Polo

54

‘Red to wed’ screamed worldwide headlines. ‘Perdita steals Auriel’s toyboy.’ ‘Chukked her’, said the Sun in a huge front-page headline. Every member of the Red Army seemed only too happy to tell all about Red in bed. The press besieged the Goodwood Park Hotel. There were widespread rumours that James Whitaker, dressed as a monkey, had tried to climb into the roof garden of the Brunei Suite. But the tigerishly vigilant hotel staff only let in one person, the most expensive jeweller in Singapore, from whom Red bought an engagement ring for Perdita, containing a sapphire as big as a Victoria plum.

After a couple more days in Singapore they moved on to Thailand, by which time press interest had been considerably distracted by the wedding of another beautiful redhead to the Duke of York in Westminster Abbey. From Thailand they went to Hong Kong, India, then on to Kenya, and everywhere they were pestered.

Perdita secretly enjoyed the publicity. It excited her to be the other half of a beautiful couple with packs of reporters hanging on her every expletive and her photograph in every newspaper, sleek, exotic and shining with love. Lady Godivine, the press had nicknamed her. At last she had become a superstar.

Conversely, for the first time in her life, she was forced to be unselfish. Like a prince, Red expected her to do everything. Mix his drinks, tidy up after him, ring up the Singapore tailor, who arrived in a quarter of an hour quivering with excitement to receive an order for twenty suits and twice as many shirts, jackets and trousers. And Red gave the fitting of the suits – the slant of a pocket, the position of a button – the same total concentration he’d given Wilbur Smith on the plane or to a game of polo when he’d suddenly decided to win it.

He had incredible stamina. When they moved to India and Africa she found it difficult to keep up with the endless round of night-clubs and parties. And, like all wildly unpunctual people, he hated to be kept waiting because he wasn’t used to it. If Perdita wasn’t ready, he left without her.

Often sadistic, keeping her for ages on the brink of orgasm until she was screaming for it, he was in fact very like a tiger who’d been reared by humans, beautiful, playful, purring, rubbing against you, falling asleep in your arms, but liable at any moment to turn savage and wounding.

But if he had a wicked temper, he didn’t bear grudges, even after the most violent rows. Apart from the occasional sniping at Ricky, the only person he hated was Chessie. ‘The moment Dad dies of a coronary, there’ll be a taxi outside Alderton Towers to take her to the airport.’

Best of all, like a plant brought out of the winter frosts into a warm greenhouse, Perdita adored being rich, having fistfuls of notes to buy what she liked, ordering whatever she wanted to eat. One evening she ate so much caviar she was sick. The same tailor making suits for Red plucked the most amazing silks and cottons out of the rainbow and, strictly supervised by Red, transformed them overnight into a wildly flattering wardrobe.

‘I’m going to turn you into a great beauty,’ said Red, taking endless photographs of her both dressed and nude. ‘Within six months every girl in the world is going to want to look like you.’

Having refused to speak to any of her family or fellow polo players because she was frightened of getting an earful, Perdita finally rang Seb Carlisle to test the water and found it extremely icy.

‘Christ, you bitch, Perdita. Have you any idea how many people you fucked up?’

‘Who?’

‘Your sainted mother for a start.’

‘Let her sweat.’

‘Don’t be a cow. She’s sweet. And you’ve completely screwed up Apocalypse and Venturer. And poor Auriel actually cried in public last week. And your future mother-in-law is tearing her snow-white hair at the thought of Red chucking himself away on a nobody.’

‘Bitch,’ screamed Perdita.

‘Dancer and Ricky will certainly never speak to you again.’

‘I don’t care. I’ve never been so happy in my life.’

‘It won’t last. Red sheds women like cardigans in summer.’

‘You’re a fine one to talk, pinching your brother’s girlfriend.’

‘Dommie’s dyed his hair black, so she won’t mistake us in the future.’

‘All twins look grey in the dark,’ snarled Perdita. ‘And what about both of you going to bed with Sharon?’

‘That was the best thing we ever did. Hearing Victor’d fired us, Dancer’s hired us to play for Apocalypse next year.’

Perdita felt an appalling stab of jealousy, then steeled herself to ask the most difficult question of all.

‘How’s Luke?’

