by Jilly Cooper
Make him miss, please make him miss, prayed Perdita, unable to look. Fortunately the strain was too much for Chuck who hit wide. As play began the final bell went.
‘Well played, congratulations,’ said the Van Dorens, smiling and gracious in defeat as they shook Perdita’s hand.
Bart, grinning from ear to ear and extraordinarily ungracious in victory, dropped his pony’s reins and, taking his whip and his stick in his left hand, put his right arm round Perdita’s shoulders, yelling hoarsely. ‘We beat those preppy fuckers, we pussy-whipped them. That’ll teach them to patronize Bart Alderton. You played real super, baby.’
A square was roped off and, despite the heavy drizzle, a lot of people gathered round, mostly to get a look at Luke’s latest acquisition who had played so well and who got the loudest cheer as she went up to get her little silver statue of a father with his hand on his young son’s shoulder. Although she could see her reflection all pink, hot, sweaty and damp-haired in the great silver cup from which the Van Dorens, being the losers, had the first swig, she felt terrific, particularly because Luke was so delighted.
Just then the heavens opened again and, across the cut-up pitch wearing dark glasses, cream Chinos, a cream silk shirt, a pale blue blazer braided with jade-green silk and carrying a black umbrella across the front of which was written ‘Shit, it’s raining’, sauntered Red Alderton.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ he said, without a trace of contrition. ‘I got held up. Lucky you had Perdita to fill in. I’d never have played so good, and this hangover would not have fitted under my helmet. No, fuck off, I’ve got nothing to say to you,’ he snapped, as the paparazzi swooped.
‘I’d have disinherited you if we’d lost,’ said Bart furiously.
‘I guess you would.’ Red put his head on one side. ‘And Mom will probably disinherit me anyway, so I better go make my peace. Well done,’ he added to Perdita. ‘You’re definitely not just a pretty ass.’
After Luke had checked his horses he took Perdita for a drink at the Players Club. She was no longer invisible now. Everyone congratulated her. Immediately Bart drew her aside and, without even consulting Chessie or Luke, invited her to stay at Alderton Towers.
‘You can’t stop in Luke’s pokey rathole any more.’
‘I like it,’ protested Perdita.
‘Well, Luke can’t like sleeping in a mobile home.’
‘Sure I do,’ said Luke.
‘Well, come for Christmas dinner. We have it at El Paradiso.’
Luke raised an eyebrow in the direction of Leroy who was looking up, showing the whites of his eyes like two sickled slices of boiled egg, his legs splayed out behind like a frog. He was still carrying his polo ball and thumping his tail.
‘Oh, bring the goddam dog too if you must,’ said Bart irritably, ‘but I’m not having him terrorizing my Rottweilers.’
Infuriated with Red, Bart was doubly anxious to bring Luke back into the fold. Like many men whose business enemies were legion, he valued family ties very highly, even while constantly abusing them. His aim was to have Luke financially dependent on him like the other two so he could manipulate him. The neatest thing he could do would be to buy Perdita. Half an hour later he and Chessie had to leave to change for some silver wedding party. Perdita sensed that Bart would rather have stayed and gone through every play of the match. Chessie was equally reluctant.
‘Just another lot of geriatrics whinnying at Bart and thinking what an unsuitable marriage he’s made,’ she said bitterly as she drained her glass of champagne.
She’s far too young for that kind of evening, thought Perdita. Just before he left, Bart thrust something into Perdita’s hand.
‘Go buy yourself something nice,’ he said. ‘Chessie’ll take you to Worth Avenue.’
Glancing down, Perdita saw it was a wad of $1,000 bills.
‘I can’t,’ she said, trying to sound shocked.
‘Sure you can. You’d get a fee as a pro. You sure played a pro’s game this afternoon.’
Perdita waltzed back to Luke. ‘Look what your father’s given me.’
Jesus, I could do with that right now, thought Luke. Perdita’d played so well, he wanted to take her to Chez Colbert and pour Moet down her all night, but he simply couldn’t afford it. He’d been financially crippled buying and flying back four horses of his own from Alejandro’s who might take weeks to adjust to the Palm Beach climate. He still had to pay grain bills and the grooms’ salaries. Nor had the fat cheque promised by Hal Peters arrived yet, and he felt it was uncool to hassle.
