by Jilly Cooper
Angel sat by himself gazing bleakly out of the window at a dazzling dream-topping of cloud. Three hours was too short a time to adjust to entering loathsome British territory. Awaiting him would be a posse of apoplectic colonels and brigadiers utterly incensed that Bart had pulled a fast one and circumnavigated the ban. Angel had also suffered a lot of flak from the other Argentine players, particularly Alejandro, Juan and Miguel, who spoke enviously of the lack of pressure in England, the hospitality, the beautiful, available girls, the freezing-cold swimming-pools they’d been chucked into by fire-breathing fathers, and the utterly revolting food.
‘You ’aven’t died until you ’ave Eenglish cabbage,’ said Alejandro. ‘We’ll send you a food parcel every week.’
‘And a suitcase full of condoms,’ sighed Juan.
‘How can I pull girls,’ Angel had grumbled, ‘when my father-in-law wants me in bed by ten every night? And if Grace comes over I might as well be gelded.’
But all this was irrelevant when Angel’s sole reason for going to England was revenge. His temper was not improved by the latest edition of International Polo, where, among the glamorous photographs of massive silver cups, grooved muscular arms, flashing teeth beneath ebony moustaches and ponies with glued-down ears and rolling eyes, was a four-page feature on Drew Benedict. The text was printed in four languages, so Angel was able to read in French, Italian, Spanish and English that Drew, hero of the Falklands, was the rock on which both the Kaputnik Tigers and the British team were built. There were photographs of him outside his beautiful house, flanked by a horsey-looking wife, and two expressionless, well-behaved children, and in his library with a Jack Russell on his knee. Shivering with hatred, Angel examined the handsome, belligerent, unsmiling face, a boxer crossed with a Labrador. Even the comparative shortness of Drew’s legs didn’t comfort him. Angel’s grandmother, who lived in the Plaza, had always claimed that men with short legs were brilliant in bed.
Getting out a Pentel, Angel drew in a moustache and some Shirley Temple curls. But the blue eyes were still cool and appraising, so Angel made one of them squint, then cursed himself for his childishness.
Anyway, how could he concentrate on his mission of vengeance when his marriage was in injury time? The publicity hand-out was that Bibi was staying in America to mind the shop while Bart took virtually three months off, and that she would fly over on the Quicksilver at weekends. In fact, Angel was doubtful if she’d turn up at all. The row had started innocently enough. Left on his own so much, Angel had run up more gambling debts. Aware that their anniversary was coming up, strapped for cash, he had taken a modelling job so he could buy her a present with his own money. Bibi, growing increasingly suspicious, had followed him, seen him arrive at a house, kiss a beautiful model who had arrived at the same time and go inside with her. Instead of following him, where she would have found cameras, lights and silver umbrellas, Bibi had gone home in floods. Confronted, Angel had blurted out the truth. After a blazing row, refusing to believe him, Bibi had stormed round to the agency, who confirmed Angel’s story. Mortified, Bibi had flown home early from the office in an Alderton helicopter which was an anniversary present for him. As she walked into the house with her arms full of flowers, however, Angel had walked out of the bedroom with a towel wrapped round his waist. A second later he was followed by Innocenta in Bibi’s silk dressing gown.
‘What’s that scrubber got to offer that I haven’t?’ Bibi screamed later.
‘She’s got time,’ said Angel with chilling accuracy.
In the cold war that ensued, Angel and Bibi had lain as far apart as possible on the cliff edges of their double bed, longing for the other to weaken and stretch out a hand; and a stony-faced monosyllabic Bibi had come home from the office each night and ostentatiously cooked Angel’s dinner.
‘Bibi only say seven word to me this week,’ Angel had grumbled to Red as they boarded the plane, ‘dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner.’
‘Why doesn’t she dispense with all the chitchat,’ said Red, grinning, ‘and buy a gong?’
As he flipped sullenly through International Polo, Angel noticed that all the girls were far more beautiful than Bibi. Why the hell did he feel so miserable?
