by Jilly Cooper
The cameramen went berserk. They had a picture at last.
The English were also ahead at last. But with three minutes to go they could feel their ponies wilting. Spotty was panting like an obscene telephone caller and his brown patch foamed, under his breastplate, like an overflowing washing machine. Red and Angel had taken the opportunity when the last goal was scored to change ponies. The English problem was to stop either of them getting the ball. Next minute Mike gave his side a breathing space by clouting the ball firmly into the stands.
‘Unsporting but necessary,’ said Seb as the players lined up. ‘You’re learning, Mike.’
In the closing seconds a perfect eighty-yard drive from Red took the ball down to the English end where it was centred by Bobby Ferraro. One after another, yelling with frustration, Angel, Bobby, Shark and a furiously galloping-up Red tried to hammer the ball between the posts. As Mike cleared for England through a thick curtain of dust, a great groan went up from the stands. For once again Shark had left the American posts unattended. Taking the ball up the boards with two mighty driving passes, kicking up a halo of dust as he went, Ricky could feel Wayne struggling to stay ahead and Red on a new pony gaining on him. Just in time he jumped the boards and did a forehand cutshot to Seb, who, hearing Angel’s pony behind him and seeing five seconds left on the clock, took a frantic swipe at goal.
Realizing it was going wide, Perdita catapulted forward for the offside forehand.
‘Bloody hell,’ she screamed as the ball hit a divot and bounced awkwardly to the left. Rupert had permanently taunted her that she had no nearside cut shots. She’d show him.
Dimly she was aware of the great roar of the crowd chorusing: ‘Spotty, Spotty, Spotty.’
Triumphant in his moment of glory, revelling in the circus blood which was now pumping on overtime through his veins, Spotty noticed the ball had shifted. Jamming on his brakes, he pirouetted like Nureyev on his conker-brown legs sixty degrees to the left, thrusting Perdita within reach of the ball, but at the same time wrapping her in a cloud of dust.
She couldn’t see what she was doing, but, trusting Spotty and her instincts, she leant perilously out to the left and with a flick of her wrist like a tennis backhand stroked the ball where she prayed the posts might be.
Then she dropped her reins and clapped her hands over her eyes, unable to watch as the dust cleared. Slowly opening her fingers, she saw the miracle of the flag going up, then frenziedly joyful waving. The bellow of the crowd was so deafening that no-one heard the final horn. It had been such a wonderful match that the sporting, marvellously good-natured crowd could forgive a British victory and poured on to the pitch to honour all the eight heroes.
Perdita’s throat was so dry that she couldn’t whoop for joy. Instead she hurled her stick high into the blue and people rushed forward to catch it.
Desperate to get the first quote, a Scorpion reporter had pinched one of Bart’s ponies and thundered up the field to thrust a tape recorder under Perdita’s nose. What with the frantic panting of Spotty and Perdita’s delirious croaking, the reply was pretty inaudible.
‘Well done, Perdeeta!’ It was Angel, reaching out to shake hands and hug her. Next minute Shark was beside her, looking like his namesake deprived of a nice fat human. Then suddenly his ugly face split into a great grin and he clamped a vast sweaty arm round her shoulders.
‘Well done, honey. I’ve gotta admit you outplayed us. I never thought I’d say that to a slip of a girl.’
‘Who gave you the slip?’ Bouncing through the crowds like a dog through a barley field, Seb hugged Perdita and pumped Shark’s hand.
‘Jolly big of Shark,’ he added in an undertone. ‘Evidently Bart offered him a quarter of a million bucks if they won.’
‘Christ!’ said Perdita in awe, as Spotty nearly disappeared beneath a wave of patting hands.
Refusing to shake hands with anyone, his face a death mask, Red galloped past her.
‘Well played,’ called out Perdita, amazed that she suddenly felt so sorry for him.
He turned unsmiling. ‘Fat lot of good it did me. You did great. Back off, you fuckers,’ he snarled at the advancing photographers. Then, seriously endangering their Nikons and their lives, he galloped straight through the lot of them.
