Polo

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘He wants another stick,’ said Seb.

  Reluctantly Chessie climbed out into the stabbing rain. Only the fence and the row of cars stopped Kinta.

  ‘Fifty-two,’ yelled Ricky.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me your age?’ drawled Chessie.

  ‘Give me my fucking fifty-two.’

  ‘Say please!’

  ‘Chess-ee, come on,’ said Seb disapprovingly.

  ‘Sthop sthouting, Daddy,’ said Will.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ howled Ricky.

  ‘Don’t be infantile,’ said a furious Grace, running forward and handing the stick to Ricky. Seizing it, he hurtled back into the game. But it was too late. Despite Kinta’s phenomenal speed, Doggie Dins had taken advantage of Ricky’s absence to score a goal.

  ‘Sthop sthouting,’ said Will, filling up his water-pistol from Seb’s Bloody Mary.

  As the bell went for the end of the fifth chukka, Chessie caught sight of Grace’s face and was about to belt back into the smoky warmth of the twins’ car.

  ‘May I speak with you, Francesca?’

  ‘Shall we have a word after the match? I’m watching Ricky.’

  ‘Not noticeably.’

  ‘Wee-wee,’ clamoured Will.

  ‘I’ve got to take Will to the loo,’ said Chessie.

  ‘Why don’t you let him pee in Fatty Harris’s rain gauge?’ said Dommie.

  ‘Then Fatty will be so horrified by the amount of rainfall, he’ll cancel Sunday’s match and we’ll have a day off,’ said Seb.

  ‘I quite like Rottweilers,’ said Dommie.

  ‘Wee-wee,’ said Will, dropping his Maltesers in the mud as he scrambled out of the car.

  If Grace hadn’t been present, Chessie would have picked the Maltesers up. As she dragged Will away, he burst into tears.

  ‘I’ll take him to the lav,’ said Sukey. ‘Then you and Grace can chat.’

  ‘He won’t go with you,’ protested Chessie.

  ‘Come along, Will,’ said Sukey briskly. To Chessie’s amazement, Will trotted off with her.

  ‘You only have to use the right tone of voice,’ said Grace.

  ‘Do look,’ said Seb, nudging Dommie. ‘Grace is about to urge Mrs F-L to exercise a little decorum.’

  ‘Decorum’s a nice name for a dog,’ said Dommie. ‘Then I could exercise it.’

  Inside Bart’s limo the new leather smelt like a tack shop. Grace had been a good wife to Bart. Twenty-one years ago, she had taken this roaring roughneck and turned him into a tycoon. She had provided him with the contacts, the friendships, the staff, the right silver and china at her dinner parties, where important people met the important people they wanted to meet. Grace was acutely aware of the social advantages of polo. She longed to invite the Prince to dine at one of her five houses, as much as she wanted her two children to make brilliant marriages. Grace’s every action, whether she was fund-raising at a calorie-conscious teetotal buffet lunch or reading biographies of famous people as she pedalled away on her exercise bicycle, was geared towards improvement.

  She couldn’t understand Chessie’s lack of motivation, and had spent a lot of time this summer discussing both Chessie’s and Ricky’s shortcomings with Bart. But in the last week she had noticed Bart was slagging off Chessie less and less. He was even talking about bringing her and Ricky over to Palm Beach for the polo season in January. Having herself dreamt about Ricky last night, rather a disturbing dream, Grace had now decided that he was terribly misunderstood, and took a positive pleasure in giving his wife a pep talk.

  ‘Are you supporting Doggie Dins, Francesca?’

  ‘Of course not,’ snapped Chessie.

  ‘One could be fooled into thinking so. A married couple is two people, half a polo team, and you’re intelligent enough to know that you only win at polo and in life if you play as a team and support each other. Your behaviour towards Ricky is flip, destructive and totally unsupportive.’

  Chessie yawned. ‘You’ve no idea how tricky he is. Women are always on Ricky’s side because he’s so good-looking.’

  ‘I am not Women,’ said Grace icily. ‘How many times have you failed to pass on messages, turned up late at matches, and showed no interest in the game? Look at you today, egging on the twins, dressed like a tramp, and now not giving Ricky his fifty-two. If the Flyers lose this match it’ll be entirely your fault. You’re twenty-seven, not seventeen, Francesca.’

