Polo

56

Palm Beach was staggered by the change in Red. The ultimate party animal was in bed by midnight and up at seven, and for the first time in his life really working at his polo. As barns filled up with grooms and horses, and patrons went on crash diets getting ready for the season proper which began in January, it was noted that Red and Perdita were spending six or seven hours a day stick and balling, concocting devilish strategies to fox the opposition and working on Perdita’s new ponies and the whole Alderton Flyer string.

‘Must be even more desperate to bury the opposition than his father,’ said Shark Nelligan cynically. ‘Just to prove the Alderton Flyers can manage without the O’Briens.’

Perdita, vastly cheered that Tero had made a miraculous recovery and would be able to play again later in the season, was less happy when she had to spend hours being photographed for Ferranti’s by the exceedingly famous but equally temperamental photographer they’d employed.

‘God, they ought to give the VC to models,’ she stormed. ‘It’s so bloody boring – and the lies! “Last roll” indeed. The fucker only takes so long because he’s getting a thousand dollars an hour.’

The results of such conflict, however, were hauntingly beautiful.

‘Everyone will be dabbing Perdita on their pulse spots come February,’ crowed Red.

As a reward, the weekend before the Fathers and Sons match Red took Perdita to stay at Bart’s house in Colorado. Falling over and into Red’s arms, Perdita took to skiing as enthusiastically as she had to sex.

The Tuesday after they returned home, Perdita was easing her aching bones in the jacuzzi after a long day in the saddle when Red walked in. Instantly she felt her exhaustion vanish and her stomach churning like the warm waters around her. She never stopped wanting him.

Sitting on the edge of the jacuzzi, he soaked the arm of his shirt as his fingers crept downwards, light and expert as a pastry cook.

‘I’m gonna screw you,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘and then we’re going out. Bibi and Angel are back from Argentina. I called Bibi and said we’d drop by for a drink, and then all go out to dinner.’

Bibi’s and Angel’s barn was grudgingly agreed by the polo community to be the most beautiful in Palm Beach. Built and perfected over the past eighteen months, it consisted of a charming, white, Regency-style house with a grey roof, a garden full of sweet-scented flowers, a walled swimming-pool kept permanently at 100°F, tennis courts, squash courts, a helicopter pad, and a hundred yards away at the end of a perfect lawn, a lemon-and-orange grove ringing stables for thirty horses. Beyond were paddocks, stick-and-ball fields and a complete polo pitch, surrounded by gums and palm trees.

‘Must have cost Bibi an arm and a legacy,’ said Red, as the blaring din of Status Quo from his car clashed and collided with Phil Collins pouring out of Bibi’s and Angel’s house. A pungent mix of jasmine, orange blossom and philadelphus mingled with a delicious smell of beef, herbs, wine and garlic.

‘Perhaps we’re eating in after all,’ said Red.

‘I haven’t seen Angel in two years.’ Perdita checked her reflection in the driving mirror.

Ferranti’s had taught her to make up her eyes and she was drenched in the scent which had been named after her. Her hair, which had nearly grown back to her collar bones, was streaked blond and black, her face was smooth and brown as treacle toffee from skiing. She was wearing a clinging, elongated, orange T-shirt. She hoped Angel would think she had grown beautiful.

Angel, however, opened the door in a pair of jeans and a white hot rage, his bronze curls tousled, his peacock-blue eyes blazing. She had forgotten his capacity for implacable loathing.

‘What zee fuck you doing he-ar?’ he spat at them. ‘You fucking ’orrible beetch, Perdita. I never want to see you again. Don’t darken my doormat, none of you.’

And he launched into a torrent of French, Spanish and English, telling Perdita exactly what he thought of her for running out on his beloved amigo, Luke. He was about to slam the door in their faces, when Red put his shoulder against it. For a moment the two men pushed with all their might. But not for nothing could Red ride off Shark Nelhgan. The door remained six inches open.

‘For Chrissake, Angel, there wasn’t anything between Perdita and Luke. It was totally one-sided. He was mad about her, not her about him.’

