Polo (57 page)

    `Stop sneaking, Ethel,' said Drew, who was shivering from the cold. Perdita's playing brilliantly. Looks as though Ricky's going to clinch the first leg of his bet.' Then, dropping his voice: `I rang the hospital. Sukey's just had a daughter.'

    `Oh, I'm so thrilled for you.'

    `So am I. You and I can spend the night together. I'll go and see her straight after our match and be with you about nine.'

    Chessie, who had just applied lipstick to match her red suit and who didn't seem to go blue like everyone else, drifted towards Ricky as he rode back on to the field. For a second they stared at each other, then Chessie smiled.

    `Good luck, my darling, you can do it,' she murmured, pretending to tread in a divot. Then breaking off a long pale-grey strand of wool from her fringed shawl, she handed it quickly up to him. `Wear it on your lance.'

    `I love you,' Ricky called after her as he rode on. He was about to knot the wool round his stick, then realized he would be changing it and tied it to his whip. They would win now, he knew it.

    Early in the fourth chukka, Red narrowed the gap with a penalty, but a second later Ricky widened it again. Galloping down the field with love in his heart, he skedaddled like a child in a bending race round Dommie, then Red, dummied passed Seb and with two magical offside forehands found the flags: 5-3. The stand went crazy. As if Chessie's favour had put a spell on him, he went on to score three more goals.

    `Ricky France-Lynch has a secret weapon there,' explained Terry Hanlon, the Cowdray commentator, `and it's called practice. There he goes - eight goals of Rutshire dynamite - soon to be nine, if my spies are telling me right.

    Good to see you back on form, Ricky, oh, what a lovely shot, but it's hit the posts. And Luke Alderton gives him back the sort of pass all players dream about, and Ricky slams it in. Apocalypse lead 9-3.'

    In the fifth chukka, the Flyers tried repeatedly to score, but were foiled by the dogged bloody-minded courage of Apocalypse.

    On its green baize table the Gold Cup, which had been reflecting the desperate struggle on the field, seemed to be waiting to be carried home in triumph to Robinsgrove. Surely even Red couldn't score eight goals in one chukka.

    But now Apocalypse changed on to stick-and-ball horses, which were all they had left. Luke, getting on to Geoffrey, the hangover horse, kept up the pressure.

    `Cool it, you guys. Don't get over-confident. Red's scored seven goals in a chukka before now and his blood's up. Just keep rattling them, stop them scoring, above all stick to Red, Perdita, and we can do it,' he exhorted, clamping a great hand on Dancer and then on Perdita's back.

    Without Fantasma he felt like a mercenary who's run out of ammo in enemy territory, but he kept his fears to himself. Silently Ricky mounted Wayne. He was seven minutes away from his first leg and he didn't dare to hope. As they rode out for the last chukka their shirts were no longer white but black with mud - Apocalypse again. Already they could hear the Midhurst town band warming up for the presentation; `Four horsemen, riding, riding, riding'.

    `Come on, Nigger,' said Perdita clamping her legs round her fat black pony. `Why are you so fucking slow?'

    `You better rename him Snowflake if he wins Best Playing Pony,' said Luke with a grin. `It's being presented by some African prince. Oh, Jesus! No!'

    The others followed his gaze.

    `Shit,' whispered Ricky.

    `Oh, my God,' gasped Perdita in horror, for the Tigers were riding towards them on four of the most beautiful, glossy, well-muscled thoroughbred ponies she had ever seen. `Who the hell are they?'

    Inecita, Cecilia, Leila and Carmen - in a word,' said Luke bleakly. `I don't believe it, I simply do not believe it. Miguel must have flown them over.'

    He cantered up to Red. `What the fuck are you doing on those ponies?'

    Red grinned, white teeth flashing in a mud-caked face. `Dad was worried we were out of horses so he lent us four of his.'

    `Why isn't he playing them in his own match?'

    Red laughed. `He's so unselfish he thought our need was greater. After all, he really doesn't want Ricky to win the Gold Cup.'

    `And how does Victor feel riding his worst enemy's horses?'

    `I guess he hasn't noticed and he won't care as long as he wins.'

    The sixth chukka was crucifixion. On four matchless horses, who had each won Best Playing Pony in the Argentine Open, there was no defence. It was like putting three-legged bulldogs against greyhounds. And from the way Red and the twins were riding them, it was obvious they'd tried them out several times before. From the first throw-in Red scored goal after goal until the crowd, most of whom had no idea what had happened, were yelling on their feet. A wide-angled shot from Seb thirty seconds from the end of the match had the Tigers in front and now they had the wind behind them. Ricky was near suicide.

