Polo (51 page)

    Declan quite understood their leaving early. Maud, who was pathologically jealous of her daughter, chuntered with disapproval, but was secretly relieved. Only a few guests, realizing they were going, fought their way through the snowstorm like arctic explorers to wave them off.

    `No, you can't go too,' Caitlin O'Hara told Gertrude who was whining irritably, `or you'd have to spend six months in quarantine on the way home.'

    As Rupert, now in a dark suit, did a last-minute check of the helicopter, Taggie came out of a side door. Wearing a scarlet wool coat over shiny black boots, with her long hair lifting in the wind, she made a brilliant splash of colour.

    `Have my bouquet,' she said shyly, throwing it to Daisy. `Rupert's so thrilled with your painting of Rocky. It's his best present.'

    As Rupert was about to help Taggie into the helicopter, Tabitha hurled herself on her new stepmother.

    `I want to go on the honeymoon,' she sobbed.

    `She could really,' said Taggie, looking up at Rupert,

    `You both could,' she added taking Marcus's hand. `No, they bloody couldn't,' said Rupert.

    `Throw some confetti,' said Billy Lloyd-Foxe, giving Tabitha a huge handful to distract her. But as she flung it, most of the pink-and-blue circles were caught up in the whirling blizzard and swept away.

    `Where are Taggie and Rupert?' demanded Rupert's mother, from the warmth of the drawing room.

    `Gorn,' said Rupert's father, looking out of the window on what used to be his valley.

    `Strordinary behaviour in the middle of one's own wedding. Damn rude I call it,' grumbled Rupert's mother. `Anyway, as I was saying, my darling old cook dropped dead this morning.'

    `Before lunch?' said Rupert's father, shocked. `How frightfully selfish.'

    `So I've no one to cook for me.'

    `Come and live with me in the Ritz.'

    `I don't think Rudolpho would like it.'

    `Who's he?'

    `My husband.'

    `Thought you were married to someone called Luigi.' `That was the one before.'

    Declan waved as the helicopter soared into the white night, lighting up the swirling snowflakes and the igloos that had formed over yew tree and rose bush.

`And they are gone, ay ages long ago,'
he said huskily,
`These lovers fled away into the storm.
God bless them both.'

    As Daisy handed him her last Kleenex, he turned to her, smiling through his tears. `And you got the bride's flowers, darling,' he touched her cheek. `You're so pretty. You deserve a decent husband.'

    `Thank you,' said Daisy.

    `Even if he is somebody else's,' whispered a voice behind her.

    Leaping round, Daisy found Drew with the brown velvet collar of his coat turned up, and his blond eyelashes thick with snow.

    `I thought you'd gone.'

    `I dropped Sukey and came straight back. I'm sorry about what she said, but it is you that I love.'

44

    In March Luke flew through similar snowstorms over white-capped peaks to Denver, Colorado. He had arranged to meet Dancer who was in the middle of a punishing, but

    wildly successful, forty-five-concert tour across America to coincide with the launch of his new album:
Four Horsemen.
Dancer's noisy entourage had taken over the Warwick Hotel, which was barricaded up like Fort Knox. Four security men, screaming `He's gonna bed, for Chrissake,' to the hordes of fans stamping their feet in the snow outside, smuggled Luke in.

    After two hours on stage, during which he reckoned to run six miles and lose as many pounds to the accompaniment of rockets, squibs, flame throwers, videos and millions of watts of flashing lights, Dancer was slumped on a sofa, eating doughnuts and unenthusiastically sipping herbal tea sweetened with honey to protect his voice.

    He had kicked off his shoes and undone the top buttons of the crumpled, white, Regency shirt he'd worn on stage. His streaked mane, now dark with sweat, was drawn into a pony tail. The famous face was tanned and flushed with colour, and with the light behind him it was hard to tell how much of this was stage make-up. The demoniacally glittering eyes were hollowed and bloodshot. He looks more like Mephistopheles than a fallen angel, thought Luke.

    `Christ, I could murder a bottle of Bourbon.' Dancer winced slightly as Luke's powerful handshake pressed a plethora of heavy metal rings into his hand. Wiv sixty-thousand people screamin' at you, it takes about three hours to come down off the high. Sit down. What can I get you?'

    `Bourbon'd be great,' said Luke.

