absolutely loathed her guts.
Outside, raised voices were definitely winning over Bob Marley and the tree-frogs. Perdita, creeping to the window, noticed Rupert’s cigar glowing redly as he increasingly drew on it, trying to keep his temper. His other hand, holding a glass of brandy, rested on Taggie’s shoulder. She was shelling peas for tomorrow night’s dinner which would either be a celebration or the wake to end all wakes. No one was taking any notice of Sharon, who, rippling the oily, pale turquoise surface of the pool, dog-paddled up and down in the nude, piled-up hair held firmly above the water, diamond earrings upstaging the huge stars.
‘Do come in and have a dip, boys. The water’s laike satin. Ay’m sure it will cool you down.’
But David was yelling at Ricky. ‘I want to know where the hell Mike is. He’s not even in bed by midnight on the night’ – he looked at his watch – ‘or rather the day of the most important match of his life. If I’d been in charge, this would never have happened.’
He was interrupted by the sound of a Mini-Moke roaring up the dust track pouring out Dire Straits, followed by raucous laughter and slamming doors.
‘
‘
‘
‘
The singing tailed off as the trio encountered a solid phalanx of disapproval lined up round the pool.
‘Where have you been?’ thundered David Waterlane.
‘Hello, David,’ said Seb, brushing his blond hair out of his eyes. ‘We thought there was no point Mike worrying all evening about you flying over and tomorrow’s match so we took him for a jaunt.’
‘A seriously good jaunt,’ said Mike, swaying towards the swimming-pool and only being saved from falling in by Dommie catching hold of his shirt. Mike’s normally slicked-back hair flopped all over his forehead and he was wearing an outsize T-shirt on which was printed the words: ‘Fran’s Friendly Fornicating Facilities’.
‘We took him to a brothel in Nevada,’ said Seb who was wearing a T-shirt which said: ‘Have a good lay’.
‘Pretty sophisticated. Customers landing all the time on the airstrip,’ he went on.
Dommie’s T-shirt said: ‘Support your local hooker’.
‘We bought ones for you and Perdita,’ he beamed at Ricky. ‘You OK, darling?’ he shouted up to Perdita, who was by now nearly falling out of the window with laughter. Rupert threw his cigar into the swimming-pool, only just missing Sharon’s nose.
‘You took Mike to a knocking shop and got him drunk?’ he said softly.
‘He’s not drunk. He smoked a joint on the way home,’ said Seb, taking the cigarette from Mike and inhaling deeply. ‘You should try this place, Rupert. They’ve got an orgy room with blue shagpile, leading up to the waterbed and a jacuzzi with red lights under the water and we saw some brilliant blue movies. Much better for Mike’s morale than that frightfully depressing video of him letting everyone through in the first match.’
‘We nearly tried the dominance dungeon,’ added Dommie. ‘We thought how much Chessie would have enjoyed it – whoops, sorry,’ he added, giggling, as Ricky’s face tightened with rage.
‘Seriously nice girls,’ said Mike, collapsing on to a sunlounger. ‘Really seriously friendly.’
‘He’s had Mona, Lily and Annie,’ explained Seb. ‘Severally and together, and he’s so tired and relaxed he’ll sleep like a baby for the first time since he’s been out here.’
‘Are you crazy?’ hissed David. ‘You’ve probably caught AIDS.’
‘It’s OK, Daddy,’ said Mike cheerfully. ‘I used a condominium.’
Glancing at Rupert, Perdita saw that he had his head in his hands again, trying to disguise the fact that he was quite hysterical with laughter.
73
The second match was quite different. In losing his virginity Mike seemed to have shed his terrible nerves as well. Primed by Rupert with a vast slug of brandy when his father wasn’t looking, he played with unshakeable authority, sledge-hammering the ball upfield, tigerish on any loose balls and twice pounding down like a Panzer division to score splendid goals. Time and again, the US team took the ball right down the field, but the English wouldn’t let them score.
Realizing Luke was the most dangerous player on the field, Seb and Dommie weighed in like the two musketeers, duelling with their sticks, hooking, bumping and stabbing the ball away from him, playing a stoically defensive game. With Luke pegged, Red and Angel’s life-support machine was cut off and they were unable to score. Ricky, on the other hand, hit form with a knock-out punch. Elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel, swift as a lurcher, always there to whisk the ball away when Mike or the twins made a frantic last-ditch clear, he played the game of his life.
The crowd, reluctant to witness a second bloodbath, had halved, but now over and over again broke into spontaneous cheers. Umpires Juan and Jesus were so often distracted by Ricky’s virtuosity that they missed fouls on other parts of the field. At half-time the English were leading 7-3 and as word flew round the Californian coast that a tussle was in process, spectators started screeching in in their limos and helicopters swooped down out of the sky like gulls on a newly ploughed field.
The temperature had also rocketed. Huge brown-bottomed clouds like dusty meringues gathered menacingly on the horizon beneath a royal-blue sky tinged with purple. But the English players and ponies under Rupert’s fitness regime were standing up well. Perdita envied the bikinis and sundresses all round her, as once again she sweated in the stands in her England gear.
In the fifth chukka the English steeled themselves for Red’s and Glitz’s legendary bombardment. But due to Ricky’s sticking to Red like chewing gum to a dog’s fur, it never materialized. Bart was gnashing his beautifully capped teeth on the sideline.
‘Come on, England,’ screamed Chessie. ‘Well, I am English,’ she added defiantly to a shocked Bibi.
Terry Hanlon, flown specially over from Cowdray to do the commentary, was so petrified of flying that he’d practically had to be doped before he would get on to the plane. But so encouraged was he by his country’s gutsy performance that he quite forgot his jet lag.
‘And the ball goes out of play. Sorry, Granny,’ he added as Red, in a fury of frustration, hit a ball straight into the stands. ‘If you watch the ball, you’ll never get hit by it. Hit-in to England. And there goes Ricky France-Lynch on his way to ten goals. Did you see the way he just stroked the ball under the nose of Red Alderton, and took it away, sending a lovely lofted pass to Dommie Carlisle? What a chance!
‘But here comes Luke Alderton,’ he went on, ‘steady as the Rockies, thundering down to ride Dommie off, but Dommie flicks the ball back to his captain who powers it between the posts. That’s 8-3 to England.’ Then, waiting for the cheers to subside, ‘You can’t fight the entire English side on your own, Luke.’
With a wry grin, Luke lifted his stick in the direction of the commentary box.
In the closing seconds of the chukka, however, the ball was once more bouncing towards the seemingly insatiable American goal-mouth. Frantic to clear, Bobby Ferraro opened his shoulders and let fly. Valiantly Dommie hurled little Corporal forward to block the shot. As if fired by a cannon, it smacked Dommie just below his kneepad as the bell went.
‘Oh, shit, shit, shit,’ he screamed, slumping over his saddle. To a man, the crowd winced. As the players gathered round and the ambulance roared up, Dommie had gone greener than the inside of an avocado pear.
‘I’m sorry, Dommie, I’m real, real, sorry,’ said a horrified Bobby Ferraro.
‘My fault for riding into it,’ mumbled Dommie.
Fortunately he was near the pony lines and, refusing any help from the ambulance, managed to ride Corporal off the field.
