Polo (43 page)

    `I know you're not,' said Drew, guiding his cock inside her. `I told you I didn't want you to lose weight.'

    `Can I draw you before you get dressed?' said Daisy later.

    `If you want to,' said Drew, sitting down on the sofa. `As long as you hide it from Perdita. She'd be bound to sneak to Sukey.'

    Oh, his face is so lovely when he smiles, thought Daisy, pinning a fresh piece of paper on the board.

    `You'll have to draw an erection in in a minute,' said Drew.

    They were on the carpet in each other's arms when Drew looked at his watch. `Jesus, it's nearly eight o'clock. D'you mind running me over to Rupert's?'

    `I haven't got a car,' said Daisy miserably. `I'll try to ring for a taxi, or borrow Philippa's.'

    Drew brushed her hair back from her forehead and kissed it.

    `The car I came here in is your Christmas present. It's only an old banger, but it'll get you about. It's all right. Sukey didn't pay for it, I bought it with my Sultan of Araby money.'

    `An old banger for an old bang-ee,' said Daisy, `but I really can't take it.'

    Drew stopped her protests with a kiss.

    After she'd dropped him off and bumped back home, grinding gears and singing at the top of her voice, Daisy hid the drawing of Drew in the potting shed. But she soon retrieved it and put it in her bedroom. After all, the children weren't coming back until the New Year and Drew was without doubt the nicest thing that had happened in all her life.

38

    `Quarantine,' as Luke's comely headgroom, Lizzie, was fond of pointing out, `is a real ass-kicker.'

    But, predictably, Perdita left all the hassle of scrubbing out the boxes with disinfectant, isolating Spotty and Tero, and dealing with the interminable inspections by vets and government officials to Luke and his grooms. Luke even arranged for Spotty and Tero to be flown to Heathrow cheap, as part of a twenty-pony job lot which Victor Kaputnik was smuggling in from Argentina via

    Palm Beach. Aware that Perdita had no money, Luke picked up the bill for that, too.

    He refused to hear a word against her, but it would be fair to say that his grooms regarded Perdita with a dislike bordering on hatred. They worked for the best boss in Palm Beach, but now this spoilt little bitch had swanned in, ordering him around, squandering his money and dragging him out to the high spots every night. Lizzie had even made a day chart until Perdita went back to England and the barn returned to normal.

    Having spent her last day stick and balling in the tiniest bikini to top up her tan for Ricky, Perdita popped in on Chessie to say goodbye on her way to the airport. Luke was delayed at the barn because Ophelia was tied up with colic, but said he would catch up with her.

    Perdita found Chessie by the pool in the same lime-green bikini she'd worn the day after Perdita had flown in from Argentina and which was now much too big for her. Nor did Chessie hitch it up in time to hide a dark bruise on her left hip.

    `Gosh, what have you done?' asked Perdita without thinking.

    `Been gored on the horns of a dilemma,' said Chessie bitterly. `Oh, for Christ's sake, put on a bikini and come into the pool with me, I'm sure this umbrella is bugged, and probably the ice in your glass.'

    Perdita didn't want to swim. It would crinkle her newly washed hair and she wanted to look her best in case by some miracle Ricky met the plane. But such was the force of Chessie's discontent that five minutes later she was dog-paddling into the centre of the pool.

    `Every time I go shopping Bart insists that two guards accompany me,' rattled Chessie, who'd lost all her normal laid-back cool and whose jaw above the blue water was rigid with tension.

    `I daren't ring England, I know the telephone's bugged. Look, can you give Ricky a message? Tell him not to risk getting in touch with me. Security's too tight, but tell him I'll ring him somehow the minute I get to London.'

    For a stunned second Perdita disappeared beneath the water, then she emerged spluttering and had to paddle backwards until her feet touched the bottom.`I d-d-don't understand.'

    `The reason Ricky rang at Christmas,' said Chessie hysterically, `was to tell me in those few desperate seconds that he's still absolutely mad about me - only me. Talking to you later was just a smokescreen.'

    `But he seemed so happy to hear my voice.'

    `That's because he'd just heard mine. Can't you understand? All Ricky wants is to have me back. I'd love to go, but I'm not sure if one should turn back the clock, and would I be constantly reminded of Will again, and Ricky hasn't got any money, and would I hate being poor again?'

    Despite the warmth of the pool and the day, Perdita suddenly felt icy cold and dizzy. Her mouth had gone dry and acid. She wanted to scream at Chessie not to be so bloody selfish, screwing up Ricky's life again. Then Chessie disarmed her by bursting into tears.