Three weeks later Daisy Macleod, travelling up to Paddington by train, took the same photograph of Drew out of her bag. Because of the press hanging around, she hadn’t seen him since The Scorpion revelations, and now they were meeting at Sukey’s house off Kensington Church Street. Daisy was incredibly twitchy because Violet was also in London on a school trip visiting the Impressionists at the Tate, and because Eddie had rung up from school that morning. ‘First the bad news, Mum, I failed Common Entrance. But now the good news, every single other boy in the school passed.’ Daisy was overwhelmed with love for his philosophical stoicism, but she knew he was desperately low and felt even worse because she was sure he’d only ploughed the exam because of The Scorpion.
As the train got in at eleven-thirty, and she wasn’t meeting Drew until twelve forty-five, she had time to kill. She’d cleaned her teeth on the train, carefully not swallowing the non-drinking water, and then again in the Ladies at Paddington, and again in Harrods, where she’d also covered herself in Je Reviens from the scent counter.
Still with time to kill, she hung around a second-hand book shop near Drew’s house and bought him a book called The Art of Lunging, then went to an off-licence and bought him a bottle of Moët in return for all the bottles he’d given her.
The man behind the counter, almost asphyxiated by wafts of Je Reviens and Colgate, asked with a leer if Daisy’d like it ready-chilled.
‘How lovely,’ Daisy blushed. ‘I didn’t know you could buy it like that.’
‘We sell a lot,’ said the man, admiring Daisy’s bosom in her apple-green T-shirt. ‘People like to take a bottle in the park.’
It was still only twelve-forty. Sweating with nerves, Daisy went into a supermarket and checked her face by the dog-food counter. Glancing up, she saw herself on the monitor. She supposed it was one way of getting on television and bought a box of Bonios for Ethel.
Turning into Drew’s street, grateful for the shade of the plane trees, Daisy walked down the road until she came to Number Fifteen. Drew’s blue BMW wasn’t outside. Across the road a pretty girl, holding an estate agent’s hand-out, stared at Daisy intently. Perhaps she was Sukey’s sister. Walking to the end of the road, Daisy turned round and walked back. Steeling herself, ignoring the girl still waiting opposite, Daisy marched up the path, pausing to powder her nose. But before she could ring the door bell, the door had opened and a voice said, ‘You look fine,’ and Drew had pulled her in to the hall.
He was wearing a red and white striped shirt which brought out the red of his complexion. He looked less glamorous than his photograph and, as he kissed her, he tasted of fish. Just for a second Daisy wondered why she’d wasted so many sleepless nights on him.
Following him into the kitchen, she saw the remains of a smoked salmon sandwich and a half-drunk glass of champagne. I’m always far too excited to eat anything before he arrives, she thought, as she handed him a carrier bag.
‘Bonios. That’s very kind,’ said Drew, looking inside.
‘Oh, help, I’ve given you the wrong bag,’ said Daisy, shoving the bookshop and off-licence bags at him.
‘That’s sweet, thank you,’ said Drew, filling a glass for her from the bottle already opened and taking another bite of his sandwich.
‘Do you want anything to eat?’ Daisy shook her head.
‘Poor baby, I’m sorry you’ve had such a bloody time, but you look great. You must have lost ten pounds, but not off your tits, thank God.’
Daisy went to the window and gazed at Sukey’s back garden, which was a rather uncharacteristic riot of roses, honeysuckle and jasmine. ‘How lovely,’ she sighed. ‘Sukey is clever.’
‘At some things,’ said Drew, running a hand up her backbone and unhooking her bra. As his hands gathere
d up her breasts and she collapsed against him, she could hear the sound of typing next door and a faint hum of traffic.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ said Drew.
‘It was lovely you won yesterday,’ said Daisy, ‘and scored most of the goals.’
As he followed her upstairs, Drew’s hands slid slowly up her legs and between her thighs. ‘These are the only goal posts I want to get between.’
On the chest of drawers in his dressing room were an engagement photograph of a mistily glamorous Sukey in pearls and a strapless dress, silver-backed brushes, Penhaligon’s English Fern and a panama with a Household Division ribbon. Thrown over an armchair were a dinner jacket, a crumpled evening shirt, a black tie and a pile of Kaputnik Tiger shirts – all the detritus of Drew’s other life.
Pulling off her T-shirt, bra and pants, but leaving her trailing, turquoise skirt, he pushed her back on the narrow, single bed and, burying his face in her breasts, murmured, ‘You are so comfortable, Mrs Macleod, I’m sure someone comes along and plumps up your body like Sukey’s cushions every half-hour.’
