by Jilly Cooper
Bart caught her wrist, pulling her back.
‘Stop over-reacting,’ he said sharply. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong. Will’s playing up because you’re miserable.’
‘Does your son Red throw up in porches and no doubt in Porsches because you and Grace aren’t happy?’ spat Chessie.
‘Grace no longer excites me. Let’s go upstairs,’ said Bart calmly and he opened a door hidden in the romping nymphs behind him which led straight into a lift. ‘The beauty of this place is you don’t have to go through Reception to get to the bedrooms.’
It was a most unsatisfactory coupling. Bart was too anxious to get at her. Chessie was too angry and uptight to get aroused. Despite her moans and writhings, Bart knew she hadn’t come. Sick with disappointment and frustration, she got dressed. Here was just one more failure because she was not able to tell people what she liked, that she never came from straight screwing, and never with Ricky.
‘Poor little Rick’s girl,’ said Bart, kissing her forehead.
It’s all over, thought Chessie miserably.
As they went outside, Bart’s telephone rang again. He talked so long that Chessie was about to wander off without even saying goodbye when he hung up in jubilation.
‘I’ve got forty-nine per cent. By tomorrow lunchtime I’ll have nailed him.’
‘What’s your next take-over target?’ asked Chessie sulkily.
‘You are,’ said Bart. He glanced at his watch. ‘They’ll just be throwing-in. We’re going for a ride.’
Like all polo players, he drove too fast, overtaking with split-second timing, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Chessie’s thigh. As the limo swung round the hangar, the helicopter standing on the apron was as blue as the Flyer’s polo shirts and as the sky above. On its side in dark blue letters was written: ‘Alderton – your friend in high places’.
Chessie sat in the passenger seat with the full flight harness biting into her pink dress. Having gone round turning on switches and tightening screws as a pre-flight check, Bart had taken off his jacket and his green silk tie, and was secured by just a seat belt round his waist.
Satisfied everything was in order, he started up the engine. There was a thrilling roar as the jets took a grip on the rotors which quickly accelerated to their operating speed. With a last look round to see everything was clear, Bart alerted the control tower, who asked for his destination and initial reading.
‘We’re going to do local flying towards the south-east, not above a thousand feet,’ said Bart.
As they flew over yellowing fields and rain-drenched woods and villages, Chessie gave a scream of joy.
‘Isn’t it heaven, just like a child’s farm? If you picked up the houses they’d be hollow underneath.’
She longed to run her hand up and down Bart’s pin-striped thigh, hard as iron like Ricky’s.
‘There’s David Waterlane’s place,’ said Bart. ‘You can see them stick and balling.’
Down below Chessie could see the dark, silken flash of the lake flecked with duck, and the dark brown oval of the exercise ring.
‘If you look closely,’ she said, ‘you may see Clemency sunbathing in the nude, or Juan getting his back brown on top of her. Talk about One flew over the Cuckold’s Nest.’
Bart laughed. The sun was beating down on the glass bubble. Oh hell, I’m getting too hot again, thought Chessie.
Five minutes later Bart pointed out a beautiful, white house with a green roof, set in a clearing thickly ringed with woodland. He flew so low that Chessie could see the cars glittering outside the front door and white figures leaping on the tennis court. The swimming-pool glittered in the sunshine like an aquamarine.
‘Gorgeous place,’ breathed Chessie.
‘Belongs to Ashley Roberts,’ Bart’s voice thickened with excitement. ‘When I take him over tomorrow and fire him later this year, he’ll be forced to put it on the market. How’d you like to live there?’
Chessie went very still.
‘We rattle enough in our present house,’ she said lightly.
Ahead loomed a huge, apparently substantial, white-and-mushroom-brown cloud which had formed into turrets, icebergs and snow drifts.
‘Let’s go through that archway,’ said Bart, not even touching the snow-white edges. Now he was flying alongside a massive, pinky cliff, just clipping it, laughing as Chessie flinched away. ‘I used to play around for hours like this when I was a boy. Now I’m going right into this cloud. This is the most scary feeling in the world,’ he added, as they were enveloped in dense fog. ‘Even after years of flying it still scares the shit out of me. You can’t figure if you’re upside down. You have a total disregard of what the brain is telling you. It’s completely disorientating.’ Then, as he came out into brilliant sunshine, he smiled at her, powerful as he was handsome. ‘Pretty much like meeting you.’
