‘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 is going 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
‘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!
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 ?10,000 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
Dommie 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, Jose, 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