‘It’s true, Angel,’ stammered a shaken Perdita. ‘I knew Luke liked me, but I had no idea how much until Deauville, and by that time I was in love with Red.’

‘You take everything from heem, his money, his horses, his time, his heart.’

‘I suppose he’s been dumping,’ said Red. ‘There are two sides.’

‘Luke never dumps,’ snarled Angel. ‘He never says one word against you, Perdita. It’s everyone else.’

‘Oh, don’t be an asshole, Angel,’ said Red in a bored voice. ‘Cut out the macho-Latin crap. Luke’s not complaining: why should you? Where’s Bibi?’

‘Working late,’ said Angel bleakly. ‘Where else?’

‘Well, let us in. I want a drink. Perdita’s going to be your sister-in-law. There’s enough feuding in our family as it is and we’ve all got to play together on Thursday.’

Angel was gazing at Perdita, at the long, dark eyes, liquid with tears, the trembling coral-pink mouth. He could see the curve of her breasts and the tuffet of her bush in that clinging orange dress. He detested her, but she had grown incredibly beautiful, and Angel was, after all, an Argentine.

‘OK, come in.’ Totally unsmiling, he stood back.

Inside were scenes of Petronian debauchery. In a room to the left Jesus lay on the patchwork quilt of a huge double bed with a sleeping, naked blonde beside him. Dropping cigarette ash into Bibi’s pot-pourri bowl, he was ringing up different parts of the world on Bibi’s three telephones in several languages and trying to organize next season’s matches.

‘Treble-dating, as usual,’ said Red.

Through the french windows they could see a couple of Alejandro’s sons and their girlfriends cavorting in the swimming-pool. In the sitting room Juan O’Brien, with one hand inside the dress of a brunette who was certainly not his wife, and several more of Alejandro’s Sons and their cousins were sitting round on Bibi’s flowered chintz sofas, drinking wine, eating a very late lunch of boeuf Provençale and watching the video of the Argentine Open, which once again the O’Briens had won by a narrow margin. The air was blue with cigarette smoke.

Next minute, a ravishingly pretty girl came out of the kitchen in skin-tight jeans, a skimpy pink top to show off a midriff browner than Perdita’s face and a long blonde plait falling through the hole in the back of her baseball cap. She had an incredible air of self-importance, was wearing a badge which said: ‘Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?’ and was carrying a tray of baked potatoes.

‘Ees good?’ she asked the catatonically watching men.

‘Ees excellent,’ said Juan, reaching out for a baked potato with the hand that had been fondling the brunette, but not taking his eyes off the screen.

In the corner two lurcher puppies were having a tug of war with a silk cushion embroidered with the words: ‘It’s hard being a Princess’.

‘Oh, how adorable,’ said Perdita. ‘Let’s get a dog.’

‘No,’ said Red sharply. ‘Dogs get too dependent.’

He was fixing a whisky and soda for himself and a vodka and tonic for Perdita. Suddenly noticing him, the blonde stopped in her tracks.

‘Ay, yay, yay,’ she said in wonder, ‘I am Innocenta.’

‘And I am usually guilty,’ grinned Red. ‘Red Alderton,’ he introduced himself, ‘and this is Perdita.’

‘Oof,’ cried the blonde in amazement. ‘Bibi’s brozzer, you are not like ’er.’

Once the video was finished the Argentines came back to earth, shook Red by the hand and embraced Perdita and congratulated her on her new beauty.

‘What’s the gossip?’ said Red.

‘Your father is spending twice as much on ’orses,’ said Juan, ‘because he’s not spending so much on me and Miguel.’

‘Jesus is playing for Cartier, BMW and Revlon all at zee same time.’

‘Juan’s now wearing a face guard on and off the field, so he doesn’t have to kees ees wife.’

Juan grinned and all the others screamed with laughter and helped themselves to more wine. They were all so merry, flip and funny that, after a couple of drinks, Perdita recovered from the shock of Angel’s disapproval and showed everyone her ring.