He does like me, thought Chessie in ecstasy, and I’m mad about him. He’s tied up in a mega-take-over, and he’s fooling around in the air with me.
The sun was beating down on the bubble again. The shimmering fields and woods seemed to stretch for ever. Sheep huddled under the trees like lice.
‘I’m baking,’ gasped Chessie, wishing she could find some shade like them.
‘Take your dress off,’ said Bart idly. ‘Just undo the harness and take it off.
‘Ker-ist,’ he said a moment later, as Chessie threw the dress behind her seat. ‘Oh, Christ.’
She was only wearing a pair of rose-patterned white pants. The slenderness of her waist emphasized the fullness of her thighs, and her breasts soft and white-gold in the sunshine with the nipples pink and spread. Her cheeks were very flushed, her eyelids drooped over eyes leaden with lust.
She’d put Victor’s bimbo in the shade, thought Bart. She was more beautiful than any of the girls his son Red attracted.
‘Two joysticks,’ murmured Chessie, putting her hand on his cock. ‘I know which one I’d like best.’
Bart wanted her now, but, even on automatic pilot, making love in a helicopter is not in the flight manual.
‘We’re over Victor’s land,’ he said in amusement. ‘There’s a clearing in the wood where we can land. No one will find us. I’ll just tell them I’m going down.’
‘On me I hope,’ whispered Chessie.
Having cleared with flight control, Bart eased the power and headed for the trees. Chessie saw the clearing, a little sage-green disc, cut in half by a winding stream, flanked by willows. There were no houses near by. Switching off, Bart allowed the blades to stop before opening the door and jumping on to the lush green grass. Next moment he’d walked round to the other door, and his arms were deliciously full of Chessie.
‘Jesus, you’re lovely,’ he murmured, carrying her to the shade of a large oak tree. This time he was going to take it very slowly.
‘Why did you pretend you came before?’ he asked, as he laid her gently down in the groin of two huge roots.
Chessie opened her eyes in terror. ‘I didn’t,’ she stammered, ‘I came beautifully.’
‘Liar!’ Peeling down her pants, he slid his fingers into the oily cavern. ‘That’s better. I should put you across my knee for distracting me at nine hundred feet.’
Instantly, her breath quickened, her eyes went dull, her legs widened ecstatically. So that’s it, Bart thought in triumph, she wants to be treated like a naughty little girl. His hand slid to her bottom, exploring gently but persuasively.
‘Is that what you like?’ he whispered. ‘Your butt paddled?’ Repelled but wildly excited, Chessie squirmed against him.
‘Ricky’s too straight, huh?’
Chessie nodded helplessly. ‘I can’t talk to him.’
Slipping his hand under her buttocks, between her legs, he fingered the bud of her clitoris, and felt the flood of wetness as she gasped and came.
The sun had dropped behind the trees as he pulled out of her for the last time.
‘The skill,’ said Chessie, mocking to hi
de how moved she felt, ‘is knowing when to get in and when to get out.’
They didn’t talk on the way home. Mist was rising from the river. Bart dropped her off where her car was, at Rubens’ Retreat.
‘You’re going to be very late. What movie have you been to see?’
‘Gone with the Wind,’ said Chessie, ‘twice round.’
‘I guess this take-over’s going to take up so much of my time I won’t go to Deauville,’ said Bart. Then, getting a jewel box out of his briefcase, ‘I’ve got you a present.’
Chessie wasn’t really into costume jewellery, but for paste the diamonds were certainly beautifully set, and looked pretty round her neck in the driving mirror. She supposed the rich didn’t dare wear real jewels any more.
‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to simulate enthusiasm.
‘Are you going to be able to hide them from Ricky?’ asked Bart, cupping her groin with his hand.
Chessie glanced down.
‘I’d better shove them up there,’ she said bitterly. ‘That’s one place Ricky won’t look.’
7
As Ricky rode off the field at the end of the match at the Guards Club there was a message to ring Louisa.
‘Mattie’s worse,’ she said, trying to hold back the tears. ‘Her leg smells awful and her eyes are dead. Phil Bagley’s out on his rounds, but I got him on his bleeper. He’s coming as soon as possible.’
