reverted to his pale blue one braided with emerald green. A lock of hair had fallen over his forehead; his eyes were dreamy; he looked like Rupert Brooke.
‘I prefer to ride mares, in and out of bed,’ he was saying. ‘They’re more competitive.’
The girl smiled and arched her lean and hungry blue suede pelvis towards him.
There’s no point being jealous, thought Perdita echoing one of Red’s commandments, it hurts only yourself.
Away from the fire was a large wheelbarrow, stacked with drink people had brought. Perdita was mixing herself a Green Devil when Angel came up.
‘You saw Luke. ‘Ow was he?’
‘Not brilliant. He looked dreadful.’
‘I ’ear Alejandro is being paid $20,000 a match to play for Hal. Is crazy.’
Perdita took a slug of her Green Devil and choked. It was nearly neat vodka. ‘He had a girl with him called Margie. Jolly bossy, but horribly attractive.’
‘Bibi say she’s very nice.’
Perdita leant against a pine tree. ‘Is it serious?’
‘She looking after Leroy for Luke so it must be.’
Perdita experienced a jab of jealousy so bad it winded her. Some of the younger players had started a food fight. Wham was pounding round the pine trees. Angel ducked to avoid a flying sausage roll.
‘You pick the wrong guy,’ he said.
‘I did
‘So it would seem,’ said Angel, glancing across at Red who was dancing under a gum tree with the
‘You picked the wrong wife,’ said Perdita.
From the nearby barn the occasional stamp or snort of the ponies could be heard. Red-and-silver heart- shaped balloons tied to each box bobbed up to the roof.
‘If someone cut the string your heart would float away like one of those balloons.’
‘Not yet.’ Angel’s face was in shadow. ‘
‘Oh, for Chrissake, I’m sick of that bloody poem.’
The inevitable polo dogs wandered around crunching bones and being tripped over and sworn at. Shark Nelligan’s white bull terrier, confined to his master’s truck because he tended to kill other dogs, leant genially out of the window, his elbow resting on the ledge, being fed pieces of meat and petted by passers-by.
Mixing herself another drink, Perdita couldn’t remember when she had last eaten. She could see Juan coiled round a blonde. To make up his days and avoid paying tax a reluctant Victor had had to leave the party and fly out of Palm Beach before midnight, leaving Sharon to chat up the latest beefcake from Brazil. Jesus was ringing England on Sharon’s car telephone. ‘I weel play for you, Sir Waterloo, eef you pay me $200,000. Veector already offer me that much money. And pay my airplane fare, and a ’ouse. No, I don’t need to breeng my wife – you save on that.’
‘Is Bibi coming?’ Perdita asked Angel.
‘She’s working,’ said Angel flatly. ‘Don’t drink too much, Perdita. Go ’ome before you do anything silly.’
‘Come and dance with me,’ said Perdita.
But at that moment Innocenta emerged from the lilac shadows bringing a plate piled with lamb chops, potato salad and barbecue sauce which she proceeded to share with Angel. Red was necking openly as he danced now. If she hadn’t been scared of his temper, Perdita would have hurled the greasiest pork chop she could find at the girl’s gyrating blue suede bottom.
‘They’re called barbecues because you queue up to receive barbs,’ she said to no-one in particular as she finished her drink.
‘How’s Luke?’ Shark Nelligan came up to her with a plate piled disgustingly high with food. He was interested because he and Luke both played back and would be competing for the same place in the US team, particularly for the Westchester which would mean serious money.
‘I hear his career’s washed up and Hal Peters is paying Alejandro $50,000 a match,’ he went on. ‘I want to get my hands on Fantasma.’
‘Luke won’t sell and he’ll recover,’ said Perdita, filling her glass yet again.
Shark grinned evilly. ‘I’m not sure Hal will. Myrtle, his ex, is taking him to the cleaners. And his new bimbo’s making so free with his Amex he’s praying for it to get stolen. And Luke’s medical bills will be even more astronomical if they call in Seth Newcombe.’
‘But Hal must be insured?’ said Perdita anxiously.
‘Sure he is,’ said Shark with his mouth full, ‘but he’s overstretched. He’s the best car man in Detroit, but he’s so off the wall he exported a thousand Peters’ Cheetahs to the UK last week with left-hand drive.’
‘But Luke’ll be all right, won’t he?’ persisted Perdita.
‘He’s got Bart to fall back on.’ Shark gave a piece of lamb to his slavering bull terrier.
Perdita shook her head. ‘He’s too proud.’
‘And he’s got a pretty sharp new girlfriend,’ added Shark spitefully.
‘Who?’ said Perdita, fishing, though it hurt her.
‘Margie someone. She’s a lawyer. She won’t let him starve.’
As Perdita turned away stricken, Angel emerged from the gloom with Innocenta looking a lot less innocent. Red was still talking to his journalist.
‘Lots of guys won’t have sex the night before a big game,’ Red was saying caressingly, ‘but I always do, and the following morning, although I might try less hard.’
One more drink, thought Perdita, and I’ll make a scene and separate them. She didn’t think she’d ever been more miserable in her life.
‘Hi. Aren’t you Perdita Macleod?’ said a soft voice.
A man with white-blond hair was smiling down at her. He was wearing a cream suit, a buttoned-down, pale blue shirt and a blue spotted tie. He appeared mercifully civilized compared with all these polo hicks, thought Perdita. He was nice-looking rather than handsome and had very light eyes in a beige face like Ricky’s pony, Sinatra.
‘Who are you?’ she asked aggressively.
‘Simpson Hastings.’
If Perdita had been less drunk she would have heard warning bells. Simpson Hastings appeared to know a lot about polo and particularly about her.
‘They say you’re a phenomenon beyond genius.’
‘Not to my face they don’t,’ said Perdita sulkily.
‘It’s a beautiful face. That’s your problem. If you were butch and ugly they could slag you off for being almost a man. They find your sex appeal disturbing.’
‘Not tonight, they don’t. I’ve got as much appeal here as a mink coat at an Animal Rights meeting.’
‘Where did the skill come from? D’your parents ride?’
‘My mother’s never been on a horse in her life.’
‘And Hamish?’
Simpson Hastings did know a flattering amount about her.
Swaying slightly, Perdita clung on to the truck. ‘Hamish wasn’t my father.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Simpson Hastings didn’t bat a pale-lashed eyelid. ‘He certainly didn’t look like you.’ Then, with the utmost gentleness, ‘Who was?’
‘I don’t know.’ To hell with everyone. Suddenly an Ancient Mariner compulsion to tell all swept over her. ‘My mother went to an orgy in the sixties given by her art master. He was called Jackie Cosgrave. Everyone screwed everyone, particularly my sodding mother. She has no idea which one was my father.’
‘Difficult for you,’ murmured Simpson Hastings without a trace of excitement. ‘Hard to know who to relate to. But he must have been a very good rider.’
Back in Rutshire, Daisy had had a long day finishing off a painting, which Ricky said she’d never get paid for,