It seemed ages before Perdita could wade through the surging ocean of wellwishers back to the pony lines. On the way she lost her hat and her whip and very nearly her shirt. Looking up, she noticed Rupert fighting his way towards her. Seeing the expression of blazing triumph on his face, she glanced wistfully round to see at whom it was directed, but there were only swooning, excited cheering crowds. Slowly it dawned that he was looking just at her. An instant later he’d dragged her off Spotty into his arms.
‘I’m all hot and sweaty,’ she stammered.
‘Well done, my darling! Oh Christ, I’m proud of you!’
As she looked up, bewildered, he put a hand on her soaked head and pulled it against his chest. He could feel the frantic pounding of her heart.
‘Come on, Rupe,’ shouted the Sun as the press closed in.
‘You must recognize Perdita as your daughter now.’
Rupert grinned round at them: ‘Course I do. Only a Campbell-Black could have played that well.’ He looked down at Perdita. ‘It’s all right, lovie. There’s no need to cry. You’re mine now. I’ll take care of you.’ Then, to make her laugh: ‘We’d better not hang around or The Scorpion’ll accuse you of parent-molesting.’
As the teams lined up, even the normally impassive Ricky was hard put to hide his elation.
‘They said we hadn’t a fox’s chance in a hunt kennel,’ he stammered to the grey-mushroom field of microphones, ‘but we did it. The boys and Perdita played so well, I just had to follow them round. That’s not to say the Americans didn’t play brilliantly. But in the end we played better.’
‘D’you think all the flak you got from everyone in the last month sharpened up your game?’ asked The Sunday Times.
Ricky smiled briefly. ‘No, I was always good.’
‘Oh, isn’t he macho?’ sighed the girl from the Mail on Sunday. ‘Talk about a cliff face turning into an avalanche on the field. What are you doing this evening?’
The Westchester Cup had been described by a former player as a singularly hideous trophy, but nothing had ever looked more beautiful to the English team as Ricky walked up to deafening cheers to accept it from Prince Charles, who was obviously as delighted as he was amazed by the result.
‘Well done, Ricky, absolutely marvellous.’
It was hard to curtsy with any grace in boots and breeches, but when Perdita, still red-eyed from dust and her rapprochement with Rupert, approached the Prince, he bent forward and kissed her cheek, and when he pinned a little ruby brooch in the shape of a rose on her dark blue jersey the crowd roared their approval.
To Perdita’s amazement Spotty won Best Playing Pony. He was so delighted to be stuffed so full of Polos and the centre of attention that he forgot to fart. There was a brief pause as the Most Valuable Player was announced.
‘Must be Red,’ whispered Perdita to Seb.
‘By general consensus of opinion,’ said Brad Dillon rustling his papers, ‘because his utter stability held the American team together and because he refused to ride off a seriously injured player in the true tradition of sportmanship, the award for the Most Valuable Player of the series goes to Luke Alderton.’
An amazed hush was followed by the most deafening storm of cheering of the day and it continued long after Luke, in a pair of torn jeans and an old, blue denim shirt, had fought his way up to collect the beautiful, rearing silver pony. Overwhelmed with longing and pride, Perdita wanted to rush forward and hug him, but the whooping, yodelling, ecstatic crowd divided them and the next moment she found herself being swept off by Ricky to ring Daisy before the press conference.
Only Chessie, the ultimate upstager, having ostentatiously flung off her black silk shawl, managed to pummel her way past a c
licking frenzy of cameramen and security guards and fling her arms round Ricky’s neck in ecstasy.
‘You won, my darling, you won! Don’t you realize what that means?’
As the photographers swung into action, frantic to capture the moment, Perdita turned away, horror-struck, and found herself looking straight at Bart and Red.
‘It was your fucking fault,’ Bart was hissing at Red. ‘You forced them to drop Luke.’
Red, greyer beneath his suntan than ever Ricky had been, was looking utterly desolate.
After the match there was a celebration dinner at the Quinta Hotel organized by the American Polo Association and the cock-a-hoop sponsors.
‘Everyone is expected to get plastered,’ Rupert told the England team, ‘but there seems to be a general consensus of opinion that the men will wear ties and you will all behave well, at least for the duration of dinner. That means no eloping before the Queen,’ he added in an undertone to Ricky.