Mercifully, Major Ferguson, the Deputy Chairman and Polo Manager, understood.
‘Course you must go at once. I’ll explain to the sponsors.’
‘I’m s-s-sorry,’ mumbled Ricky. ‘S-s-suppose I shouldn’t have tried to save her.’
‘Done just the same myself,’ said Major Ferguson. ‘Mattie’s a legend – give anything for one of her foals. I’ll ring you in the morning – love to Chessie.’
If only Ricky’d had Bart’s helicopter. Limited in the horse box to forty miles an hour, going slap into rush-hour traffic, and trapped between returning tractors and hay lorries, he didn’t get home until nearly eight. Please God, save her, he prayed over and over again.
Phil Bagley was already in Mattie’s box. The stink of putrefaction was unmistakable, Mattie hung leaden in her sling. For the first time since she was a tiny foal, she didn’t whicker with delight to see Ricky. Phil Bagley looked up, shaking his head.
‘The leg’s completely cold below the plaster,’ he said brusquely, to hide his feelings. He loved Mattie, having treated her since she was a foal, and had rejoiced in her dazzling career. ‘I’ve been sticking needles in and she doesn’t feel anything, and her temperature’s right up, which indicates secondary infection as well as gangrene.’
Ricky crouched down beside Phil Bagley, feeling Mattie’s skin which had gone hard and crisp like parchment.
‘Is she in pain?’
‘Yup – considerable I’m afraid.’
‘There’s no way we can take off the plaster and clean it up?’
‘We can have a look.’
Ricky held Mattie’s head. Although her breath quickened, she made no attempt to fight, as Phil got to work. He only had to saw a few inches – the stink was appalling.
‘I’m sorry, Ricky. It’s completely putrid. If she were a dog or a human we could amputate.’
The fiercely impassive Frances, who was looking over the stable-door, gave a sob.
‘Of course.’ Ricky deliberately kept his voice steady. ‘You must do it at once.’ Then, without turning, ‘Frances, can you ask Louisa to see that Will’s well out of the way?’
As Phil went off for the humane killer, Ricky put his arms round Mattie’s neck, running his hand up the stubble of her mane.
‘Sorry I put you through it, sweetheart,’ he muttered. ‘I only wanted to save you.’ His voice broke, as she gently nudged him as if in forgiveness. Shutting his eyes, he scratched her gently behind the ears, putting his lips to the white star between her eyes, where the humane killer would go, until he felt Phil’s hand on his shoulder.
The sun had set but there was still a fiery glow in the West as Chessie stormed up the drive. Dog daisies lit up the verges and the air was heavy with the sweet scent of the lime tree flowers. She had hidden Bart’s necklace in the lining of her bag and, buying a Rutshire Echo, had memorized the synopsis of the Robert de Niro film she was supposed to have seen. Sober now, her earlier bravado evaporated, she was twitching with nerves. As she drew closer, she heard a muffled explosion and slammed her foot on the accelerator. The house was in darkness. Perhaps Will had got hold of one of Ricky’s guns. Then she saw the lorry parked crooked across the yard and panicked. Ricky was home already. Outside Mattie’s box, he was holding Frances in his arms.
‘Oh, charming,’ said Chessie acidly, ‘I thought you were wowing sponsors at Guards.’
Ricky looked round, his face ashen, his eyes huge, black holes. Then Chessie saw that Frances’s normally accusing, disapproving face was a blubbered, disintegrating mass of tears.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’
‘I’ve just put Mattie down,’ said Phil Bagley in a tight voice, as he emerged from Mattie’s box. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Chessie, not knowing what to say, but feeling passionate relief that no-one would bother where she’d been. ‘For a terrible moment I thought it was Will.’
Shooting her a look of pure hatred, Ricky walked past her into the night. In the kitchen she found Will patting the plump shoulder of a frantically sobbing Louisa.
‘Mummy,’ he turned in delight, ‘Louisa crying. Did you bring me a present?’
‘Delicious sweeties,’ said Chessie, producing a handful of Rubens’ Retreat’s petits fours out of her bag.
‘Ugh,’ said Will spitting a marzipan banana out all over the floor.
