a skirt, showing off her long, beautiful legs. Over her shoulders was thrown a huge crimson cashmere shawl. From her ears hung long silver earrings, both birthday presents from Rupert. He could give her everything in the world except a baby. With her dark hair lifting and her bright crimson lips as smooth as a tulip, she looked absolutely gorgeous. As usual Rupert never took his arm off her shoulders from the moment they sat down. Perdita’s heart twisted with envy and loneliness. Would he never recognize her?
Now the celebrities, who’d come to be looked at, vying to take their seats later than each other, were streaming out of the Cartier tent, replete with champagne, lobster, chicken supreme and peaches poached in Sancerre. As they looked for their seats, they flashed all-embracing smiles at their public.
‘I’ve just seen a Beegee go by,’ boomed Miss Lodsworth as Ringo Starr passed by her seat up the gangway.
‘Looked like a Monkey to me,’ said Mrs Hughie.
‘Who are the Monkeys?’ asked Brigadier Hughie. ‘Those chimps who have tea on television?’
‘No, no, a dance band,’ said Mrs Hughie. ‘You remember the Monkeys when the children were young?’
‘We had a monkey in Borneo,’ said Brigadier Hughie. ‘Dear little chap. Had to leave him behind when I was posted to Malaya.’
‘Expect it’s Prime Minister now,’ muttered Rupert.
A ripple of excitement went through the crowd as Juan O’Brien walked into the stands in a blazer of glory, hailing acquaintances.
‘Hoo-arn, Hoo-arn,’ cried Lady Sharon. ‘Welcome, welcome, or rather
Several members of the Guards Club turned purple and started muttering about Bluff Cove. Rapping out commands on his walkie-talkie, covering a field as flawless and as expectant as a newly laid carpet, strode Major Ferguson. The buttons on his blazer gleamed brighter even than the brass instruments of the band of the Irish Guards in their blood-red tunics.
Suddenly the photographers abandoned the celebrities and shot off to concentrate on the Prince and Princess of Wales, who’d just arrived and were shaking hands in the Royal Box. Only a couple of wagtails looking for worms took no notice.
On came the skewbald drum horse and his Life Guards rider in his gold coat, followed by the American team, the Stars and Stripes streaming out behind them. Angel, his face still as a gold coin, sulked because he’d just been sharply ordered to put out his cigarette. Big Bobby Ferraro, on a wall-eyed sorrel, his hat on the back of his head, had his mouth open at all the pomp. Bart was in a state of ecstasy at achieving two ambitions: to ride for his country and meet the Princess of Wales. Red, aware of the crowd’s adulation, was the only one grinning broadly – and he’s riding Tero, thought Perdita in fury. How dare he? Tero looked petrified, her pewter coat lathering up like a washing machine primed with too much Daz, big eyes darting, ears disappeared against her pretty head as Red held her in an iron grip. Nor did Perdita know that four grooms, as well as Angel, Bart and Bobby, had had to hold her in the pony lines to enable Red to get on her back.
The British team followed: Ricky very pale, Drew very red from hangover and jet lag, the Napiers very ugly and saturnine. At the clash of cymbals in ‘God Save the Queen’, the drum horse took off. Only Red sawing savagely at her mouth stopped Tero following suit.
Up in his glass box the commentator, Terry Hanlon, failed to make the boot-faced English team laugh by pulling faces at them, then thanked Cartier for sponsoring the Coronation Cup. As each member of the teams cantered forward to take a bow, Red got five times as many screams of excitement as all the others. I should never have let him ride Tero, thought Perdita bitterly. Not even Terry Hanlon thanking Sir David Waterlane, Sir Victor Kaputnik, Kevin Coley and Perdita Macleod for lending ponies to the Americans could placate her.