When they met up in the lobby, Rupert looked disapprovingly at Ricky’s black tie. ‘At least you might have left that off after winning the Westchester. You can’t wallow in misery for ever.’ Then, seeing Taggie’s face: ‘No, I’m sorry, you’ve won the Westchester. You can do what you bloody well like.’ Perdita, in a black, backless dress which matched her bruises and the dark circles under her eyes, had a feeling of total unreality. The euphoria of winning and of Rupert at last accepting her was fast receding. She was worried about Ricky who seemed unbelievably twitchy and couldn’t get plastered like everyone else, but all she could think about was whether or not Luke would turn up.
A louring, glowering Bart arrived with Chessie, who was looking thoroughly over-excited and more minxy than ever in a gold tunic exactly matching her suntan and with a golden rose in her hair.
‘Well, thank you, Perdita,’ she murmured as she passed. ‘You certainly contributed to an English victory this afternoon.’
But before Perdita could answer, there was a burst of cheering as Red walked in with the American team. He had totally regained his composure and was laughing and joking. He was wearing a pink blazer edged with purple, because the entire Polo Youth of America seemed now to have gone back to wearing pale blue blazers braided with emerald green.
There was even more noisy rejoicing when Mike and Seb rolled up, already plastered, with Lily and Annie from the Nevada brothel and a blissful Louisa wheeling a rather pale Dommie, with his knee in plaster, around in a large shopping trolley which they’d pinched from a local hypermarket.
‘Haven’t you got any dope for Ricky?’ whispered Perdita as she hugged Dommie. ‘He needs something to cheer him up.’
‘He’s just won the fucking Westchester,’ said Seb. ‘Some people are never satisfied.’
‘Sharon is,’ giggled Dommie. ‘She’s just seduced Brigadier Hughie.’
‘And we’ve promoted Corporal to General, so he’ll be Sharon’s next target,’ added Seb, chucking a cauliflower floret at Bobby Ferraro.
‘She’s going to lose David Waterlane at this rate,’ said Louisa.
‘I think her sights are set somewhat higher than a baronet,’ murmured Seb. ‘She was last heard remarking, “How naice his hay-ness looked in his off-whaite suit.” Oh, come on, Perdita, cheer up! We won!’
Taggie, realizing that Perdita’s spirits were at rock bottom, took her aside. ‘It’s so heavenly Rupert’s accepted you at last. He’s so pleased. He can’t wait to get you up on all his ponies. I promise he’ll be a marvellous father. Once he’s on someone’s side, it’s one hundred and fifty per cent.’
‘You do love him,’ said Perdita wistfully.
‘Oh, more than anything. I still wake up sweating in the middle of the night, and have to reach out and touch him to prove it isn’t all a dream.’
‘How can you be so nice?’ asked Perdita, shaking her head. ‘You ought to give lessons.’
After that Perdita got no peace. Everyone wanted to congratulate her and take her through every stroke of the game, until Seb came up grinning wickedly.
‘You’ve drawn the short straw, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to sit on Hughie’s right. Talk about the price of fame. And watch out now he’s in bimbo limbo. He may start touching you up.’
Joining them, Ricky pushed a loose tendril of hair behind Perdita’s ear: ‘You OK?’
‘Of course. I just wish Mummy was here.’
‘So do I,’ said Seb feelingly.
Ricky frowned: ‘Oh, fuck off.’
Then, as Seb sloped off grinning, Ricky added: ‘Look, will you give Daisy a message when you get home?’
But Perdita never heard what he was going to say because, as dinner was announced, Luke walked in with Margie Bridgwater who was looking staggering in clinging crimson, slit up the sides to show an eternity of long, brown leg.
I must behave, I must behave, Perdita told herself through gritted teeth. As she fought her way down to her seat at the top table, she had to pass Luke, and almost wrenched her stomach muscles pulling them in, so she needn’t touch him.
‘Well done,’ he said slowly. ‘I knew you had mega-star quality, but I never figured you were that good. You pulled them together. You won that game.’
Oh, that deep, slow husky voice. Perdita wanted to collapse into his arms, but Margie was hovering, smiling but tense.