He tried to persuade Bibi to come out with them, but she said she had too much work and had to fly straight back to LA.
‘You played super,’ she said to an amazed Perdita. ‘You must be floating on air.’
Perdita giggled. ‘I’m floating on hairs. The first thing I’m doing tomorrow is get my legs waxed.’
‘Very painful, worse than childbirth,’ warned Bibi.
‘I’ll hold your hand,’ said Luke. ‘No one shall accuse me of not being present at the waxing.’
33
The rain had stopped, giving way to a glorious evening with a huge apricot-pink moon and clouds rising like an indigo tidal wave on the horizon. Orion was lying on his back with the Dog Star above him. It was hard to tell the other stars from the lights of the incoming planes. The air was as soft as a shawl round Perdita’s shoulders.
‘Isn’t Palm Beach the most heavenly place in the world?’ she said, taking Luke’s hand.
Red was waiting for them at Cobblestones, the famous polo bar. Early diners were devouring huge steaks, veal and french fries, or mountaineering through vast salads in the front room, which was very light, decorated in ice-cream colours with some rather crude paintings of polo games on the walls.
‘Don’t think my father would fork out two million for any of those,’ said Red, sweeping them into the darker bar at the back. He was already very high and giggly, drinking green devils, a lethal concoction which included vodka, crème de menthe and cointreau. Immediately he ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon for Perdita and Luke. Luke bought a packet of crisps for Leroy, who sat on a bar stool as close to his master as possible.
‘You’ll have to drop that ball now,’ said Luke, ‘if you want a potato chip.’
‘I gotta job for that brute,’ said Red. ‘I’ll buy him a dozen polo balls if he eats Auriel’s Yorkshire terriers. She ordered them tuna-fish sandwiches on the airplane and they threw them up just as we were landing.’
Then, taking Perdita’s arm, he spun her round towards a square doorway concealed in the back of the bar.
‘That, my darling, is the famous disappearing door. When husbands barge in here looking for their errant wives, the lovers nip out through that door. And that’s the phone where all the players make assignations with people they shouldn’t. I don’t know why they don’t install a second booth for Juan O’Brien and Jesus.’
A crowd had soon gathered round them, congratulating Perdita, admiring Red’s blue blazer with the green silk braiding, and asking him what the hell had happened.
‘Auriel gave me a Ferrari today in the colour of my choice. I chose red to match my hair and my bank balance. I couldn’t just leave her and fly back.’
‘What we all want to know,’ asked Bobby Ferraro, the great American player who was so strong no horse ever answered back and who was playing for the Kaputnik Tigers in Luke’s charity match, ‘is what’s she like?’
‘OK,’ said Red. ‘Got more stitches in her face than I have in this coat, but OK.’
Over the laughter, Bobby Ferraro insisted: ‘No, what’s she like in the sack?’
‘Pretty good,’ said Red, grinning. ‘Takes some getting used to. First time she gave me a blow job, her wig came off in my hands. I haven’t been so embarrassed since they repossessed my helicopter.’
Everyone yelled with laughter.
‘You’re a shit, Red,’ said Luke, shaking his head.
He had tried to call Angel to ge
t him to join them, but Angel was still out carousing.
‘Miguel and Juan are hopping you’ve brought this greaseball over,’ said Red. ‘They wanted another cousin they could manipulate. They’ll give him a hard time. So will Bibi. She’s got awful bossy.’
‘Not when she sees Angel,’ said Perdita.
Luke turned to talk to Bobby Ferraro, who was handsome in a chunky Neanderthal way.
‘Bobby’s known as All-Brawn because he’s so thick,’ Red told Perdita. ‘Comes from Montana. They turn the ponies out at night there. If the wolves don’t catch them, they know they’re fast enough to play polo.’
He yawned; his fingers drummed on the bar. He was getting restless.
Unnerved, Perdita blurted out: ‘What did you read at university?’
‘Dirty books mostly.’
‘Sorry – what did you major in?’
‘Underwater basketweaving.’
‘Oh, stop taking the piss.’
‘Howdya like my ponies?’
‘Fantastic!’ Perdita’s face brightened. ‘I’ve never ridden anything like them. Spotty was terrific and that bay mare with the four white socks in the last chukka was like a Porsche with four legs, she came round so fast. I nearly came off her each time. What’s her name?’
