Polo

50

That night Luke had a blazing row with Dancer.

‘I’ve been working my ass off all summer trying to help Ricky win a bet everyone seems to have known about but me. Dad said I was being treacherous coming over here. I’d no idea how treacherous, and that son-of-a-bitch Ricky was in on it too.’

Dancer shook his head vehemently. ‘It weren’t Ricky’s fault. You know how pissed off he was when I hired you. He wanted to win the Gold Cup without any help from the Aldertons. An’ anyway your Dad started it by nicking Ricky’s wife in the first place.’

‘Why the fuck didn’t you level with me?’

‘You wouldn’t have come,’ said Dancer disarmingly. ‘I knew you was too effical. But I also knew you was the only guy who could sort out Ricky’s game, and Perdita’s too, for that matter. I knew how you felt about her, so I was doin’ you a favour.’

‘Bullshit,’ howled Luke. ‘You had no idea how I felt about her. I’ve been bloody conned.’

But such is the nature of polo that all the players in the Gold Cup drama had to meet in the Cowdray Park Challenge Cup next week when the Tigers triumphed yet again. Luke, who didn’t believe in prolonging rows, was speaking to his father again. On a totally recovered Fantasma, he was also big-hearted enough to set up all five goals scored by Red in the International at the end of July when America beat England 8-3, mostly because Ricky had lost so much form.

Luke was worried about Ricky, who’d sunk into the deepest depression, but even more so about Perdita, who was very distant and most uncharacteristically subdued. She wasn’t even excited when the whole Apocalypse team swanned off to Deauville for three weeks in August for the French and then the World Championships. Dancer had put them up in the five-star Hotel Normandie and as they wouldn’t have to belt back to Robinsgrove after every match, they would have time to gamble at the casino, swim in the sea and enjoy race meetings, barbecues and endless parties. Deauville was polo at its most ritzy and glamorous. Luke hoped he would have a chance to get Perdita on his own, but he was filled with unease.

And so everyone crossed the Channel to Deauville. In one of the first matches of the French Championships the Tigers were drawn against a local team whom they were expected to thrash.

Polo in Deauville tends to take twice as long and start twice as late. The two grounds are situated inside the racecourse and accessible only between races. Nor can a chukka be started or a penalty taken while a race is going on. And, if French chic is achieved, like genius, by a supreme capacity for taking pains, the French players certainly took even longer than Red Alderton to smooth down their skin-tight breeches and tuck in their exquisitely cut polo shirts before taking the field.

As usual therefore, the Tigers’ match started late. Victor was champing at the delay because he had to fly to Geneva straight afterwards for a business meeting. Red was cold and wanted to go back to bed. It was a raw August day with a vicious breeze coming off the sea. Luke was still down at the stables waiting for the vet. As one of the French umpires had failed to turn up, Perdita was summoned down from the stands to take his place. She was very nervous because her French was extremely limited and she’d never umpired a match that big. Fortunately Jesus, the other umpire, was highly experienced.

Because of the continued heavy rain in the past week, which had nearly washed the sponsor’s tent into the sea, the smooth green pitch was churned up in an instant. Language grew worse as ponies slid all over the place and the ball hit divots and bounced awkwardly.

Red promptly started playing dirty. No-one was better at pulling up in mock horror and pretending an opposition player had crossed his right of way. Marking him was a charming French boy who had bought Perdita a drink at the Hotel Normandie the previous night. He couldn’t be a day over eighteen. Red rode him off so fiercely that he was almost sitting on the French boy’s saddle.

‘Do that again,’ said Perdita sharply, ‘and I’ll blow a foul on you.’

Ignoring her, Red increased the angle.

Perdita blew her whistle and looked at Jesus, who disliked Red and had once been sacked by Victor; he nodded in agreement. Pointing to the sixty-yard mark Perdita awarded the French side a penalty, a free hit sixty yards from the goal line.

Red promptly launched into such a storm of abuse that Perdita upped the penalty to forty yards.

‘Don’t give me that shit,’ yelled Red. ‘Bloody woman umpire.’