Only Angel, who was smoking and not eating or drinking, was still in a black mood. He filled the house with Argentines because he was fed up with being married to a wife who was never at home before nine, then worked long into the night on reports, and was taking telephone calls at five in the morning from all over the world. In the three months he’d just spent in Argentina Bibi had only flown down to join him for a couple of weekends. His resentment was fuelled by his friends who all pointed out that Angel was numero uno in the marriage and Bibi was neglecting him. Argentine wives looked beautiful and after their husbands.

His temper had not been improved that morning by an advance issue of Chief Executive magazine which had just voted Bibi businesswoman of the year. Inside was a full-page picture of his wife showing off her long, long legs and with her auburn hair spilling over the shoulders of her pin-stripe suit. A paragraph towards the end of the copy claimed that Bibi had ‘every designer toy in her Palm Beach mansion, including a devastatingly handsome Argentine polo player husband’.

‘Nice picture,’ said Red, throwing the magazine down on the table. ‘I dropped by the Palm Beach office this afternoon. Two of Dad’s secretaries were still at lunch, and Miss Leditsky was painting her toenails, and making long-distance personal calls about the long weekend she was about to take. When secretaries start goofing off, you’re in the shit.’

Then, to cheer Angel up, he persuaded him to play the best of three at backgammon to see which of them was going to ride Glitz – Bart’s legendary black pony on which Juan had scored so many goals – next season.

‘Things seem to be getting a bit out of hand,’ said Red about nine-thirty, when no Bibi had turned up and he and Perdita had admired all Angel’s new ponies and a new forty-thousand-dollar aluminium trailer, and all the other Argentines were either drunk or shacked up. ‘Let’s go and eat, and leave a note to Bibi to join us later.’

Charley’s Crab, the best fish and shellfood restaurant in Wellington, was much frequented by the polo community. With each new arrival the waiters pinned sheets of clean white paper over the table tops so polo plays and tactics could be drawn on them.

‘How’s Tero?’ asked Angel, relenting slightly.

‘Getting better,’ said Perdita. ‘I don’t have to feed everything to her by hand now, and I rode her for a quarter of an hour yesterday, admittedly only walking.’

‘How is Luke?’ Perdita was unable to resist asking, although she knew it would irritate Red.

‘Who can tell?’ said Angel. ‘Always he smile, always he listen to zee moans of zee other players. But last week his groom tell me he was so drunk he miss zee toll bucket three times.’

Oh God, thought Perdita miserably. She wanted to ask more but the waiter came over for their order.

‘For Chrissake, don’t spend all night making up your mind,’ snapped Red.

Flustered, Perdita chose Cajun prawns, which were delicious but took the roof off her mouth. As they talked polo, Angel noticed she knew everything about Red’s ponies and was passionately interested in his game. She was also quite unable to keep her hands off Red. Angel thought darkly of Bibi’s distancing. They hadn’t slept together for a week because she was always so tired. She arrived as they were having coffee, white with anger and exhaustion.

‘I’ve just had to throw a dozen Argies out of the house, Angel, and only just dissuaded Jaime and Carmen from giving in their notice,’ she said furiously. ‘Carmen says she can’t call her kitchen her own. You know how hard it is to get help. And why the hell was Innocenta hosting the party?’

‘Because you weren’t there,’ snarled Angel.

‘Someone’s got to earn the fucking money,’ hissed Bibi. Then, seeing Angel’s face, regretted it. ‘I’m sorry, darling. It’s been a hell of a day.’

‘And a night,’ said Angel, pointedly looking at his watch.

Bibi visibly pulled herself together and turned to Red and Perdita.

‘Hi, congratulations. How are you?’

‘Distract Angel for a second,’ Red whispered to Perdita.

‘Things bad?’ he murmured to Bibi, pouring her a glass of Sancerre. ‘We must get you something to eat.’

‘I’m not hungry.’ Bibi was shaking.

‘What’s up now?’

‘This,’ said Bibi, producing a cutting from the Daily News out of her bag.

