Polo

41

Despite being the long-distance target of Angel’s obsessive loathing, Drew Benedict had an excellent season in England. Not only were he and Bas on the Rutshire committee, where they made themselves very unpopular with Fatty Harris by putting the club on a sounder commercial footing, but Drew had also been elected to the handicap committee of the British Polo Association, polo’s governing body. This meant players and patrons alike courted him for inside information, the latter even offering him large backhanders to keep the handicaps of their team members down. Drew never accepted cash, but several extremely nice ponies found their way into his yard which Sukey, who handled Drew’s tax returns, was amazed he had acquired so cheaply.

One of Drew’s first tasks was to handicap Ricky and Dancer. Turning up at the Rutshire at the beginning of the season, Drew noticed with a stab of envy that Ricky was back to his old form; hitting the ball with relentless accuracy, getting the last panting ounce out of his ponies, but still hogging the play, too often roaring at Perdita, Dancer, and even Bas, to leave the ball. On Drew’s recommendation, Ricky was rated at seven, two places lower than his handicap before he smashed his elbow. He could always be put up in July. Perdita, riding Spotty and Tero, was so improved that, to Ricky’s intense irritation, Drew put her up to two. He was even crosser when Dancer, whom Ricky wanted rated as minus one to keep the team’s collective handicap down, was, after a freak forty-yard forehand slap between the goal posts, rated by Drew at nought.

‘The bugger barely watched two chukkas,’ exploded Ricky in the bar afterwards. ‘How can he assess anyone on that?’

‘Drew,’ said Bas philosophically, removing a sprig of mint from his Pimm’s, ‘has other fish to fry. He only spent ten minutes at a Rutshire committee meeting the other night before beetling off. Must be establishing alibis. Any idea who she might be?’

‘Haven’t a clue,’ snapped Ricky, who didn’t want to hear about other people’s extramarital rompings.

With Bas on six, the collective handicap of the team was fifteen, which meant they could play together in medium-goal tournaments. Thus Apocalypse was born. Looking it up, they found that the four horsemen of the Apocalypse, Famine, Justice, Pestilence and Death, had stalked through the land on white, black, red and pale horses so the beautiful jet-black shirts designed by Dancer’s marketing department each had a different coloured horse on the front and a number in the same colour on the back. The helmets were also black, giving the entire team a sinister air. Bas was Justice, Perdita Pestilence, the lean, emaciated Dancer appropriately Famine and Ricky the pale rider on the pale horse – the custard-yellow Wayne filled the bill perfectly – was Death. As a team their first problem was that they were all attacking players and Bas, as the second-best player in the team, was reduced to playing back which didn’t suit him at all.

The second problem was organizing their schedules. Dancer had endless concert, recording and television commitments. Bas, as well as running the Bar Sinister in Cotchester High Street and pulling off numerous property deals, was always sloping off to Paris or the South of France or even the Seychelles to appease one of his demanding mistresses.

Even worse, in May, just before the season proper began, Bas joined forces with Rupert, Declan O’Hara and various businessmen and local worthies and set up a consortium called Venturer. Venturer’s aim was to oust the local ITV station, Corinium, which was run by Bas’s corrupt and machiavellian brother, Anthony, second Baron Baddingham. This meant that Bas had to spend much of the summer in secret meetings or canvassing round the area which drove Ricky mad because Bas kept missing matches or having to switch dates.

‘It just takes a lot of spade work,’ explained Bas soothingly. ‘Impressing the right people that we’re the right people to run a television station.’

‘I can’t see you are at all,’ snapped Ricky. ‘You can’t even organize yourself to play in a polo team.’

‘When Venturer get the franchise, Rupert and I are determined to get polo, particularly the Rutshire, regularly on television. It’s the ideal television sport – brave and incredibly charismatic men.’

‘Speak for yourself.’

‘And ravishing women. It just needs promoting. You’ll be grateful next year.’

‘I am not interested in next year, we’ve got a Merrill Lynch match tomorrow and we’ve already changed the date three times to fit in with you. Anyway, what makes you so sure you’ll get the franchise?’

‘Because my brother is such a shit,’ said Bas. ‘And Corinium’s programmes are so frightful and all the staff are in such a state of anarchy since Declan left, we can’t not.’

Despite Bas’s frequent absences, Apocalypse had a wonderful first season, with Ricky’s handicap going up to eight, Perdita’s to three and Dancer’s to one in the July ratings. Venturer’s publicity, on the other hand, got worse and worse and, as autumn gave way to winter, it looked less and less likely that they would wrest the franchise from Corinium.

For a start the press got wind of the story that Rupert was running after Declan’s teenage daughter Taggie, then that he had seduced Cameron Cook, Anthony Baddingham’s mistress and Corinium’s star producer, into his bed and on to Venturer’s side. This was followed by endless leaks about other staff Venturer had poached. It was also rumoured that Bas was having an affair with Declan’s wife, Maud, and was also keen on Taggie.

