Polo

legal bounds.’

‘I wrote to her,’ said Daisy, ‘only last week. She hasn’t answered.’

‘You mustn’t,’ said Drew, rearing out of the bath and grabbing a towel. ‘You must back off. Let her come to you.’

‘That’s what Ricky says.’

Drew looked up sharply. ‘You’re seeing too much of Ricky.’

‘Only to listen. He’s far too preoccupied with bumping into Chessie and burying Bart.’

‘Are you going anywhere nice?’ she asked, as she watched Drew brushing dog hairs off his dinner jacket. It was so hard to draw a fine balance between probing and sympathetic interest.

‘Lady Sharon’s giving one of her little dinner parties. You should see their new house in Eaton Square. What a pity you didn’t get the commission to paint all Victor’s and Sharon’s ancestors. Great-great-great Auntie Tracey, who came over with the Vaykings, and huge Tayger heads, shot by Victor’s great-grandfather in India, which were bought at Phillips last week, on every wall. And I’ll have to sit on Sharon’s right.’

‘Lucky Sharon,’ said Daisy wistfully.

‘Unlucky me,’ said Drew, then suddenly businesslike, ‘You go out first, darling. We don’t want anyone seeing us together.’

62

Daisy had no intention of going to the semi-final between the Flyers and the Tigers. She had urgent commissions to finish and had even refused a lift to the Guards Club with Ricky and the twins, who wanted to watch the teams, one of which they’d be playing in Sunday’s final. But suddenly a longing to see Drew and Perdita overwhelmed her and she found herself driving her ancient Volkswagen so fast up the M4 that it overheated.

She had purposely not changed out of her torn jeans and old, blue denim shirt and wore dark glasses and her hair tied back in the hope that no-one would recognize The Scorpion trollop, also to discourage herself from going anywhere near the pony lines. She couldn’t bear Drew to see her looking so scruffy. But again, such was the magnet of her longing that ten minutes before throw-in she found herself passing the hospitality tents going up for Sunday’s final, and there were the Tigers’ grooms in their black-and-orange shirts frantically tacking up ponies and screwing studs into their shoes.

Then Daisy’s heart stopped, for there was Drew looking almost willowy beside the hulking Shark Nelligan, but towering over fat little Victor and the Brazilian ringer. They all had their heads together as Drew, in his soft voice, urged them on to annihilate the Flyers.

And, oh God, there was Ricky. She’d specifically told him she didn’t want to come to the match.

Moving past splendidly glossy ponies, who, nervous before a game, were stamping their feet and flattening their ears at one another, Daisy came to even more splendid and glossier ponies and it seemed as though the sky had been pulled down, so many grooms were tearing round in pale blue, Flyers T-shirts. There was Bart leaning against an iron rail yelling into his telephone because he was having trouble getting through to Johannesburg while a groom did up his kneepads. There was Red smoking a Black Sobranie being gazed at by groupies. Heavens, he was beautiful, but Daisy didn’t like the way he was idly chatting up a leggy blonde who was clutching a King Charles spaniel puppy whose ears were as red as his hair. By deduction the other player in the sky-blue shirt must be Angel. He was thinner than Daisy expected, and with his weary, haunted, heavy-lidded eyes, hollowed cheeks, damp, tendrilled hair and elegance, reminded her of Mantegna’s John the Baptist. His hand shook as he lit one cigarette from another, and, although it was a chill, windy day, and, unlike Bart and Red, he wasn’t wearing a jersey under his shirt, he was absolutely pouring with sweat. The poor boy obviously suffered from appalling pre-match nerves.

Daisy, who was shaking as much as Angel, couldn’t see Perdita anywhere, but suddenly she heard a joyful rumbling whicker and felt a gentle nudge in her back. Jumping round, she discovered little Tero, whom she’d so often plied with toast and Marmite when she’d wintered in Ricky’s field. Unbelievably touched to be remembered, Daisy hugged the equally enchanted pony. The Flyer’s groom, who was giving Tero’s oyster-grey coat a last polish, looked up in amazement.

‘That’s really weird. She’s head-shy with everyone but Perdita.’

‘I’m Perdita’s mother,’ stammered Daisy.

The girl’s mouth formed a perfect O. Then there was a frantic clicking of cameras, a surging forward of the crowd and an even deeper whicker of joy from Tero.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ said a familiar voice furiously, ‘Red’s been chatting up that blonde all lunch. Is he deliberately trying to screw up my game? Those bandages are too tight; do them again. And why the hell have you put Spotty in a pelham? I told you he went better in a Barry gag. Jesus, can’t you concentrate for five minutes?’

‘Can we have a word, Perdita?’ said the Sun ingratiatingly.

‘No, you fucking can’t, and certainly not before a match.’

Daisy’s first impression was how like Rupert Perdita had become. The haughty, dead-pan face with its short, streaked hair betrayed none of her rage and panic. Only the quivering tension of her slender, boyish body gave her away. Knowing how nervous she was, Daisy’s one thought was to comfort her. ‘Darling, I just wanted to wish you luck.’

Perdita swung round, her face ashen, her eyes glittering like tourmalines, her animosity as blasting as nerve gas.

‘Luck is the last thing you’ve ever brought me. Just fuck off.’

‘Perdita,’ reproved the groom, shocked.

‘You keep out of it. What’s she done but screw up my life? Back off,’ she spat at Daisy. ‘Don’t come crawling under my feet. You’ll get stamped on.’

Stumbling away, tears pouring under her dark glasses, Daisy was nearly run over by Shark Nelligan’s groom taking a pony down to the pitch. Ricky, who’d been only half-listening to Bobby Ferraro and Ronnie Ferguson because he was looking all the time for Chessie, suddenly saw Daisy backing away from Perdita as though she’d had acid thrown in her face, and turned to Seb and Dommie, who’d just come back from ringing their bookmaker.

‘Look after Daisy, both of you. Take her up in the stands and buy her a bloody big drink. Perdita’s just put the boot in.’

In a trice the twins had caught up with her.

‘Daisee, Daisee, Give me your answer do,’ sang Seb, putting an arm round Daisy’s shoulders.

‘I’m half crazy, all for the love of you,’ sang Dommie, putting an arm round her waist.

‘I haven’t got a handkerchief,’ sobbed Daisy.

Diving into the men’s changing room, Seb came out with a roll of blue Andrex.

‘Here you are,’ he said, pulling out at least eight feet and handing it to Daisy. ‘We’re going to force-feed you vodka and orange.’

‘Don’t worry about that poxy daughter of yours,’ said Dommie. ‘After the number of times she’s kicked you in the teeth, you ought to buy a gum shield. She’s only in a bait because Red’s playing her up. Now, we’ve all got to cheer for the Tigers, because they’ll be so much easier to beat in the final than the Flyers.’

The stands were unusually packed for a weekday, because so many people had turned up to see the Argentine who had broken the ban, and who was alleged to be the handsomest Latin to invade British soil since Juan O’Brien had cut such a swath through everyone’s wives before the Falklands War.

‘You cannot imagine the bliss,’ said Seb, hardly lowering his voice, as they sat down, ‘of not playing for Victor any more. Ricky’s a tartar – he doesn’t regard bonking and bopping all night as keeping fit – but you don’t have to brown-nose him all the time. And have you seen Drew’s new Lamborghini? I bet that’s a reward for services rendered from Lady Sharlady, although Drew’s already got some lady. I wish I knew who it was.’