    `I'm dying of homesickness. I haven't been back to England since Will died, and now Bart's bought Rutminster Abbey so we can spend the summer there, and think of all the memories. I can't face it, and I know I can't
not
face it.'

    Perdita wanted to plunge into the soft silky water, which was the same duck-egg blue as the Alderton Flyer shirt Ricky had been wearing the first day she'd fallen in love with him, and never come up again. Involuntarily her thoughts strayed to Red, the only other man who'd seriously jolted her, but Red was a playboy. As if in answer to her prayer the Rottweilers started barking furiously and there, chatting to one of the guards and stroking the head of the no-longer snarling dog, stood Luke.

    `That's the one,' said Chessie reading her thoughts. `He's the nicest, strongest man you'll ever meet.'

    Luke has no money, thought Perdita, and, after the glitz of Palm Beach, she was never, never, going to be poor again.

    The divide between rich and poor was further intensified when they got to Miami Airport, which was its usual shambles of bewildered passengers and despairing hair-tearing insolent porters. Luke hadn't even had time to change his shirt which was soaked with sweat. His white jeans were

    filthy, and dust streaked one side of his face. Ophelia was still fighting colic. He ought to drop Perdita off and go straight back to her, but he couldn't tear himself away. She'd been so manic when she'd set off to see Chessie; now her eyes were glittering with unshed tears and her mouth trembling. Perhaps miraculously, she'd suddenly realized she was going to miss him. He bought her a vodka and tonic and they sat in the bar. Perdita, in whom deep unhappiness invariably manifested itself as bad temper, stared moodily at the other passengers; Luke stared at Perdita. Frantic excitement was generated because Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward were on the same flight and immediately wafted through to the VIP lounge.

    `Christ, he's attractive,' grumbled Perdita. `Why the hell can't I travel First?'

    Luke was tired and had to resist snapping at her that she was bloody lucky to have her return ticket paid for at all. Committed to play for Hal in Chicago, Houston, Detroit, and then Greenwich in the Fall, there was no way he'd get to England to see her this year.

    He took her hand. `I'm gonna miss you. Will you write?' Perdita shrugged. `I'm a stinking correspondent.'

    Not to Ricky you weren't, thought Luke, remembering

    the dozens of unanswered letters.

    `At least you'll have your own bed back,' Perdita tried to pull herself together, adding listlessly, `Thanks for everything. It's been great.'

    `What did Chessie say to you?' asked Luke.

    `Nothing,' said Perdita, about to blurt the whole thing out. `Oh, hell, that's all I need.'

    Coming towards her was her old Pony Club enemy, Trace Coley, clanking duty free and looking a million dollars.

    `Last time we met,' Perdita muttered to Luke, `I tried to drown her mother.'

    Trace, however, was prepared to suspend hostilities in order to swank.

    `Hello, Perdita, long time no see. What are you doing here, buying ponies?'

    `I'm bringing back two,' said Perdita defiantly. `Daddy bought me seven,' said Trace. `I'm playing medium goal with him and Drew Benedict and the mostheavenly Mexican out of Cowdray next season. I must check in. Let's gossip on the flight.' Then, glancing down at the label on Perdita's handluggage: `Oh, poor you. Economy gets so hot and smelly on this flight. What a pity you're not travelling First.'

    `She is, she is,' said a voice.

    Perdita gave a start. For there, lean as a spear in black jeans and a shirt the pale scarlet of a runner bean flower, stood Red. He was as high as a kite, his tiger eyes glittering, and absolutely reeking of Auriel's new scent.

    `Perdita, baby, I had to come and say goodbye. Hi, Luke.'

    `Do introduce me, Perdita,' shrieked Trace Coley whose eyes were popping like a squeezed peke. `You're Red Alderton, and you're having a walk-out with Auriel King-ham, and you're an absolutely brilliant polo player.'

    `I wouldn't argue with any of that,' said Red.

    He turned reproachfully to Luke. `How can you let this poor baby travel Economy?'

    Then he smiled wickedly at Perdita. `I never gave you a Christmas present, so I've upgraded you instead. Paul and Joanne are in the VIP lounge and are dying to meet you. Let's go and say hello.'

    Luke looked at his brother, his face expressionless. `You are an absolute shit, Red.'

    Whatever his feelings about Chessie, Ricky returned brown and incredibly chipper from Palm Springs. He was delighted that Perdita had improved so dramatically and that she had brought home two such good ponies.

