by Jilly Cooper
Alejandro was philosophical. ‘I cannot ’elp it eef my grooms want me to ‘ang on to a good horse,’ he said as he waved them off.
Angel shook his head. ‘The Argentines are a people very simpaticos, but utterly irresponsible.’
30
The flight was a nightmare of delays, misroutings and arguments with officials over the authenticity of papers and Fantasma’s irritable inability to keep her hooves to herself. Then, on the way to Miami, Tero went berserk and nearly kicked the plane out. She would have had to be put down if Luke hadn’t calmed her with a shot and, almost more, with his solid, inevitably reassuring presence.
Having groggily settled the horses when they arrived, Perdita fell into bed and slept for twenty-four hours. Waking alone in a very comfortable double bed, she had no idea where she was. Groping for a light switch, she realized she was in Luke’s bedroom. The only furniture apart from the bed was a chest of drawers and a record player. The colour in the room was provided by the books, which covered the walls and much of the carpetless floor, but in orderly piles. Four whole shelves were devoted to tapes and records, mostly classical, and Luke must have bought every book on polo, albeit second-hand. The rest of the books seemed to be poetry and novels, American, English and translations from every European language, including Latin and Greek.
Opening the curtains, Perdita was almost blinded by sunshine. Blinking, she realized she’d been sleeping in the attic of an L-shaped barn. To the right she could see a row of loose boxes and behind them a stick-and-ball field with floodlighting so horses could be worked after dark. Beyond were paddocks dotted with pines, gums and palm trees. She could see Tero and Fantasma grazing contentedly. They’d become even more inseparable after the ordeal of their first flight.
Below her in the yard, Luke, stripped to the waist in a pair of faded Bermudas, was talking nonsense to a pony as he hosed the soap suds off her dark brown coat. A Siamese cat with blue eyes and a blue collar weaved voluptuously between his legs, watched jealously by a ferocious-looking black mongrel who had gone berserk when Luke got home yesterday.
‘Who’s that pony?’ Perdita shouted down.
Luke glanced up and smiled. ‘Ophelia – came from Miguel O’Brien just a year ago. When I first walked into her stable she used to turn her back on me, put her head down in the corner and shake. You couldn’t put a halter on her.’
‘How d’you sort her out?’
‘Handled her very gently. Let her get away with a few things. All she needed was a little TLC.’
Perdita remembered how all the ponies had come racing in from the paddocks and nearly sent Luke flying yesterday. She’d never seen horses so affectionate and so relaxed. The mare was flattening her ears now as Luke hosed under her headcollar. Then, unbuckling it, he gave her a gentle pat on the rump and sent her trotting off into the paddock to join the others.
‘What time is it?’ she asked.
‘About half-eleven.’ Luke squinted up at her. ‘If you can get your ass into gear, we’ve been invited to lunch by my father.’
‘I’ve gotta wash my hair,’ squeaked Perdita, feeling quite unable to face Chessie. ‘And all my clothes are dirty. I suppose I could wear my new leather trousers.’
‘I wouldn’t, you’ll be far too hot,’ said Luke. ‘Borrow one of my shirts, second drawer down. You’ll find coffee next door, orange juice in the ice box, and, after Argentina, the shower’s like Niagara.’
‘My father wants to discuss the Fathers and Sons final tomorrow,’ said Luke as he drove into Palm Beach. ‘The beauty of this tournament is that families are forced to bury the hatchet once a year in order to play in it.’
After the poverty and primitive barbarity of the pampas, Perdita couldn’t believe Palm Beach. On either side of the road reared up vast ficus hedges like ramparts of green fudge. Occasionally, through towering electric gates, she caught a glimpse of pastel palaces so like blocks of ice-cream that she expected them to melt in the burning sun. Occasionally down a side road she caught a glimpse of the ocean. Apart from the odd security guard, no-one was around in the streets. Limousines, stealthily overtaking, made Luke’s dusty pick-up truck look very shabby. In the back, a security guard in himself, sat Luke’s ferocious mongrel, who growled every time an increasingly nervous Perdita leant towards Luke to check her reflection in the driving mirror.
‘He’s worse than Fantasma,’ she grumbled.
‘Let him get used to you,’ said Luke. ‘He’s kinda over protective where I’m concerned. He came from Juan’s yard. When the Argies go home, they often abandon a dog.’