Ricky didn’t come back all night. Chessie thought he must have gone to his father’s, until the telephone woke her at eight o’clock next morning.
‘Herbert here,’ barked a voice. Trust the old bugger not to apologize for ringing so early, or after so long. ‘Can I speak to Ricky?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Well, tell him I’ve just heard about Mattie. Bloody shame. I’m very sorry.’
It must have cost Herbert a lot to ring, but Chessie decided not to pass on the message. She didn’t want him back in their lives, hanging around, restricting her freedom. Looking out of the window, she saw Ricky was back and with a couple of men from the village, was digging a grave in the orchard, where generations of dogs and stable cats had been buried. The two Labradors, tails wagging, were trying to join in, frantically scrabbling the earth with their paws. Wayne, Ricky’s second favourite pony, a custard-yellow gelding with lop ears who’d been devoted to Mattie, stood by the paddock gate, neighing hysterically.
Keen to escape such a house of mourning, longing to be alone to think about Bart, Chessie drove into Rutminster on the pretext of doing the weekend shopping. Out of curiosity, on the way home, she stopped off at a jeweller to get Bart’s necklace valued. The bumpy, veined, arthritic hands trembled slightly as they examined the stones.
‘Very, very nice,’ said the jeweller in reverent tones. ‘I’d be surprised if you’d get much change out of £100,000, might be even higher. Pretty stones, for a pretty lady,’ he added with a smile at Chessie’s gasp of amazement.
Chessie was so stunned she went straight out and committed the cardinal indiscretion of ringing Bart at home from a call box.
‘Pretend I’m a wrong number. Look, I’m sorry I was so horribly ungrateful. I’d no idea those diamonds were real.’
‘Like my love for you,’ said Bart softly. ‘I can’t talk now,’ and hung up.
‘Did you bring me a present?’ said Will when she got home.
Joyfully Chessie gathered him up, and swung him round till he screamed with laughter.
‘I’ve got a hunch,’ she murmured. ‘I may have got you a new Daddy.’
Bart rang her later. ‘Can you talk?’
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‘I could talk when I was eighteen months,’ said Chessie, ‘but I’m precocious.’
Out of the window, she could see Louisa wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, as she planted primroses round Mattie’s grave.
‘Mattie had to be put down,’ she told Bart.
‘I’m sorry – she was a helluva horse. How’s Ricky taking it?’
‘Bottling it up as usual.’
‘Any repercussions last night?’
‘Ricky was too shell-shocked even to realize I’d been away. I forgot to ask yesterday. Are you still going to drop him?’
‘I guess I’m going to drop Ricky and Grace,’ said Bart.
The polo community were flabbergasted when Bart didn’t come to Deauville and allowed the team that he was forking out so much for to play without him. His place was taken by an underhandicapped Australian who interchanged so dazzlingly with Ricky that the Alderton Flyers clinched the French Championships after a very close fight against David Waterlane and the O’Brien brothers. Kinta, suddenly clicking with Ricky, won the Best Playing Pony award, to Juan’s fury. So much were the Flyers on form they were hotly tipped to win the French Gold Cup next Sunday.
Although Ricky desperately missed Mattie, he felt his luck was changing. During the endless barbecues and parties, the racing and gambling which characterize Deauville, players and patrons who aren’t rushing home every evening get a chance to talk. Ricky spent a lot of time with David Waterlane, and his son, Mike, a raw, silent, spotty youth, back from Harrow for the holidays. Hopelessly inhibited by his father, Mike showed considerable promise. Feeling the boy’s relationship with David was very like his own with Herbert, Ricky immediately struck up a rapport with Mike. They exercised their horses at dawn every day in the surf and stick and balled together. Mike’s game improved dramatically, and as a result David signed Ricky up as his senior pro for the next year. He and Ricky had been to the same school and understood each other. David was sick of the double-dealing and histrionics of the O’Briens.
Ricky had to confess that to the abscess-draining bliss of Bart’s absence was added the relief of not having Chessie with him. He could concentrate on his game, and not worry the whole time whether she was bored, or spending too much money, or sulking because she wasn’t spending money. He was well aware that his marriage was going badly, but being used to cold war over the years with Herbert, he didn’t feel it was the end of the world.