    `There's still time,' beseeched Luke. `For Christ's sake, settle down, you guys.'

    Then Victor, failing to control Inecita, barged across Dancer's line. Whoever converted would tie up the score and take the match into extra time.

    `I'll take it,' said Ricky.

    `You sure?' asked Luke.

    Dancer opened his mouth to protest, then realizing Ricky needed the ultimate responsibility, shut it again.

    Ricky turned, and for a moment stared at Chessie, who pointedly held up two crossed fingers; then he cantered Wayne round in a perfect arc before a totally silent crowd. Forward went his stick then back, then down it swooped like an eagle, meeting the ball perfectly so it flew straight and true between the posts. Then at the last moment a gust of wind tossed it against the right goal post and it bounced back. Apocalypse lunged forward, but the bell had gone.

    Perdita burst into floods of tears. `We've been robbed! We've been bloody robbed!'

    Luke cantered over and pulled her against his chest. Geoffrey and Nigger were so exhausted they just stood still, leaning against each other.

    The twins, looking very sheepish, rode up to shake hands, followed by an openly laughing Red.

    `Fuck off, the lot of you,' said Luke.

    With his arm round Perdita's shoulders he rode back to the pony lines where all the Apocalypse grooms were in tears and Ricky was sitting in the boot of his car, head in his hands, absolutely stunned.

    Perdita threw her arms round him. `They stabbed us in the back,' she sobbed frantically. `Oh, poor, poor Ricky.'

    `Why don't you bugger off?' snapped Luke to Cameron Cook and Venturer who were still avidly filming.

    Putting a coat round Perdita's shoulders and leaving her with Dancer and Daisy, who'd just arrived, Luke went off in search of his father whom he found putting on his knee pads for the second match.

    `You son-of-a-bitch,' he roared. `We had it in the bag and we were robbed. I've always stuck up for you, but, by God, I'm well and truly in the enemy camp now.'

    Bart looked up, as coldly angry as Luke was inflamed. `I know how to guard my own,' he said softly. `It's my marriage I'm fighting for. You're the one who betrayed me, right? Publicly helping Ricky to win his bet.'

    `What bet?' demanded Luke. `I don't know anything about a bet.'

    `You'd better ask your friend Dancer.'

50

    That night Luke had a blazing row with Dancer.

    `I've been working my ass off all summer trying to help Ricky win a bet everyone seems to have known about but me. Dad said I was being treacherous coming over here. I'd no idea how treacherous, and that son-of-a-bitch Ricky was in on it too.'

    Dancer shook his head vehemently. `It weren't Ricky's fault. You know how pissed off he was when I hired you.

    He wanted to win the Gold Cup without any help from the Aldertons. An' anyway your Dad started it by nicking Ricky's wife in the first place.'

    `Why the fuck didn't you level with me?'

    `You wouldn't have come,' said Dancer disarmingly. `I knew you was too effical. But I also knew you was the only guy who could sort out Ricky's game, and Perdita's too, for that matter. I knew how you felt about her, so I was doin' you a favour.'

    `Bullshit,' howled Luke. `You had no idea how I felt about her. I've been bloody conned.'

    But such is the nature of polo that all the players in the Gold Cup drama had to meet in the Cowdray Park Challenge Cup next week when the Tigers triumphed yet again. Luke, who didn't believe in prolonging rows, was speaking to his father again. On a totally recovered Fantasma, he was also big-hearted enough to set up all five goals scored by Red in the International at the end of July when America beat England 8-3, mostly because Ricky had lost so much form.

    Luke was worried about Ricky, who'd sunk into the deepest depression, but even more so about Perdita, who was very distant and most uncharacteristically subdued. She wasn't even excited when the whole Apocalypse team swanned off to Deauville for three weeks in August for the French and then the World Championships. Dancer had put them up in the five-star Hotel Normandie and as they wouldn't have to belt back to Robinsgrove after every match, they would have time to gamble at the casino, swim in the sea and enjoy race meetings, barbecues and endless parties. Deauville was polo at its most ritzy and glamorous. Luke hoped he would have a chance to get Perdita on his own, but he was filled with unease.

    And so everyone crossed the Channel to Deauville. In one of the first matches of the French Championships the Tigers were drawn against a local team whom they were expected to thrash.

    Polo in Deauville tends to take twice as long and start twice as late. The two grounds are situated inside the racecourse and accessible only between races. Nor can a chukka be started or a penalty taken while a race isgoing on. And, if French chic is achieved, like genius, by a supreme capacity for taking pains, the French players certainly took even longer than Red Alderton to smooth down their skin-tight breeches and tuck in their exquisitely cut polo shirts before taking the field.