With Rupert and Bas behaving so irresponsibly, Drew didn’t see why he should behave any better. Having played one season with the repulsive and demanding Kevin Coley and his dreadful wife, Enid, whom he frequently wished Perdita had drowned in the swimming-pool, Drew was looking for another patron. He found being dependent on Sukey more and more irksome, but if he left her he would be solely dependent on patrons like Kevin. He had also become accustomed to having money, which enabled him to spend a lot of time with Daisy Macleod. His endless committee meetings in fact gave him the perfect alibi. He also established a commendable reputation for uxoriousness. Leaving long before the end of the meeting, never staying for drinks afterwards, he pretended he must rush home to Sukey, then beetled off to bed with Daisy.

As a loving wife, Sukey accompanied him to most matches, so Daisy avoided these except when Perdita was playing. On these occasions Drew would invariably manage to touch Daisy’s hand in the pony lines or murmur some endearment as he passed her at treading-in time.

Sometimes when he rode out Daisy would meet him in her car and when autumn came it was extraordinary how frequently the East Cotchester foxes ran in the direction of Snow Cottage. Often they met in London in the Great Western Hotel or at Sukey’s house off Kensington Church Street. At first Daisy was appalled that Drew could make love in his and Sukey’s ancient four-poster, but as he was fond of pointing out, ‘A standing prick has no conscience’. Love, too, made Daisy worry less and less about morality. Her gratitude to Drew was unbounded because he had completely transformed her life. He had given her comfort and endless advice on bringing up her children and animals. Even Ethel didn’t take flying troilistic leaps into Daisy’s bed at the wrong moment any more.

Drew had also persuaded her to give up her job and trebled her income by finding her commissions. She was now not only painting people’s dogs and horses, but also their wives, children and houses, and everyone seemed delighted. He had even asked an utterly unsuspecting Sukey to show Daisy how to do invoices and tax returns and introduced her to several galleries who showed interest in putting on exhibitions. But as she tended to sell whatever she did, it was difficult to get enough paintings together.

Termtime gave Daisy a great deal of freedom. Eddie and Violet were still at boarding school. Perdita spent every day until long after dusk up at Ricky’s. Whenever Drew was able to see her, therefore, Daisy downed brushes and instead painted all night and most of the weekend.

The holidays, however, were a nightmare, because Violet and Eddie, having taken against Hamish and Wendy, refused to go to LA any more, insisting on staying at home and hogging the telephone. Drew was used to ringing Daisy three times a day: in the morning when Sukey walked the dogs, from his car telephone and then, just to say he missed her, last thing at night while Sukey was having her bath. All this was pegged when the children came home. And now Christmas was approaching and Daisy was ashamed that she was dreading it more than ever.

Towards the end of November, on the eve of Venturer’s crucial interview with the Independent Broadcasting Authority in London, all the papers were seething with speculation as to whether they’d win the franchise. Daisy, however, was only concerned that Drew, after a week playing polo in Dubai with Prince Charles, was flying home a day early, unknown to Sukey, in order to spend a whole night with her. This was a rare treat they had only managed twice since the affair had started.

Daisy had done no painting for twenty-four hours, she was so frantic polishing the house, putting flowers in every alcove, making the most succulent scallop, prawn and lobster pie, and lighting a fire of apple logs in the sitting room.

She’d just got out of her bath and was painting her nipples rose-madder when she heard a car door slam outside. Goodness, Drew was early. Tearing off her bath cap, shaking out her very clean hair, she dived into the clinging bottle-green wool dress she’d bought specially, dragged on the fantastically expensive brown boots Drew had brought her back from Deauville and, squirting Je Reviens behind each ear, charged downstairs. Drew was pounding on the door. He must have left his key behind.

‘Darling, how heavenly!’

‘Yes, I thought you’d be pleased to see me,’ said Violet, standing pink-faced on the doorstep in her navy-blue school uniform. ‘We spent the afternoon inspecting some ghastly Roman fortifications at Cotchester. They said we could have the night off yesterday but I thought I’d surprise you. Have you got a tenner for the taxi?’

As Daisy scrabbled up a shoal of coins from her bag, her mind was racing. She daren’t ring Drew on his car telephone in case he was giving someone a lift. Besides, if she warned him, he might not come and after a week’s absence she couldn’t bear it.

‘That’s nine-fifty,’ said Violet.

‘There might be a pound in the lining of my dark blue coat,’ said Daisy.

As Violet went out to pay the driver Daisy tugged the blue bow off Ethel. She’d just have to brazen it out. Mercifully Violet seemed far more interested in Rupert Campbell-Black’s memoirs, which were plastered all over The Scorpion and in abridged form in the late editions of every national newspaper. Daisy had been too preoccupied with Drew’s visit to turn on the wireless or read a paper all day.

