Polo (73 page)

64

    Perdita was in turmoil. There was no doubt Red was playing her up. It was as if, spurred on by the media attention showered on Angel, he wanted to establish himself as the chief headturner, the one the girls flocked round the most.

    He was also furious with Perdita for playing so badly in the semi-final of the Queen's Cup. Since then he had hardly touched her, and Perdita, deaf, dumb and blind with love, didn't know how to play it. She should have backed off and flirted with other men. Instead she made scenes, then, overwhelmed with remorse, crawled back again with morale plummeting.

    The Polo Ball at Hurlingham the following week didn't help matters. Bart, furious they'd been beaten by the Tigers, who'd in turn been smashed by Apocalypse in the final, insisted that all the Flyers turned up. It was a foul night with torrential rain drumming a million, irritable fingers on the roof of the marquee, flattening the blue hydrangeas and preventing anyone stealing off into the romantically shadowed garden glades.

    Perdita, who had a black eye, a tooth knocked out and a swollen purple lip from playing in the Royal Windsor and had to play in an All-Ladies match at the Royal Berkshire the following day, longed to back down.

    `If you hadn't made me cut my hair off,' she stormed at Red, `I could at least have trailed it over my face. Now I just look hideous.'

    Red, by contrast, always looked his most desirable in a dinner jacket. He had no truck with white tuxedos, or coloured ties, shirts or cummerbunds. Just black and white, perfected after ten fittings and setting off his beech-leaf colouring.

    Bart, having annexed a table for six, promptly disappeared to telephone. Red, who was in a strange, detached mood, took advantage of his father's absence to bitch up Chessie, who was looking heart-breaking in Prussian-blue strapless taffeta with white roses dyed Prussian blue in her hair.

    Angel, whose mood was anything but detached, was attaching himself to every blonde he could find. Aware that she had lost him, but unable to tear herself away, Bibi was near to suicide. Looking round at all the smooth brown backs, the shining manes, the jewelled, lit-up, happily chatting faces, she gave a sob.

    `I must be the only ugly woman in polo.'

    Perdita, who couldn't get drunk because of the All-Ladies match next day, took another slug of Perrier.

    `That makes two of us,' she said gloomily.

    `But you'll be beautiful when the bruises go,' said Bibi despairingly.

    Realizing she should have contradicted Bibi's earlier remark, Perdita said quickly, `But you're terrific-looking.' Idly Red turned Bibi's profile to face him.

    `I don't know why you don't have a nose job. Then you'd be fine.'

    `Then she'd look just like you, you mean,' snapped Chessie. `If you had a heart job, you'd be fine. Yes, I'd love to come and dance,' she added, grabbing Dommie Carlisle who was sidling past.

    `I'm on my way to the Gents,' protested Dommie.

    `Well, you won't find any at this table,' said Chessie.

    She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman in the room. Eyes followed her. Men pressed their cheeks against their partners so they could gaze undetected as she passed. The Prussian-blue taffeta seemed part of her body like a fish's tail. The roses in her greeny-gold hair gave her the look of some naiad.

    Red, flanked by two girls miserably aware of not feeling beautiful, watched Chessie lazily.

    What's bitten her?' he asked Bibi.

    `Dad's been calling Mom about me and Angel. Ricky's been talking to Dancer and Rupert all evening and hasn't asked her to dance. Take your pick,' said Bibi.

    `Any news of Luke?' asked Red.

    `Good,' said Bibi, cheering up for a second. `The last op's been a total success. And he's talking about starting a green pony clinic in Palm Beach. You know how he could always sort out anything difficult.'

    `Didn't work with Perdita,' drawled Red.

    `Don't be bitchy,' said Bibi. `Oh, Christ.'

    Through a gap in the dancers, she could see Angel bopping with Jesus's baby sister, whose sense of rhythm was as good as his. All her seventeen-year-old peanutbutter-coloured body seemed to be bouncing out of her gold dress.