‘Very unallright,’ said Seb bleakly. ‘That’s why everyone really hates you. You’ve broken Luke’s heart.’

Ecstasy at an autumn spent playing not very serious polo in Zimbabwe was tempered by the prospect of returning to Palm Beach in the middle of November and facing Luke. Perdita didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed on getting back to Red’s house to learn that Luke had taken all his ponies and Leroy off to Argentina, wouldn’t be back until after Christmas, and by then would be playing out of Boca Raton, so they’d be far less likely to bump into each other.

Any worries next morning that Red might have forgotten her birthday were dispelled when he told her to look out of the window. On the lawn below were three of Red’s grooms, each holding two of the most beautiful ponies Perdita had ever seen.

‘Happy birthday, darling,’ said Red, amused at her speechlessness. ‘When you shacked up with me, I told you there’d be strings attached.’

Breaking the rule that one should always approach horses quietly, Perdita flew downstairs in her pale pink silk kimono and, screaming with delight, flitted from pony to pony, two chestnuts, a couple of Barry Bartlett’s tough little Walers from Singapore, and a bay and a dark brown from Argentina, who were head-shy when she tried to hug them.

Then, leaping on to one of the chestnuts, Perdita cantered her through the dew, executing such a perfect figure of eight in and out of two orange trees that she earned herself a round of applause from the grooms.

‘Thank you,’ she screamed up at Red. ‘It’s the most wonderful, wonderful present I’ll ever have.’

He must love her to spoil her like this, and it meant that now, with Spotty and Tero, she’d have eight ponies. She gave a start of horror. She’d come back so late last night and been so knocked out by the splendour of Red’s house that she hadn’t even asked after them.

‘Spotty and Tero are OK, aren’t they?’ she asked the grooms, who all looked shifty.

When they had driven down to El Paradiso she understood why. Spotty had dropped a lot of weight, but actually looked splendidly fit and well muscled.

‘You spoilt him. He was always much too fat,’ said Red in answer to Perdita’s furious complaints.

Spotty was sulking so much that Perdita had deserted him that for the first few days he stoutly refused to acknowledge her presence, even spurning Polos.

Tero was a different matter. Perdita found her standing alone in one of the paddocks – a caricature of her former, sleek self. Her lustreless coat hung from her jagged backbone. You could have stacked plates between her ribs.

Her two-inch-long mane and tail were sparse and moth-eaten, her once tender, glowing eyes now sunken and dull, as she shivered in the burning sunlight, unsteady on her legs, the picture of despair. But at the sound of Perdita’s wail of horror the little mare pricked up her ears, stared for a second, whickered incredulously and then went as crazy with delight as her desperately weak condition would allow. Perdita was motionless and speechless with shame as Tero staggered forward. Then, as she frantically cuddled the pony, Tero proceeded to nudge her feebly in the ribs trying to comfort her.

‘What happened to her?’ Perdita screamed later at Manuel, Red’s headgroom.

‘She pine. She wouldn’t eat nothing. Eef anyone ride ’er, she shake, then bolt. So we let ’er out, no good. We keep ’er in, no good. So we geeve up.’

‘Fucking useless idiots. Why didn’t you ring me?’

Manuel shrugged. ‘You didn’t leave a number.’

And would she have listened, wondered Perdita, appalled. Red had bewitched her. She was humiliated, shattered at what she had done. Sobbing, she vowed never to leave Tero again, not to rest until the pony was better.

Red thought Perdita was making a most awful fuss. It was only a pony. Even a letter and a birthday present from Bart, waiting when they had driven back from the barn, didn’t cheer her up.

‘Dear Perdita,’ he had written, ‘Glad you’re back in time for the season. I’ve fired the Napiers, and I can’t play with Miguel and Juan any more because the sonofabitch APA have put me up to six. The good news is that Angel’s about to get US citizenship, so with him, you and Red, we’ve got a world-class team to play in the States and the UK next year. First date: Fathers and Sons next month. Happy Birthday. Yours, Bart.’

The present was a diamond necklace.

‘We’ll have to hock that for a start,’ said Red.