‘Absolutely riveting stuff, Mum,’ said Violet in excitement. ‘Rupert had an affair with this journalist, Beattie Johnson, who was supposed to be writing his memoirs, then he ditched her and she’s had her revenge by telling everything about Rupert and his women in The Scorpion. The Daily Express said it would have brought the Government down if the Tories were still in power.’

There was a hiss as the potatoes boiled over on to the gas flame.

‘We were all reading it on the coach,’ said Violet, turning down the gas, ‘until bloody Miss Lovett-Standing confiscated it. All about kinky foursomes and Rupert’s ex-wife being frigid and even implying Rupert might be a bit gay. Tomorrow it’s going to be all about under-age schoolgirls, lucky things, and how Rupert got into politics by sleeping with the Foreign Minister’s wife, who loves being spanked.’

Violet giggled and blushed, which clashed with her red hair. She was nearly very pretty now.

‘Oh, poor Rupert,’ said Daisy, for a moment distracted from her panic over Drew. ‘I didn’t know anything about it.’

‘You are out of touch,’ said Violet fondly. ‘You must have been painting all day. Gosh, I’m starving. Something smells delicious. What are we having for supper?’

‘Fish pie,’ said Daisy faintly. ‘I haven’t mashed the potatoes yet.’

‘I’ll mash them.’ Violet prodded the potatoes with a fork.

Then, to Daisy’s horror, she opened the fridge and discovered passion and kiwi fruit salad, two bottles of champagne and a large plate of smoked salmon.

‘Yum,’ said Violet, peeling off a slice of salmon, ‘who’s coming round?’

Suddenly she took in the huge bunch of freesias on the table, the pink candles, the two laid places and the bowl of chocolates.

‘Mum, you’ve got a lover!’

‘Of course not.’ To hide her blushes Daisy grabbed the salt and added more to the potatoes.

‘Drew Benedict’s coming round. Sukey’s away and he’s been so good to Perdita, I invited him to take pot luck.’

‘Luck’s the word,’ said Violet. ‘Christ, this smoked salmon’s good. Drew’s a great friend of Rupert’s, isn’t he? He’ll be able to give us all the lowdown.’

Grabbing pieces of iceberg lettuce with the avidity of a starved rabbit, Violet suddenly noticed a painting of a Springer spaniel emerging from the reddening bracken which was propped up against one of the kitchen chairs.

‘That’s lovely. Bit like Ethel. Who’s it for?’

‘Drew and Sukey,’ mumbled Daisy.

She was doing it for Drew, then, as a way of getting it into the house, he could give it to Sukey. The subterfuges they resorted to were quite awful.

‘Drew – er – commissioned it,’ lied Daisy. ‘It’s a surprise present for Sukey. Drew’s coming round to fetch it this evening.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Violet. ‘I love it when husbands love their wives enough to surprise them like that. You haven’t painted in its left ear.’

‘So I haven’t,’ said Daisy, then jumped as Ethel’s great bass-baritone bark rang out. She must warn Drew before he let himself in with a latch key.

Skidding down the frozen garden path, the night air hitting her burning face like a cold shower, she crashed into Drew who was getting carrier-bags full of drink and duty-free scent out of the car.

‘Hello, darling, lovely welcome. That’s a nice dress.’

‘Violet’s here,’ gasped Daisy.

‘Christ!’ Suddenly, as cold and distant as the stars above, Drew reversed back into his car. Daisy couldn’t bear it.

‘She knows you’re coming,’ she gabbled. ‘She hasn’t turned a hair. I told her you were picking up Flash’s picture, and I’d asked you to supper because Sukey was away.’

Drew havered. He’d been looking forward to getting mildly pissed and screwing Daisy all night for the past week. A stilted dinner with a beady schoolgirl, who might easily sneak to Perdita, and limited booze because he had to drive home was no substitute.

‘Please stay. I’ve missed you.’

‘OK.’ Drew chucked the carrier bags back into the car. ‘But we must be careful.’

‘Hi,’ said Violet, who was emptying the cream intended for the passion fruit salad into the potatoes and reading about Rupert in the Daily Mail, which had extensive extra coverage on all his exes. ‘Isn’t it awful? The Mail says Venturer’ll never get the franchise now.’

‘They won’t,’ said Drew. ‘Rupert was always the wild card in that consortium. The IBA won’t like his escapades one bit. I spoke to Bas before I left Dubai this morning. Rupert’s in a frightful stew, tried to resign from Venturer, but Declan and Bas won’t let him, saying they’ve got to stick together, but I reckon he’s cooked their goose. Poor Rupert.’

Drew expressed sympathy but didn’t feel it. Rupert, arrogant enough to think himself above the law, had always been flagrantly indiscreet because he’d never cared what people thought. Drew believed that discretion was much the better part of valour and the only way of having your cake and eating it.

