Polo

‘Hullo, Ricky,’ said the blonde, whose mouth was watering. ‘Remember me?’ She waved her hand in front of his eyes to break up his blank stare.

With a shudder of disgust, Ricky recognized the author of Rupert’s memoirs.

‘It’s you, Beattie,’ he said icily. ‘I might have guessed it.’

‘Been cheering Daisy up since she became your tenant, have you?’ mocked Beattie. ‘All the world loves a landlord, and all.’

‘No, I have bloody not,’ snapped Ricky. ‘Now beat it.’

‘Perdita worked for you and had a crush on you.’ Under Ricky’s ferocious glare Beattie started backing towards the door. ‘She says all she wants to do is find her real father and experience some real love and understanding.’

‘Bullshit,’ thundered Ricky. ‘She’s had a bloody sight too much love and understanding. Perdita is basically a good child who’s fallen among thieves. Do I have to throw you out?’

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ said Beattie in excitement, then screamed as Ricky opened the window, gathered her up and threw her out kicking and struggling into a flowerbed.

‘Sorry about your wallflowers,’ he added to Daisy as, two seconds later, the photographer and his expensive camera followed suit.

‘You bastard,’ yelled Beattie, picking herself out of a rose bush. ‘These tights are Dior and new on. I’ll get you for assault.’

But as Ricky went out of the front door in pursuit they jumped into their BMW and drove furiously away. Ricky turned back to Daisy. Her eyes were huge and staring. She was still shaking uncontrollably.

‘I never knew Perdita hated me that much,’ she whispered through white lips. ‘And what am I going to do about Violet and Eddie?’

Ricky went to the cupboard and, finding an inch of vodka in a half-bottle, tipped it into a glass and topped it up with orange juice.

‘Get that down you, then I’ll drive you over to tell them.’

‘But it’s the beginning of the season. You’ve got so much on. It isn’t fair you should be dragged in.’

‘I’m in already. Don’t imagine Beattie’ll forget her hurt pride and her laddered tights in a hurry.’

They didn’t talk much as they drove through the emergent spring thirty miles to Violet’s school and then another twenty miles on to Eddie’s. In her numbed state Daisy wondered if Ricky was working out polo plays. When he met Violet’s headmistress his coolness and detachment seemed to diffuse her disapproval. She was obviously captivated by his looks.

Violet went scarlet when Daisy stumbled out with the truth, then she put her arms round her mother. ‘Perdita’s a bitch, but she’s so off the wall at the moment and she’d probably just had a row with Red. You were younger than her when it happened. We’ll look after you.’

Eddie’s headmaster, a breezy, bearded homosexual, couldn’t look Daisy in the eye, but his voice became much warmer when he spoke to Ricky. Eddie seemed outwardly unfazed.

‘Perdita’s father might be a pop star then. Can I come home with you? We’ve got a history exam tomorrow and I haven’t revised.’

‘Come home at the weekend,’ said Ricky. ‘We’ll shoot clays. I’ll lend you a rod and you can fish in the lake.’

Drew rang up when they got back to Ricky’s house. He was forced to be very matter of fact, but Daisy could tell he was worried sick.

‘I’ll come over and see Ricky tomorrow,’ then with an endearing stab of jealousy, ‘it’s a good idea for you to stay there tonight. He’ll protect you from the press. But don’t fall in love with him.’

‘Of course I won’t,’ stammered Daisy.

Never had she missed Drew more. But Ricky was angelic. He gave her two sleeping pills left over from the ones prescribed for him when Will died and had left orders, despite the warmth of the evening, for one of the grooms to light a fire in the spare room.

‘You said one very important thing to me about Will’s death,’ he told her, ‘that night we had dinner together, that I’d got to learn to forgive myself. You’ve got to do the same.’

But, however angelic Ricky was, nothing prepared Daisy for the horror of The Scorpion next day.

‘Gang, bang, thank you, Mum,’ said huge front-page headlines. Then beneath a ravishing, tremulously tearful picture of Perdita, a caption: ‘Please find my real Dad,’ pleads Perdita, ‘everyone had Mum that night.’

Inside under a headline: ‘Red’s Raver tells all,’ they had printed the full interview with Perdita, saying how much she detested her mother for cheating her out of a father. Even worse, they had somehow got hold of a ravishing photograph of a seventeen-year-old Daisy, with a sixties fringe, long, straight hair and huge eyes, and superimposed it on an incredibly voluptuous, naked, Page Three body.

‘If you recognize this girl, you may be Perdita’s Dad,’ said the caption.

Over the page under another headline: ‘Caring Ricky in Mercy Dash,’ the copy began: ‘Fun-loving Daisy was hiding out yesterday with her landlord, ace polo player Ricky France- Lynch (Family Motto: Never Surrender). Caring Ricky left his ten-bedroom Georgian home and galloped through his 400-acre estate on a polo pony to stand by his lovely tenant. Known as El Orgulloso for his snooty manner, Ricky once employed Perdita as his groom. “Perdita has got into bad company,” claims Ricky, “Daisy has been a very supportive mother.”’

‘Poor old Daisy,’ said Bas Baddingham to Rupert. ‘Gosh, she was pretty in those days.’

Taking The Scorpion from him, Rupert examined the photographs. ‘Pretty now. Christ, Beattie’s excelled herself this time. At least it might make Ricky finally get his act together where Daisy is concerned.’

‘Didn’t we used to know a creep called Cosgrave?’ asked Bas. ‘Used to give wild parties in the sixties?’

‘Everyone gave wild parties in the sixties,’ said Rupert.

Jackie Cosgrave hadn’t prospered in later life. Teaching art bored him, his waist had thickened, his yellow hair turned white, his white teeth yellow, his mouth petulant. Women were no longer so keen to buy his paintings, nor girl students to sleep with him.

‘Oh, Mr Cosgrave, it’s all about you in The Scorpion,’ said the art college cleaner as she swept up charcoal, paint-stained rags, old tubes of paint and scraps of newspaper.

Picking up The Scorpion Jackie looked long and hard at Daisy. He remembered her and, after wracking his brains, he remembered the party. In those days when he had beauty and could get drugs, the world was his friend. Returning to his flat, he took down his diary for 1966 and turned to February which he’d been wise enough to illustrate with photographs. The central heating had been turned up to tropical that night, he’d taken a lot of photographs and written down the names of all the people who’d been at the orgy. Studying Perdita’s face, the answer was cut and dried. Picking up the telephone he rang The Scorpion News Desk.

‘I’ll tell you who Perdita’s father is, but it’s going to cost you.’

60

Rupert Campbell-Black was so much in love with his wife that he most uncharacteristically agreed to undergo a solo grilling on whether he was a suitable person to adopt a baby.

Mrs Paget, who interviewed him, had already been charmed by Taggie last week. In her thirties with a ‘brood’, as she called it, of her own, Mrs Paget had the kindly but patronizing air of one who works for nothing for those less fortunate. She reminded Rupert of a more rounded, prettier Sukey Benedict. In the old days for the hell of it he would have made a pass at her, but now he had no need of the divide of the gleaming mahogany table, nor the