Having ignored a mountain of fan mail, final reminders and unopened bills, and remarked how quiet it was for Palm Beach, Red checked his three telephones and found they’d all been cut off. When he sent Perdita into the kitchen to make him a cup of coffee, she found the gas and electricity had been cut off too. The maid, when she came in, announced she would give Red notice unless he paid her for the last five months. Red gave her a wad of notes and told Perdita they’d better go and tap Grace.

‘Mom always chews me out, but she coughs up in the end.’

And puts her hand over her mouth while she’s coughing, thought Perdita remembering Grace’s obsession with good behaviour.

‘I can’t leave Tero. I’ve got to get back to the barn,’ she snapped.

‘We’ll only be gone half a day.’

‘And I can’t meet her with roots like this.’ Mutinously Perdita examined her piebald hair. The white-blonde now growing half an inch into the jet-black looked deliberately aggressive and punk.

‘Mom’s interested in different kinds of roots. She’s a godawful snob.’

‘What shall I wear?’

‘The Crown Jewels. She’d only be happy if I was marrying the Queen of England, so you might as well settle for disapproval.’

Red borrowed a company jet to fly up to New York that afternoon. Grace was waiting for them in her apartment overlooking a now leafless Central Park. The sitting room was enchanting with rose-red lacquered walls and paintwork, sofas and chairs covered in white chintz splodged with huge, dark pink roses and embroidered cushions. There were dark red and pink roses in vases everywhere. Pictures included a Fragonard and a Watteau of charming lovers sitting on swings.

Leather-bound books rose to the ceiling on either side of the mantelpiece, which could hardly be seen for invitations. Below in the grate apple logs burned merrily. Nothing could have been prettier or more welcoming. But Grace, who had an impeccable clippings service and had familiarized herself with Perdita’s every misdemeanour from playing Lady Godiva to dunking Enid Coley and swearing at the future King of England, radiated disapproval. Perdita felt as though she’d come out of the bitter November cold and climbed into the deep freeze.

‘It’s Perdita’s birthday,’ said Red, kissing Grace on her rigidly unyielding cheek, ‘so she’s brought you a present.’

Acquired with one of Red’s cheques which would certainly bounce later, it was a red-and-white Staffordshire cow, so adorable Perdita could hardly dare to pack it up.

‘Thank you,’ said Grace, not deigning to open it. ‘How old are you, Perdita?’

‘Twenty.’

‘And what did Red give you?’

Red shot Perdita a look of warning, but it was too late.

‘Six ponies,’ sighed Perdita happily. ‘They’re amazing. One dark brown mare. Manuel says she’s a bit green, but she’s got a tremendous amount of speed, and a chestnut who evidently turns like a ballerina, and a bay who’s so pretty she must be clean bred, and two little Walers who are as tough as shit.’ She blushed. ‘I mean awfully tough.’

‘May I see your engagement ring?’

Perdita held out her hand. The sapphire trembled like a great blob of ink.

‘Pretty,’ said Grace. ‘Red has very good taste. I hope you don’t play polo in it.’

‘Good for blacking Shark Nelligan’s eye,’ said Perdita.

‘I’m drafting an announcement of the engagement for The New York Times,’ said Grace frostily, ‘and I need to know a little more about you, Perdita. I gather you started as a groom. I so admire people who work their way up. What part of England are you from?’

‘Eldercombe in Rutshire.’

If this was not a place that held very happy memories for Grace, she didn’t show it.

‘And what does your father do?’ Grace was writing in a rose-patterned notebook now. Perdita was beginning to sweat. She detested using Hamish, but Grace was looking at her as though she were a large dollop of French dressing that had fallen on a new silk dress.

‘He’s a lawyer, but now he works as a producer in Hollywood.’

Rackety, she could see Grace thinking.

‘I’m flying to Beverly Hills next week,’ Grace went on. ‘Perhaps I could meet him and your mother.’

Perdita went green.

‘My parents are divorced. My mother paints.’

‘And your grandparents?’

‘Mum’s father’s dead. My grandmother’s a lush.’

‘And where did the Macleods come from?’ asked Grace. ‘I know some Perthshire Macleods. There was a title somewhere.’

‘Not us.’ Perdita was fed up with being interrogated. ‘Grandpa was a hen-pecked old wimp, but good-hearted. Granny Macleod is a bitch. You wouldn’t need to be very tall to reach the drawer she came out of.’

Grace’s lips tightened. Her silver pen quivered. She expected humility from lesser mortals.

