‘Luke didn’t want anyone to know,’ said Red tonelessly. ‘It was Bobby who felt he ought to tell us and called Bibi just now.’
The white clouds had turned a dark sullen grey. Alderton Flyer horses that had played in the first half were being walked home. Rising to the canter to rest their horses, the O’Briens were riding back on to the field.
‘Luke didn’t want to worry us into blowing the semi-final, and we’re not going to. Move it, you guys,’ said Bart, slotting in his gum shield and putting on his hat. Then, having mounted a leaping sorrel mare whose coat gleamed like cornelian, he asked the groom what sort of mood she was in.
‘You can’t play knowing this,’ said Perdita, aghast.
Bart adjusted his reins. ‘If he’s just had a three-hour op, he’ll be out for hours.’
One of Bart’s grooms led up Tero. It was only her third match since she’d recovered.
‘She’s a bit edgy. Knows it’s a key match.’
Tero was already lathered up like a white poodle, her eyes popping, diarrhoea running down her back legs in a thin trickle.
‘I’m not playing,’ said Perdita.
‘Sure you bloody are,’ ordered Red. ‘Get on that pony.’
For a second they glared at each other. Perdita dropped her eyes first.
‘Luke would ’ave expected eet,’ said Angel. ‘Don’t be a dreep, Perdita.’
‘Move your ass,’ bellowed Shark Nelligan who was umpiring.
Perdita vaulted on to Tero.
‘Don’t forget to hit not tap,’ called Grace.
Perdita had to clench her first and second fingers not to give Grace a V sign.
‘I’m bloody well flying up to see him immediately after the match.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ said Red icily, ‘if you want him to get better.’
It was a good thing Perdita was only marking the O’Brien’s new patron, who had a one handicap and only that because he’d bunged the APA so heavily, because in the next three chukkas he went virtually unmarked. Perdita hardly connected with the ball and missed several easy shots at goal. It was purely Red’s and Angel’s flamboyant courage and Bart’s Exocet penalties that kept the Flyers just ahead.
‘Are you still in love with Luke?’ hissed Red, as they lined up for the presentation.
‘Course I’m bloody not. You’re the only person I’m crazy about. But Luke’s been a really good friend to me, and I don’t know how you could play so well after what’s happened,’ Perdita hissed back.
‘It’s the mark of the great player to rise above adversity,’ said Red. ‘The second-rate go to pieces in a crisis.’
‘He’s your brother, and Bart’s son,’ whispered Perdita furiously. ‘Thank you very much,’ she smiled briefly as the President of Cadillac gave her a silver ashtray in the shape of a car.
‘Thank you very much, sir.’ Red accepted his silver ashtray. Then, out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Never noticed blood was thicker than water in your family.’
‘We
‘Perdita,’ said Red softly, ‘he needs to be kept quiet.’
‘If Luke’s sidelined for the summer we might be able to get our hands on Fantasma and take her to England,’ chipped in Bart.
‘I don’t understand any of you,’ screamed Perdita. ‘Luke may have been put out of polo for ever, and all you can think about is your own fucking game.’
Four days later Perdita disobeyed everyone’s advice and, cutting a Ferranti’s promotional lunch for all their buyers, flew up to see Luke. She didn’t tell Red she was going. He’d been determined to punish her since they’d heard the news, even insisting on her watching a video of him and Auriel making love, which revolted her, particularly when she saw how skilled and beautiful Auriel was and how she and Red seemed to be enjoying themselves. She needed Luke’s advice on how to handle Red and about her fast-deteriorating game.
After Palm Beach in the nineties, New York was freezing. Perdita, hopelessly under-dressed in white jeans and a black sleeveless T-shirt, shivered as much from nerves as the cold. The hospital, which had Impressionist reproductions on the walls and banks of flowers and floodlit fountains on every floor, was more plush than most hotels and must have been costing Hal Peters a fortune.
‘Luke Alderton?’ said the nurse on the fourth floor reception desk excitedly. ‘Third on the right. I hope you’ll be able to get in for the flowers. Dancer Maitland dropped by this morning and Auriel Kingham last night.’
‘How is he?’ snapped Perdita, who didn’t want to hear about Auriel.
‘Well, he’s still in some discomfort,’ (bloody silly word, thought Perdita) ‘but he’s a very brave guy.’
‘I know that. Will he be able to play again?’
‘Early days,’ said the nurse. ‘Don’t stay long. Aren’t you the Ferranti girl?’
But Perdita had gone, amazed how much her heart was hammering as she threw open the door.
‘It’s the prodigal,’ she announced. ‘Darling Luke, have you forgiven me?’
Then she dropped her parcels all over the floor, for, sitting on Luke’s bed, holding his hand, was an incredibly attractive girl. Her second, almost more agonizing, impression was how desperately ill Luke looked. His brown, freckled face was tinged lurid green, and darkly shadowed, the bottle-brush hair dank with sweat, the big generous mouth practically disappearing in the attempt not to cry out, the honey-coloured eyes no longer amused and sleepy. His shoulders were still huge, but everywhere else the weight had dropped off. He reminded Perdita of a Great Dane who’d fallen into the hands of the vivisectionists and was bewildered why it should undergo such horrific pain without an anaesthetic.
She wanted to rush over and hug him, but there was the impediment of this girl in the wonderfully understated coral-pink suit, with a pale clever face and shiny dark hair and wonderful long legs. Her grey eyes were looking at Luke with tenderness and her coral-tipped fingers were gently stroking his forehead.
Bristling with hostility, Perdita picked up her parcels. Relinquishing Luke’s hand, the girl rose to her feet.
‘You must be Perdita,’ she said coolly. ‘I recognize you from the posters. Luke’s told me a lot about you.’
‘Funny, he’s told me absolutely nothing about you,’ said Perdita furiously. She turned to Luke: ‘Christ, I’m sorry! You poor thing! What the hell happened? Bloody Bobby.’
‘Wasn’t his fault.’ Even the deep, slow, husky drawl was weakened. ‘It was an airshot. I blocked it.’
‘The blow knocked Luke off his horse,’ said the girl. ‘When he didn’t get up the players formed a circle round him, but I could see he wasn’t moving. I was shaking and shaking. Alejandro, who was watching with me, put his arm round me. I sat beside Luke in the ambulance crying all the way, because I figured he was unconscious, but in fact he was in such agony he couldn’t talk. Then we had to wait three hours in casualty, because they had to look after some people who’d been in a car crash.’
Perdita looked at this cool girl, who’d suddenly gone as white as Luke’s sheets. What right had she got to cry over Luke and be comforted by Alejandro?
‘Who’s she?’ she asked Luke, nodding rudely in the girl’s direction.
‘Margie Bridgwater.’ Luke made no attempt at explanation. His hand swathed in bandages strapped up in the air didn’t seem part of him.
‘D’you want a drink? Vodka, white wine?’ he asked. ‘Margie’ll get it.’
Perdita shook her head. ‘Is it absolute agony?’
Luke shrugged. ‘The first night was the worst, all night on the hour, I was woken by a vast black lady, saying, “Roll over, Mr Alderton”, and then shoving a thermometer up my ass.’
Just for a second, he grinned and was the old Luke again.
‘I’ve bought you a biography of Robert Lowell.’ Perdita put it on the bed. ‘The one you were always quoting about the woods being snowy, dark and deep.’
‘
‘
‘I wouldn’t know, I’m not an intellectual,’ spat back Perdita. ‘And some freesias and a tape of
‘Thanks,’ said Luke. ‘That’s really neat. How’s Spotty?’
‘Feeling his feet. Bute doesn’t seem to be working.’