It was a piece about Chessie flying Bart’s private jet to Paris and spending half a million on clothes for the forthcoming Palm Beach season, not to mention buying one of the Duchess of Windsor’s favourite brooches for £50,000 and a Poussin at Sotheby’s.

‘So what else is new?’ said Red coolly, although his eyes were narrowed with rage and his fingers drummed on the white paper tablecloth. ‘No wonder Dad wouldn’t advance me any money last week.’

‘She’s done all that,’ said Bibi despairingly, ‘when Dad’s had to lay off seven hundred people this week because he can’t pay their wages. The guys are putting her photograph on the factory walls instead of pin-ups so they can throw darts at it.’

‘Chessie-Antoinette,’ said Red. ‘Can’t someone assassinate her?’

‘Hardly,’ said Bibi with a hollow laugh. ‘The same piece reports her as attending a fashion show for bullet-proof clothes last week. Red, we are running out of money.’

‘I know,’ said Red. ‘Can’t Dad talk to her?’

‘Not when he’s spending so much on ponies. They’re as bad as each other. I don’t know who’s spending the most – Dad, Chessie or Angel,’ Bibi added bitterly. Then, lowering her voice, ‘Angel just adores the grand gesture. He gave a friend of his a $20,000 pony last week because his wife had just quit.’

‘Shit!’ Red shook his head. ‘What triggered off Chessie’s recent spate of extravagance?’

‘You did,’ said Bibi. ‘You know how she hates Mom ringing Dad, but Mom’s been in such a state about you and Perdita, she’s been calling him a lot lately. She was bad enough about me and Angel.’

Angel looked round. ‘Grace put a private detective on to my family,’ he said haughtily. ‘All she found was that my side of the family were poor, but not at all non-U.’

‘And anyway, you’re her ewe lamb, the light of her life,’ said Bibi bitterly to Red, then added to Perdita, ‘I don’t mean it personally. It’s nothing to do with you. Mom’d be the same whoever Red married; she’s positively oedipal about him. And even when Dad and Chessie are fighting like cats Chessie can’t stand him having any communication with Mom.’

‘Bibi is going to lose that good-looking boy if she’s not careful,’ said Red as they drove home. ‘He’s already catting around with that blonde cook who looks as though cocks wouldn’t melt in her mouth.’

But Perdita wasn’t listening. Sick with churning fear, she was thinking that if Grace put a private detective on to her, in no time he’d find out about her being illegitimate or worse.

Next week the Aldertons won the Fathers and Sons match, annihilating the Van Dorens by forty goals to five, which presaged well for the coming season.

Christmas in Palm Beach was extremely fraught. Everyone missed Luke. Easy-going, imperturbable, prepared to see the funny side of practically anything, he had been a genius at defusing rows. Red and Perdita being so extravagantly in love seemed to unhinge Chessie. Her temper was not improved on Christmas Day when a vast JCB, wrapped in red ribbon and decorated with holly, was delivered to Alderton Towers.

‘Dear Chessie, to help you with your gold digging,’ said the note inside, ‘Yours never, Red.’

Nor was Angel particularly amused when Bibi gave him a green Lamborghini. She kept him short, humiliated him by refusing to pay his gambling debts, and then expected him to be grateful for a bloody car.

His best present in fact was a small oblong envelope from Bart. Inside was a US passport. A senator friend of Bart’s had pulled strings. This meant that at last Angel could circumnavigate the ban on Argentines and play in England.

‘Thank you,’ Angel embraced a father-in-law he normally detested. ‘I am damn Yanqui now.’

‘You’re gonna help me bury Apocalypse,’ said Bart in an undertone.

‘You can play for America in the International,’ said Chessie in delight.

‘You could even play for them in the Westchester if Bas and Rupert do really revive it in the autumn,’ said Perdita.

But Angel was miles away, thinking of Pedro at the bottom of the icy South Atlantic. The fish would have picked his bones clean by now and Angel had another bone to pick with a poker-faced British officer. At last he was going to England to take out Drew Benedict.