‘Bastards,’ said Perdita. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Leroy, because he’s big and black and from the South.’
‘Is Red coming to lunch?’ asked Perdita.
‘I guess not. He got his picture on the cover of People magazine this week as polo’s bad guy and Auriel Kingham’s toyboy. The piece inside was less pretty. A charitable interpretation would be that the reporter stitched him up, but I recognize Red’s style in most of the snide quotes.’
‘Like what?’
Luke shook his head ruefully. ‘Describing Chessie as an ageing bimbo and as shallow as a paddling pool, saying she was such a gold digger she must have majored in opencast mining, and that Dad has to employ all his security guards ready gelded.’
‘Golly,’ said Perdita in awe, ‘I adore him already.’
‘Chessie is OK,’ said Luke firmly.
Oh, please make her have gone off, prayed Perdita.
As Luke swung round the corner, on the right, towering above the ficus battlement was the biggest palest pink house in the road.
‘There you are, Alderton Towers,’ said Luke. ‘It used to be eight houses. Dad knocked down three to extend the garden. This one belongs to him and Chessie, the one beyond’s kept for servants and guards, another’s for guests, and the other two for Red and Bibi.’
‘What about you?’ asked Perdita, thinking indignantly about the tiny kitchen and the bedroom overcrowded with books.
‘I make my own way,’ said Luke.
Bart’s gates were swarming with press who were being almost kept at bay by two large guards.
‘Go round to the back,’ snapped the larger one when he saw the pick-up truck. Then, recognizing Luke, ‘Oh sorry, Mr Alderton. Welcome home.’
The reporters surged forward in excitement. ‘It’s Luke, the brother. You got anything to say about Red and Auriel Kingham, Mr Alderton?’
‘Don’t know anything,’ said Luke grinning.
‘Knock it off, you guys,’ said the guard, punching them back as his mate pressed the remote control to open the gates.
Oh, my God, thought Perdita, I’m not ready for this.
Instead of a lawn, the front garden was covered in periwinkle-blue slats like the deck of a ship which only stopped to take in the occasional massive mast-like tree. The lack of foliage outside, however, was more than compensated by the tropical plants inside. A drawing room, almost as big as a hockey pitch, was overflowing with scented orchids of all colours. Jungle flora rioted also over the wallpaper and the chintz on two vast sofas, thirty feet apart on either side of the green marble fireplace. Did Bart and Chessie occupy one each on cosy winter evenings, wondered Perdita. Like at Robinsgrove, the grand piano was covered with silver-framed photographs of members of the Alderton family, mostly on polo ponies. But Perdita only took in the one at the front, of an adorable blond, brown-eyed small boy, who was so like Ricky he could only be Will. She had never seen a picture of him before. No wonder losing him had broken Ricky’s heart.
Tearing her eyes away she was staggered by the paintings, including a Gauguin, two Dalis, a Jackson Pollock and three Andy Warhols, which covered two walls. Spotlit polo trophies like a great leaping silver shoal of fish covered a third. The fourth, all window and now open, looked on to a beautiful swimming-pool, flanked by high walls, entirely smothered in bougainvillaea, honeysuckle, stephanotis, jasmine and pale pink roses. Throug
h a wrought-iron gate on the other side the ocean flashed as peacock-blue as Angel’s eyes.
‘That’s the best painting in the room,’ said Luke, pointing to some massed pink water-lilies above the fireplace.
‘Everyone says I married Bart for his Monet,’ drawled a voice.
Perdita swung round. Hell, she thought, she’s more stunning than ever. Even ferocious Leroy thumped his stubby black tail.
‘Luke, darling,’ murmured Chessie, wafting the scent of lily of the valley into the room. Giving him the benefit of her body in a sopping-wet lime-green bikini, she weaved into Luke’s embrace as voluptuously as the Siamese stable cat had earlier:
‘Thank God you’ve come home to bring some sanity to this dump.’
‘You look incredible, as usual,’ said Luke, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘This is Perdita.’
‘Hi,’ said Chessie. ‘I hear you’ve been in Argentina. Isn’t it bliss, but aren’t they lecherous? Juan and Miguel would have gang-banged me years ago if they weren’t so terrified of losing Bart’s custom.’