    Tero, having driven Victor's grooms crackers on the journey calling piteously for Fantasma, had now chummed up with Spotty and the two were inseparable. Spotty, wearing three extra rugs and an expression of outrage on his red-and-white face at the arctic conditions that greeted him, was soon bickering with Wayne over who should be boss of the yard.

    The first time he and Tero were turned out, Kinta, who was a thug and a bully, went for the timid little mare, shoving her into the water trough and laying into her with teeth and feet. Immediately, Spotty bustled round the corner to Tero's rescue, and Kinta, who'd never come

    across a skewbald in polo or in her previous racing career, spooked and ran away in horror. After that, Ricky moved Spotty and Tero to another paddock, where, slavish with gratitude, Tero followed Spotty everywhere, but still had to be given a nose bag every day to stop Spotty and all the other ponies pinching her food.

    The Argentine ponies Ricky had smuggled in, through France in the end, arrived looking very poor and miserable, but soon picked up as the winter turned mild.

    The best tonic of all was that Ricky's elbow had recovered. Having played every day in the warmth of Palm Springs, he was back to his old dazzling form. This summer he would play high goal with Bas, Mike Waterlane and Dancer, and medium goal with Bas, Dancer and Perdita. At the beginning of March they started getting the ponies ready for the new season, walking them out, then trotting them, then riding them up and down the steep Rutshire hills to harden up their muscles. Ricky also applied for membership for Dancer and himself at the Rutshire Polo Club, and was stunned to receive a letter from Brigadier Hughie saying they would be unwelcome. Going straight to the top, Ricky rang David Waterlane, the Club President, who, after some huffing and puffing, admitted that Bart Alderton was behind the blackballing.

    `Chap's poured a lot of money into the club's diminishing funds over the past three years. Got Hughie eating out of the palm of his hand. Bart says Rutshire's reputation shouldn't be tarnished by allowing in two players with police records, one an ex-junkie, and,' David Waterlane added heavily, `a queer.'

    `Polo's accommodated plenty of those in the past,' said Ricky, `and bad hats too. Can't be the real reason.'

    `Bart's bought Rutminster Abbey,' admitted David. `Due to move in with Chessie in April. Doesn't want you bumping into Chessie week in week out at the club. See his point. Wouldn't like to spend every weekend avoiding Clemency. Put me off my game.'

    What did Fatty Harris think about all this? demanded Ricky.

    `Oh, his palm's been so liberally greased by Bart, he'll be able to bath in Margaux for the rest of his life. He's quite happy to send you and Dancer to perdition. And

    Miss Lodsworth's on his side. She's never really forgiven you for your disgusting language, or Dancer for his burst water-main. 'Fraid there's not much I can do about it.'

    Ricky was absolutely furious. Cirencester was a much better club than Rutshire, but it was twenty-five miles away instead of four, which was too far to hack to, and anyway his family had always played at Rutshire.

    Bas Baddingham, who'd been skiing when the blackballing took place, came roaring to Ricky's rescue. `Don't worry. We'll marshal support at the next AGM and get you reinstated.'

    The AGM was held on the third Sunday in March at the Dog and Trumpet in Rutminster High Street. Excitement that spring had arrived and a new polo season was on the way was slightly doused by an overnight blizzard. Perdita, who'd just passed her driving test, pinched Daisy's car to drive into Rutminster. The roads were very icy, and she enjoyed skidding all over them. She couldn't understand why her mother was so protective about a clapped-out Volkswagen and had even burst into tears when Perdita backed it into a wall the other day.

    And if she can afford a car, thought Perdita, pulling up with a jerk beside Brigadier Hughie's Rover, she can jolly well buy me a new pair of boots.

    The meeting was already packed. Brigadier Hughie waved Perdita to a lone empty seat in the second row on the left by the window. In front of her sat Sharon Kaputnik smothered in mink and Victor smothered in smugness over his recent knighthood. On the right sat a solid phalanx of players in tweed coats and check shirts, their heavily muscled arms and shoulders overflowing on either side of the back of their narrow gold chairs and making the rows look even fuller. The more highly handicapped players had suntans from playing abroad. The left side seemed to be largely inhabited by non-playing members, including Miss Lodsworth and her cronies, their capaciously drooping cashmere bosoms resting on their tweed-skirted bellies, their feet sensibly clad in brogues and coloured wool stockings. Miss Lodsworth, who was wearing burgundy-red tights to match her face, was making lists.

    `Bad language, five ponies abreast in Eldercombe High

    Street, loose grooms' dogs in Rutminster Park, cruelty, excessive use of whip,' wrote Miss Lodsworth in her masculine hand and glared at Perdita, who, having been guilty of at least three of these sins, glared back.