Soon his tongue was wandering lazily through the heather of her pubic hair to find the cairn of her clitoris.
‘Come inside me, please,’ said Daisy, worried that she was too tense to come and that he might be bored.
‘Don’t be silly,’ mumbled Drew. ‘I’ve waited five weeks for this. You can wait five minutes longer.’
‘Oh, that tongue,’ Daisy squirmed in ecstasy. At last the waves were slowly lapping against the shore, then they were inside her, seeping and sweeping over her. She was a mini-Pacific. She gave a gasp, moaned and floated away on a lilo of pleasure. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, I love you, I love you, I can’t help it.’
‘Now it’s my turn,’ said Drew. ‘I won’t be able to last long.’
‘That was bliss,’ he said as he rolled off her, ‘but next time cut your fingernails.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Daisy humbly.
‘I’m not. It’s always magic with you, my love. I’ve got you a present. I bought it for Easter, but your bloody daughter and The Scorpion got in the way.’ Daisy opened the red leather box and gave a gasp. On the white satin lay a brooch with a topaz centre, ringed by diamond petals.
‘It’s a daisy,’ cried Daisy ecstatically. ‘It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. Where did you find it?’
‘I had it made,’ Drew kissed her shoulder, ‘as an expression of my great fondness and regard for you. You will notice there are nine petals, so if you ever play “Loves me, loves me not” with it, it’ll always come out loves me.’
‘But you shouldn’t,’ gabbled Daisy. ‘I mean it’s too much, it isn’t . . . ?’
‘Real?’ said Drew. ‘Of course it is, I don’t like fake jewels or fake orgasms. We are going to get ourselves organized and I’m going to see a lot more of you in the future.’
Daisy had first bath and watched him having the second one.
‘Are you coming to Guards on Thursday?’ he asked. The Kaputnik Tigers were meeting the Flyers in the semi-final of the Queen’s Cup.
‘I don’t know,’ said Daisy, ‘I’d love to watch you and Perdita, but Rupert’ll probably be there.’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Have you seen her?’
‘No,’ said Drew. Gosh, he washed well, really scrubbing his neck, arms and legs, and between his toes, getting rid of every trace of her before he saw Sukey. Weak with love, fingering her brooch which she’d pinned to her T-shirt, she longed to touch his cock and make him come again.
‘But I gather she’s not playing very well,’ Drew went on. ‘I’m told Bart gees her up and Red and Angel are far too selfish to give her any passes.’
‘Angel’s supposed to be terribly good,’ said Daisy.
‘Bloody prima donna evidently,’ said Drew. ‘Manages to keep his absolute loathing of the Brits just within legal bounds.’
‘I wrote to her,’ said Daisy, ‘only last week. She hasn’t answered.’
‘You mustn’t,’ said Drew, rearing out of the bath and grabbing a towel. ‘You must back off. Let her come to you.’
‘That’s what Ricky says.’
Drew looked up sharply. ‘You’re seeing too much of Ricky.’
‘Only to listen. He’s far too preoccupied with bumping into Chessie and burying Bart.’
‘Are you going anywhere nice?’ she asked, as she watched Drew brushing dog hairs off his dinner jacket. It was so hard to draw a fine balance between probing and sympathetic interest.
‘Lady Sharon’s giving one of her little dinner parties. You should see their new house in Eaton Square. What a pity you didn’t get the commission to paint all Victor’s and Sharon’s ancestors. Great-great-great Auntie Tracey, who came over with the Vaykings, and huge Tayger heads, shot by Victor’s great-grandfather in India, which were bought at Phillips last week, on every wall. And I’ll have to sit on Sharon’s right.’
‘Lucky Sharon,’ said Daisy wistfully.
‘Unlucky me,’ said Drew, then suddenly businesslike, ‘You go out first, darling. We don’t want anyone seeing us together.’
62
Daisy had no intention of going to the semi-final between the Flyers and the Tigers. She had urgent commissions to finish and had even refused a lift to the Guards Club with Ricky and the twins, who wanted to watch the teams, one of which they’d be playing in Sunday’s final. But suddenly a longing to see Drew and Perdita overwhelmed her and she found herself driving her ancient Volkswagen so fast up the M4 that it overheated.
