Polo

by Jilly Cooper

  She broke off the thread and picked up a pair of rugger shorts.

  ‘I’ll take him to London tomorrow,’ said Ricky, cutting himself a piece of fruitcake. ‘I’ve got to pick up the England shirts from Harrods. I’ll get him some trousers and some shoes.’

  ‘Oh no, it’d be such a bore for you,’ said Daisy.

  ‘I’d like his company. You know how I loathe London.’ Lucky Eddie, thought Daisy.

  ‘Perdita’s not the only one who’s lost too much weight around here,’ said Ricky, handing Daisy the last crumpet.

  Daisy shook her head.

  ‘A handsome husband and a thousand a year,’ said a voice. ‘Ay’ll have it,’ and Ricky and Daisy were enveloped in a cloud of Chanel Number 5 as Sharon stretched out a braceleted hand to help herself, pressing her splendid breasts against Ricky’s shoulders as she did so.

  ‘You’d certainly make the handsomest husband in the world, Ricky. Do drop in on us sometime.’

  ‘She’s definitely having an affair with David Waterlane,’ said Ricky after she’d gone. ‘He always buys Chanel Number 5 for all his mistresses.’

  ‘She says she’s going to marry him,’ said Daisy.

  In the darkening trees the pigeons were fluttering and cooing. Iceberg roses and white phlox grew more luminous, night-scented stock replaced Chanel Number 5.

  ‘It’s so beautiful here,’ said Daisy, who was getting cold, but didn’t want to break the magic of the moment. ‘How’s Perdita getting on with Rupert?’

  ‘Not brilliantly,’ said Ricky carefully, not wanting to hurt Daisy. ‘Rupert’s so desperately protective of Taggie, he can’t really bring himself to forgive her, even though Taggie has. But he’s getting results. He’s sharpened up her game two hundred per cent.

  ‘That’s mine,’ he added quickly, as one of Ethel’s puppies tottered out, speckled as a seal, eyes frowsty with sleep, patrician except for one ear pointing up and an irredeemably curly tail. He picked the puppy up. ‘He’s just like Little Chef.’

  Watching him gently stroking the pink-and-speckled belly, Daisy was appalled to find herself longing to swap places with the puppy. She must get a grip on herself.

  ‘How’s the Westchester going?’

  Ricky sighed. ‘I feel as though the entire contents of your septic tank has been tipped over my head. The BPA and the APA have both written me threatening letters and ring constantly. The American sponsors are collectively threatening to sue. The Prince rang up and said Hughie had actually had the cheek to ring him and advise him not to fly over to present the cup, as it would be so embarrassing for him to witness a bloodbath. Fortunately the Prince told Hughie to get stuffed, and that if he’s said he’ll go to something he always goes. Cartier, Asprey, Tiffany and Dunhill have all written complaining. I wrote back saying I would not be dictated to by a bunch of watchmakers in Mayfair.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Daisy indignantly. ‘Oh ye of little faith.’ She also noticed that he hardly stammered at all now when he talked to her. The moon was rising huge and pink, bats and swallows dived, owls hooted, the sky had darkened to lilac in the west. What Ricky hadn’t told Daisy about was the brief bitter note Chessie had sent him: ‘I thought you wanted me back. If you insist on playing with schoolboys, I was obviously wrong.’

  Realizing Daisy was shivering, he had just taken his coat off and put it round her shoulders when Eddie appeared in the doorway, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead. ‘We’ve tidied the whole house, Mum. We’ve even made Ethel’s basket.’

  ‘Good boy,’ said Ricky.

  ‘Can I have a beer?’

  ‘Later,’ said Ricky. ‘If you come into Rutminster with me, we’ll get an Indian.’

  It was the eve of the team’s departure. Having finally got Eddie off to school and finished Sharon’s portrait, Daisy sent Perdita up to London with money to buy some clothes for America.

  Perdita – whose self-confidence seemed to have been finally smashed by Rupert – was in turmoil because she might have to play and would certainly be seeing Red again. Having made heroic attempts to cheer Perdita up, Daisy was overwhelmed with despair. Tomorrow Ricky was off to America, and inevitably out of her life. I must not hate Chessie, she told herself sternly, I am very lucky my children and I are not dying of hunger in Ethiopia, my entire family haven’t been wiped out in an earthquake or a volcano and this is the first time I’ve had access to my own bathroom in nine weeks. God, I look awful.