  ‘When Ricky signed his contract with you,’ said Chessie furiously, ‘there was absolutely no clause about my turning up in a ball dress at every match. You’ve no idea what it’s like living with a man who’s totally obsessed with polo.’

  ‘If your husband’s going to succeed,’ Grace looked at Chessie’s mutinous profile, ‘you have to put up with loneliness. When Bart was building up the business, he often didn’t come home till two o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Not surprised,’ said Chessie, ‘if you bent his ear like this.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more. You can buy Ricky but not me.’ Scrambling out of the limo, Chessie went slap into Sukey and Will who was still clutching his water-pistol.

  ‘All better,’ said Sukey. ‘Such a jolly little chap, I waited outside and didn’t miss a minute. Oh, well played, Drew darling, oh go on, go on.’

  ‘Stick ’em up,’ said Will, his eyes squinting through his blond fringe.

  ‘Don’t point guns at people, dear,’ said Grace.

  Next minute Will had emptied a pistol full of Bloody Mary into her cream silk shirt. Grace gave a scream. Chessie made the mistake of laughing.

  ‘If you’d take your nose out of that book for one second,’ said Seb to Dommie, ‘you’d see Ricky finally losing his patron.’

  As Chessie dragged Will off in search of Ricky, she could hear Sukey comforting Grace. ‘I’m sure Mrs Beeton will know how to get tomato juice out.’

  Suddenly Chessie stopped laughing and started to cry. ‘That was naughty,’ she screamed at Will. ‘You may have been defending my honour but your methods were very extreme.’

  ‘Hi, honey,’ said a voice. ‘You’re getting soaked.’

  It was Bart, coming off the field.

  Delighted to have scored two goals and trounced Doggie Dins, he was in exultant form. Then he realized that the rain pouring down Chessie’s face was tears.

  ‘Hey – what’s the matter?’

  ‘Your ghastly wife’s been giving me a dressing-down for not dressing up, telling me what an awful wife I am.’

  The icy wind was sweeping the drenched striped shirt against her breasts. ‘I tell you the only reason Frankenstein was a monster was because he was frank,’ she added furiously.

  Just for a second they were hidden from the pitch by a home-going horse box. Bart put a warm sweating hand on Chessie’s neck and she felt her stomach disappear.

  ‘I’ve tried to put you out of my mind,’ he said roughly, ‘but I didn’t manage it. Grace and I are going back to the States tomorrow – for a wedding – one of the Biddies’ – even in the pursuit of love Bart had to name-drop – ‘I’ll be back on Wednesday. How about lunch on Thursday?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Meet me at Rubens’ Retreat at one o’clock,’ said Bart and rode on.

  Grace came forward as he reached the pony lines: ‘Well played, baby.’ Then, consulting her red book, ‘but you were loose in the fifth chukka.’

  ‘How dare you chew out Chessie France-Lynch?’ snarled Bart. ‘I run this team, OK, and don’t you forget it.’

  6

  Grace’s pep-talk only intensified Chessie’s desire to take her husband off her. The weather continued windy and very cold, and Chessie spent the next week sourly watching her suntan fade and thinking up alibis for Thursday lunchtime. Fortunately Ricky was being paid £1,000 to play in a charity match at the Guards Club that day, on the understanding that he stayed behind for drinks and allowed himself to be gawped at by all the sponsors’
rich clients. This meant he wouldn’t be home much before eight.

  Ricky was loath to go. He was desperately worried about Mattie, who’d stopped eating and kept biting listlessly at her plaster. Her eyes were dull – always the first sign of pain in a horse. He was sure the plaster was beginning to smell, a sinister indication that infection or, even worse, gangrene, was setting in.

  ‘Pooh,’ said Will, coming into Chessie’s bedroom with his new polo stick, and breathing in the collective reek of Duo Tan, Immac and nail polish.

  ‘Don’t touch,’ screamed Chessie as he trotted purposefully towards the make-up bottles on her dressing table. She loathed being distracted when she was getting ready – it was all Ricky’s fault for not being able to afford a nanny. Nor could she start washing her hair until he’d gone. Then she found the water hadn’t been turned on. She also dried her hair upside down too long so it stood up like a porcupine. She didn’t know if she was more nervous of seeing Bart or Ricky finding out. It was so cold, she put on a pale pink cashmere dress, which was near enough flesh tones in colour, to make her look as though she was wearing nothing at all. Sticking her tongue out at Herbert’s portrait, she ran down the stairs.

