by Jilly Cooper
‘That’s terribly kind,’ said Daisy. Perhaps she’d misjudged Chessie. ‘It’d be wonderful.’
‘And you can do one thing for me in return,’ drawled Chessie.
She’ll have stripped that bench in a minute, thought Daisy.
‘I’ve just seen your painting of Will,’ continued Chessie. ‘It’s stunning. One day I want you to do me a copy. But what I really want is – it’s Bart’s fiftieth birthday next week and he’s pretty disgruntled about it, particularly after yesterday. Could you possibly paint me in the nude as a surprise for him?’
No, thought Daisy, in horror.
‘It’s terribly sweet of you,’ she said out loud. ‘I’m really honoured, but I’ve got about four commissions I’ve simply got to finish.’
‘Oh, please. It’d be such fun. I’m in such a muddle. I feel I need someone like you to talk to.’
In the end Chessie offered her so much money that Daisy couldn’t refuse.
67
Daisy had never disliked a commission so much. Day after day she was taunted by Chessie’s naked beauty, as Chessie babbled on as relentlessly as the Frogsmore about how she and Ricky loved each other and how perhaps the portrait would end up as second wedding present for him, and how Bart was so old, and how she didn’t want to end up looking after him when he was old and crotchety, and boy, he’d be crotchety.
Daisy got lower and lower, particularly when Ricky dropped in to see Ethel’s puppies and found Chessie in residence on Daisy’s saxe-blue sofa with her body as warm and brown and tempting as new bread from the oven. She had made no attempt to get dressed, and Ricky, shooting Daisy a murderous look as though it was all her fault, had stormed out.
By contrast Little Chef popped down twice a day to kiss, lick and clean Ethel’s eyes, ears and nose, to examine his offspring with obvious delight and then to curl up for an hour on the priceless clothes Chessie dropped so casually on the floor. Daisy wished Drew were as attentive. He still hadn’t rung. All the telephone calls that week were for Chessie, usually when she wasn’t there.
‘Say I’ve just left, whatever time Bart rings,’ insisted Chessie or, to explain one day when she wasn’t going to turn up at Daisy’s at all, ‘Just tell him you’ve reached a really tricky bit and I can’t come to the telephone, but I send him a huge kiss, and I’ll be home around seven.’
She’s seeing Ricky, thought Daisy, and was amazed how desolate she felt. Having now spent some time in Chessie’s company, she was now utterly convinced she would only make Ricky miserable if they got together again.
Ashamed of disliking her so much, Daisy also totally sabotaged any artistic integrity by making Chessie even more beautiful than she was and giving her face a soft wistful sweetness it certainly didn’t possess.
Chessie was enchanted and left on the Saturday afternoon giving Daisy a huge hug and a fat cheque, which would at least pay for Eddie’s school fees next year, Violet’s trip round the world and a new dress for Daisy. But what was the point of that if Drew never rang again?
In a furious urge to work off her depression, she painted Chessie again with a glittering rhinestone for a face and a viciously cruel, angular body totally cased in a chain-mail of self-absorption. It was one of the only surrealistic paintings she’d ever done and a much truer likeness.
Exhausted, she took Ethel for a quick walk. Venus was rising to the left as Ethel splashed through the brilliant green watercress and forget-me-nots which clogged Ricky’s stream.
I move the sweet forget-me-nots that grow for happy lovers, thought Daisy despairingly.
A vast, black cloud massed threateningly along the horizon like a tidal wave about to engulf her. What worse things could happen in her life? But as she wandered home through the buddleia-scented evening, she saw a dark-green Mini draw up outside her front door with a jerk. Not more press? Then she froze – worse than press. Sukey Benedict had got out and was waving like a restrained goal judge.
‘I was in the area and thought I’d pop in and say hellair. What a darling cottage, and how charming you’ve made the garden.’
This was untrue. The lawn, like a hayfield, towered higher than the flower beds, which were a holiday-let to weeds. Even worse the coat rack had collapsed in the hall, so Sukey and Daisy had to mountaineer over a hillock of Barbours and bomber jackets into the kitchen where two days’ washing-up jammed the sink.
‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Daisy. ‘I’ve been finishing a painting.’ If Sukey insisted on seeing round, she thought nervously, she might unearth the nude of Drew in the potting shed.