    As usual therefore, the Tigers' match started late. Victor was champing at the delay because he had to fly to Geneva straight afterwards for a business meeting. Red was cold and wanted to go back to bed. It was a raw August day with a vicious breeze coming off the sea. Luke was still down at the stables waiting for the vet. As one of the French umpires had failed to turn up, Perdita was summoned down from the stands to take his place. She was very nervous because her French was extremely limited and she'd never umpired a match that big. Fortunately Jesus, the other umpire, was highly experienced.

    Because of the continued heavy rain in the past week, which had nearly washed the sponsor's tent into the sea, the smooth green pitch was churned up in an instant. Language grew worse as ponies slid all over the place and the ball hit divots and bounced awkwardly.

    Red promptly started playing dirty. No-one was better at pulling up in mock horror and pretending an opposition player had crossed his right of way. Marking him was a charming French boy who had bought Perdita a drink at the Hotel Normandie the previous night. He couldn't be a day over eighteen. Red rode him off so fiercely that he was almost sitting on the French boy's saddle.

    `Do that again,' said Perdita sharply, `and I'll blow a foul on you.'

    Ignoring her, Red increased the angle.

    Perdita blew her whistle and looked at Jesus, who disliked Red and had once been sacked by Victor; he nodded in agreement. Pointing to the sixty-yard mark Perdita awarded the French side a penalty, a free hit sixty yards from the goal line.

    Red promptly launched into such a storm of abuse that Perdita upped the penalty to forty yards.

    `Don't give me that shit,' yelled Red. `Bloody woman umpire.'

    Jesus nodded at Perdita, who upped the penalty to

    thirty, and left her, Jesus and Red all screaming at each other.

    Although a race had just started, racegoers in the stands had their binoculars firmly focused on the far more interesting row
in
the middle of the polo field. As Perdita awarded a goal to the other side, Red let rip.

    `You fucking bitch, don't you land that number on me.'

    `Off,' screamed Perdita, forgetting to consult Jesus. `You've got to be joking,' snarled Red. `When you look at the video, you'll see it wasn't a foul.'

    `When
you
look at the video,' shouted Perdita, `you'll see me sending you off!'

    `Off,' agreed Jesus happily.

    `Oh, c'mon, don't be silly, Perdita,' said the twins. Next moment the whole side, including Victor on his beloved Tiger Lily, were circling her like the tigers in Little Black Sambo. Any minute they'd turn into melted butter. Not even when all the Tigers' grooms in their black jeans and orange and black striped shirts threatened to pull Perdita off her pony would she give in.

    `You can't do this to your old friends,' pleaded Dommie. `Victor's paying us two grand a win. If we get knocked out now we lose a fortune. I won't be able to buy Rosie an engagement ring.'

    `You're over-reacting,' Seb told her, furiously.

    `I am not,' screamed Perdita. `Dommie and Ben Napier sent me off when I swore at the Prince of Wales. Alejandro's elder son in Argentina was suspended for four months for arguing. Count yourself bloody lucky,' she added to Red. `Off!
Vamos! Va't'en,
go on! Scram!'

    The French side took advantage of playing four against three to clinch the match. Soon word was sizzling round the polo community that not only had Red been sent off but the Mighty Tigers, winners of the Gold Cup, had been knocked out in the first round. The Tigers stormed off to the French polo authorities who, after a good deal of Gallic shrugging, said there was nothing they could do.

    Red was so angry he would have flown straight back to Paris to join Auriel, but he was committed to play in a charity match with the Prince of Wales the following afternoon which Auriel was flying down to watch.

    That afternoon was another bitterly cold day. Perdita, who'd squandered the entire grand Luke had given her to buy clothes on bikinis, shorts and sundresses before she left England, was glad she had pinched two cashmere jerseys which had recently found their way into Daisy's wardrobe. Her need was much greater than her mother's. She couldn't think why Daisy was always moaning about money if she could afford expensive clothes like these.

    Drew Benedict, freezing in the stands, was absolutely livid when Perdita rolled up wearing the dark brown cashmere polo neck he'd given Daisy last week, but he couldn't say anything, particularly as Sukey was breast-feeding little Charlotte under a Puffa beside him. He wished Sukey'd do it in the hotel. He was finding her presence at Deauville and the crying of little Charlotte increasingly irksome.

    Dommie Carlisle, scuttling into the stands just before the 4.15 race, had to forgive Perdita for putting the Tigers out of the Cup because he wanted to show her the huge emerald engagement ring he'd just bought for Rosie, the Irish nurse.

    `Lovely. Match her eyes,' said Perdita, relieved to be forgiven.

    `Where's Luke?' asked Dommie.