The first chukka went straight into polo history because, at the end of it, the Americans were 7-0 up with six of the goals scored by Red, the contemptuous smile hardly leaving his face. It was as though he’d already seen a video of the match and knew exactly where the ball was going, he and Tero achieving one of those miraculous fusions between rider and pony that happens once in a lifetime. Fear had given wings to Tero’s oiled hooves as she streaked after the ball, a blue greyhound chasing an Arctic hare, but at the same time her stopping and turning were so automatic, her positioning near the ball so exact that she seemed hardly to need a rider on her back except as a scoring machine. Perdita was torn between pride and utter humiliation, particularly as the crowd seethed with speculation around her.
‘Juan brought that grey over.’
‘No, he didn’t. Bart brought it for $100,000 from Jesus’s brother.’
‘She’s worth it,’ said Bas. ‘Christ, look at that acceleration.’
‘Isn’t that Perdita’s pony?’ asked Taggie.
‘Couldn’t be,’ said Bas dismissively. ‘She was never that good.’
‘It is,’ said Rupert. ‘Just needed a decent rider on her back.’
While America settled into a smooth rhythm, England were in total disarray, a quartet of prima donnas each used to captaining his own side, totally deficient in team spirit, marking badly, never in position. Ricky, in despair, was resorting to his old tricks, doing too much and exhausting his ponies. Drew was just tired. The Napiers barged about, bullies in china shops, bellowing with frustration.
By half-time the score was 12-2 and the crowd were reading their programmes. As the Americans rode back to the pony lines their knees bumped. The Brits rode apart, four thunderclouds symbolizing their alienation.
A square of pitch in front of the Royal Box, where the presentation would later be made, was temporarily roped off so the crowd could close in and gaze at the Prince and Princess of Wales. Babies in prams were wheeled over from the opposite stand. Two Jack Russells, a pug and a cairn in a green scarf were held aloft by their owners to have a good look.
After half-time the English steadied. Red, riding Tero again, stepped up his game and in his enthusiasm had three fouls blown on him. He redeemed himself by galloping across goal and blocking the penalties with a couple of amazing tennis volleys and, finally, with Tero’s head, just below the eyes.
‘Bastard,’ screamed Perdita as, in anguish, she watched Tero shaking her head frantically back and forth.
But her protests were drowned by the roar of the crowd as Angel picked up the ball and took it upfield, riding Drew off with unnecessary violence.
‘That’ll teach you to seduce my wife,’ he hissed.
‘Fucking gigolo,’ howled Drew, wondering whether Angel’s elbow had broken his rib. David Waterlane, who was umpiring, gave England another penalty.
‘And what can Red Alderton do this time?’ said Terry Hanlon.
Once more Red flew out, blocking the shot with Tero’s shoulders and bringing Perdita screaming to her feet.
Rupert and Bas were almost as upset. With England putting up such a pathetic performance, their collossal investment in the Westchester was looking increasingly precarious.
‘Come on, England, you’re playing like assholes,’ yelled Rupert. ‘Get your fucking fingers out.’
‘Ben and Charles Napier are supposed to be nine,’ said Bas, ‘but when they play together they’re about four. They’re not putting their backs into it because you don’t get paid for an International.’
‘God, he’s handsome,’ said a beauty behind Perdita, as Red scored again, a lovely sweeping shot under Tero’s neck. ‘If he’s really chucked Perdita Macleod, could you introduce me?’
Perdita gazed across the field to where a shining shingle of parked cars seemed to stretch to infinity. I want to die, she thought. Hell will be as welcoming as a log fire on a cold day compared with this. And now Red and Charles Napier were hurtling towards the boards inside which the ball was nestling. Red must bring Tero down.
‘Careful, Red, for God’s sake!’ she screamed.
But the next second Tero had hopped over the boards at full gallop and somehow, straining every tendon, had turned right in midair, positioning Red perfectly for an offside forehand, enabling him to scoop the ball out and blast it to safety. The crowd gave a sigh of ecstasy as the bell went for the end of the fourth chukka. Tero’s part in the match was over. Passionately relieved, shoving protesting onlookers out of the way Perdita raced down to the pony lines by which time Red and Glitz were back on the field.
She found Tero heaving and gasping for breath as she’d only seen ponies doing in the sweltering heat of Palm