‘Would you like a drink?’
Sukey hesitated. ‘I’m driving. I’d love a cup of tea.’
Daisy, desperate for vodka, had to winkle two cups out of the sink and wash them in the upstairs bathroom. But Sukey didn’t seem to notice anything. She sat down at the kitchen table, playing with one of the yellow roses in a blue vase which promptly collapsed in a shower of petals. She’d always worn her trousers loose to de-emphasize her bottom, but now they were so loose they were almost hipsters, and too loose to contain her striped shirt which was done up on the wrong buttons. A long lock of mousey hair escaped from a most inappropriate Alice band of red velvet dotted with seed pearls. It was like seeing Mrs Thatcher with a punk rocker hairstyle chewing gum, thought Daisy. Despite the muggy warmth of the day, Sukey was shivering uncontrollably.
‘Thank you so much.’ As she took the cup and saucer it was difficult to tell where Daisy’s rattle ended and hers began.
There was a dreadful silence.
‘I’m not very good at confiding in people.’ Sukey looked down at her big, rubber-glove-cherished hands. ‘Daddy was in the Foreign Office and we never talked about feelings. I came to you, Daisy, because you always seem such a sweet person. It’s about Drew actually.’
The room darkened. Daisy knew the tidal wave was going to drown her. Never admit to anything, Drew had always insisted, but she was such a dreadful liar.
‘I knew Drew married me for my money.’ Sukey was busy dismembering another yellow rose. ‘He’s so frite-fly attractive it couldn’t be for any other reason.’ Then, when Daisy murmured in protest, ‘I’ve been awfully happy really – even though he’s always had other women.’
Drew, the solid, the utterly dependable, thought Daisy aghast. She felt like the conjuror’s blonde-haired assistant who hears sawing and realizes she’s got into the wrong box.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, one knows. He’s away so much – claiming to stay at his club when I later discovered it was closed down for the summer, meetings he said he’d been to, then finding apologies for his absence in the minutes a month later. Beautiful girls seeking me out at parties, then being particularly nice out of relief that I wasn’t pretty. Girl grooms suddenly getting cheeky.’
Daisy could definitely feel the teeth of the magician’s saw grazing her side now.
‘Didn’t you mind?’ she asked in a strangled voice.
‘Of course, I love him. The worst bit was one au pair, very pretty, who left in a hurry to work as a chalet girl. Drew must have met up with her again when he was playing snow polo last Christmas. Afterwards she wrote and gave me all the details of all the other girls he’d slept with. He got eight valentines this year.’
How many times had Drew sworn she was the only other woman he’d ever slept with since he’d been married?
‘How horrible!’ she moaned, suddenly nauseated by a waft of cat food. Bending down to pick up the plate, she saw it was crawling with maggots. Gagging, she threw it in the bin. Suddenly she remembered Sukey shaking and shaking, the tears pouring down her face, when Angel had knocked Drew off Malteser in the Queen’s Cup.
‘Did you confront him?’ she whispered.
‘He denied it,’ said Sukey sadly. ‘Said the girl was a bit potty, and obsessive, and he adored me and the children and would never leave us. I know it’s vulgar to talk about it,’ Sukey was frenziedly pleating the tablecloth, ‘but he still
makes love to me three or four times a week. I never say no to him.’
And Drew had sworn that once the children were born they had had a manage blanc. The tidal wave had passed over, leaving an aeroplane trail across a vermilion sky like a newly stitched scar. Seeing skin had formed on Sukey’s tea, Daisy snatched it away.
‘Let’s have a drink, I’m afraid there’s only vodka.’ She added diet Coke and ice.
‘I could cope with casual flings,’ said Sukey, ‘but this time I think he’s really serious about someone. I was doing his VAT this afternoon. He’s gone to America for a couple of days to fix up playing in the US Open and some other tour before the Westchester. I know it’s utterly despicable, but I went through his Amex and his cheque stubs. He’s been spending a fortune on flowers and hotel bills and restaurants this month, and there’s a bill back in May for a diamond and topaz brooch for five thousand pounds.’
That’s my daisy brooch, thought Daisy, appalled.
‘Perhaps it was for you,’ she said quickly.
‘I’m Capricorn like Drew,’ said Sukey tonelessly.