  Out in the yard, she was relieved to find that Louisa, Ricky’s youngest and most amenable groom, had been left in charge. Plump, pink-faced, always smiling, Louisa had been described by Chessie in a bitchier moment as looking like a piglet who’d just won the pools. She was a complete contrast to Ricky’s head groom, Frances, who, scrawny, angry and equally obsessed with Ricky and the horses, was always finding fault with the other grooms’ work. Chessie had nicknamed Frances and Louisa ‘Picky and Perky’. Perky was now trying to coax Mattie to eat a carrot.

  ‘Can you look after Will for a couple of hours?’ Chessie asked her. ‘I’m just popping out to lunch with a girlfriend.’

  ‘Pooh,’ said Will. ‘Mattie’s leg smells awful.’ Then, realizing Chessie was getting into the car without him, started to cry.

  ‘Mummy won’t be long. I’ll bring you a present,’ called Chessie as she drove off.

  ‘Girlfriend indeed,’ muttered Louisa, catching a whiff of Diorissimo. ‘Mummy’s gone a-hunting.’

  Ten miles from Robinsgrove the wind dropped, the sun came out and the temperature rocketed, shrivelling the wild roses hanging from the hedgerows. Chessie could see her face reddening in the driving mirror and feel the sweat trickling down her ribs. It was all Ricky’s fault for not being able to afford a car with air-conditioning. There were no shops on the way for her to buy something cooler. Her mouth tasted acid with nerves.

  Rubens’ Retreat, once a large country house, now an hotel, was set in lush parkland. Reputed to have the best food and the softest double beds in England, it was a favourite haunt of the rich and libidinous. Inside it was wonderfully cool. Chessie nipped into the Ladies to remove her stockings, tone down her flushed face and clean her teeth.

  ‘I’ve just had gastric flu and keep getting this terrible taste in my mouth,’ she explained to the attendant who’d seen it all before.

  She found Bart in an alcove, screened by huge plants. On the telephone, he only paused to kiss her and wave her to the chair beside him. He was very brown and wearing a cream silk shirt, a pin-striped suit and an emerald-green tie, which matched the greensward on which naked ladies were sporting with cherubs on the mural round the walls.

  ‘I don’t care if the price is rising, keep buying, but spread it around; we should have control by tomorrow lunchtime,’ ordered Bart, waving to the waiter to pour Chessie a glass of champagne.

  While half his mind wrestled with the complicated finances of one of the fiercest take-overs Wall Street had ever known, his eyes ran over Chessie. She was as flushed as a peony, that pink dress emphasized every curve like a second skin. As the waiter laid a dark green napkin across her crotch, it was as though he was putting on a fig leaf. Bart wanted to take her upstairs and screw her at once.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said as he came off the telephone.

  ‘Aren’t you drinking?’ asked Chessie, noticing his glass of Perrier.

  ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘Perrier don’t make you merrier,’ said Chessie idly.

  ‘Just looking at you makes me drunk,’ said Bart. ‘Where does Ricky think you are?’

  ‘At home. I was terrified the match might be cancelled.’

  ‘It isn’t. I checked it out,’ said Bart. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Preoccupied. Mattie’s deteriorating; Kinta won’t stop.’

  ‘Sure he hasn’t got a bit on the side?’ asked Bart as they studied the menu.

  Chessie laughed sourly. ‘The only bits Ricky’s interested in go in horses’ mouths.’

  ‘How was he when you got home after Lady Waterlane’s reception?’

  ‘Asleep in the hay beside Mattie.’

  ‘That figures. He thinks he’s Jesus Christ anyway.’

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Choose what you want to eat,’ said Bart picking up the receiver. ‘I’d like poached salmon, zucchini and no potatoes,’ he told the waiter.

  ‘Why are you so keen to take over this company?’ asked Chessie, as he came off the telephone five minutes later.

  ‘Chief Executive, Ashley Roberts, blackballed me at the Racquet Club ten years ago.’

  ‘You are into revenge,’ said Chessie, taking a slug of champagne.

  ‘Never forget a put-down. That all right?’ He brandished his fork in the direction of Chessie’s fish pâté.

  ‘Fraction too much fennel,’ said Chessie. ‘OK, OK, that wasn’t a put-down. I used to cook for a living before I got married. I’ll cook for you one day.’