Chessie must have lost a stone since Perdita last saw her, and was on the borderline that appears exquisite in clothes, but rather too thin uncovered. With her very short streaked hair, flawless golden skin, and shadowed eyes she now looked more like the new boy every prefect wants to take behind the squash court than a rather too-knowing Botticelli angel.
You stupid cow, Perdita told herself. Her own hair hadn’t been cut for four months. Not used to the heat, her face was still flushed from the hair dryer. Luke’s red and white striped shirt belted with one of his few ties, which had looked so sexy and original when she had teetered on his bed to see into the tiny mirror, now just looked silly and her bloody brown leather trousers were too tight and punishingly hot. It was entirely Luke’s fault for not being insistent enough that she shouldn’t wear them. Beside Chessie, she felt like a carthorse let loose in the paddock at Ascot.
Despite her cool exterior, Chessie was plainly in a foul mood. ‘I was going to make Bloodies, but the colour reminds me too much of your unspeakable brother, so I thought we’d have margueritas instead.’
Pressing a bell, she led them out to the swimming-pool, where she and Luke sat in the sun, and Perdita took refuge under a blue and white striped umbrella.
‘All because of him,’ rattled on Chessie, ‘we’ve been bombarded by the paparazzi. One of the guards found a photographer up in that traveller’s palm yesterday afternoon. Bart’s had to double the security. It’s like Colditz! “Ready gelded” indeed!’
Auriel Kingham was such a big star that Perdita couldn’t resist asking, ‘Is she as beautiful in the flesh?’
‘What flesh?’ said Chess scornfully. ‘There isn’t an inch of cellulite that hasn’t been sucked out. She’s so lifted she could wear her pubes as a moustache.’
‘Ouch,’ said Luke, half-laughing. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Talking on four telephones, reading faxes, dictating letters, playing with his computer, thinking about polo. Why do I always end up with obsessives? He’ll be out soon to give you his divided attention. What took you so long?’ she snapped as a maid came out with the margueritas.
Grabbing one, she drained half in one gulp.
‘Hi, Conchita,’ Luke smiled up at the maid. ‘I’d honestly rather have a beer, please.’
‘I’ll have yours as well then.’ Chessie grabbed Luke’s marguerita. ‘And hurry up with that beer,’ she shouted at the maid’s retreating back, then, turning to Luke, ‘Have you seen that piece in People?’
Luke nodded.
‘How dare he call me a bimbo? He’s the bloody bimbo selling himself to any man, woman or Rottweiler as long as they pick up his bills.’
‘Oh, c’mon,’ said Luke. ‘He was probably looped when he gave the interview. He doesn’t mean it.’
‘Course he does.’ Chessie lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. ‘Your kid brother was born with a wooden spoon in his mouth for stirring things.’
‘He’s only jealous because you’re prettier than him,’ said Luke, feeding potato chips to a slavering Leroy.
‘Well, he shouldn’t expose his jealousy in public along with everything else. And how your bloody father can play with him in the Fathers and Sons tomorrow after all those things he’s said about me?’
Luke shrugged. ‘That’s polo. I know it hurts. I’m sorry.’
Having finished her marguerita, Chessie reached for the second one.
‘Bart’s secretly delighted,’ she said bitterly, ‘because People said he ran the best barn in Palm Beach, and was the only high-goal patron who fully carried his weight on the team. He’ll need to be tomorrow. Red’ll be coked up to the eyeballs, and Bibi’s so busy working all hours she’s completely out of practice – and out of shape,’ she added maliciously, as a girl wandered out of the sitting room.
‘Unlike you,’ said the girl furiously, ‘I don’t spend all day having my body and my ego massaged. Hi, Lukie,’ she added, kissing him. ‘You look great.’
‘This is my sister Bibi,’ Luke said to Perdita.
Amid all this paradise and effortless access to wealth, Perdita was amazed how aggressively plain Bibi was. Admittedly her face wasn’t helped by Bart’s heavy jaw and a sallow skin. But her hair, the colour of marmalade and scraped back in a bun, and huge horn-rimmed spectacles only emphasized a big nose and hazel eyes that were unmade-up and bloodshot from the overnight flight from LA. Her figure was also totally disguised by a severely cut, lightweight, pin-striped suit. The only thing she couldn’t hide were long, beautiful, coltish legs. She was obviously trying to look much older than her twenty-two years.
