‘Do look,’ said Seb, nudging Dommie. ‘Grace is about to urge Mrs F-L to exercise a little decorum.’
‘Decorum’s a nice name for a dog,’ said Dommie. ‘Then I could exercise it.’
Inside Bart’s limo the new leather smelt like a tack shop. Grace had been a good wife to Bart. Twenty-one years ago, she had taken this roaring roughneck and turned him into a tycoon. She had provided him with the contacts, the friendships, the staff, the right silver and china at her dinner parties, where important people met the important people they wanted to meet. Grace was acutely aware of the social advantages of polo. She longed to invite the Prince to dine at one of her five houses, as much as she wanted her two children to make brilliant marriages. Grace’s every action, whether she was fund-raising at a calorie-conscious teetotal buffet lunch or reading biographies of famous people as she pedalled away on her exercise bicycle, was geared towards improvement.
She couldn’t understand Chessie’s lack of motivation, and had spent a lot of time this summer discussing both Chessie’s and Ricky’s shortcomings with Bart. But in the last week she had noticed Bart was slagging off Chessie less and less. He was even talking about bringing her and Ricky over to Palm Beach for the polo season in January. Having herself dreamt about Ricky last night, rather a disturbing dream, Grace had now decided that he was terribly misunderstood, and took a positive pleasure in giving his wife a pep talk.
‘Are you supporting Doggie Dins, Francesca?’
‘Of course not,’ snapped Chessie.
‘One could be fooled into thinking so. A married couple is two people, half a polo team, and you’re intelligent enough to know that you only win at polo and in life if you play as a team and support each other. Your behaviour towards Ricky is flip, destructive and totally unsupportive.’
Chessie yawned. ‘You’ve no idea how tricky he is. Women are always on Ricky’s side because he’s so good- looking.’
‘I am not
‘When Ricky signed his contract with you,’ said Chessie furiously, ‘there was absolutely no clause about my turning up in a ball dress at every match. You’ve no idea what it’s like living with a man who’s totally obsessed with polo.’
‘If your husband’s going to succeed,’ Grace looked at Chessie’s mutinous profile, ‘you have to put up with loneliness. When Bart was building up the business, he often didn’t come home till two o’clock in the morning.’
‘Not surprised,’ said Chessie, ‘if you bent his ear like this.’
‘Don’t be impertinent.’
‘I don’t want to hear any more. You can buy Ricky but not me.’ Scrambling out of the limo, Chessie went slap into Sukey and Will who was still clutching his water-pistol.
‘All better,’ said Sukey. ‘Such a jolly little chap, I waited outside and didn’t miss a minute. Oh, well played, Drew darling, oh go on, go on.’
‘Stick ’em up,’ said Will, his eyes squinting through his blond fringe.
‘Don’t point guns at people, dear,’ said Grace.
Next minute Will had emptied a pistol full of Bloody Mary into her cream silk shirt. Grace gave a scream. Chessie made the mistake of laughing.
‘If you’d take your nose out of that book for one second,’ said Seb to Dommie, ‘you’d see Ricky finally losing his patron.’
As Chessie dragged Will off in search of Ricky, she could hear Sukey comforting Grace. ‘I’m sure Mrs Beeton will know how to get tomato juice out.’
Suddenly Chessie stopped laughing and started to cry. ‘That was naughty,’ she screamed at Will. ‘You may have been defending my honour but your methods were very extreme.’
‘Hi, honey,’ said a voice. ‘You’re getting soaked.’
It was Bart, coming off the field.
Delighted to have scored two goals and trounced Doggie Dins, he was in exultant form. Then he realized that the rain pouring down Chessie’s face was tears.
‘Hey – what’s the matter?’
‘Your ghastly wife’s been giving me a dressing-down for not dressing up, telling me what an awful wife I am.’
The icy wind was sweeping the drenched striped shirt against her breasts. ‘I tell you the only reason Frankenstein was a monster was because he was frank,’ she added furiously.
Just for a second they were hidden from the pitch by a home-going horse box. Bart put a warm sweating hand on Chessie’s neck and she felt her stomach disappear.
‘I’ve tried to put you out of my mind,’ he said roughly, ‘but I didn’t manage it. Grace and I are going back to the States tomorrow – for a wedding – one of the Biddies’ – even in the pursuit of love Bart had to name-drop – ‘I’ll be back on Wednesday. How about lunch on Thursday?’
‘All right.’
‘Meet me at Rubens’ Retreat at one o’clock,’ said Bart and rode on.
Grace came forward as he reached the pony lines: ‘Well played, baby.’ Then, consulting her red book, ‘but you were loose in the fifth chukka.’
‘How dare you chew out Chessie France-Lynch?’ snarled Bart. ‘I run this team, OK, and don’t you forget it.’
6
Grace’s pep-talk only intensified Chessie’s desire to take her husband off her. The weather continued windy and very cold, and Chessie spent the next week sourly watching her suntan fade and thinking up alibis for Thursday lunchtime. Fortunately Ricky was being paid ?1,000 to play in a charity match at the Guards Club that day, on the understanding that he stayed behind for drinks and allowed himself to be gawped at by all the sponsors’ rich clients. This meant he wouldn’t be home much before eight.
Ricky was loath to go. He was desperately worried about Mattie, who’d stopped eating and kept biting listlessly at her plaster. Her eyes were dull – always the first sign of pain in a horse. He was sure the plaster was beginning to smell, a sinister indication that infection or, even worse, gangrene, was setting in.
‘Pooh,’ said Will, coming into Chessie’s bedroom with his new polo stick, and breathing in the collective reek of Duo Tan, Immac and nail polish.
‘Don’t touch,’ screamed Chessie as he trotted purposefully towards the make-up bottles on her dressing table. She loathed being distracted when she was getting ready – it was all Ricky’s fault for not being able to afford a nanny. Nor could she start washing her hair until he’d gone. Then she found the water hadn’t been turned on. She also dried her hair upside down too long so it stood up like a porcupine. She didn’t know if she was more nervous of seeing Bart or Ricky finding out. It was so cold, she put on a pale pink cashmere dress, which was near enough flesh tones in colour, to make her look as though she was wearing nothing at all. Sticking her tongue out at Herbert’s portrait, she ran down the stairs.
Out in the yard, she was relieved to find that Louisa, Ricky’s youngest and most amenable groom, had been left in charge. Plump, pink-faced, always smiling, Louisa had been described by Chessie in a bitchier moment as looking like a piglet who’d just won the pools. She was a complete contrast to Ricky’s head groom, Frances, who, scrawny, angry and equally obsessed with Ricky and the horses, was always finding fault with the other grooms’ work. Chessie had nicknamed Frances and Louisa ‘Picky and Perky’. Perky was now trying to coax Mattie to eat a carrot.
‘Can you look after Will for a couple of hours?’ Chessie asked her. ‘I’m just popping out to lunch with a