  Bart massaged her arm. ‘I sure hope so. I’m sorry about Grace.’

  ‘Did the Bloody Mary come out of her shirt?’

  ‘No. She called Ralph. He’s making her another one.’

  ‘I suppose that’s what shirty means. How was the wedding? Is Grace still Biddling while Rome burns?’

  Bart tapped her nose with his finger. ‘You must not take the piss.’

  ‘How did you two meet?’ asked Chessie as the waiter took away her hardly touched pâté.

  ‘I was a test pilot at NASA. Great life, none of us thought we’d live beyond thirty. You can’t imagine the joy of testing an airplane, learning its personality, talking to it, poking and probing, finding new things. I was a little boy from nowhere, but when I flew I felt like a god.’

  He blushed, ashamed of betraying emotion. ‘Grace came to visit the plant, and that was that. She grounded me but she backed me.’

  Chessie was fascinated: ‘How come you got so rich?’

  Bart shrugged. ‘I build the best airplanes and helicopters in the world and I bought land when it was worth $300 an acre. Now it’s going for $10,000. All markets go in cycles, the skill is knowing when to get in and when to get out.’

  Chessie breathed in the sweet scent of white freesias and stocks in the centre of the dark green tablecloth.

  ‘How were your children when you went back?’

  ‘OK.’ Quite unselfconsciously Bart got photographs out of his wallet.

  ‘That’s Luke. He’s twenty-two.’

  ‘Nice face,’ said Chessie.

  ‘Comes from my first marriage. Doesn’t live with us. He’s been working his way up as a groom in a polo yard. Very proud. Won’t accept a cent from me.’

  ‘Sounds like Ricky.’

  ‘More sympatico than Ricky,’ said Bart flatly. ‘This is Red.’

  Chessie whistled. ‘Wow, that’s an even nicer face. He really is beautiful.’ Then, sensing she’d said the wrong thing: ‘Nearly as good-looking as his father.’

  Bart looked mollified: ‘All the girls are crazy for Red. He’s kinda wild. He got looped at the wedding, and threw his cookies all over his granny’s porch. Plays polo like an angel. If he’d quit partying he’d go to ten. And here’s my baby, Bibi.’ Bart’s voice softened.

  ‘Now she is like you,’ sai
d Chessie. ‘What a clever, intelligent face.’

  No one could call her pretty with that crinkly hair and heavy jaw.

  ‘Bibi is super-bright. Harvard Business School, only one interested in coming into the business. She’s Daddy’s girl. Doesn’t get on with Grace. She might relate to a younger woman,’ he added pointedly.

  He is definitely putting out signals, thought Chessie, as their second course arrived.

  ‘D’you often have affairs with men who aren’t your husband?’ said Bart, forking up poached salmon.

  ‘Not since I was married. And you?’

  ‘Occasionally. They weren’t important.’

  Chessie examined the oily sheen on a red leaf of radicchio.

  ‘Is this?’

  ‘I guess so. That’s why I didn’t call you before.’

  Elated, Chessie regaled him with scurrilous polo gossip, knowing it would delight him to know how other players ripped off their patrons. Aware she was dropping the twins in it, and not caring, she told him about them selling one of Victor’s own horses back to him.

  ‘Are you going to Deauville?’ asked Bart as he came off the telephone for the third time.

  ‘Not unless Ricky forks out for a temporary nanny. The grooms get so bolshy about baby-sitting and Deauville’s no fun unless you can go out in the evening. We haven’t had a holiday since we were married,’ said Chessie bitterly and untruthfully.

  Bart traced the violet circles under her eyes.

  ‘You need one. Don’t you ever get any sleep?’

  ‘Not since I met you,’ said Chessie, who had drunk almost an entire bottle of champagne.

  It excited her wildly that this man at the same time as dealing in billions of dollars could give her his undivided attention. All her grievances came pouring out: ‘Having been dragged up by a succession of nannies himself, Ricky thinks Will ought to be brought up by his mother.’

  ‘Will’s a nice kid,’ said Bart. ‘He’s only whiny, over-adrenalized and super-aggressive because he’s picking up tensions from your marriage. You’re both too screwed up to give him enough attention.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Chessie dropped her fork with a furious clatter. ‘If you’re going to talk to me like that, I’m going.’