stones.
‘Very, very nice,’ said the jeweller in reverent tones. ‘I’d be surprised if you’d get much change out of ?100,000, might be even higher. Pretty stones, for a pretty lady,’ he added with a smile at Chessie’s gasp of amazement.
Chessie was so stunned she went straight out and committed the cardinal indiscretion of ringing Bart at home from a call box.
‘Pretend I’m a wrong number. Look, I’m sorry I was so horribly ungrateful. I’d no idea those diamonds were real.’
‘Like my love for you,’ said Bart softly. ‘I can’t talk now,’ and hung up.
‘Did you bring me a present?’ said Will when she got home.
Joyfully Chessie gathered him up, and swung him round till he screamed with laughter.
‘I’ve got a hunch,’ she murmured. ‘I may have got you a new Daddy.’
Bart rang her later. ‘Can you talk?’
‘I could talk when I was eighteen months,’ said Chessie, ‘but I’m precocious.’
Out of the window, she could see Louisa wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, as she planted primroses round Mattie’s grave.
‘Mattie had to be put down,’ she told Bart.
‘I’m sorry – she was a helluva horse. How’s Ricky taking it?’
‘Bottling it up as usual.’
‘Any repercussions last night?’
‘Ricky was too shell-shocked even to realize I’d been away. I forgot to ask yesterday. Are you still going to drop him?’
‘I guess I’m going to drop Ricky
The polo community were flabbergasted when Bart didn’t come to Deauville and allowed the team that he was forking out so much for to play without him. His place was taken by an underhandicapped Australian who interchanged so dazzlingly with Ricky that the Alderton Flyers clinched the French Championships after a very close fight against David Waterlane and the O’Brien brothers. Kinta, suddenly clicking with Ricky, won the Best Playing Pony award, to Juan’s fury. So much were the Flyers on form they were hotly tipped to win the French Gold Cup next Sunday.
Although Ricky desperately missed Mattie, he felt his luck was changing. During the endless barbecues and parties, the racing and gambling which characterize Deauville, players and patrons who aren’t rushing home every evening get a chance to talk. Ricky spent a lot of time with David Waterlane, and his son, Mike, a raw, silent, spotty youth, back from Harrow for the holidays. Hopelessly inhibited by his father, Mike showed considerable promise. Feeling the boy’s relationship with David was very like his own with Herbert, Ricky immediately struck up a rapport with Mike. They exercised their horses at dawn every day in the surf and stick and balled together. Mike’s game improved dramatically, and as a result David signed Ricky up as his senior pro for the next year. He and Ricky had been to the same school and understood each other. David was sick of the double-dealing and histrionics of the O’Briens.
Ricky had to confess that to the abscess-draining bliss of Bart’s absence was added the relief of not having Chessie with him. He could concentrate on his game, and not worry the whole time whether she was bored, or spending too much money, or sulking because she wasn’t spending money. He was well aware that his marriage was going badly, but being used to cold war over the years with Herbert, he didn’t feel it was the end of the world.
After drinking at least a bottle and a half of champagne after the French Championships, Ricky tried to ring home, but the telephone was dead – probably been cut off. Suddenly, missing Chessie like hell, he decided to accept Victor Kaputnik’s offer of a lift back to the Tiger’s yard at Newbury. Sukey and Drew, who were coming too, had parked their car there, and could give him a lift back to Rutshire. Buoyed up by champagne, ecstatic with victory, he bought a dark green cashmere jersey for Chessie, a cowboy suit for Will, and stopped off at the supermarket and loaded up with garlic sausage, salami, Toblerone, huge tomatoes, and the cheese which smelt like joggers’ socks which Chessie adored so much.
Victor’s helicopter seated eight, so drinking continued on the flight, and Sukey, who didn’t drink, drove Drew and Ricky back to Rutshire, so they were able to carry on boozing, reliving every chukka. Next Sunday’s Gold Cup seemed well within their grasp now. Ricky sat in the back addressing occasional fond and drunken remarks to the huge silver cup which he would have to hand over to Bart tomorrow.
‘We’re going to spend the second half of our honeymoon in Argentina and find Drew some really good ponies,’ said Sukey as she turned off the M4.
It must be nice having a wife who acted as chauffeur and remembered every shot you’d ever scored, thought Ricky. But he didn’t think he could bring himself to sleep with Sukey. He was overwhelmed again with longing for Chessie. He should have forked out for a temporary nanny. They needed to spend more time together.
My luck has turned, he told himself again, as Sukey drove up the lime avenue. I’m going to be a better husband from now on. Robinsgrove was in darkness. Perhaps Chessie’d gone to stay with her mother. As he stood reeling uncertainly in the yard, he suddenly felt a sword-thrust of misery that Mattie wasn’t there to welcome him. Then a white ghost shot out of the grooms’ flat. Millicent the whippet, frisking round his legs, was overjoyed he was home. She was shortly followed by the two Labradors, and Louisa, who was spilling out of a yellow sundress. Sounds of revelry were going on behind her.
‘Whatever are you doing back?’ she asked in horror.
‘Just for the night,’ said Ricky, clanking bottles as he searched in the carrier bag. ‘We won.’
‘Ohmigod, how wonderful,’ said Louisa, flinging her arms round his swaying body. He was absolutely plastered, bless him.
‘And Kinta won Best Playing Pony. Any problems?’
‘No, everything’s fine. They’re all turned out except Wallaby, and his hock’s much better. Come and have a drink to celebrate.’
The whoops and howls were increasing.
‘Who the fuck’s that?’ shouted a voice.
‘No thanks,’ said Ricky, handing Louisa a garlic sausage, and a bottle of Cointreau. ‘For you, where’s Chessie?’
Louisa looked guilty. Ricky thought it was because he’d caught her having a party.
‘Gosh thanks, she’s left a note on the kitchen table. Millicent hasn’t been eating,’ she called after Ricky, as he tottered towards the house. ‘But she will now you’re home.’
Ricky realized how drunk he was when he tripped up the back doorstep, and nearly dropped the cup. God, that cheese stank. There was no moon, so he spent ages finding his keys.
The kitchen was incredibly tidy. Usually by Sunday night it was a tip. He dumped the carrier bags on the table, poured himself a large whisky, and was just about to open a tin of Chappie for Millicent, when he saw Chessie’s letter. How odd, she’d put it in an envelope.
‘Dear Ricky,’ he read, ‘I’m leaving you. I can’t put up with a miserable, totally meaningless marriage any more. I’m taking Will. My lawyers will be in touch. Don’t try and find me. Yours, Chessie.’
Very carefully he spooned the contents of the Chappie tin into Millicent’s bowl and, putting it down, sprinkled biscuits over it. Then, as he walked towards the telephone and realized he’d scattered biscuits all over the floor, he started to shake, his thighs suddenly seemed to have a life of their own, leaping and trembling. His heart was crashing against his rib-cage.
The telephone was dead, so he went over to Louisa’s flat, where he found a young man in pink boxer shorts brandishing the garlic sausage, like a large cock, at a frantically giggling Louisa. Her giggles died when she saw Ricky.
‘Can I use your telephone?’
Louisa nodded. ‘Use the one in the bedroom.’
‘Chessie’s left me,’ Ricky told Drew over the telephone.
‘Christ – I am sorry.’
‘Did you know anything?’
‘I’d heard rumours.’