Jesus nodded at Perdita, who upped the penalty to thirty, and left her, Jesus and Red all screaming at each other.

Although a race had just started, racegoers in the stands had their binoculars firmly focused on the far more interesting row in the middle of the polo field. As Perdita awarded a goal to the other side, Red let rip.

‘You fucking bitch, don’t you land that number on me.’

‘Off,’ screamed Perdita, forgetting to consult Jesus.

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ snarled Red. ‘When you look at the video, you’ll see it wasn’t a foul.’

‘When you look at the video,’ shouted Perdita, ‘you’ll see me sending you off!’

‘Off,’ agreed Jesus happily.

‘Oh, c’mon, don’t be silly, Perdita,’ said the twins. Next moment the whole side, including Victor on his beloved Tiger Lily, were circling her like the tigers in Little Black Sambo. Any minute they’d turn into melted butter. Not even when all the Tigers’ grooms in their black jeans and orange and black striped shirts threatened to pull Perdita off her pony would she give in.

‘You can’t do this to your old friends,’ pleaded Dommie. ‘Victor’s paying us two grand a win. If we get knocked out now we lose a fortune. I won’t be able to buy Rosie an engagement ring.’

‘You’re over-reacting,’ Seb told her, furiously.

‘I am not,’ screamed Perdita. ‘Dommie and Ben Napier sent me off when I swore at the Prince of Wales. Alejandro’s elder son in Argentina was suspended for four months for arguing. Count yourself bloody lucky,’ she added to Red. ‘Off! Vamos! Va’t’en, go on! Scram!’

The French side took advantage of playing four against three to clinch the match. Soon word was sizzling round the polo community that not only had Red been sent off but the Mighty Tigers, winners of the Gold Cup, had been knocked out in the first round. The Tigers stormed off to the French polo authorities who, after a good deal of Gallic shrugging, said there was nothing they could do.

Red was so angry he would have flown straight back to Paris to join Auriel, but he was committed to play in a charity match with the Prince of Wales the following afternoon which Auriel was flying down to watch.

That afternoon was another bitterly cold day. Perdita, who’d squandered the entire grand Luke had given her to buy clothes on bikinis, shorts and sundresses before she left England, was glad she had pinched two cashmere jerseys which had recently found their way into Daisy’s wardrobe. Her need was much greater than her mother’s. She couldn’t think why Daisy was always moaning about money if she could afford expensive clothes like these.

Drew Benedict, freezing in the stands, was absolutely livid when Perdita rolled up wearing the dark brown cashmere polo neck he’d given Daisy last week, but he couldn’t say anything, particularly as Sukey was breast-feeding little Charlotte under a Puffa beside him. He wished Sukey’d do it in the hotel. He was finding her presence at Deauville and the crying of little Charlotte increasingly irksome.

Dommie Carlisle, scuttling into the stands just before the 4.15 race, had to forgive Perdita for putting the Tigers out of the Cup because he wanted to show her the huge emerald engagement ring he’d just bought for Rosie, the Irish nurse.

‘Lovely. Match her eyes,’ said Perdita, relieved to be forgiven.

‘Where’s Luke?’ asked Dommie.

‘Gone to look at his great uncle’s grave or something boring. Where’s Rosie?’

‘Having a kip. We didn’t get in till six o’clock this morning. Seb’s gone to a bloodstock sale. I’ve had a bet on this race.’ Dommie trained his binoculars on the race track.

‘I say,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘Seb and I found the spitting image of Tayger Lily pulling a milk cart in Le Havre. We tidied him up and sold him to Victor for £10,000 as Tayger Lily’s half-brother. He’s as quiet as a riding-school horse – perfect for Victor. That’s how I afforded Rosie’s ring.’

‘You are awful,’ said Perdita, giggling. ‘You’ll get caught one day. Christ, they start late here.’

Dommie moved on to the subject of the Fancy Dress birthday party Victor was giving for Sharon at the Casino that night. The theme was Medieval and Mystery.

‘Rosie’s going as Robert the Bruce’s spider,’ he said.

