‘Twenty.’
‘And what did Red give you?’
Red shot Perdita a look of warning, but it was too late.
‘Six ponies,’ sighed Perdita happily. ‘They’re amazing. One dark brown mare. Manuel says she’s a bit green, but she’s got a tremendous amount of speed, and a chestnut who evidently turns like a ballerina, and a bay who’s so pretty she must be clean bred, and two little Walers who are as tough as shit.’ She blushed. ‘I mean awfully tough.’
‘May I see your engagement ring?’
Perdita held out her hand. The sapphire trembled like a great blob of ink.
‘Pretty,’ said Grace. ‘Red has very good taste. I hope you don’t play polo in it.’
‘Good for blacking Shark Nelligan’s eye,’ said Perdita.
‘I’m drafting an announcement of the engagement for
‘Eldercombe in Rutshire.’
If this was not a place that held very happy memories for Grace, she didn’t show it.
‘And what does your father do?’ Grace was writing in a rose-patterned notebook now. Perdita was beginning to sweat. She detested using Hamish, but Grace was looking at her as though she were a large dollop of French dressing that had fallen on a new silk dress.
‘He’s a lawyer, but now he works as a producer in Hollywood.’
Rackety, she could see Grace thinking.
‘I’m flying to Beverly Hills next week,’ Grace went on. ‘Perhaps I could meet him and your mother.’
Perdita went green.
‘My parents are divorced. My mother paints.’
‘And your grandparents?’
‘Mum’s father’s dead. My grandmother’s a lush.’
‘And where did the Macleods come from?’ asked Grace. ‘I know some Perthshire Macleods. There was a title somewhere.’
‘Not us.’ Perdita was fed up with being interrogated. ‘Grandpa was a hen-pecked old wimp, but good-hearted. Granny Macleod is a bitch. You wouldn’t need to be very tall to reach the drawer she came out of.’
Grace’s lips tightened. Her silver pen quivered. She expected humility from lesser mortals.
‘Which school did you go to?’
‘About eight, and I was chucked out of seven of them.’
‘You’ll certainly find Perdita’s name in the Rutshire Anti-Social Register,’ said Red, who was laughing himself sick.
‘Now you’re engaged to Red, I assume you’ll give up playing polo professionally.’
‘Certainly not,’ boasted Perdita. ‘I’m going to play for your ex-husband next season.’
Red was still laughing on the way home.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ moaned Perdita. ‘Go to Yale, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred pounds.’
‘I’m certainly not going to collect the half million I needed from her to settle a few bills. We’re going to have to put you to work, baby.’
Three days later Perdita came back from the barn at lunchtime, passionately relieved after an all-night session that Tero was at last eating and responding to treatment. Making herself a Hellman’s and Philadelphia sandwich, Perdita settled down to read an interview with Red in
Was he going to stop oversleeping and get to matches on time? asked the interviewer.
‘I don’t need an alarm clock,’ Red had replied. ‘Who’d want to stay asleep in the morning if they had Perdita beside them?’
Perdita clutched herself with joy. Red really did love her.
Accompanying the piece was an incredibly violent photograph of Red riding off Shark Nelligan. His body bent at the waist, like the head of an arrow, swung two feet out of the saddle, hitting exactly the right pressure points as he drove Shark off the line. Red was smiling, Shark was scowling.
‘Lovely piece,’ she said, as Red walked in, ‘and a heavenly photograph.’
‘These are better,’ said Red, throwing a hard-backed envelope down on the kitchen table.
Inside were some black-and-white prints he’d taken of her in Kenya and had blown up. She was wearing a black polo shirt, breeches and boots. Her face was slightly shiny and her hair hanging in damp tendrils.
‘Wow! I look OK,’ said Perdita in amazement. ‘Perhaps you should give up polo and take up photography.’
Red ruffled her hair, which was now all black again.
‘You’re gonna take up modelling, angel, and start earning your keep. I spent the morning with Ferranti’s.’
‘Dino Ferranti?’ said Perdita in excitement. ‘The show-jumper? I had such a crush on him.’ Then, seeing Red’s face, ‘But that was yonks ago.’
‘Ferranti’s Inc. They’re a multi-national,’ said Red. ‘One of their big moneyspinners is cosmetics and perfume. Dino’s on the main board. We had lunch today. They’re launching a new perfume next year and thinking of calling it “Perdita”.’
‘After me?’ asked Perdita, delighted.
‘After you. I hope it’s better than “Auriel”. If it takes on, they’re thinking of sponsoring a polo team. Dino’s always wanted to play polo. It’ll be fun playing with Dad and Angel this season, but it might pall. We should keep our options open.’
Perdita always felt dizzy with happiness when he talked in terms of their future.
‘All they want you to do,’ went on Red, ‘if they choose you, is have your picture taken looking unbelievably glamorous and make a few personal appearances when they launch it in the spring. And they’re talking megabucks.’
A week later, when Perdita was practising cut shots into goal on Spotty and totally concentrating on the job in hand, Red, without warning, brought Dino Ferranti and two of his brothers to watch her. Next day she and Red lunched with the Ferranti Board in New York.
‘We better Scotchtape your mouth,’ said Red. ‘Don’t call anyone an asshole.’
Ferranti’s, however, were enchanted and promptly signed her up. Red said he’d handle the money side.
‘Dino is kind of attractive,’ said Perdita as they flew home.
‘Don’t be deceived. He’s very tough.’
Perdita looked down at the pastel houses and the yachts that dotted the hyacinth-blue ocean as the plane began its descent to Palm Beach Airport.
‘What about Venturer?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t I under contract to them?’
‘Winston Chalmers’ll get you out of that. No sweat,’ said Red.
‘Hum,’ said Perdita.
‘Dino doesn’t like Rupert Campbell-Black by the way, so he’ll be delighted to take Venturer out,’ said Red. ‘Dino once made a pass at Rupert’s first wife. And Rupert was very close to Dino’s wife, Fen, before she married Dino, so it makes both guys edgy. Rupert is convinced Dino slept with Helen. Dino swears he didn’t, but Rupert can never forgive a right.’
55
Back in Rutshire on an October afternoon, Ricky, having worked young ponies all day, by way of light relief