    Seeing his worst enemy's wife miserably neglected, Drew Benedict felt it was not only a duty but a pleasure to rescue her.

    `May I have this dance?'

    Bibi looked up with a start. `Oh my God, Drew. How are you?'

    `OK. Talking's a bit painful. But I've never been into yattering.'

    `I'm so sorry about last week.'

    `Thank you for the flowers.'

    `They were from all of us,' stammered Bibi. `Angel should never have… I guess he was provoked.'

    `Get up,' said Drew gently, `and we'll provoke him some more.' Then, as Bibi slid into his arms: `Has anyone ever told you you've got the most beautiful body in polo.'

    `Prettier than Malteser's?'

    `Much,' said Drew.

    `Wow!' Perdita turned to Red.
`That
could cause some problems.'

    Looking round in mid-gyration, Angel saw Bibi laughing up at Drew. With a growl, he broke away from Jesus's sister. Dommie, returning with Chessie and sizing up the situation, blocked Angel's path by shoving Chessie into his arms.

    `Dance with your stepmother-in-law, Angel, I truly must go and have a slash.'

    Red and Perdita were left alone. She wanted to dance so desperately, but she was damned if she was going to beg.

    `Are you coming to the Ladies' match tomorrow?' `No,' said Red, filling up his glass.

    `Please come.' I go to every match in which he's playing, she thought.

    `I don't want to.'

    `Auriel's playing.'

    `You are totally irrational,' snapped Red. `You'd raise hell if I came saying it was because I wanted to see her, if I don't come, you'll complain I'm neglecting you.'

    `I'm sorry,' said Perdita humbly. `Christ, talk of the devil.'

    `Hi, Red,' said Auriel, `I've just come from the airport. Victor and Sharon persuaded me to drop by.'

    She was looking stunning and, in her starkly simple, black linen suit amidst all the bare shoulders and ball dresses, curiously seductive. Her perfect ankles were not remotely swollen from the flight.

    `Shall we have a dance for old time's sake?' she added to Red.

    `Old is the operative word,' snarled Perdita.

    `Don't be bitchy, Perdita,' said Auriel. `Under the circumstances I would have thought you could afford to be generous.'

    Sitting alone at the table, Perdita was suddenly aware that people didn't like her any more. The twins, who never bore grudges and who'd been buying drinks for Victor, who'd sacked them only last year, were avoiding her. Ricky had cut her dead just now. Bas had nodded unsmiling and walked passed. Her erstwhile great mate, Dancer, couldn't wait to get away from her and now Red was dancing with Auriel, smiling affectionately down at her, holding her tiny waist as though it were the stem of a glass of priceless brandy he was about to drink.

    I must not make a scene, I must not make a scene, she told herself. In the looking glass she could see her black eye coming through the make-up. She looked like a battered fiancée.

    She was saved by a roll of drums and the bandleader announcing that, as the rain had stopped, the fireworks would take place after all. But as everyone surged outside, her isolation seemed even more apparent. Kicking off her high heels she soothed her aching feet in the drenched grass. Nor did she care that her long white dress trailed along the ground snagging on twigs and rose thorns. Living with Red had accustomed her to throwing clothes out after one wearing if she didn't like them.

    Roman candles in silver, pink and yellow were lighting up the night. Spluttering like me, thought Perdita. She hoped there weren't any dogs loose in the nearby streets who might be frightened by the bangs. For a second, after the brilliant light, it seemed almost dark in the dripping garden.

    Then almost immediately the big Catherine wheels came alive, slowly at first, then faster and faster, accelerating into fiery revolving chrysanthemums like an affair taking off, like her and Red. Oh God, it hurt to think of that first night in Deauville.

    Miserably she watched the Catherine wheels burn out until they were only dim red glows on their posts.

    Rockets were now going up in swift succession with a whistling hiss, as though they were vying to touch the stars, then erupting into a cascade of rival stars. One went sideways and lodged in the heart of a huge oak trunk, writhing and jumping abortively. That's even more like me, thought Perdita. Did everything have to burn out?