‘Luke won’t like that,’ said Perdita. ‘He’s terrified of spiders. I thought I’d mug an onion man and go as the Lady of Shallot. I bet Chessie and Auriel and Sharon will spend fortunes on their costumes. Here they come at last,’ she added, trying to sound detached as Red led the players on to the field.

In the first chukka, Sharon’s handsome Mexican, José, had a fall and lay flat on his back in the middle of the field. A second later his great black-clad whale of a wife had floundered on to the pitch shrieking and moaning and followed by six children and a nanny. By the time they had reached him, however, José had jumped up, dusted himself down and remounted, which meant the poor wife, nanny and children had to flounder desperately back to avoid getting run over by Red.

‘So uncool to behave like that,’ said Perdita scornfully.

‘Christ, Red’s playing badly,’ said Dommie.

‘How good d’you reckon he really is?’ asked Perdita.

‘If he’s on form we win, it’s as simple as that.’

I loathe and detest Red, thought Perdita, but he was the only player she watched on the field.

In the next chukka Red bore down on José, attempting to hook him and getting his pony’s legs entangled with the back legs of José’s bay pony. Red was so far out of his saddle that he couldn’t save himself or his pony and crashed to the ground with both ponies on top of him. There was a horrible pause as the ponies struggled to their feet.

‘He’s moving. He’s OK,’ said Dommie.

‘He’s not,’ whispered Perdita.

Auriel, who’d just rolled up flanked by minders, ran gracefully on to the field as though she was doing classical ballet, throwing her arms round Red, begging him in her deep throaty tenor to be all right, and crying loudly, but not enough to make her mascara run: ‘Oh, Reddie, my darling. Oh, Reddie.’

‘Steady, go,’ giggled Dommie, pretending to play a violin. ‘Stupid old ham.’

‘We must ambulance him to hospital at once,’ moaned Auriel.

Both Venturer and the paparazzi, out in force for the Prince of Wales, were capturing the full tragic scene when, like an unleashed Dobermann, Perdita erupted on to the pitch.

‘Back off, you fucking geriatrics, he belongs to me,’ she screamed, sending two French doctors, two umpires and Auriel flying.

With absolutely no thought for her mascara, she flung her arms round Red sobbing unrestrainedly. ‘Please, please don’t die. I love you so much.’

‘Can I have that in writing?’ said a muffled voice.

Leaping away, Perdita realized that Red was quite all right and shaking with unrepentant laughter. Despite her frantic struggles, his hand clamped over the back of her neck and he pulled her down with all the muscle in his forearm and carried on kissing her until an enraged David Waterlane, who was umpiring, ordered him to stop fooling around and get on with the game.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ murmured Dommie to a boot-faced Drew. ‘I wondered when that was going to happen. It was only a matter of time. Shits rush in where angels fear to tread. What the hell is Luke going to say?’

Wriggling out of Red’s embrace Perdita fled across the pitch with Venturer’s film crew pounding after her.

‘Hang on a second,’ yelled Cameron Cook.

‘If you think you’re going to re-shoot that . . .’ howled Perdita. ‘Oh no!’ The little bridge over the race track had just closed and she wouldn’t be able to get across until after the next race.

Ignoring the shifting rainbow of jockeys’ silks in the distance and the announcement that they were under starter’s orders, she scrambled over the five-foot railing, tore across the track and only just missed being trampled to death by the 4.45.

Several apoplectic race officials now joined in the chase as well as Venturer and the paparazzi. But Perdita was too swift for them. Shopkeepers, raising their blinds after the long afternoon siesta, paused in amazement as this fierce Valkyrie with wild eyes, inflamed cheeks and flying hair pounded past sending holiday makers for six, running until she reached the Hotel Normandie with its hundreds of white balconies, fretting flags and brilliantly coloured flowerbeds. She had just locked herself into her room with a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door when the telephone rang.

‘Hi, Perdita,’ said the Sun. ‘You taken Auriel’s place?’

‘Fuck off!’ Perdita slammed the receiver down, took it off the hook and threw herself down on her bed in utter confusion.