‘You taught me everything I know,’ stammered Perdita. ‘We’d never have won if they hadn’t dropped you.’
For a second they gazed at each other, both hollow-eyed, neither able to smile.
‘Buck up, Perdita,’ said Brigadier Hughie, putting two sweating hands on her bruised arms. ‘I’m starving. Too nervous to get any lunch.’
Some joker, to make matters worse, had also put her next to Red. The twins, very drunk now, started bombarding them with rolls, yelling: ‘Kiss and make up, kiss and make up.’
Then, as Sharon swept in, somewhat flushed, with a boot-faced David Waterlane, they started singing: ‘For she’s a jolly good fellater, for she’s a jolly good fellater.’
‘Shut up, you two,’ said Rupert, grinning.
He was trying to listen to the head of Revlon who was forecasting the worst share slide in US history.
‘Dollar’s sagging, interest rates are soaring.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’ve sold all my capital stock and gone liquid.’
‘I’m much more worried about this hurricane reaching England,’ said Rupert. ‘Christ knows how many trees I’ll have down.’
He glanced at his watch – half past ten in the morning in England. Seeing Taggie was safely sitting down near Bibi and Angel, he nipped out to ring his stockbroker.
Red and Perdita had a perfectly polite conversation as they both failed to touch their pale pink lobster mousse, but there was no longer a flicker of empathy between them. Here is a man who used to have me screaming and begging for more, thought Perdita, as he experimented on my body with all the detachment of a behavioural scientist testing a cageful of rats.
It was like visiting a garden which had seemed vast and mysterious when one was a child, but which now had shrunk to insignificance. Mercifully Luke was at a different table. All she could see was his broad back and his red-gold hair starting to stick upwards despite being slicked down with water. Far too often Margie’s laughing, aquiline profile turned towards him. Each time she put a crimson-nailed hand on his arm Perdita felt red-hot pokers stabbing her gut.
Bottles rose green and empty from the table. Courses came and went. A cake with scarlet icing in the shape of the red rose of England was cut by Ricky and passed down the tables and thrown about. The Westchester Cup, brimming with champagne, was passed round and round and each valiant victor and brave loser toasted.
Perdita had no idea what she or Red talked about or what Hughie told her about Singapore, until Brad Dillon, handsome in a sand-coloured suit, rose to propose the toast of the winners to a bombardment of flying grapes.
‘We’ve skunked you in twelve out of fourteen of the series, so I gu
ess we can be generous at this moment in time,’ he said expansively, ‘but we’re coming over to get it back next year. We’ve only loaned it you.’
I wish Spotty could come in and eat bread dipped in salt like the Maltese Cat, thought Perdita. As Brigadier Hughie, who could never miss an opportunity to yak, lurched to his feet a piece of cake hit him on the shoulder.
‘And the Brigadier’s blocked the shot,’ shouted Seb as the cake was followed by a carrot, a piece of celery and an After Eight which fell out of its paper.
‘Shut up, you chaps,’ said Hughie. ‘I’ve got a surprise announcement to make.’
‘The Japs have invaded Singapore,’ shouted Rupert.
Everyone howled with laughter.
‘A surprise announcement,’ Hughie ploughed on. ‘By mutual agreement of the British and American Polo Associations, I should like to announce that Ricky France-Lynch has finally been put up to ten, the first British player since the war to achieve that honour.’
An amazed and delighted storm of cheering followed. People were thumping Ricky on the back and yelling, ‘Speech, Speech.’
He’s made it, thought Perdita dully, the final rung. How was Chessie taking the news? But, looking across the room, she went cold. Chessie’s chair was empty.
75
Back in Eldercombe, Daisy, unable to sleep, stayed up all night putting the finishing touches on a painting of Mrs Hughie’s Burmese cats before watching the second half of the match live at five o’clock in the morning. Venturer must be delirious. It was truly gripping television – and Daisy was thrilled Perdita played so brilliantly and didn’t seem unduly fazed about Red. She also experienced passionate relief when Perdita rang to say Rupert had at last forgiven her and admitted paternity and how lovely he’d been.