‘Haven’t a clue,’ said Red. ‘My father owns them. Juan and Miguel school them. I just sit on their backs.’
‘Aren’t you interested in horses?’
‘Not particularly. A polo pony isn’t an animal, it’s a means to an end.’
‘I disagree,’ said Perdita coldly. ‘So does Luke.’
‘Luke loves them too much for his own good,’ said Red dismissively. ‘Eats his heart out when he sells them on.’
He ordered another green devil.
‘I wouldn’t,’ said Luke. ‘And will you please lay off on Saturday night.’
‘Christ, it’s only a charity match,’ snapped Red.
‘But it’s my first game with Hal, OK? And I want to win.’
‘I hear Hal’s found God,’ said Red. ‘That’s one helluva pass.’
Luke grinned. ‘Is Auriel coming to watch you on Sunday?’
‘I guess so,’ said Red. He seemed abstracted. ‘Where are we going to eat – Charlie’s Crab?’
Luke yawned. He’d been up at five and jet lag had finally caught up with him. The adrenalin pumping in the match had given way to aches and pains. All he wanted to do was to go home, talk to his horses and fall into bed, but Perdita was obviously dying to go out on the town.
‘I’ll pay,’ said Red. ‘As long as you pay for the drinks here. I owe them so much, they won’t give me any credit. Let’s go.’ He got off his bar stool, and then got back on again. ‘Second thoughts, let’s not.’
Following his gaze, Perdita noticed a girl with tousled dark hair in a flame-red dress, telephoning with her back to the room. Although she had picked up the receiver, it was plain she was only pretending to telephone. After a few minutes she looked round and gave a start of surprise.
‘Hi, Lucy,’ said Red softly. ‘Long time no see.’
‘Hi, Red. Where have you been hiding?’
She had big brown eyes, a face and body so olive-skinned, soft and supple that they looked as though they’d spent their life in linseed oil and she smelt of dollars and Diorella.
‘This is Perdita,’ said Red. ‘My brother Luke’s just brought her back from Argentina. She played a blinder this afternoon. Stood in for me and scored four goals.’
‘That’s great,’ said Lucy, who seemed to be laughing at some private joke and not remotely interested in goals.
Suddenly Perdita felt de trop. She had a feeling Lucy had something to do with Red not getting back for the match. She turned back to Luke who was being chatted up.
‘My Daddy owns a chunk of Florida,’ a stunning redhead was telling him. ‘You’re a seriously good polo player. Are you as good in bed?’ Luke was just laughing.
Perdita was furious. ‘Don’t be fatuous,’ she said to the redhead. ‘Just bugger off.’
‘I was only asking.’ The redhead flounced off.
‘Silly cow,’ said Perdita crossly, then added to Luke, ‘Chessie was telling me about Cassandra Murdoch.’
Luke looked at her steadily. ‘So?’
‘That you went out with her for a long time and she’s absolutely heart-broken.’
‘She doesn’t deserve that. She’s beautiful,’ said Luke.
‘Why did you dump her then?’
Luke’s gaze was unflinching. ‘Because I met you, I guess.’
Perdita felt herself blushing. ‘But there isn’t . . .’ she began.
‘I know, but it wasn’t fair to Cass.’
At that moment a waiter sidled up and whispered something to Red and Lucy.
‘Oh Christ,’ gasped Lucy, the colour draining from her face, ‘my husband’s just come in. See you, darling,’ and, pecking Red on the cheek, she shot out of the famous disappearing door. Instantly Red shot round the bar to the darkest corner and engaged an eager brunette and her disgruntled boyfriend in conversation.
‘I guess my brother’s been playing fast and Lucy,’ said Luke.
A second later a man with a blazing red face and upturned white hair stormed into the back bar, flanked by two enormous heavies.
‘Jesus,’ muttered Luke, putting three fingers through Leroy’s collar. ‘Red shouldn’t tangle with that.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Winston Chalmers,’ said Luke. ‘Best lawyer in town; on his fourth wife; specializes in getting off very rich, very guilty people.’
‘I’m sure there’s some mistake, Mr Chalmers,’ said the manager, who was trying to block his advance. ‘Mrs Chalmers hasn’t been in for days.’
Winston Chalmers pushed him away as easily as a bamboo curtain. ‘Luke Alderton,’ he bellowed. ‘I want to see Luke Alderton. I know the fucker’s here.’
