to put the boot in.’
‘Sukey isn’t that subtle or conniving,’ said Daisy. ‘She was absolutely devastated, and so touchingly grateful that I’d listened to her, I felt an absolute bitch.’
‘Honestly, don’t,’ begged Drew, starting to laugh. ‘And as for that ludicrous fantasy about Bibi Alderton. That consisted of one lunch at the Four Seasons in New York. Christ, the food’s good! Bibi started crying about Angel. I put my arm round her to comfort her and unfortunately we were seen by Sukey’s most indiscreet chum, who leapt for the telephone. The only woman I’ve ever adored since I was married, probably ever, is you.’
‘What about all those valentines?’
‘I can’t help it if people send me valentines. I bet Red Alderton gets them by the sack. Catch!’ He threw the half-full bottle at her. Stretching out both hands, Daisy fumblingly caught it, spilling champagne all over her breasts. The dark green towel slid to the floor.
‘God, you’re pretty.’ Drew moved forward. ‘You’re the one who should be on Page Three.’
Daisy didn’t believe a word Drew had said about Bibi, but she was so suicidal over Ricky, and Drew looked so handsome, and it felt so nice having the champagne licked off her breasts and it was such a relief for a change being caught bathed and shaven and with clean hair that they ended up in bed.
Having supervised the packing of everything for the horses, having started packing for himself, trying to avoid Little Chef’s reproachful gaze, and suddenly feeling like a small boy about to go back to prep school, Ricky decided to drop in on Daisy. Ethel didn’t even bark because she knew him so well.
Finding Drew’s car outside and a three-quarters empty bottle of Moet on the kitchen table and two of Ethel’s puppies joyfully demolishing one of Drew’s shoes, Ricky drove off in a fury.
An hour later Drew rolled up asking if he could borrow a pair of shoes.
‘Talk about being caught on the hop,’ he said, hopping after Ricky into the kitchen.
Ricky slammed the kitchen door and shut the window so that the grooms, who had been amazed by the foulness of his temper for the last hour, couldn’t listen in.
‘How long have you been screwing Daisy?’
‘I don’t see what the hell it’s got to do with you,’ said Drew calmly.
‘I am her landlord.’
‘She’s at least six years older than you. She can do what she likes, Dick.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ howled Ricky. ‘Daisy had a bloody awful marriage. She’s just getting over it and getting her career together. The l-l-last thing she needs is some hole-in-the-corner affair which could easily end in a m-m- messy divorce. She needs a proper relationship.’
‘Relationships that pass in the night,’ sighed Drew.
‘Don’t be fucking frivolous. With someone who’s free to look after her.’
‘Like you I suppose. I’ve always thought you had the hots for her.’
‘I have not,’ said Ricky coldly.
‘Oh, we all know your heart belongs irrevocably to Chessie, so stop snarling like a guard dog in the manger and give me a drink.’
Little Chef whined querulously, unnerved by the shouting. A new moon the colour of unsalted butter was untangling itself from the racing-fox weathercock over the stables. Furiously clashing decanters, Ricky asked how long it had been going on.
‘Nearly three years.’
‘Three years,’ said Ricky, utterly aghast. ‘How often d’you see her?’
‘Whenever I can get away from Sukey and Daisy’s bloody children aren’t hanging around murdering each other. No ice, please.’
‘You’re a disgrace,’ roared Ricky. ‘No, not you boy,’ he added, gently stooping to stroke Little Chef who was shivering with terror.
‘It’s absolutely no business of yours,’ protested Drew.
‘I only happen to be captaining the Westchester team – thank Christ I dropped you. I would now, if I hadn’t – in which Daisy’s daughter may well have to play. Perdita’s impossibly near the edge at the moment. She’s never been able to accept Daisy’s sexuality. If she finds out about you two, she’ll go through the roof.’
‘The leaking roof,’ corrected Drew. ‘You should really fix that before winter comes, particularly in the bedroom. Talk about raindrops falling on one’s cock.’
‘Stop taking the piss,’ yelled Ricky. ‘You ought to pack her in. It can’t lead anywhere.’
‘It’s not meant to. I can’t divorce Sukey. That dog must be the father of Ethel’s puppies. It just gives Daisy and me an enormous . . .’ he lingered over the word mockingly, ‘amount of pleasure, and you’ve completely drowned that whisky. Christ, it’s worse getting a drink here than the bar at the club.’
‘What happens if Sukey finds out?’
‘She won’t if you lend me a pair of shoes.’
‘I hope they cripple you,’ snarled Ricky.
He was insane with rage, but he decided not to say anything to Daisy, who somehow managed not to cry when she and Little Chef bade him and Perdita goodbye and good luck the following morning. Just as they were leaving, Perdita ran back and hugged her mother tightly.
‘I love you, Mum. I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch.’
But, as the car crunched away over the conkers and acorns that littered the drive, Daisy didn’t think she’d ever been more unhappy.
‘I wish we could climb into his suitcase and go too,’ she said to a drooping, desolate Little Chef. ‘You could nip Chessie’s perfect ankles for me.’
Five minutes after they’d gone a truck rolled up and out jumped one of Ricky’s gardeners.
‘Mr France-Lynch said you were nearly out of logs, so I’ve brought you another load.’
Then Daisy really did go upstairs and cry. If only it were Ricky not his logs keeping her warm. Please God, she prayed, I’m sorry to be so indecisive. I know I asked you to get me over Drew, and you did. Now could you please get me over Ricky.
72
From the moment she landed in California, Perdita had felt like a patient waiting for the morphine to wear off and the serious, unbearable pain to take over. In England she had been numb with shock. Now the certainty that Red would swan in at any moment had reduced her to crawling, churning, hepped-up, bowel-opening panic.
She found herself leaving half-drunk cups of coffee and glasses of Perrier everywhere, starting sentences, forgetting what she was going to say, asking questions and not being able to take in the answer, putting on deodorant twice or not at all, fussing around trying on a hundred T-shirts before she went out, jumping out of her skin everytime she saw a red-headed man or a red Ferrari.
In fact, she had a three-week wait because the prick-teasing American Polo Association refused to announce the team until the eve of the first match. Their ponies had arrived, however, and were evidence that Bart had snapped up every Best Playing Pony in North and South America. Never had a US team been better mounted.
The English were pleased to find their own ponies in excellent spirits after their rest. Under Rupert’s supervision they had been slowly put to work and were now fully acclimatized to the dry, desert heat which soared into the nineties in the afternoon. With the grooms watching like hawks for dehydration, they had also adjusted to different hay, grain and water. Perdita had to hand it to Rupert. Never had England taken the field with a fitter team of ponies.
All the ponies were stabled at Eldorado Polo Club where the Westchester was being staged. It was a friendly, homely place with palms, orange groves and a little wooden clubhouse where no-one minded you putting your boots on the table. The polo, on the other hand, was so good that members jetted in at weekends from Calgary and New York and movie stars drove down in their hordes from LA. Surrounded by mountains, the Club was set in an oasis of