She had purposely not changed out of her torn jeans and old, blue denim shirt and wore dark glasses and her hair tied back in the hope that no-one would recognize The Scorpion trollop, also to discourage herself from going anywhere near the pony lines. She couldn’t bear Drew to see her looking so scruffy. But again, such was the magnet of her longing that ten minutes before throw-in she found herself passing the hospitality tents going up for Sunday’s final, and there were the Tigers’ grooms in their black-and-orange shirts frantically tacking up ponies and screwing studs into their shoes.
Then Daisy’s heart stopped, for there was Drew looking almost willowy beside the hulking Shark Nelligan, but towering over fat little Victor and the Brazilian ringer. They all had their heads together as Drew, in his soft voice, urged them on to annihilate the Flyers.
And, oh God, there was Ricky. She’d specifically told him she didn’t want to come to the match.
Moving past splendidly glossy ponies, who, nervous before a game, were stamping their feet and flattening their ears at one another, Daisy came to even more splendid and glossier ponies and it seemed as though the sky had been pulled down, so many grooms were tearing round in pale blue, Flyers T-shirts. There was Bart leaning against an iron rail yelling into his telephone because he was having trouble getting through to Johannesburg while a groom did up his kneepads. There was Red smoking a Black Sobranie being gazed at by groupies. Heavens, he was beautiful, but Daisy didn’t like the way he was idly chatting up a leggy blonde who was clutching a King Charles spaniel puppy whose ears were as red as his hair. By deduction the other player in the sky-blue shirt must be Angel. He was thinner than Daisy expected, and with his weary, haunted, heavy-lidded eyes, hollowed cheeks, damp, tendrilled hair and elegance, reminded her of Mantegna’s John the Baptist. His hand shook as he lit one cigarette from another, and, although it was a chill, windy day, and, unlike Bart and Red, he wasn’t wearing a jersey under his shirt, he was absolutely pouring with sweat. The poor boy obviously suffered from appalling pre-match nerves.
Daisy, who was shaking as much as Angel, couldn’t see Perdita anywhere, but suddenly she heard a joyful rumbling whicker and felt a gentle nudge in her back. Jumping round, she discovered little Tero, whom she’d so often plied with toast and Marmite when she’d wintered in Ricky’s field. Unbelievably touched to be remembered, Daisy hugged the equally enchanted pony. The Flyer’s groom, who was giving Tero’s oyster-grey coat a last polish, looked up in amazement.
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br /> ‘That’s really weird. She’s head-shy with everyone but Perdita.’
‘I’m Perdita’s mother,’ stammered Daisy.
The girl’s mouth formed a perfect O. Then there was a frantic clicking of cameras, a surging forward of the crowd and an even deeper whicker of joy from Tero.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said a familiar voice furiously, ‘Red’s been chatting up that blonde all lunch. Is he deliberately trying to screw up my game? Those bandages are too tight; do them again. And why the hell have you put Spotty in a pelham? I told you he went better in a Barry gag. Jesus, can’t you concentrate for five minutes?’
‘Can we have a word, Perdita?’ said the Sun ingratiatingly.
‘No, you fucking can’t, and certainly not before a match.’
Daisy’s first impression was how like Rupert Perdita had become. The haughty, dead-pan face with its short, streaked hair betrayed none of her rage and panic. Only the quivering tension of her slender, boyish body gave her away. Knowing how nervous she was, Daisy’s one thought was to comfort her. ‘Darling, I just wanted to wish you luck.’
Perdita swung round, her face ashen, her eyes glittering like tourmalines, her animosity as blasting as nerve gas.
‘Luck is the last thing you’ve ever brought me. Just fuck off.’
‘Perdita,’ reproved the groom, shocked.
‘You keep out of it. What’s she done but screw up my life? Back off,’ she spat at Daisy. ‘Don’t come crawling under my feet. You’ll get stamped on.’
Stumbling away, tears pouring under her dark glasses, Daisy was nearly run over by Shark Nelligan’s groom taking a pony down to the pitch. Ricky, who’d been only half-listening to Bobby Ferraro and Ronnie Ferguson because he was looking all the time for Chessie, suddenly saw Daisy backing away from Perdita as though she’d had acid thrown in her face, and turned to Seb and Dommie, who’d just come back from ringing their bookmaker.