‘Which school did you go to?’

‘About eight, and I was chucked out of seven of them.’

‘You’ll certainly find Perdita’s name in the Rutshire Anti-Social Register,’ said Red, who was laughing himself sick.

‘Now you’re engaged to Red, I assume you’ll give up playing polo professionally.’

‘Certainly not,’ boasted Perdita. ‘I’m going to play for your ex-husband next season.’

Red was still laughing on the way home.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ moaned Perdita. ‘Go to Yale, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred pounds.’

‘I’m certainly not going to collect the half million I needed from her to settle a few bills. We’re going to have to put you to work, baby.’

Three days later Perdita came back from the barn at lunchtime, passionately relieved after an all-night session that Tero was at last eating and responding to treatment. Making herself a Hellman’s and Philadelphia sandwich, Perdita settled down to read an interview with Red in Esquire magazine.

Was he going to stop oversleeping and get to matches on time? asked the interviewer.

‘I don’t need an alarm clock,’ Red had replied. ‘Who’d want to stay asleep in the morning if they had Perdita beside them?’

Perdita clutched herself with joy. Red really did love her.

Accompanying the piece was an incredibly violent photograph of Red riding off Shark Nelligan. His body bent at the waist, like the head of an arrow, swung two feet out of the saddle, hitting exactly the right pressure points as he drove Shark off the line. Red was smiling, Shark was scowling.

‘Lovely piece,’ she said, as Red walked in, ‘and a heavenly photograph.’

‘These are better,’ said Red, throwing a hard-backed envelope down on the kitchen table.

Inside were some black-and-white prints he’d taken of her in Kenya and had blown up. She was wearing a black polo shirt, breeches and boots. Her face was slightly shiny and her hair hanging in damp tendrils.

‘Wow! I look OK,’ said Perdita in amazement. ‘Perhaps you should give up polo and take up photography.’

Red ruffled her hair, which was now all black again.

‘You’re gonna take up modelling, angel, and start earning your keep. I spent the morning with Ferranti’s.’

‘Dino Ferranti?’ said Perdita in excitement. ‘The show-jumper? I had such a crush on him.’ Then, seeing Red’s face, ‘But that was yonks ago.’

‘Ferranti’s Inc. They’re a multi-national,’ said Red. ‘One of their big moneyspinners is cosmetics and perfume. Dino’s on the main board. We had lunch today. They’re launching a new perfume next year and thinking of calling it “Perdita”.’

‘After me?’ asked Perdita, delighted.

‘After you. I hope it’s better than “Auriel”. If it takes on, they’re thinking of sponsoring a polo team. Dino’s always wanted to play polo. It’ll be fun playing with Dad and Angel this season, but it might pall. We should keep our options open.’

Perdita always felt dizzy with happiness when he talked in terms of their future.

‘All they want you to do,’ went on Red, ‘if they choose you, is have your picture taken looking unbelievably glamorous and make a few personal appearances when they launch it in the spring. And they’re talking megabucks.’

A week later, when Perdita was practising cut shots into goal on Spotty and totally concentrating on the job in hand, Red, without warning, brought Dino Ferranti and two of his brothers to watch her. Next day she and Red lunched with the Ferranti Board in New York.

‘We better Scotchtape your mouth,’ said Red. ‘Don’t call anyone an asshole.’

Ferranti’s, however, were enchanted and promptly signed her up. Red said he’d handle the money side.

‘Dino is kind of attractive,’ said Perdita as they flew home.

‘Don’t be deceived. He’s very tough.’

Perdita looked down at the pastel houses and the yachts that dotted the hyacinth-blue ocean as the plane began its descent to Palm Beach Airport.

‘What about Venturer?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t I under contract to them?’

‘Winston Chalmers’ll get you out of that. No sweat,’ said Red.

‘Hum,’ said Perdita.

‘Dino doesn’t like Rupert Campbell-Black by the way, so he’ll be delighted to take Venturer out,’ said Red. ‘Dino once made a pass at Rupert’s first wife. And Rupert was very close to Dino’s wife, Fen, before she married Dino, so it makes both guys edgy. Rupert is convinced Dino slept with Helen. Dino swears he didn’t, but Rupert can never forgive a right.’