‘Why the fuck didn’t you warn me?’
‘I hoped it would blow over.’
‘Who’s the man?’
‘You’re not going to like this,’ Drew paused. ‘Bart Alderton.’
‘Bart,’ said Ricky incredulously, ‘but he’s old enough to be . . .’
‘Her sugar daddy; that’s what attracted her. Look, I’ll come over.’
‘No – I’m going round to kill him.’
‘For Christ’s sake, you’re in no condition.’
But Ricky’d hung up.
Louisa was standing in the doorway, her eyes filled with tears.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she stammered. ‘You oughtn’t to drive. Wait till morning.’
But Ricky pushed straight past her. Millicent, having wolfed her dinner and hoovered up the biscuits on the floor, was determined not to be left behind and jumped belching into the now mended BMW.
It was a warm night. The clouds had rolled back leaving brilliant stars and a rising moon. As Ricky couldn’t find the top of the whisky bottle, he wedged it in the side pocket, taking repeated slugs as he drove. He covered the twenty miles in as many minutes, overtaking two cars at once on the narrow roads, shooting crossroads. A cold rage had settled in. It wasn’t Chessie’s fault. Bart Alderton could corrupt anyone.
The electric gates had not yet been installed, so Ricky was able to open the iron ones. Deer and sheep blinked in the headlights as he drove up an avenue of chestnut trees. As he rattled over the second sheep grid, where the drive opened up into a big sweep of gravel, the beautiful seventeenth-century manor house, with its ruff of lavender and white roses clambering to the roof, was suddenly floodlit.
Little Millicent quivered in the back as four Rottweilers came roaring round the side of the house, fangs bared, growling horribly, scrabbling at the car’s paintwork with thick black claws. Taking another slug of whisky, Ricky got out of the car and, because he was totally unafraid, only stopping to pat a sleek, snarling head or mutter a casual ‘good dog’, was able to walk unscathed through the pack and ring the door bell.
A security guard answered. His shoulders seemed to fill the door.
‘Mrs France-Lynch?’ said Ricky.
‘You’ve got the wrong house, buddy.’
‘I’m coming in to wait for her.’
‘Who’s that?’ called Chessie’s voice.
For a second the security man was caught on the hop. Shoving him aside, Ricky walked into the house. Chessie looked floodlit too. She was wearing a red silk dress, long-sleeved, high-necked and slinky, black shoes with four-inch heels, and huge rubies at her ears, neck and wrists. Her hair had been newly streaked, cut shorter and swept off her flawless face. Ricky caught his breath. She looked staggering. The tramp had become a lady.
‘How dare you barge in here?’ Radiant with spite, Chessie moved towards him. ‘Get out. Bart’ll be back in a minute, then we’re going out – to Rubens’ Retreat.’ It was as though she was outlining the evening’s whereabouts for a baby-sitter.
‘How long’s this been going on?’
‘My being miserable? Since I met you, I guess.’
‘You’re coming home.’
‘To that dump! I’m bloody not.’
She caught a waft of whisky. Ricky was wearing a crumpled dark blue shirt and jeans. Unshaven, very brown, his black hair falling over his forehead, he looked savage and dangerous.
Ricky dropped his eyes first and, aware of the hovering guard, turned left into the drawing room which had been exquisitely furnished in soft corals and yellows by Grace. All the cushions looked as if they had been blown up with bicycle pumps.
‘L-l-look, I know things have been difficult, but I love you.’
‘Do you now?’
‘I’ve been spending so much time on the ponies, so we could get straight. Things’ll get better.’
‘Bullshit,’ screamed Chessie hysterically. ‘Polo’s a drug only curable by poverty or death, and you’re hooked.’
‘We won today.’
‘So fucking what?’ sneered Chessie. ‘Bart’s still going to drop you.’
Ricky bit his lip. ‘David’s going to sponsor me next year, and I’ve almost certainly got a patron for Palm Beach.’
‘That still won’t be enough to live on.’
‘I’ll tap my father.’
‘Your father’s a disgusting, crabby old man,’ taunted Chessie, ‘and you’re getting more like him every day. I’m not having you damaging Will, like Herbert damaged you, making you incapable of showing affection for anything but a horse. I’m surprised you noticed we’d gone.’
Under the chandelier in the centre of the room, he could see she was uncharacteristically wearing a lot of make-up – making her look much harder. Bart’s influence was already working.
‘And you think Bart’s the answer,’ said Ricky slowly. ‘I was fooled at the beginning. He’ll crucify you; he’s only interested in conquest. He beats up his horses; soon he’ll do the same to you.’
He already has, thought Chessie, stretching voluptuously. She could hardly sit down after Bart had spanked her that afternoon.
‘Bart’s the most considerate man I’ve ever met.’ Then, as Ricky raised his eyebrows, ‘and the best lover. He could give you a bit of coaching. I’m fed up with being married to a failure in and out of bed.’
Ricky clenched his fists. For a second Chessie thought he was going to hit her. Mocking him with her enhanced beauty, she sauntered over to the drinks trolley, and with a totally steady hand poured herself a vodka and tonic. Her dress was so low-cut at the back that Ricky could see a violet bruise above the cleft of her buttocks.
‘I’ll make a bargain with you,’ she said, swinging round. ‘I’ll come back to you the day you go to ten
It was virtually an impossibility. No English player had gone to ten since before the war, and the Westchester Cup, the Holy Grail of Anglo-American polo, had remained uncontested in American hands since 1939.
‘You bitch,’ whispered Ricky.
‘I agree, it’s highly unlikely,’ said Chessie. Her laugh sounded horrible, almost mad.
‘Daddy! Daddy!’ Woken by the din, frightened by the shouting, Will, in pale blue pyjamas, trailing a huge, white, fluffy monkey, obviously the result of a trip to Harrods, ran into the room and threw himself into Ricky’s arms. He was so excited he couldn’t speak. Ricky clung on to his warm, chunky body, which smelt of talcum powder and shampoo, seeking sanity and comfort. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t let Chessie take Will away.
‘Did you bring me a present?’
The cowboy suit was at home. Putting his hand in his jeans’ pocket, Ricky pulled out a little silver pony with a detachable saddle and bridle that he’d been given as an extra prize for captaining the winning team. ‘Here you are.’
‘Horsie,’ said Will, enraptured. ‘Horsie like Mattie.’ Then, turning to Chessie: ‘Daddy stay the night?’
‘Daddy’s going,’ said Chessie icily, reaching for the bell.
‘Let me keep him for tonight.’
‘No,’ said Chessie alarmed. ‘You’ll kidnap him.’
‘What are you planning to do with him?’
‘Take him back to America of course, but we’ll be back and forth to England all the time. Bart does so much business. I’m sure the lawyers will grant you visitation rights.’
‘Visitation rights?’ said Ricky, enraged. ‘You’re even talking like a fucking American now. He’s my child, and I’m not having that bastard bringing him up. We’re going home,’ he said, pushing Will’s blond fringe out of his eyes. Then, when Will looked doubtful: ‘Millicent’s in the car and you can see Louisa.’
Aware of the security man hovering in the hall, Ricky made a dive for the french windows.
‘No,’ screamed Chessie.