Red had kissed her as though he meant it. She could still feel the burning heat of his lean, far from languid, body and smell the heady mix of horses’ sweat and Givenchy for Men, and see the thick, dark eyelashes fanning the flawless cheekbones when for a terrible moment she’d thought he was dead. Then, when she had finally opened her eyes, his had been already open and full of amusement and devilry at the shattering effect he was having on her. The earth had moved so far she’d need a Pickford’s van to bring it back.

Impossibly restless, she paced the room. In the mirror she looked deranged and feverish. Tearing off her clothes she clutched her breasts, fingering her nipples, as hard as biro tops, wondering what they would feel like to Red, running her hands over her waist and hips, holding back her head until her white-gold hair cascaded down to caress the cleft of her bottom. What the hell could she wear at the fancy dress party tonight? Everyone else would be so glamorous and expensively dressed. Draping herself with onions as the Lady of Shalott seemed not only tame but malodorous. Suddenly she had a brainwave. It was certainly medieval. It would infuriate Auriel, shock Sukey, enrage Luke, Drew and Ricky, if he arrived in time, and certainly require the kind of daring Red would admire. Dialling room service, she ordered a bottle of champagne.

Luke, feeling he needed a day on his own, had gone to visit the Normandy beachheads. He went first to St Laurent-sur-Mer and stood by the plaque that marked the spot where the first wave of US troops had fought their way doggedly up the sandbanks. Below him lay Omaha Beach, platinum-blond as Perdita’s hair, the stormy, grey waters of the Channel the same colour as her eyes. Then he wandered round the beautiful, American graveyard, admiring the tidy, white crosses and the lawns as greenly immaculate as the Deauville polo fields. Passing the graves of two Roosevelts, he put a bunch of red-and-mauve asters on the grave of his mother’s eldest brother.

Afterwards he drove to Point du Hoc, where his grandfather had been one of Colonel Rudder’s American Rangers who had stormed its perilously steep cliffs and seized and held its German fortifications under terrible bombardment. Out of forty-eight, fourteen had survived intact. His grandfather had been killed – only for his family to learn later that the Rangers had attacked the wrong promontory. Was he, like them, barking up the wrong tree?

I’m alive, they’re dead, thought Luke. He had hoped that seeing the setting for so much greater a tragedy than his might diminish his heartache, but tears kept embarrassingly filling his eyes. Facts had to be faced. He loved Perdita hopelessly. Even the brief few hours away from her today had been an agony. Her tantrums and indifference were better than being without her.

He bought a salami roll and a beer, sat on the front and wrote postcards to his mother and his grandmother telling them what he had seen. A big, black, stray dog wandered up, reminding him painfully of Leroy and he gave it most of his roll. If Leroy was in Europe he might miss Perdita less. At least he wouldn’t have to sleep alone every night.

He wished there was another war he could fight in, or that he could run away and lose himself visiting Chateaubriand’s house and Proust’s birthplace, then drive to Paris and on to the South of France and Italy. But his heartache would follow him.

He knew with a terrible foreboding, as the French must have waited for the Germans to sweep across Europe, that Red was going to sweep Perdita off her feet at any minute. He’d seen many, many girls fall in love with Red before and recover, but Perdita was so vulnerable because she was so passionate and uncompromising and he knew in the end it would destroy her.

As he walked to the edge of the cliffs the waters swirled below him. It would be so easy to jump. Would anyone really mind? Christ, he must get a grip on himself. There were grooms to be paid, horses to be fed, Leroy waiting patiently and probably with ebbing hope in Florida and there was Apocalypse to be steered to victory in the French Championships. He had promises to keep and miles to go before he slept.

Returning to the Normandie he felt that sick churning in the belly that was chronic these days. Perdita’s key wasn’t hanging downstairs and she wouldn’t answer her telephone. Ignoring the ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice, he banged on the door.

‘You OK? It’s Luke.’

‘Piss off. I’m trying to get some sleep.’

‘Let me in.’

‘I’ll see you at the party.’

‘How are you getting there?’

‘I’ll make my own way. For God’s sake, leave me alone.’