    Dancer nodded curtly to a minion with strawberry-pink hair who was eyeing Luke with considerable excitement.

    `I just love the album,' said Luke. `The whole of Palm Beach Polo Club is thrumming to the beat of the "Four Horsemen". Blacksmiths shoe to it, grooms strap to it, every car stereo booms it across the pitches. It's the best tune since "High Noon". Thanks,' Luke grinned lazily up at the minion who went as pink as his hair.

    `How many more weeks have you got to do?' he went on, even making an armchair look tiny as he sat down.

    'Abart a month and ten cities,' sighed Dancer. `God, I wish it was over.'

`I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep,'
murmured Luke.

    `Nice,' said Dancer, selecting another doughnut. `About 10,000 miles in my case. What d'you want to eat? The T-bones come off dinosaurs here.'

    Luke shook his head.

    `Well, perhaps later,' said Dancer. `I wish we could go to a restaurant, but we'd only get 'assled. Leave the Bourbon out and 'op it, you lot,' he added to the entourage.

    `We oughta stay. You're going to talk terms,' insisted the lawyers in their pin-striped suits.

    `We oughta stay,' said the minders, eyeing the breadth of Luke's shoulders.

    `You oughta get out of that shirt, Dancer. It's sopping,' said his dresser.

    `Piss off,' snapped Dancer.

    `Trust you to keep all the nice ones to yourself, Dancer. Ouch!' squealed the pink-haired minion as a doughnut hit him on the forehead. `Bye, bye, Luke. So nice not to be allowed to meet you.'

    Reluctantly, grumbling, the entourage dispersed.

    Luke picked up a photograph on the side table of a jubilant Apocalypse team winning the Royal Windsor Cup. The print had obviously been chosen because, for once, Ricky was looking relaxed and smiling. Perdita, flushed and sweaty, didn't look her best. But Luke's heart still jumped in pain.

    `How is she?' he asked, his face impassive.

    `Tricky,' said Dancer. `Bitching at that lovely mother, rowing with Ricky, screaming at umpires, believing the world owes her Ł50,000 a year after tax. Little Miss McEnroe, in fact. But rewarding.'

    `Situation normal,' said Luke.

    `Every bit of affection going on the animals,' went on Dancer, fishing, `but I reckon she's still a virgin.'

    Luke drained half his Bourbon. `I wouldn't know.'

    `She the only reason you're taking the job?' asked Dancer, gouging the jammy centre out of another doughnut and chucking the rest away.

    `Yes and no. I guess your album's great, and you could play real good polo if you spent more time, and Ricky's potentially the best player in the world, and I've alwayswanted to visit Stratford.' Sweating from the central heating, Luke took off his US Open bomber jacket. Underneath he wore the much-patched blue-and-green check shirt Perdita had given him the Christmas before last. It was the nearest he could get to her.

    Ugly, but seriously attractive, decided Dancer, as he admired the generous friendly face and the marvellous body. But Luke looked weary beneath the freckles, like some young Civil War general who's been fighting without sleep for too many days in the burning sun, but still has to radiate calmness and confidence to the troops.

    `We gotta win the Gold Cup this year,' said Dancer flatly.

    `You're the boss,' said Luke, `but you've all gotta get your act together. You never fielded the same team twice last year and I know it's hard when you're working, but you've gotta make time to practise.'

    Dancer smiled. `I'll make twelve million on this tour. I guess I could take May, June and July off. I can write the odd song in the mornings.'

    `You'll be stick and balling every morning.'

    Dancer shuddered. `Fucking hell. The nick cured me of getting up early. Ricky's been abroad buying ponies. D'you need any?'

    `I'll bring ma own,' said Luke.

    Oh, that straightforwardness and that deep, husky, Florida drawl, thought Dancer. It conjured up images of orange juice, sunshine, blond beaches and all the time in the world to train ponies and make love. Perdita needed her swollen head examined.

    `I'm looking forward to meeting your dream machine,' he said.

    `Fantasma?' Luke's face softened. `She's a once-in-alifetime mare. I'm two goals better when I ride her, and she's so clever. If I play her in jeans, she'll buck me off, but if I put on boots and whites and a polo shirt, she knows she's going to a match and becomes the soul of responsibility.' He blushed slightly. `I guess I just adore her.'