‘Sure I am,’ said Luke.
‘You know my wife, Lucy.’
‘Never met her. First time I clapped eyes on her was this evening,’ said Luke, getting to his feet and towering over Winston Chalmers. ‘Seems a nice lady.’
‘That’s bullshit,’ said Chalmers. ‘Get him,’ he ordered the heavies.
The next minute one of the heavies had hit Luke across the room. Then, as he struggled to his feet, the second heavy helped him up and hit him again in the stomach. Then the first heavy came in with a punishing right to the side of the head, knocking Luke to the floor again. Then he gave a yell as Leroy buried his teeth in his arm. No one moved in the bar except Perdita.
‘Stop it, you bastards,’ she screamed, snatching up a bar stool.
‘Don’t be silly, honey,’ said the second heavy, trying to wrench the stool from her. ‘We’re bigger than you.’
‘And call off this fucking dog,’ screamed the first heavy, reaching for his gun.
Perdita put down the stool and grabbed Leroy’s collar. ‘Drop,’ she screamed, ‘drop.’
‘Drop,’ mumbled Luke, raising himself a couple of inches.
Leroy dropped. Luke collapsed back on to the floor.
Winston Chalmers stepped over him, kicking him in the ribs. ‘Tell your friend,’ he said to Perdita, ‘to stay away from my wife. If he contacts her again, he’ll get acid in that ugly mug of his.’
‘He is not ugly,’ screamed Perdita, running after them out into the parking lot with Leroy barking at her side. But they had jumped into their big Cadillac and were screaming off past a bank at the end of the road, inappropriately named Fidelity Federal.
Going back into the bar, Perdita found Red chucking a bucket of water over Luke.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ she screamed. ‘Didn’t you hear Luke saying he’d never met her before this evening? And now he’s out cold and he’s got to play on Sunday.’
She knelt down beside Luke.
‘Luke, lovie, are you OK? Call an ambulance,’ she shouted at Red.
‘I’m OK,’ gro
aned Luke, feeling his jaw, ‘but I swear I’ve never met that woman before in my life.’
‘I know you haven’t,’ said Red, starting to laugh as he pulled Luke to his feet. ‘Whenever I call her up, I keep getting Winston, so I say I’m Luke Alderton.’
34
Three days later Perdita saw her first big Sunday match and was staggered by the razzmatazz. It had poured with rain all night, so four helicopters were brought in to blow-dry the field. After a lunch of lobster, chicken, bilberries and champagne, which cost each guest $200 a head, there was an auction for Band Aid, and, so that no-one could avoid coughing up, silver buckets were passed round the tables which were soon filled up with $100 and $1,000 bills. Each woman, as she left, was presented with a toy model of Hal Peters’ Cheetah convertible, and, as she reached her allotted seat, waitresses rushed forward to wipe off the rain with towels. Favoured clients of Hal Peters found glasses and bottles of champagne in ice awaiting them.
On the field before the match, two pop groups belted out: ‘Do they know it’s Christmas any more?’, and as both Bob Geldof and Auriel Kingham were alleged to be putting in an appearance during the game, the media were out in force.
Even with the temperature in the high sixties, the huge grandstand was filled with women smothered in jewels and huge hats as if they were going to a wedding. Some of them were young and very beautiful, but many were old. Perdita noticed some disgusting old crones looking like Egyptian mummies who’d spent the afternoon at Estee Lauder. Almost more gaudily dressed were the men who rolled up in jackets and trousers in an amazing variety of lime greens, terracottas and crocus yellows, and panamas with coloured ribbons. Bart, who’d paid for Perdita’s lunch, and her stand ticket, was wearing an extraordinary petrol-blue silk coat woven with yellow snaffles.
The teams had been expected to attend the lunch. Luke, looking very pale, had eaten nothing. He had refused to see a doctor, but Perdita was sure he was still slightly concussed and his right shoulder was giving him such hell that he had to resort to repeated shots of Novocaine. His amusement on Thursday night, which had been aided by alcohol, had given way to dread that he might be seriously injured. He could only feed his ponies and pay his grooms if he were able to make and sell on horses from dawn to midnight and play high goal for Hal Peters. It was crucial they won their first match this afternoon. Even Leroy kept a respectful six-foot distance from his master that morning.