Totally ignoring Chessie, she accepted a glass of Perrier from the maid and, sharing the shade of another blue and white striped umbrella with a panting Leroy, started questioning Luke about Argentina.
Perdita was getting sauna-ed in her leather trousers. She must make some contribution to the conversation, but a mixture of jet lag and Chessie’s utterly haunting beauty had knocked her for six. Bart, joining them a few minutes later, made her feel even more shy. A few more grey hairs had been added to his wolf’s pelt and a few more crows’ feet to his angry aggressive eyes, but he was suntanned and lean from frantic dieting and had kept his movie-star looks.
Putting a brief hand on Luke’s arm but ignoring Perdita, he turned to Bibi. ‘Hi, sweetheart, what did the Saudis say?’
‘If they don’t get those twenty Lightnings before Christmas they’re going to cancel the order. I’ve shouted myself hoarse at the factory, but they won’t take any notice,’ said Bibi furiously.
Bart turned back towards the house. ‘I’ll talk to them.’
‘After lunch,’ said Chessie, so icily that Bart stopped in his tracks. ‘This is Perdita,’ she added.
Bart nodded unenthusiastically in Perdita’s direction, then, anxious to conciliate Chessie: ‘New bikini? Nice, suits you.’
‘Cost enough,’ said Bibi spitefully. ‘I saw the bill. If Red moves in with Auriel, you can fill his house with all your clothes.’
They had lunch by the pool. Tuna-fish open sandwiches and a taco salad, so delicious that despite the heat Perdita wanted to wolf the lot. Chessie, who hardly ate anything, moved on to white wine. When Bart wasn’t obsessively taking telephone calls, he and Luke and Bibi discussed tactics and what ponies they would ride tomorrow. Bart would mount Red and Bibi; Luke would bring his own. Every time Luke tried to draw Perdita into the conversation, Bart rode her off.
He looked really cheerful, however, when he heard that Victor had been fleeced by Alejandro.
‘I saw Lando Medici at the Players Club last night,’ he told Luke. ‘He was boasting about this wonder pony he bought from Alejandro, Fanfare or something, the grey responsible for the Mendozas taking out the O’Briens in the Copa de Republic. I told Miguel he was slipping to let her go.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Luke grinned. ‘That’s three people Alejandro’s sold Fantasma to,’ he murmured to Perdita
.
‘I really liked that piece in People,’ said Bibi loudly.
‘Shut up,’ Luke said to her softly. ‘Is it serious, him and Auriel?’
‘With her it is. I cannot understand how Red can fall for such an awful polo player,’ said Bibi. ‘I played against her in a charity match in Palm Springs. She simply cannot control her horses.’
‘What’s in it for Red?’
Bibi shrugged. ‘He just says, “I want that”, and she buys it for him.’
‘Like what?’
‘Four ponies last week.’
‘Shit,’ said Luke.
Chessie was so fed up with Bibi and Bart that she suddenly rolled over to brown her back and started asking Perdita all about Argentina.
‘You’re probably too jet lagged today, but next week I’ll show you Worth Avenue and we can go shopping.’
‘I’d love a haircut,’ said Perdita ruefully.
‘I’ll take you to Xavier’s. He won’t chop it all off. It’s gorgeous hair.’
She’s my rival, thought Perdita in confusion, and suddenly she’s being so nice to me. If Ricky saw her again now, how could he possibly fail to be a million times more in love with her?
Luke, who was acquiring even more freckles in the sunshine, was having his work cut out trying to persuade Bart to give Angel a year’s contract.
‘Is he as idle and conniving as the rest of them?’ asked Bart.
‘He’s lovely,’ butted in Perdita. ‘You’ll really like him.’
‘I’m not gonna socialize with him,’ said Bart rudely. ‘I just want to know if the guy’s any good.’
‘My husband has so much charm,’ said Chessie lightly.
Having refused the fruit salad, she lit a cigarette and, as Bart was now jabbering on the telephone to some Jap, turned to Bibi: ‘How’s your love life?’
‘Fine,’ said Bibi, picking only lychees and guavas out of the fruit salad, then adding to Luke, ‘I sure appreciate you telling Ricky to look me up in LA.’
Then, smiling evilly, almost toadlike, she turned back to Chessie, ‘I know Dad’s cute, but how could you dump Ricky? He is to die for. We spent a lot of time together.’