Daisy suddenly felt bitterly ashamed and utterly suicidal at the same time.
‘One doesn’t mean to be mean,’ continued Sukey. ‘I’ve got a private income, but it’s always been a bit of a struggle to make ends meet. Polo’s awfully expensive, and the children’ll be starting school soon. I never minded going without things, but when I find all his earnings being blued on other women and I’m paying for his ponies and everything else, even his subscription to Boodles, it makes one a bit bitter.’
The magician’s saw was definitely deep in Daisy’s flesh now, tearing away bone and muscle.
‘Who is she?’
‘Bibi Alderton. Drew hid some letters under his mattress. They weren’t that passionate, just passionately grateful for Drew being so kind to her. And there’s been a lot of dropped telephone calls, and he keeps urging me to go out and walk the dogs, and although he claims no-one’s rung the telephone reeks of his aftershave when I get home.’
‘I had that with Hamish,’ said Daisy. She shivered, too, at how often she’d breathed in the tangy, lemony smell on Drew’s beautiful strong brown neck and jaw, and felt faint with longing.
‘It’s awfully easy to imagine these things,’ she added helplessly.
Sukey shook her head. ‘I was staying with Mummy last week. Drew’d been invited to dinner with Rupert and Taggie. You know what a wonderful cook she is. Drew described every course when I got back. Unfortunately I met Taggie in Sainsbury’s the day Drew’d left for America and she said she was so sorry Drew’d only stayed for a quick drink and she hoped the pony with colic was OK. Well, I checked with the grooms, very casually. They said none of the horses had been sick. It’s so revolting. One gets just like Miss Marple. There’s this ghastly sick exultation in the detective work, then when you stumble on the truth it’s the gates of hell. But I always felt Drew wouldn’t leave me,’ she raised streaming eyes to Daisy, ‘because he needs my money to play polo, but Bibi Alderton could buy me out a hundred times over.’ Putting her face in her hands, she burst into tears.
Rushing round the table, Daisy put her arms round her.
‘Please, please don’t cry. He’s a bastard. He’s not worth it.’
‘Why, you’re crying too,’ said Sukey, as she dried her eyes a couple of minutes later. ‘You’re so kind, Daisy. You really mind for me, don’t you? I shouldn’t have dumped on you. All this must remind you of your own marriage breaking up so much. What d’you think I ought to do? I love him so, so, much.’
‘I’d sit tight,’ said Daisy, then thought what a stupid expression. She’d been tight for days after Hamish left her. ‘From what I gather Angel and Bibi are still very snarled up about each other. Angel’s gorgeous, but he’s been playing Bibi up dreadfully because she’s such a workaholic, and she probably wants to make him jealous, and Drew’s probably only flirting with Bibi because he wants to get his own back on Angel for jabbing pelhams into his kidneys and trying to break his jaw.’
‘It’d be so lovely if you were right,’ said Sukey.
‘Have another drink.’ Daisy felt a ghastly, sick, masochistic craving for more detail.
‘No, I must go.’ Sukey got to her feet, rubbing her eyes like a child. She had no mascara to smear. ‘Our Nanny’s got a first date with our local bobby: so romantic. He’s awfully good-looking with lovely blue eyes – rather like Drew’s.’ Her voice broke again. ‘I love him so much, Daisy.’
With Sukey gone, Daisy wandered distraught into the garden. The sweet tobacco scent of buddleia was cloying, almost overpowering now. She knew she would hate the smell for ever as a reminder of paradise lost.
The owls were hooting from the woods. She had never seen that much of Drew because of the children and because he’d been away so much, but it had been such a heavenly affair; and with his apparent, utter integrity and strength, he had restored her faith in men. In anguish, she realized that dreaming about him and looking forward to seeing him again had been the one thing that had made her life bearable. How stupid not to realize that if a man’s capable of being unfaithful to his wife, he’s bound to be unfaithful to you. As she sobbed in the darkness, there was no-one to hear her except the hooting owls and the swooping bats.