‘Rupert’s dead attractive.’ Violet added half a pound of unsalted butter to the potatoes. ‘And it’s not as though he’s married now. I think it’s disgusting married men playing around, but Rupert’s been single for ages.’

She turned to Daisy who hadn’t had time to put on any make-up. ‘You look exhausted, Mum. I’ll put the potato on top of the fish pie. You go and have a drink with Drew.’

Taking the bottle of Moët from Daisy, Drew followed her into the sitting room where Daisy’s apple logs had nearly gone out.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she moaned, noticing that Drew, after a week in temperatures of more than 100°, was shivering like a whippet.

Crouching down in front of the fireplace she pulled four more firelighters out of their packet and, shoving them under the logs, started frantically to puff.

‘What a stupid mess, I couldn’t get in touch with you. Did you win?’

‘Lost one, won two,’ said Drew, filling up three glasses and taking one into Violet. Returning, he waited until he could hear the crash of the potato masher on the bottom of the pan, then said, ‘Let me help you.’

Kneeling down, he put his hands under Daisy’s skirt and encountered bare Daisy. ‘Jesus Christ!’

Daisy gave a muffled squawk. ‘I didn’t have time to put any pants on. Violet arrived as I was getting out of the bath.’

Slowly Drew ran his hand over her generous buttocks, then slid it between them to her still damp bush.

‘No! Violet! We mustn’t,’ gasped Daisy.

‘She’s only got to page two of the memoirs,’ murmured Drew. ‘Three to go. Shut up and enjoy it.’

Daisy could feel his breath on the back of her neck, as gently, assuredly, his fingering continued.

‘All right, Violet?’ gasped Daisy a minute later.

‘Fine, thanks.’

Drew propped the drawing-room door shut with his back as, with trembling hands, Daisy unzipped his flies and slid her mouth over the rampant red fireman’s helmet. It was over in ten seconds.

‘Oh, goodness, your cock’ll smell of firelighters,’ said Daisy collapsing on to the sofa.

‘Come on baby, light my fire,’ said Drew, handing her her glass.

‘That was crazy,’ mumbled Daisy as the apple logs sprung into merry flame.

‘But incredibly nice,’ said Drew, sitting down close to her. ‘Very Rupert sort of behaviour.’

‘Is he OK?’

‘Not at all. Crucified he’s let Venturer down and worried sick about the effect the memoirs are going to have on the children. Worst of all he’s now decided he’s madly in love with Declan’s daughter, Taggie, and there’s no way now Declan’ll ever let him marry her.’ He put a hand on Daisy’s thigh. ‘When’s Violet going?’

‘Tomorrow early.’

‘I’ll pop back mid-morning. Sukey’s not back till the afternoon. Christ, that fish pie smells good. I didn’t have any lunch.’ He kicked open the door slightly. ‘You OK, Violet?’

Violet came in hanging her head.

‘Oh, Mum, I was so busy reading about Rupert I’ve eaten all the mashed potato and all the scallops out of the fish pie.’

‘Oh, darling,’ wailed Daisy. ‘Never mind, there’s a packet of Smash in the cupboard.’

‘There was,’ admitted Violet, ‘but two moths and a bluebottle flew out so I threw it away.’

Drew fortunately thought it was funny. ‘I’ll take you both out to dinner.’

I love him, thought Daisy, in passionate gratitude, imagining the scene Hamish would have made. She knew Drew had said he couldn’t leave Sukey, but she could still hope.

Contrary to every expectation Venturer won the franchise.

‘And you’ll never guess what,’ said Drew when he rang to tell Daisy. ‘Rupert’s getting married to Taggie O’Hara. I’m going to be an usher and I’ve persuaded her to commission you to paint Rupert’s old Olympic horse Rocky as a wedding present. Can you do it in a week?’

‘I’ll try,’ said Daisy. ‘You are wonderful.’

‘I’ll smuggle you into the house while Rupert’s in London and there are masses of photographs. And I’ve got you an invite to the wedding. It’ll be the thrash of the century. Cotchester Cathedral first, then back to Rupert’s. He’ll pay for everything because Declan’s flat broke, but he’s so happy he’d buy Taggie the sun and the moon.’

‘D’you like her?’

‘Adorable and virtually untouched by human hand. She must be nearly twenty years younger than Rupert, lucky sod.’

Then, realizing what he’d said, ‘And you look about twelve, my darling. Anyway I’ve always been attracted to older women.’

‘I love you,’ sighed Daisy gratefully. ‘Can I really come to the wedding? What ought I to wear?’

‘I’ll take you into Bath and buy you something. The crumpet will be astonishing so you’ve got to look stunning.’

As Sukey had been nagging him about over-spending all week, he would take perverse pleasure in blueing her money on Daisy.