twitchy and couldn’t get plastered like everyone else, but all she could think about was whether or not Luke would turn up.
A louring, glowering Bart arrived with Chessie, who was looking thoroughly over-excited and more minxy than ever in a gold tunic exactly matching her suntan and with a golden rose in her hair.
‘Well, thank you, Perdita,’ she murmured as she passed. ‘You certainly contributed to an English victory this afternoon.’
But before Perdita could answer, there was a burst of cheering as Red walked in with the American team. He had totally regained his composure and was laughing and joking. He was wearing a pink blazer edged with purple, because the entire Polo Youth of America seemed now to have gone back to wearing pale blue blazers braided with emerald green.
There was even more noisy rejoicing when Mike and Seb rolled up, already plastered, with Lily and Annie from the Nevada brothel and a blissful Louisa wheeling a rather pale Dommie, with his knee in plaster, around in a large shopping trolley which they’d pinched from a local hypermarket.
‘Haven’t you got any dope for Ricky?’ whispered Perdita as she hugged Dommie. ‘He needs something to cheer him up.’
‘He’s just won the fucking Westchester,’ said Seb. ‘Some people are never satisfied.’
‘Sharon is,’ giggled Dommie. ‘She’s just seduced Brigadier Hughie.’
‘And we’ve promoted Corporal to General, so he’ll be Sharon’s next target,’ added Seb, chucking a cauliflower floret at Bobby Ferraro.
‘She’s going to lose David Waterlane at this rate,’ said Louisa.
‘I think her sights are set somewhat higher than a baronet,’ murmured Seb. ‘She was last heard remarking, “How naice his hay-ness looked in his off-whaite suit.” Oh, come on, Perdita, cheer
Taggie, realizing that Perdita’s spirits were at rock bottom, took her aside. ‘It’s so heavenly Rupert’s accepted you at last. He’s so pleased. He can’t wait to get you up on all his ponies. I promise he’ll be a marvellous father. Once he’s on someone’s side, it’s one hundred and fifty per cent.’
‘You do
‘Oh, more than anything. I still wake up sweating in the middle of the night, and have to reach out and touch him to prove it isn’t all a dream.’
‘How can you be so nice?’ asked Perdita, shaking her head. ‘You ought to give lessons.’
After that Perdita got no peace. Everyone wanted to congratulate her and take her through every stroke of the game, until Seb came up grinning wickedly.
‘You’ve drawn the short straw, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to sit on Hughie’s right. Talk about the price of fame. And watch out now he’s in bimbo limbo. He may start touching you up.’
Joining them, Ricky pushed a loose tendril of hair behind Perdita’s ear: ‘You OK?’
‘Of course. I just wish Mummy was here.’
‘So do I,’ said Seb feelingly.
Ricky frowned: ‘Oh, fuck off.’
Then, as Seb sloped off grinning, Ricky added: ‘Look, will you give Daisy a message when you get home?’
But Perdita never heard what he was going to say because, as dinner was announced, Luke walked in with Margie Bridgwater who was looking staggering in clinging crimson, slit up the sides to show an eternity of long, brown leg.
I must behave, I must behave, Perdita told herself through gritted teeth. As she fought her way down to her seat at the top table, she had to pass Luke, and almost wrenched her stomach muscles pulling them in, so she needn’t touch him.
‘Well done,’ he said slowly. ‘I knew you had mega-star quality, but I never figured you were that good. You pulled them together. You won that game.’
Oh, that deep, slow husky voice. Perdita wanted to collapse into his arms, but Margie was hovering, smiling but tense.
‘You taught me everything I know,’ stammered Perdita. ‘We’d never have won if they hadn’t dropped you.’
For a second they gazed at each other, both hollow-eyed, neither able to smile.
‘Buck up, Perdita,’ said Brigadier Hughie, putting two sweating hands on her bruised arms. ‘I’m starving. Too nervous to get any lunch.’
Some joker, to make matters worse, had also put her next to Red. The twins, very drunk now, started bombarding them with rolls, yelling: ‘Kiss and make up, kiss and make up.’
Then, as Sharon swept in, somewhat flushed, with a boot-faced David Waterlane, they started singing: ‘For she’s a jolly good fellater, for she’s a jolly good fellater.’
‘Shut up, you two,’ said Rupert, grinning.
He was trying to listen to the head of Revlon who was forecasting the worst share slide in US history.
‘Dollar’s sagging, interest rates are soaring.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’ve sold all my capital stock and gone liquid.’
‘I’m much more worried about this hurricane reaching England,’ said Rupert. ‘Christ knows how many trees I’ll have down.’
He glanced at his watch – half past ten in the morning in England. Seeing Taggie was safely sitting down near Bibi and Angel, he nipped out to ring his stockbroker.
Red and Perdita had a perfectly polite conversation as they both failed to touch their pale pink lobster mousse, but there was no longer a flicker of empathy between them. Here is a man who used to have me screaming and begging for more, thought Perdita, as he experimented on my body with all the detachment of a behavioural scientist testing a cageful of rats.
It was like visiting a garden which had seemed vast and mysterious when one was a child, but which now had shrunk to insignificance. Mercifully Luke was at a different table. All she could see was his broad back and his red-gold hair starting to stick upwards despite being slicked down with water. Far too often Margie’s laughing, aquiline profile turned towards him. Each time she put a crimson-nailed hand on his arm Perdita felt red-hot pokers stabbing her gut.
Bottles rose green and empty from the table. Courses came and went. A cake with scarlet icing in the shape of the red rose of England was cut by Ricky and passed down the tables and thrown about. The Westchester Cup, brimming with champagne, was passed round and round and each valiant victor and brave loser toasted.
Perdita had no idea what she or Red talked about or what Hughie told her about Singapore, until Brad Dillon, handsome in a sand-coloured suit, rose to propose the toast of the winners to a bombardment of flying grapes.
‘We’ve skunked you in twelve out of fourteen of the series, so I guess we can be generous at this moment in time,’ he said expansively, ‘but we’re coming over to get it back next year. We’ve only loaned it you.’
I wish Spotty could come in and eat bread dipped in salt like the Maltese Cat, thought Perdita. As Brigadier Hughie, who could never miss an opportunity to yak, lurched to his feet a piece of cake hit him on the shoulder.
‘And the Brigadier’s blocked the shot,’ shouted Seb as the cake was followed by a carrot, a piece of celery and an After Eight which fell out of its paper.
‘Shut up, you chaps,’ said Hughie. ‘I’ve got a surprise announcement to make.’
‘The Japs have invaded Singapore,’ shouted Rupert.
Everyone howled with laughter.
‘A surprise announcement,’ Hughie ploughed on. ‘By mutual agreement of the British and American Polo Associations, I should like to announce that Ricky France-Lynch has finally been put up to ten, the first British player since the war to achieve that honour.’
An amazed and delighted storm of cheering followed. People were thumping Ricky on the back and yelling, ‘Speech, Speech.’
He’s made it, thought Perdita dully, the final rung. How was Chessie taking the news? But, looking across the room, she went cold. Chessie’s chair was empty.
