‘Your sainted mother for a start.’
‘Let her sweat.’
‘Don’t be a cow. She’s sweet. And you’ve completely screwed up Apocalypse and Venturer. And poor Auriel actually cried in public last week. And your future mother-in-law is tearing her snow-white hair at the thought of Red chucking himself away on a nobody.’
‘Bitch,’ screamed Perdita.
‘Dancer and Ricky will certainly never speak to you again.’
‘I don’t care. I’ve never been so happy in my life.’
‘It won’t last. Red sheds women like cardigans in summer.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk, pinching your brother’s girlfriend.’
‘Dommie’s dyed his hair black, so she won’t mistake us in the future.’
‘All twins look grey in the dark,’ snarled Perdita. ‘And what about both of you going to bed with Sharon?’
‘That was the best thing we ever did. Hearing Victor’d fired us, Dancer’s hired us to play for Apocalypse next year.’
Perdita felt an appalling stab of jealousy, then steeled herself to ask the most difficult question of all.
‘How’s Luke?’
‘Very unallright,’ said Seb bleakly. ‘That’s why everyone really hates you. You’ve broken Luke’s heart.’
Ecstasy at an autumn spent playing not very serious polo in Zimbabwe was tempered by the prospect of returning to Palm Beach in the middle of November and facing Luke. Perdita didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed on getting back to Red’s house to learn that Luke had taken all his ponies and Leroy off to Argentina, wouldn’t be back until after Christmas, and by then would be playing out of Boca Raton, so they’d be far less likely to bump into each other.
Any worries next morning that Red might have forgotten her birthday were dispelled when he told her to look out of the window. On the lawn below were three of Red’s grooms, each holding two of the most beautiful ponies Perdita had ever seen.
‘Happy birthday, darling,’ said Red, amused at her speechlessness. ‘When you shacked up with me, I told you there’d be strings attached.’
Breaking the rule that one should always approach horses quietly, Perdita flew downstairs in her pale pink silk kimono and, screaming with delight, flitted from pony to pony, two chestnuts, a couple of Barry Bartlett’s tough little Walers from Singapore, and a bay and a dark brown from Argentina, who were head-shy when she tried to hug them.
Then, leaping on to one of the chestnuts, Perdita cantered her through the dew, executing such a perfect figure of eight in and out of two orange trees that she earned herself a round of applause from the grooms.
‘Thank you,’ she screamed up at Red. ‘It’s the most wonderful, wonderful present I’ll ever have.’
He must love her to spoil her like this, and it meant that now, with Spotty and Tero, she’d have eight ponies. She gave a start of horror. She’d come back so late last night and been so knocked out by the splendour of Red’s house that she hadn’t even asked after them.
‘Spotty and Tero are OK, aren’t they?’ she asked the grooms, who all looked shifty.
When they had driven down to
‘You spoilt him. He was always much too fat,’ said Red in answer to Perdita’s furious complaints.
Spotty was sulking so much that Perdita had deserted him that for the first few days he stoutly refused to acknowledge her presence, even spurning Polos.
Tero was a different matter. Perdita found her standing alone in one of the paddocks – a caricature of her former, sleek self. Her lustreless coat hung from her jagged backbone. You could have stacked plates between her ribs.
Her two-inch-long mane and tail were sparse and moth-eaten, her once tender, glowing eyes now sunken and dull, as she shivered in the burning sunlight, unsteady on her legs, the picture of despair. But at the sound of Perdita’s wail of horror the little mare pricked up her ears, stared for a second, whickered incredulously and then went as crazy with delight as her desperately weak condition would allow. Perdita was motionless and speechless with shame as Tero staggered forward. Then, as she frantically cuddled the pony, Tero proceeded to nudge her feebly in the ribs trying to comfort her.
‘What happened to her?’ Perdita screamed later at Manuel, Red’s headgroom.
‘She pine. She wouldn’t eat nothing. Eef anyone ride ’er, she shake, then bolt. So we let ’er out, no good. We keep ’er in, no good. So we geeve up.’
‘Fucking useless idiots. Why didn’t you ring me?’
Manuel shrugged. ‘You didn’t leave a number.’
And would she have listened, wondered Perdita, appalled. Red had bewitched her. She was humiliated, shattered at what she had done. Sobbing, she vowed never to leave Tero again, not to rest until the pony was better.
Red thought Perdita was making a most awful fuss. It was only a pony. Even a letter and a birthday present from Bart, waiting when they had driven back from the barn, didn’t cheer her up.
‘Dear Perdita,’ he had written, ‘Glad you’re back in time for the season. I’ve fired the Napiers, and I can’t play with Miguel and Juan any more because the sonofabitch APA have put me up to six. The good news is that Angel’s about to get US citizenship, so with him, you and Red, we’ve got a world-class team to play in the States and the UK next year. First date: Fathers and Sons next month. Happy Birthday. Yours, Bart.’
The present was a diamond necklace.
‘We’ll have to hock that for a start,’ said Red.
Having ignored a mountain of fan mail, final reminders and unopened bills, and remarked how quiet it was for Palm Beach, Red checked his three telephones and found they’d all been cut off. When he sent Perdita into the kitchen to make him a cup of coffee, she found the gas and electricity had been cut off too. The maid, when she came in, announced she would give Red notice unless he paid her for the last five months. Red gave her a wad of notes and told Perdita they’d better go and tap Grace.
‘Mom always chews me out, but she coughs up in the end.’
And puts her hand over her mouth while she’s coughing, thought Perdita remembering Grace’s obsession with good behaviour.
‘I can’t leave Tero. I’ve got to get back to the barn,’ she snapped.
‘We’ll only be gone half a day.’
‘And I can’t meet her with roots like this.’ Mutinously Perdita examined her piebald hair. The white-blonde now growing half an inch into the jet-black looked deliberately aggressive and punk.
‘Mom’s interested in different kinds of roots. She’s a godawful snob.’
‘What shall I wear?’
‘The Crown Jewels. She’d only be happy if I was marrying the Queen of England, so you might as well settle for disapproval.’
Red borrowed a company jet to fly up to New York that afternoon. Grace was waiting for them in her apartment overlooking a now leafless Central Park. The sitting room was enchanting with rose-red lacquered walls and paintwork, sofas and chairs covered in white chintz splodged with huge, dark pink roses and embroidered cushions. There were dark red and pink roses in vases everywhere. Pictures included a Fragonard and a Watteau of charming lovers sitting on swings.
Leather-bound books rose to the ceiling on either side of the mantelpiece, which could hardly be seen for invitations. Below in the grate apple logs burned merrily. Nothing could have been prettier or more welcoming. But Grace, who had an impeccable clippings service and had familiarized herself with Perdita’s every misdemeanour from playing Lady Godiva to dunking Enid Coley and swearing at the future King of England, radiated disapproval. Perdita felt as though she’d come out of the bitter November cold and climbed into the deep freeze.
‘It’s Perdita’s birthday,’ said Red, kissing Grace on her rigidly unyielding cheek, ‘so she’s brought you a present.’
Acquired with one of Red’s cheques which would certainly bounce later, it was a red-and-white Staffordshire cow, so adorable Perdita could hardly dare to pack it up.
‘Thank you,’ said Grace, not deigning to open it. ‘How old are you, Perdita?’
