starring Charles Bronson, and three meals later, during which time Red woke up and read an entire Wilbur Smith, hardly pausing to speak to her, Perdita found herself staggering out into the stifling Singapore dusk.
After that things became a little hazy. The drive from the airport was even more terrifying than Argentina, with people crouching in the back of lorries wearing crash helmets over their coolie hats. A hot breeze wafted a voluptuous smell of soy and frangipani. Little clouds, turned pink by the setting sun, rose like puffs of smoke from the tops of soaring skyscrapers. Fortunately Red had booked them into the most charming hotel, the legendary Goodwood Park. Amid all the modern buildings it looked like a little Persil-white castle, complete with turrets, plucked from the Black Forest and plonked down on a green hill and wrapped in a muffler of jungle greenery.
Even more excitingly, they were staying in the Brunei Suite normally inhabited by kings, princes, prime ministers, and the Sultan of Brunei when he was in town.
‘I played for him once,’ said Red, propping his polo sticks against the bedroom wall. ‘Every time he changed ponies all the crowd stood up and weren’t allowed to sit down until the royal ass was back in a different saddle.’
‘This place is incredible,’ said Perdita, padding from room to room over the thick golden carpet. ‘We can have a sauna, give dinner parties in the dining room and play hide and seek.’
‘Hyde and Jekyll, if you play with me,’ said Red. ‘Geminis are totally schizophrenic.’
‘What an incredibly comfortable bed,’ said Perdita, collapsing on to the golden counterpane. ‘Wish I had one as big as this at home. Is this what they call king-size?’
‘Depends on the king,’ said Red, who had poured himself a huge Scotch on the rocks. ‘George VI of England was quite small. Henry VIII bloody large. Edward VII even larger. What d’you want to drink? Shall we eat out or in?’
But Perdita was asleep. In the impossibly crumpled ivy-green taffeta dress she looked like some fourteen- year-old schoolboy playing Amanda in the house production of
Waking, Perdita had no idea where she was. Fumbling for the light switch, she saw Red’s polo sticks had gone. Perhaps he’d done a bunk. She was just opening the french windows on to a roof garden, filled with tropical plants and blazing sunlight, when there was a knock on the door. Three gently smiling waiters had arrived bearing, first, breakfast of coffee, orange juice, scrambled eggs and croissants, then a vast bunch of incredibly scented yellow orchids, and finally a cardboard box tied with pink ribbon. Inside the box was a pair of black and grey striped silk pyjamas, and a note.
‘Darling Perdita, I’m playing polo. Back at sundown, prepare yourself for a Gaudy night. Love Red.’
Looking at the drawing-room clock, she saw it was 5.30 and was so overwhelmed with terror that she forgot to tip the waiters.
By running away with Red, and leaving a trail of broken hearts and contracts, she had totally burnt her junks. What happened if she couldn’t deliver the goods tonight? There wasn’t a woman Red couldn’t have. How could she not be a terrible letdown? And what would happen when he discovered her fearful secret? Skin had formed on the hot milk, the scrambled eggs had congealed and the croissants cooled before she pulled herself together.
Her legs, shaved for Godiva, were already slightly bristly. Using Red’s razor, she was shaking so much she cut herself twice. Anyone would think she’d slaughtered a pig. She had a shower and scrubbed every centimetre of her body, and between her legs about twenty times, then rubbed scented body lotion all over herself, particularly into her calloused Brillo-pad hands. Then she rubbed Red’s Givenchy for Men into her hair and slicked it back like Lord Snooty. The silk pyjamas were incredibly seductive but too hot, so she folded them on the side of her bed and instead put on a grey and white striped shirt of Red’s. The twins and Chessie had often intimated that Red was bisexual. If she looked like a boy, perhaps he would fancy her more.
At seven, by which time two unobtrusive maids had tidied the room and put her flowers in water, a bottle of champagne arrived on ice. Champagne reminded her of walking out on Luke, so she settled for two miniature bottles of vodka and topped them up with lime juice and ice. Sitting out on the roof garden with a guide book of Singapore, she watched a pallid half-moon grow gradually more luminous and Venus quivering golden between the skyscrapers, as the sun went down in a bonfire of orange. Red should have a shirt in that orange. Then, because her stomach was rumbling, she got a packet of peanuts from the fridge, and was so nervous she cleaned her teeth between peanuts. Night had fallen and a slight breeze was lifting the coloured mantillas of the bougainvillaea when Red returned.
He was still wearing boots and breeches. His dark blue polo shirt was dripping, his hair almost black with sweat. ‘Christ, it’s hot!’ He threw his whip on the bed. ‘Like playing in a Turkish bath.’
‘Good game?’ asked Perdita. He looked so glamorous she wanted to run into his arms, but she must play it cool.
‘Great. I played nine chukkas. There was a tropical storm after lunch, but the pitch dried out half an hour later.’
‘What was the standard like?’
‘Pretty average, but there was a wild guy playing for the other side called Barry Bartlett, just flown in from Australia with half-a-dozen Walers. He’s a six, so we spent our time hitting the ball to each other like a Wimbledon final. And those Walers are as tough as shit, legs like iron and wonderful mouths. I’m gonna offer for the lot.’
‘Did anyone recognize you?’
‘Sure. They all did, but I said we were avoiding the press, so they’ll keep their traps suit. They’d also heard about the twins being fired. The story’s escalated. Not only were they caught in bed with Sharon but also a pony. How’ve you been?’
‘Fine,’ lied Perdita. As she came back into the lit-up bedroom a slow smile spread across Red’s face.
‘My shirt.’
‘Your haircut.’
‘My schoolboy,’ said Red, running his hand over the slicked hair. ‘Fix me a Scotch on the rocks. I’m going to have a shower.’
He was back in five minutes, just wearing a white towel slung round his hips, which emphasized the satin- brown smoothness of his chest. Compared with Luke he was willowy and elongated, a greyhound beside a mastiff. She didn’t want to think about Luke. It hurt too much,
‘Thank you for the orchids, they were lovely.’ Desperately she tried to stem the rattle of ice. ‘They’ve got lower lips like Juan O’Brien, and the pyjamas are gorgeous.’
‘Why didn’t you wear them?’
‘I thought you might not want to go to bed.’
‘You thought wrong, and you’ve put them on the wrong side.’ He picked up the pyjamas and threw them to the left side of the bed. ‘Your pal Ricky France-Lynch may be ambidextrous enough to make women come with his left hand, but I only score with my right.’
Turning away to hide her frantic blushes, Perdita drained her vodka.
‘It’s the most beautiful suite,’ she gushed. ‘With all those Grecian pillars and chandeliers and alcoves and you coming in all handsome in breeches and boots, it’s like the cover of a Barbara Cartland novel.’
‘Good,’ said Red, who was fiddling around with the mirrors on the dressing table, pulling them in front of the bed to reflect any forthcoming action. He looked up and smiled, revelling in her embarrassment.
Sweat was cascading down her body, her pounding heart made her totally breathless.
‘R-red, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Red, sitting down in a gold satin armchair and lighting a yellow Sobranie. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got your period. Some guys don’t mind, but I’ve never enjoyed the flavour of the monthly.’ Then, when she didn’t laugh, ‘It’s a joke.’
Perdita gazed miserably down at her painted toenails.
‘I know I come on blase,’ she muttered, ‘but I’ve never been to bed with anyone in my life.’
Red choked on his whisky. ‘You what?’
‘I’m a virgin.’