  The only answer, in case Ricky dropped in that evening, was to wash her hair and have a bath. She had just emerged pink and Je Reviens-scented, with legs and armpits shaved and was combing out her wet hair when she heard Ethel barking and a hammering on the front door. Wrapping herself in a big dark-green towel, she ran downstairs and her heart failed. For there, beachboy-blond and absolutely black-brown, stood Drew.

  ‘Darling Daisy!’ He put the inevitable bottle of Moët on the kitchen table. ‘You’ve no idea how I’ve missed you.’

  Daisy just stared at him. She’d dreamt of this moment for so long, and she’d planned to be distant and icily disapproving because he’d forced Ricky’s hand over the Westchester, but it was hard to be cool when you were hot and lobster-pink from the bath. And Drew looked so handsome and was in such high spirits. Inevitably the conversation turned in moments to polo.

  ‘Boy, am I glad to be out of the Westchester,’ he said, tearing the gold paper off the cork. ‘It is going to be a ghastly embarrassment to the English. They’re having great trouble selling tickets. Americans love American victories, but they like a decent tussle first.’

  ‘Ricky’s playing,’ said Daisy defensively.

  ‘Maybe, but it’ll be like Canute trying to stop the tide and not even bothering to put on gumboots. The twins are wildly erratic and hopeless in defence, which is all they’ll have to do. Mike’s a dolt.’ He paused. ‘D’you think Ricky’ll ever speak to me again?’

  As he went automatically to the right cupboard to get down two glasses, Daisy noticed he had US Open printed on the back of his bomber jacket.

  ‘If he wins, he might,’ said Daisy reprovingly. ‘He’s had so much flak recently.’

  ‘Just because he’s got this idée fixe about getting Chessie back. Talk about ex-appeal.’

  Daisy didn’t laugh. ‘How’s Sukey?’

  ‘Really well. I’ve got a new American patron for Palm Beach next year, which means mega-bucks.’

  ‘Is he nice?’

  ‘Better than Victor. Christ, I’m relieved to be shot of him.’

  At the pop of the champagne cork, Ethel started barking and all the puppies woke up and started wandering round the kitchen.

  ‘Are any of the children at home?’ asked Drew casually, as he filled the glasses. Then, glancing through into the sitting room, gave a start as he caught sight of Sharon’s finished portrait still on Daisy’s easel.

  ‘Christ – that’s good. I thought it was the old bat for a second. You really are getting better and better.’

  Reluctant to be won over, Daisy followed Drew into the sitting room for a better look and had great difficulty stopping him drawing a moustache on Sharon.

  ‘Well, at least let me draw a tiara on her bush. She’s going hammer and hot tongs for David Waterlane at the moment.’

  ‘He kept ringing for her,’ said Daisy. ‘At first I thought it was you using a false name.’

  She shivered and shut the window. ‘I must go and get dressed.’

  ‘Why bother?’ Drew refilled her glass. ‘I’d forgotten how beautiful you are.’

  ‘Evidently,’ said Daisy, unable to keep the acid out of her voice. ‘Was Sharon amazing in bed?’

  Drew shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. You know my heart belongs to you.’

  ‘My true love hath my heart, and I have about one twentieth of his,’ said Daisy, and buoyed up by champagne, told him about Sukey’s visit.

  ‘That’s a pack of lies,’ said Drew, gazing into her eyes with that unshiftingly honest look that
convinced Daisy he wasn’t telling the truth. ‘I promise you. I can only assume she got wind of us and decided to spin a story like that to put the boot in.’

  ‘Sukey isn’t that subtle or conniving,’ said Daisy. ‘She was absolutely devastated, and so touchingly grateful that I’d listened to her, I felt an absolute bitch.’

  ‘Honestly, don’t,’ begged Drew, starting to laugh. ‘And as for that ludicrous fantasy about Bibi Alderton. That consisted of one lunch at the Four Seasons in New York. Christ, the food’s good! Bibi started crying about Angel. I put my arm round her to comfort her and unfortunately we were seen by Sukey’s most indiscreet chum, who leapt for the telephone. The only woman I’ve ever adored since I was married, probably ever, is you.’

  ‘What about all those valentines?’