    Having heard from Ricky how pushed Luke always was for cash, Dancer started picking polish off his nails. Now about dosh, I was finking… ' After all, he had sent the lawyers and the accountants packing and it was

    his money `… about $100,000, plus all expenses, airfare for you and the 'orses, and of course a car, and you'll stay with Ricky.'

    `That sounds just about OK,' said Luke, trying to be cool. Then he laughed a slow, rumbling, infectious laugh. `Jesus, man, it's fantastic, beyond my wildest dreams, and they're pretty wild sometimes. You sure?'

    `Course,' said Dancer. `Fuck the lawyers! And it's a grand every time we win.'

    For a second Luke frowned. `My father does that. Makes players super-aggressive.'

    `Your father wins a lot of matches,' pointed out Dancer, `and he's coming to England this year. What's he going to say about you playing for the enemy?'

    `That's my problem,' said Luke.

45

    The weeks until Luke left for England were the longest of his life. He made a day chart and through sleepless nights read a lot of poetry, and for the first time stick and balled in jeans in the hope of getting a decent tan, but merely ended up with more freckles. He had, however, played more magnificent polo, managing with Angel's and Fantasma's help to power Hal Peters' Cheetahs to the Finals of the Rolex and the World Cup. Here he was only beaten by the O'Briens and his father, who was predictably foaming at the goal-mouth that Luke was off to play for Ricky. Hal Peters, who had very reluctantly released Luke for the summer, said he would be praying daily that Luke would not succumb to Dancer's wicked ways.

    Sitting on Concorde, being plied with champagne and caviar which he was too excited to eat, Luke wasn't sure he hadn't already succumbed. His only sadness was that Leroy wasn't sitting beside him in a collar and tie. The hulking black dog had seemed to shrink to pug-size as he crept into Luke's suitcase, burrowing frantically under the new sweaters bought for an English summer, gazing up at Luke with despairing eyes. Luckier were Fantasma and the rest of Luke's ponies, who, having completed quarantine, would be over with the grooms in a fortnight.

    Normally Luke would have insisted on travelling with them, but fortunately Fantasma had at last suspended hostilities with Lizzie, Luke's comely head groom, and grudgingly allowed her to look after her when Luke wasn't around. His longing to see Perdita again and Dancer's increasingly frantic pleas to come and sort out Apocalypse had also sent him on ahead.

    Luke was so nervous and excited at the thought of Perdita coming to meet him that he had drenched one shirt with sweat. He took another from his overnight bag. Yellow and white striped, it came from Worth Avenue and had been given him with a honey-coloured silk tie `to match his eyes' by Lizzie and the other grooms for his birthday, the previous day.

    It had never occurred to Luke to match something to his eyes. He considered his mug too ugly to be enhanced by anything he wore. At least the Concorde Johns were big. Usually he could hardly get his shoulders through those buckling doors. It was a beautiful shirt, but his hands were shaking so much he couldn't do up the cufflinks, so he rolled up the sleeves and left off the honey-coloured tie.

    It seemed strange to leave New York in blazing lunchtime sunshine and arrive three hours later in the middle of the English night - like plunging into Hades. He anticipated a long wait at customs. Seeing polo sticks, officials invariably imagined drugs or illegal currency and tended to disembowel everything. But under Dancer's aegis he was whizzed straight out into the airport, his knees hardly able to carry him, his crashing heart bruising his ribs, walking past the eager faces, searching everywhere for Perdita. But she wasn't there. It was as though Miguel O'Brien had clouted a penalty two slap into his belly. Twenty minutes later the crowd had dispersed. Fighting despair, exhaustion and post-champagne depression, Luke mindlessly gazed at
The New York Times
crossword. If he nipped off to call Ricky's, he'd be bound to miss her. Give it five more minutes.

    Then he caught his breath, for, pummelling her way through the crowd forming to meet the next plane, scowling with fury like a winning yachtsman pegged by a sudden squall, came Perdita. There was a smudge on her cheek,

    her hair was escaping from its plait, she still wore breeches, boots and a ripped polo shirt, but, as choirs instinctively turn eastwards in the Creed, everyone swivelled round to gaze at her.

    `Bloody, bloody traffic,' she screamed. `I've been in a traffic jam on the M4 for over an hour, and when I parked the car outside some dickhead in a peaked cap rushes up and tells me I can't, so I left it. I expect it's been towed away by now with Wayne's bridle just back from the menders in it. Christ, I hate this country.'