    As rose-red and royal-blue flares exploded into the sky, to the smell of sulphur and brimstone was added an overpowering waft of Diorissimo. Glancing right, Perdita gasped as she saw Ricky and Chessie under a huge livid yellow catalpa, gazing at each other like souls in hell.

    Frantically Perdita looked for Bart. He was coming towards her, clutching his telephone.

    `Seen Chessie?' he asked curtly. `We gotta go.'

    `Oh look, isn't that beautiful?' Desperate to distract him,

    Perdita pointed to the word `Polo' written in red, white and

    blue shimmering and erupting against the russet night. `That's neat,' said Bart.

    `Chessie was dancing,' said Perdita.

    `I'll go find her,' said Bart, plunging back into the house.

    The display was ending in a massive explosion of coloured stars. War must sound like this, thought Perdita.

    Chessie and Ricky had gone, but in the shade of a large magnolia, Perdita imagined she caught a glimpse of Sharon and David Waterlane. For a second she thought that little Victor was rooted to the spot with wonder at the fireworks until she realized that his high-heeled boots were plugged into the wet lawn.

    To her left stood Bibi, her face round with excitement, her lips parted, suddenly pretty. Fascinated, envious, Perdita watched Drew's fingers sliding down the inside of Bibi's arm, pausing to brush her breast with his knuckles, then sliding his fingers into hers as the garden went dark again. He must be doing it deliberately to wind Angel up.

    Queuing for her coat five minutes later, Perdita listened to a rapturous Sukey.

    `D'you know, we made fifteen thousand on the auction. I was terrified that lovely Zandra Rhodes dress wouldn't reach its reserve. But Dancer Maitland bought it - so sweet.' Then, lowering her voice to Mrs Hughie, she confided, `He's
frite-fly nice
for a queer.'

    `Probably going to wear it himself,' said Chessie.

    Bart, who'd sold his London house to realize capital, was flying straight back to New York with Bibi to mastermind some take-over before the Gold Cup. Red, because he couldn't be bothered to drive back to Bart's house in Sussex, had booked himself and Perdita into the Savoy. Chessie had also booked a room there and to Red's absolute fury came along to their suite for a drink.

    `I do not want to listen to her bitching all night about my father,' he said, going off to bed and slamming the door behind him. So poor Perdita had to sit up until dawn listening to Chessie sobbing her heart out.

    `I can't stand it any more. I know he loves me but he's so appallingly uncompromising. Says I've got to leave Bart or nothing.'

    It seemed unfair, too, that Perdita had to leave Red in bed, but she was determined to have her tooth capped before she drove down to meet Auriel.

    Outside, London had recovered its youth, the rain had washed the dust off the plane trees and heightened the reticulated giraffe-patterning of their long, lanky trunks. Bronze workmen were stripping off in the sunshine. As Perdita came out of the dentist, however, a cloud blacker than her bruised eye hung over the west. Ringing the Royal Berkshire she discovered the match had been cancelled.

    Bliss, thought Perdita, she could go back to the Savoy for a jolly lunch with Red. She hadn't had a day off for ages. It was lovely to be in London. The girls looked so pretty in their summer dresses; people were drinking outside pubs; the flower shops were a riot of colour.

    Stopping off at Harvie & Hudson, Perdita bought their latest shirt, lilac and pale blue stripes, as a present for Red. If it clashed with his hair she could always wear it.

    Maids were clearing away breakfast as she got back to the Savoy. A `Do Not Disturb' sign hung on the door of their room. Red would sleep all day given the opportunity, thought Perdita fondly as she let herself in very quietly. Then she heard voices. He must be watching television.

    `I'm back,' she barged into the bedroom. `The match was cancelled and I've bought you the most divine shirt.' The words shrivelled on her lips, for, lying in bed, one light gold, the other darker gold, were Chessie and Red. Chessiewas lying on her belly. Red was kissing her shoulders, caressing her bottom with one hand, the other was buried in her pubic hair. For a moment they all stared at each other.