Polo

44

In March Luke flew through similar snowstorms over white-capped peaks to Denver, Colorado. He had arranged to meet Dancer who was in the middle of a punishing, but wildly successful, forty-five-concert tour across America to coincide with the launch of his new album: Four Horsemen. Dancer’s noisy entourage had taken over the Warwick Hotel, which was barricaded up like Fort Knox. Four security men, screaming ‘He’s gonna bed, for Chrissake,’ to the hordes of fans stamping their feet in the snow outside, smuggled Luke in.

After two hours on stage, during which he reckoned to run six miles and lose as many pounds to the accompaniment of rockets, squibs, flame throwers, videos and millions of watts of flashing lights, Dancer was slumped on a sofa, eating doughnuts and unenthusiastically sipping herbal tea sweetened with honey to protect his voice.

He had kicked off his shoes and undone the top buttons of the crumpled, white, Regency shirt he’d worn on stage. His streaked mane, now dark with sweat, was drawn into a pony tail. The famous face was tanned and flushed with colour, and with the light behind him it was hard to tell how much of this was stage make-up. The demoniacally glittering eyes were hollowed and bloodshot. He looks more like Mephistopheles than a fallen angel, thought Luke.

‘Christ, I could murder a bottle of Bourbon.’ Dancer winced slightly as Luke’s powerful handshake pressed a plethora of heavy metal rings into his hand. ‘Wiv sixty-thousand people screamin’ at you, it takes about three hours to come down off the high. Sit down. What can I get you?’

‘Bourbon’d be great,’ said Luke.

Dancer nodded curtly to a minion with strawberry-pink hair who was eyeing Luke with considerable excitement.

‘I just love the album,’ said Luke. ‘The whole of Palm Beach Polo Club is thrumming to the beat of the “Four Horsemen”. Blacksmiths shoe to it, grooms strap to it, every car stereo booms it across the pitches. It’s the best tune since “High Noon”. Thanks,’ Luke grinned lazily up at the minion who went as pink as his hair.

‘How many more weeks have you got to do?’ he went on, even making an armchair look tiny as he sat down.

‘Abart a month and ten cities,’ sighed Dancer. ‘God, I wish it was over.’

‘I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep,’ murmured Luke.

‘Nice,’ said Dancer, selecting another doughnut. ‘About 10,000 miles in my case. What d’you want to eat? The T-bones come off dinosaurs here.’

Luke shook his head.

‘Well, perhaps later,’ said Dancer. ‘I wish we could go to a restaurant, but we’d only get ’assled. Leave the Bourbon out and ’op it, you lot,’ he added to the entourage.

‘We oughta stay. You’re going to talk terms,’ insisted the lawyers in their pin-striped suits.

‘We oughta stay,’ said the minders, eyeing the breadth of Luke’s shoulders.

‘You oughta get out of that shirt, Dancer. It’s sopping,’ said his dresser.

‘Piss off,’ snapped Dancer.

‘Trust you to keep all the nice ones to yourself, Dancer. Ouch!’ squealed the pink-haired minion as a doughnut hit him on the forehead. ‘Bye, bye, Luke. So nice not to be allowed to meet you.’

Reluctantly, grumbling, the entourage dispersed.

Luke picked up a photograph on the side table of a jubilant Apocalypse team winning the Royal Windsor Cup. The print had obviously been chosen because, for once, Ricky was looking relaxed and smiling. Perdita, flushed and sweaty, didn’t look her best. But Luke’s heart still jumped in pain.

‘How is she?’ he asked, his face impassive.

‘Tricky,’ said Dancer. ‘Bitching at that lovely mother, rowing with Ricky, screaming at umpires, believing the world owes her £50,000 a year after tax. Little Miss McEnroe, in fact. But rewarding.’

‘Situation normal,’ said Luke.

‘Every bit of affection going on the animals,’ went on Dancer, fishing, ‘but I reckon she’s still a virgin.’

Luke drained half his Bourbon. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘She the only reason you’re taking the job?’ asked Dancer, gouging the jammy centre out of another doughnut and chucking the rest away.

‘Yes and no. I guess your album’s great, and you could play real good polo if you spent more time, and Ricky’s potentially the best player in the world, and I’ve always wanted to visit Stratford.’ Sweating from the central heating, Luke took off his US Open bomber jacket. Underneath he wore the much-patched blue-and-green check shirt Perdita had given him the Christmas before last. It was the nearest he could get to her.

Ugly, but seriously attractive, decided Dancer, as he admired the generous friendly face and the marvellous body. But Luke looked weary beneath the freckles, like some young Civil War general who’s been fighting without sleep for too many days in the burning sun, but still has to radiate calmness and confidence to the troops.

‘We gotta win the Gold Cup this year,’ said Dancer flatly.

‘You’re the boss,’ said Luke, ‘but you’ve all gotta get your act together. You never fielded the same team twice last year and I know it’s hard when you’re working, but you’ve gotta make time to practise.’

Dancer smiled. ‘I’ll make twelve million on this tour. I guess I could take May, June and July off. I can write the odd song in the mornings.’

‘You’ll be stick and balling every morning.’

Dancer shuddered. ‘Fucking hell. The nick cured me of getting up early. Ricky’s been abroad buying ponies. D’you need any?’

‘I’ll bring ma own,’ said Luke.

Oh, that straightforwardness and that deep, husky, Florida drawl, thought Dancer. It conjured up images of orange juice, sunshine, blond beaches and all the time in the world to train ponies and make love. Perdita needed her swollen head examined.

‘I’m looking forward to meeting your dream machine,’ he said.

‘Fantasma?’ Luke’s face softened. ‘She’s a once-in-a-lifetime mare. I’m two goals better when I ride her, and she’s so clever. If I play her in jeans, she’ll buck me off, but if I put on boots and whites and a polo shirt, she knows she’s going to a match and becomes the soul of responsibility.’ He blushed slightly. ‘I guess I just adore her.’

Having heard from Ricky how pushed Luke always was for cash, Dancer started picking polish off his nails.

‘Now about dosh, I was finking . . .’ After all, he had sent the lawyers and the accountants packing and it was his money ‘. . . about $100,000, plus all expenses, airfare for you and the ’orses, and of course a car, and you’ll stay with Ricky.’

‘That sounds just about OK,’ said Luke, trying to be cool. Then he laughed a slow, rumbling, infectious laugh. ‘Jesus, man, it’s fantastic, beyond my wildest dreams, and they’re pretty wild sometimes. You sure?’

‘Course,’ said Dancer. ‘Fuck the lawyers! And it’s a grand every time we win.’

For a second Luke frowned. ‘My father does that. Makes players super-aggressive.’

‘Your father wins a lot of matches,’ pointed out Dancer, ‘and he’s coming to England this year. What’s he going to say about you playing for the enemy?’

‘That’s my problem,’ said Luke.