    `Hush, sweetheart. I've come 3,000 miles and I'd like to say hello.' Luke held out his arms and she went into them. For a second she was rigid with rage, then she relaxed against him. Her hair smelt of sweat, the stables and cigarette smoke, but her clear, white forehead glowed like the moon. Then she looked up and grinned.

    `I am really pleased to see you. I need you so badly.'

    `You do?' asked Luke, madly encouraged.

    `To sort out my game,' said Perdita. `I'm playing like

    shit, and that asshole Ricky won't let me near the ball.' Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, Luke laughed. `You haven't changed.'

    `I didn't have time. I came straight from the yard. D'you know, the Kaputnik Tigers thrashed us 8-0 yesterday, and Victor didn't do a bloody thing all the match. Oh yes he did, he fell off.'

    Luke went to bed deeply depressed. Ricky had welcomed him guardedly and without any friendliness, making it clear he was the boss of Apocalypse and would only seek Luke's advice if he needed it.

    After Florida in the nineties, Robinsgrove seemed bitterly cold. As a polo player, Luke was used to lousy accommodation, but there was something particularly chilling about Ricky's spare room, with the heavy, dark furniture, bare floors, apple-green walls and a royal-blue Best Playing Pony blanket instead of a counterpane. There were no flowers, and a pile of yellowing 1981
Tatlers
and
Harpers and Queens
indicated that no one had used the room since Chessie left.

    Woken next morning by the cuckoo, however, he looked down Eldercombe Valley and freaked. Below him lawns,dotted with daisies, flowed into an orchard foaming with coral-pink apple blossom, then into paddocks full of buttercups and sleek, grazing ponies, then falling into the jade-green ride which fell three-quarters of a mile down between wooded cliff walls to the little cottage where Perdita lived. The sweet scent of the montana clambering round his window and the primulas and dark red wallflowers below were fighting a losing battle with the rampant reek of the wild garlic which was sweeping the woods in an emerald-green tidal wave.

And whoever wakes in England,

Sees some morning unaware,
thought Luke.

    Wandering downstairs in search of breakfast, he paused to examine the photographs in the hall. Christ, that was a Westchester team beside the grandfather clock. He found Ricky drinking black coffee, feeding pieces of sausage to Little Chef and making lists matching ponies to players for the medium-goal match at the Rutshire Polo Club that afternoon.

    `This house is incredible,' said Luke. `And the view from my room is to die for, and who are all those guys in the photographs in the hall?'

    `Oh, various relations,' said Ricky, uninterested.

    Luke admired the drawings of ponies crowding the kitchen walls. `Those are neat. Who did them?'

    `Perdita's mother. Not bad, is she? She's just painted Rupert Campbell-Black's wife, Taggie. Even Rupert liked it after the hundredth sitting.'

`Paint must never hope to reproduce that faint half-flush that
dies along her throat,'
murmured Luke. `What's she like - Perdita's mother?'

    Ricky looked up from his lists and frowned. `Sweet, like a hot bath after hunting. I wonder if Wayne's fit enough to play two chukkas.'

    To Ricky's and Perdita's irritated envy, Dancer had provided Luke with a brand-new, dark green Mercedes, stuffed full of classical tapes. As
Don Giovanni
serenaded nesting birds on the way to the match, Luke was so knocked out by the beauty of the Rutshire countryside that he kept forgetting to drive on the left side of the road. Like sleeping, yellow, Labrador puppies, the ancient Cotswold

    villages seemed to sprawl across the wooded valleys. The fierce sapphire of the bluebells had been faded by a hot April to pale periwinkle-blue, but the verges frothed with cow parsley, the fields were full of cowslips, silver cuckoo flower and leaping lambs, and many of the trees were putting out acid-green leaves against a threatening navy-blue sky.

    To the right Perdita pointed out David Waterlane's splendid Queen Anne house, peeping over its dark fan of yew hedge, and the sweep of land Rupert and Bas had snapped up on which to build polo yards.

    Then, driving through large, lichened gates up a long drive of beech trees, passing little gazebos and towers on the edge of grassy rides or adding lustre to a view, they finally reached the clubhouse and the fields with their ring of splendid trees and the magnificent stands donated by Bart.