If anyone was more miserable than Daisy that night it was Perdita, wandering barefoot two hundred miles away through an infinitely more beautiful Sussex garden, where totally weedless, herbaceous borders towered above shaven lawns and stone nymphs blanched by the moonlight frolicked at the end of rides battlemented with yews. Floodlighting cast a golden glow on the splendid Georgian house Bart had acquired as his English base. Chessie and Bart inhabited the heart of the house. Angel, without Bibi, smouldered in the West Wing. Perdita and Red appropriately waged cold war in the East Wing. Feeling mossy, stone steps cool beneath her feet, Perdita could see into Bart’s and Chessie’s jade-green drawing room where the Chippendale table acquired specially to display the Gold Cup had, on Bart’s insistence, been left bare to remind and punish Perdita.
Red’s definition of a great player was one who raised his game when the chips were down. Luke’s, slightly different, was someone who could pick himself off the floor and rise above mistakes that had brought a whole team down.
But Perdita wasn’t given the chance because Bart had dropped her from the team after the Gold Cup and, without her, the Flyers had already notched up two dazzling victories in the Cowdray Challenge Cup. She was suffering a total loss of confidence. She was still reeling from Rupert’s total rejection, and now at the time of year when patrons were making up their teams for next year, the telephone only rang for Red and Angel. For the first time people were whispering that she was committing that deadliest sin in polo – playing below her handicap.
Even worse, she couldn’t stop crying, which drove Red crazy when he was awake. The moment his head hit the pillow he fell asleep, leaving Perdita to toss and turn, tormented by visions of him and Chessie, but not daring to crossquestion him, crawling with frustration, praying that, forgetting the impasse, he would reach out for her when he was half-asleep. But he didn’t. They hadn’t made love since the marathon at the Savoy.
By day he was frantically busy, playing for Bart, making up his mind whether to play in Saratoga, Deauville, Hawaii or Sotogrande in August, and revving up for the Cartier International on Sunday.
Special tension had been added to this occasion because the first match of the afternoon between England and America would be a trial for the Westchester. An American team consisting of Red, the newly naturalized Angel, Bobby Ferraro and Bart, standing in for Shark who’d been sidelined by a shoulder injury, were to play Ricky, Drew and the repulsive Napiers, which was the squad England planned to field in the Westchester in October.
As the Americans wouldn’t have unlimited access to ponies, as they would in a home match, and they weren’t fielding their first team, it would bode ill for the Westchester, Venturer and the spo
nsors if England didn’t walk it. Bart, Red and Angel, thirsting to avenge their defeat in the Gold Cup, were determined to rattle the Brits.
Perdita had earlier returned from London, where she’d been seeing a specialist about a sprained wrist, to find the house empty except for servants. Chessie was out somewhere. At least she couldn’t be with Red, as he’d gone with Angel and Bart to a dinner and team meeting.
She could no longer read or listen to records or even concentrate on television, Red having rendered her utterly deficient in resources. Anticipating a long wait, she had poured herself a second vodka and tonic and wandered off into the garden. She was wearing the silk pyjamas Red had given her in Singapore. The stars littered the sky like confetti. Oh God, would Red ever marry her now? But to her amazement he was home in tearing spirits just before ten.
‘Hi, baby!’ He held out his arms.
Perdita bolted into them, frantically covering his face with kisses before finding his mouth.
‘I’ve been so unhappy,’ she wailed when he finally let her go. ‘I thought you’d never forgive me. I love you. I love you.’
‘Good.’ Red patted her cheek. ‘And I’ll love you back if you’ll stop throwing wobblies. You know how scenes bore me. Fix me a drink, sweetheart. I’ve been on diet Coke all evening to impress Brad Dillon.’
Brad Dillon, the American team manager, formerly a Brigadier in the US Marines, a hero both in Korea and Vietnam, was, despite his macho exterior, a strict teetotaller and expected similar temperance from his team.
‘How was the team meeting?’ Joyously Perdita kissed the whisky bottle before splashing it into a glass.
‘Acrimonious. Dad’s flown in Juan O’Brien to advise the team. He had a row with Angel. The Brits are in a panic. They don’t want Angel at Number Three in case he murders Drew Benedict at Number Two so there was talk of him playing Number Two and me going to Number One. Christ, the humiliation. I threatened to quit, so I’m playing Three and Angel One. The Brits have been absolute dickheads and lent us some seriously good ponies. Americans would never do that. It’s crazy, like giving the Viet Cong a lot of B52s. I’ve been trying them out all afternoon.’ He half-emptied his glass in one gulp. ‘That’s better.’
