americans with four minutes to go. At last England were in with a faint chance. The crowd, catching fire, began to roar. Frantic with worry, Perdita watched only Red. Tero was so game and willing, she’d give him her last ounce. Red picked up his whip. Suddenly the field seemed to stretch from one end of the world to the other as he galloped up and down hooking and fencing with his stick, frantic to gain position. Two minutes to go. Taking advantage of a loose ball, Ricky scored again.
‘Come on, England!’ shouted Rupert in exultation. ‘You can do it.’