    The presence of both the Prince of Wales and Dancer Maitland in the same match had attracted a much larger crowd than usual for a Thursday afternoon. Perdita, who had changed into her black shirt with the red horse on the front, and who was more nervous than she cared to admit of playing in front of Luke again, shot off to the pony lines. She was enraged to go slap into Daisy.

    `What are you doing here?'

    `Cheering you on,' said Daisy, not altogether truthfully. Drew was playing for opposing Rutminster Hall with David Waterlane, the Prince and an underhandicapped Chilean called José.

    `Is Luke playing?' asked Daisy.

    `How many times do I have to tell you fifteen's the limit for medium goal? Luke and Ricky add up to sixteen between them. We're playing with Dancer and Mike Waterlane, who'll be useless because his father's playing for the other side.'

    `Is Luke here?'

    `Over there, listening to some stupid Mozart tape,' and she raced off to find Ricky yelling at Louisa, who'd replaced Frances as head groom and who'd put in the wrong bridle for Tero.

    Fischer-Dieskau finished the aria. Coming down to earth, wishing he was as successful with women as Don

    Giovanni, Luke discovered an adorable brunette tapping on his window. Unable to find the button to lower it, he opened the door and the next moment was being licked all over by a large, scruffy English setter.

    `I'm desperately sorry,' gasped the brunette, ineffectually trying to tug the dog off.

    `It's OK. I like dogs, particularly when they come on the end of such pretty ladies.'

    The brunette blushed. `I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm Daisy Macleod. I wanted to thank you for being so kind to Perdita.'

    Luke's jaw dropped. From Perdita's chronically unflattering descriptions he'd expected some bushy-haired middle-aged weirdo with vinaigrette stains all over her caftan. Christ, she's not much older than me, he thought.

    `It was so wonderful of you to give her Tero last Christmas,' went on Daisy. `She's so adorable. She used to be petrified of me, but she wintered in the field near our, or rather Ricky's, cottage. I used to feed the ponies carrots and Tero'd always lurk at the back, never barging like the others. Then I discovered she adored toast and Marmite, and we used to have secret trysts behind hawthorn bushes so I could feed her when the others weren't looking. She's got such a sweet way of coming up and giving you a little nudge in the back. She got so tame, she came into the kitchen while we were having Christmas dinner. She adores Spotty; they lie down side by side. Perdita says ponies never normally do that in case their legs get entangled. I'm sorry,' she flushed again, `I didn't mean to bore you.'

    `Bore me?' said Luke. `I'm just blown away how young you are. You haven't got a portrait getting all wrinkled in the attic?'

    `Only ones painted by me,' giggled Daisy.

    `I saw your drawings in Ricky's kitchen. If I save up, will you do Fantasma when she comes over?'

    `I'll do her for nothing after all you did for Perdita. She'd never have survived Argentina without you.'

    Goodness, he's tall, thought Daisy, as Luke got out of the car. And what a friendly, charming and amiable face - you felt you could tell him anything.

    Daisy shivered in the sharp east wind which whistled across the field. She'd been baking when she'd left the

    shelter of Snow Cottage, particularly as she'd just blow-dried her hair for Drew. Not wanting to waste a chance to get brown she had unearthed an ancient, blue sun-dress with lacing across the front, which was now strained horizontally across her breasts. Duo-tanned legs on their fifth day were turning purple. Taking off his US Open jacket, Luke put it round her shoulders.

    `You'll need it, coming from Florida,' stammered Daisy. Luke grinned. `I'm tough.'

    What a lovely man, thought Daisy.

    `Will you come to dinner tonight?' she blurted out. But before Luke had time to answer, Perdita had thundered up on Spotty.

    `What a cock-up! Neither Dancer nor Mike has arrived. The Prince has got to be in London to unveil some plaque by seven and Ricky's having a blazing row with that prat Harris who says we've got to forfeit if the match doesn't start on time.'

    `Your mother's just asked me to dinner,' said Luke. `I don't know what Ricky's plans are. Why don't we eat out?'

    `Bloody stupid idea,' snapped Perdita. `Ricky'll be in no mood to go anywhere if we have to play two against four,' and she stormed off.

    Luke grinned at Daisy. `Let's go find a seat.'

    On the way they passed Ricky shouting in the pony lines. Kinta's bandages were too tight. Spotty had the wrong martingale, Tero the wrong bit. Luke hoped Ricky was just psyching himself up.