    `Gone to look at his great uncle's grave or something boring. Where's Rosie?'

    `Having a kip. We didn't get in till six o'clock this morning. Seb's gone to a bloodstock sale. I've had a bet on this race.' Dommie trained his binoculars on the race track.

    `I say,' he said, lowering his voice, `Seb and I found the spitting image of Tayger Lily pulling a milk cart in Le Havre. We tidied him up and sold him to Victor for Ł10,000 as Tayger Lily's half-brother. He's as quiet as a riding-school horse - perfect for Victor. That's how I afforded Rosie's ring.'

    `You
are
awful,' said Perdita, giggling. `You'll get caught one day. Christ, they start late here.'

    Dominic moved on to the subject of the Fancy Dress birthday party Victor was giving for Sharon at the Casino that night. The theme was Medieval and Mystery.

    `Rosie's going as Robert the Bruce's spider,' he said.

    `Luke won't like that,' said Perdita. `He's terrified of spiders. I thought I'd mug an onion man and go as the Lady of Shallot. I bet Chessie and Auriel and Sharon will spend fortunes on their costumes. Here they come at last,' she added, trying to sound detached as Red led the players on to the field.

    In the first chukka, Sharon's handsome Mexican, José, had a fall and lay flat on his back in the middle of the field. A second later his great black-clad whale of a wife had floundered on to the pitch shrieking and moaning and followed by six children and a nanny. By the time they had reached him, however, José had jumped up, dusted himself down and remounted, which meant the poor wife, nanny and children had to flounder desperately back to avoid getting run over by Red.

    `So uncool to behave like that,' said Perdita scornfully. `Christ, Red's playing badly,' said Dommie.

    `How good d'you reckon he really is?' asked Perdita. `If he's on form we win, it's as simple as that.'

    I loathe and detest Red, thought Perdita, but he was the

    only player she watched on the field.

    In the next chukka Red bore down on José, attempting to hook him and getting his pony's legs entangled with the back legs of José's bay pony. Red was so far out of his saddle that he couldn't save himself or his pony and crashed to the ground with both ponies on top of him. There was a horrible pause as the ponies struggled to their feet.

`He's moving. He's
OK,' said Dommie.

    `He's not,' whispered Perdita.

    Auriel, who'd just rolled up flanked by minders, ran gracefully on to the field as though she was doing classical ballet, throwing her arms round Red, begging him in her deep throaty tenor to be all right, and crying loudly, but not enough to make her mascara run: `Oh, Reddie, my darling. Oh, Reddie.'

    `Steady, go,' giggled Dommie, pretending to play a violin. `Stupid old ham.'

    `We must ambulance him to hospital at once,' moaned Auriel.

    Both Venturer and the
paparazzi,
out in force for thePrince of Wales, were capturing the full tragic scene when, like an unleashed Dobermann, Perdita erupted on to the pitch.

    `Back off, you fucking geriatrics, he belongs to me,' she screamed, sending two French doctors, two umpires and Auriel flying.

    With absolutely no thought for her mascara, she flung her arms round Red sobbing unrestrainedly. `Please, please don't die. I love you so much.'

    `Can I have that in writing?' said a muffled voice.

    Leaping away, Perdita realized that Red was quite all right and shaking with unrepentant laughter. Despite her frantic struggles, his hand clamped over the back of her neck and he pulled her down with all the muscle in his forearm and carried on kissing her until an enraged David Waterlane, who was umpiring, ordered him to stop fooling around and get on with the game.

    `Oh dear, oh dear,' murmured Dommie to a boot-faced Drew. `I wondered when that was going to happen. It was only a matter of time. Shits rush in where angels fear to tread. What the hell is Luke going to say?'

    Wriggling out of Red's embrace Perdita fled across the pitch with Venturer's film crew pounding after her. `Hang on a second,' yelled Cameron Cook.

    `If you think you're going to re-shoot that… ' howled Perdita. `Oh no!' The little bridge over the race track had just closed and she wouldn't be able to get across until after the next race.

    Ignoring the shifting rainbow of jockeys' silks in the distance and the announcement that they were under starter's orders, she scrambled over the five-foot railing, tore across the track and only just missed being trampled to death by the 4.45.

    Several apoplectic race officials now joined in the chase as well as Venturer and the
paparazzi.
But Perdita was too swift for them. Shopkeepers, raising their blinds after the long afternoon siesta, paused in amazement as this fierce Valkyrie with wild eyes, inflamed cheeks and flying hair pounded past sending holiday makers for six, running until she reached the Hotel Normandie with its hundreds of white balconies, fretting flags and brilliantly coloured flowerbeds. She had just locked herself into her