  ‘I can’t help it if people send me valentines. I bet Red Alderton gets them by the sack. Catch!’ He threw the half-full bottle at her. Stretching out both hands, Daisy fumblingly caught it, spilling champagne all over her breasts. The dark green towel slid to the floor.

  ‘God, you’re pretty.’ Drew moved forward. ‘You’re the one who should be on Page Three.’

  Daisy didn’t believe a word Drew had said about Bibi, but she was so suicidal over Ricky, and Drew looked so handsome, and it felt so nice having the champagne licked off her breasts and it was such a relief for a change being caught bathed and shaven and with clean hair that they ended up in bed.

  Having supervised the packing of everything for the horses, having started packing for himself, trying to avoid Little Chef’s reproachful gaze, and suddenly feeling like a small boy about to go back to prep school, Ricky decided to drop in on Daisy. Ethel didn’t even bark because she knew him so well.

  Finding Drew’s car outside and a three-quarters empty bottle of Moët on the kitchen table and two of Ethel’s puppies joyfully demolishing one of Drew’s shoes, Ricky drove off in a fury.

  An hour later Drew rolled up asking if he could borrow a pair of shoes.

  ‘Talk about being caught on the hop,’ he said, hopping after Ricky into the kitchen.

  Ricky slammed the kitchen door and shut the window so that the grooms, who had been amazed by the foulness of his temper for the last hour, couldn’t listen in.

  ‘How long have you been screwing Daisy?’

  ‘I don’t see what the hell it’s got to do with you,’ said Drew calmly.

  ‘I am her landlord.’

  ‘She’s at least six years older than you. She can do what she likes, Dick.’

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ howled Ricky. ‘Daisy had a bloody awful marriage. She’s just getting over it and getting her career together. The l-l-last thing she needs is some hole-in-the-corner affair which could easily end in a m-m-messy divorce. She needs a proper relationship.’

  ‘Relationships that pass in the night,’ sighed Drew.

  ‘Don’t be fucking frivolous. With someone who’s free to look after her.’

  ‘Like you I suppose. I’ve always thought you had the hots for her.’

  ‘I have not,’ said Ricky coldly.

  ‘Oh, we all know your heart belongs irrevocably to Chessie, so stop snarling like a guard dog in the manger and give me a drink.’

  Little Chef whined querulously, unnerved by the shouting. A new moon the colour of unsalted butter was untangling itself from the racing-fox weathercock over the stables. Furiously clashing decanters, Ricky asked how long it had been going on.

  ‘Nearly three years.’

  ‘Three years,’ said Ricky, utterly aghast. ‘How often d’you see her?’

  ‘Whenever I can get away from Sukey and Daisy’s bloody children aren’t hanging around murdering each other. No ice, please.’

  ‘You’re a disgrace,’ roared Ricky. ‘No, not you boy,’ he added, gently stooping to stroke Little Chef who was shivering with terror.

  ‘It’s absolutely no business of yours,’ protested Drew.

  ‘I only happen to be captaining the Westchester team – thank Christ I dropped you. I would now, if I hadn’t – in which Daisy’s daughter may well have to play. Perdita’s impossibly near the edge at the moment. She’s never been able to accept Daisy’s sexuality. If she finds out about you two, she’ll go through the roof.’

  ‘The leaking roof,’ corrected Drew. ‘You should really fix that before winter comes, particularly in the bedroom. Talk about raindrops falling on one’s cock.’

  ‘Stop taking the piss,’ yelled Ricky. ‘You ought to pack her in. It can’t lead anywhere.’

  ‘It’s not meant to. I can’t divorce Sukey. That dog must be the father of Ethel’s puppies. It just gives Daisy and me an enormous . . .’ he lingered over the word mockingly, ‘amount of pleasure, and you’ve completely drowned that whisky. Christ, it’s worse getting a drink here than the bar at the club.’

  ‘What happens if Sukey finds out?’

  ‘She won’t if you lend me a pair of shoes.’

  ‘I hope they cripple you,’ snarled Ricky.

  He was insane with rage, but he decided not to say anything to Daisy, who somehow managed not to cry when she and Little Chef bade him and Perdita goodbye and good luck the following morning. Just as they were leaving, Perdita ran back and hugged her mother tightly.

  ‘I love you, Mum. I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch.’

  But, as the car crunched away over the conkers and acorns that littered the drive, Daisy didn’t think she’d ever been more unhappy.

  ‘I wish we could climb into his suitcase and go too,’ she said to a drooping, desolate Little Chef. ‘You could nip Chessie’s perfect ankles for me.’

  Five minutes after they’d gone a truck rolled up and out jumped one of Ricky’s gardeners.

  ‘Mr France-Lynch said you were nearly out of logs, so I’ve brought you another load.’

  Then Daisy really did go upstairs and cry. If only it were Ricky not his logs keeping her warm. Please God, she prayed, I’m sorry to be so indecisive. I know I asked you to get me over Drew, and you did. Now could you please get me over Ricky.

  72

  From the moment she landed in California, Perdita had felt like a patient waiting for the morphine to wear off and the serious, unbearable pain to take over. In England she had been numb with shock. Now the certainty that Red would swan in at any moment had reduced her to crawling, churning, hepped-up, bowel-opening panic.

  She found herself leaving half-drunk cups of coffee and glasses of Perrier everywhere, starting sentences, forgetting what she was going to say, asking questions and not being able to take in the answer, putting on deodorant twice or not at all, fussing around trying on a hundred T-shirts before she went out, jumping out of her skin everytime she saw a red-headed man or a red Ferrari.

  In fact, she had a three-week wait because the prick-teasing American Polo Association refused to announce the team until the eve of the first match. Their ponies had arrived, however, and were evidence that Bart had snapped up every Best Playing Pony in North and South America. Never had a US team been better mounted.

  The English were pleased to find their own ponies in excellent spirits after their rest. Under Rupert’s supervision they had been slowly put to work and were now fully acclimatized to the dry, desert heat which soared into the nineties in the afternoon. With the grooms watching like hawks for dehydration, they had also adjusted to different hay, grain and water. Perdita had to hand it to Rupert. Never had England taken the field with a fitter team of ponies.

  All the ponies were stabled at Eldorado Polo Club where the Westchester was being staged. It was a friendly, homely place with palms, orange groves and a little wooden clubhouse where no-one minded you putting your boots on the table. The polo, on the other hand, was so good that members jetted in at weekends from Calgary and New York and movie stars drove down in their hordes from LA. Surrounded by mountains, the Club was set in an oasis of green polo grounds hewn out of the desert.

  The American team were booked into La Quinta Hotel whi
ch had a golf course and tennis courts, fifteen miles drive from the polo ground. Rupert, insisting on a strict policy of non-fraternization and particularly not wanting Chessie to wind up Ricky, was determined to keep the teams apart and had rented a condominium on the Quinta estate, but well away from the hotel.

  A little, pink-roofed, white-walled house, it was called the Villa Victoria, which they all hoped would be symbolic. Reached through lush avenues of brilliantly coloured hibiscus and bougainvillaea, it had a jacuzzi, a swimming-pool, a garden filled with stephanotis, orange and lemon trees and overlooked a beautifully landscaped golf course, interspersed with palm trees and lakes, which was caressed all day with sprinklers. To Perdita it was beautiful, but as totally unreal as a Hollywood set.

  There was plenty to do, though. The fresh, dry, desert air and the mountains were very invigorating and encouraged them to get up at six to jog, play tennis and work the ponies. The twins played endless golf with Ricky and Mike Waterlane to sharpen up their concentration and help them relax. Rupert was frantically dealing with sponsors and television networks. Taggie kept herself amused cooking for everyone. The wonderfully friendly Californians invited them to dinner parties and barbecues and all Ricky’s old movie-star pupils, whom he’d coached in Palm Springs the first winter after he’d come out of prison, rang up and invited them to parties in Beverly Hills and took them on trips to Disneyland and round Hollywood. The twins were in their element. Mike Waterlane, on the other hand, who got frightfully excited by all the beautiful girls and then didn’t know what to do with them, wasn’t sleeping and was getting increasingly terrified about the first match.

  Ricky, too, was becoming increasingly edgy. Usually he went into himself twenty-four hours before a game. Twenty-one days to wait was much too long. It all boiled up in a blazing row in which he tried to persuade Rupert to be less bloody to Perdita. Taggie, when Rupert eventually came spitting to bed, had more effect. ‘She’s so desperate for your approval, Rupert, and trying so hard to behave and be brave about Red. If you could just be a bit gentler with her.’