Polo

It was an old friend, Fiona, who’d always bossed Daisy about at school.

‘Can I come and spend the weekend?’

‘Of course.’ Daisy quailed at how irritated Hamish would be. ‘Did you have a good Christmas?’

‘Course not. You don’t if your lover’s married.’

Wendy seemed to manage, thought Daisy.

‘Fiona, have you heard anything about Hamish?’

‘Well, one’s heard he’s keen on some PA. But let’s face it, Hamish has always liked ladies. And no doubt in the end he’ll get as bored sexually with her as he did with you. Sit tight, don’t rock the boat. I’ll see what I can suss out before the weekend.’

Daisy sat down and cried, and Ethel, who’d been disembowelling one of Biddy’s stuffed coathangers, leant against her and licked her face. Daisy wasn’t raging with jealousy. Hamish had ‘stood by her’ as the papers called it for fifteen years. She couldn’t expect him to always lie on top of her as well. Then Hamish rang to tell her he didn’t want any supper, and not to wait up.

Next morning Daisy sat hunched over a cup of coffee, trying not to think about Wendy, listening to Hamish’s bath running out. Gainsborough was chattering at the window, crossly watching robins, tits and sparrows feeding on the bird table. Then a predatory magpie swooped down and they all scattered. ‘One for sorrow,’ said Daisy, crossing herself with a shiver. ‘Good morning Mr Magpie, how are your wife and children – and your mistress?’ she added as an afterthought.

Turning to the front page of the Daily Mail, she saw that Ricky France-Lynch had been sent down for manslaughter.

‘Orgulloso Gets Two Years,’ said the headline.

Bastard, thought Daisy, looking at the sensual yet implacable face of the judge.

‘Sir Anthony Wedgwood QC, defending,’ read Daisy, ‘said that his client had had extreme provocation. A wife he worshipped was taken off him by his patron, and he has been punished a million times by the death of a son he adored, and terrible injuries which have almost certainly put an end to his polo career.’

If that hasn’t, thought Daisy furiously, two years in jug certainly will.

The judge sounded just like Biddy Macleod.

‘The defendant,’ he had told the jury, ‘is a member of the jet set, the jeunesse doree, who raised a thousand pounds a match playing for his patron. He may just have been left by his wife, but he was used to living in the fast lane, and already had convictions of speeding and drunken driving. I feel,’ went on the judge, ‘there should be some redress for his young wife, who has sustained the terrible loss of a child. Nor do I believe there should be one law for the rich.’

There were pictures of Ricky looking stony-faced and much, much thinner, arriving at court and, on the inside pages, of a bewitchingly glamorous Chessie and the adorable little boy, and also of Ricky’s friends: Basil Baddingham, Rupert Campbell-Black, David Waterlane and the twins, all looking boot-faced after the verdict.

Daisy’s eyes filled with tears. Poor Ricky, he was far, far worse off than she was. Outside the sky was leaden grey and a bitter north wind ruffled the hair of the wood, but at least the hazel catkins hung sulphur-yellow like a Tiffany lamp. Ricky can’t see any of that, thought Daisy, incarcerated in Rutminster prison.

‘Ricky France-Lynch got two years,’ she told Hamish, as she handed him a cup of herbal tea.

Hamish glanced at the paper. ‘He’s already done six months’ remand. If he behaves himself he’ll be up before the parole board in a few months. He’ll probably only do a year in the end.’

‘You are clever to know things like that.’

‘Wife’s bloody good-looking. I don’t blame Bart Alderton,’ said Hamish, helping himself to muesli.

Daisy was so busy reading all the details of the trial, and that Rupert and Bas were going to appeal, and wondering whether to send Ricky a food parcel, that it was a few minutes before she noticed two suitcases in the hall.

Oh God, Hamish must be off to recce some new film, and she’d been so preoccupied with penury and painting, she didn’t know what it was. He was bound to have told her, and he’d be livid because she hadn’t listened. She must be a better wife.

Putting his muesli bowl in the sink, Hamish removed some bottles of whisky and gin, given him by hopeful theatrical agents for Christmas, from the larder and asked Daisy if she’d got a carrier bag.

‘Here’s one from Liberty’s, rather suitable if you’re wanting your freedom,’ Daisy giggled nervously. ‘Going anywhere exciting?’

‘Very,’ said Hamish calmly. ‘I’m leaving you. I’m moving in with Wendy.’

For once the colour really drained from Daisy’s rosy cheeks.

‘For g-g-good?’ she whispered.

‘For my good,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m afraid I’ve come to the end of the road.’

Like Harry Lauder, thought Daisy wildly, Hamish should be wearing his kilt.

‘I can’t cope with your hopeless inefficiency any more,’ he went on. ‘The house is a tip. You never diary anything or pick up my cleaning. The children, particularly Perdita, are quite out of control. Their rooms are like cesspits. I owe it to my career. I can never invite backers or programme controllers, or anyone that matters, to the house. You can’t even cope with Mother for a few days. It isn’t as though you even worked.’

To justify leaving her, Hamish was deliberately pouring petrol on resentment that must have been smouldering for years.

‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Daisy, ‘I will try and be more efficient, I keep thinking about painting.’

‘One wouldn’t mind,’ said Hamish with chilling dismissiveness, ‘if you were any good. I married you fifteen years ago because I felt sorry for you. I feel I deserve some happiness.’

He’s enjoying this, thought Daisy numbly. She could see Biddy Macleod crouched on top of the fridge like an old Buddha applauding him. Picking up her coffee cup she found the washing-up machine already full and clean, and started unloading it.

‘Until I met Wendy, I didn’t know what happiness was,’ said Hamish sententiously. ‘She makes me feel so alive.’

‘Alive, alive oh-ho,’ mumbled Daisy. ‘Cock-ups and muscles, alive, alive oh.’ I’m going mad, she thought, I can’t take this in.

‘Wendy’s so interested in everything I do.’

Easy to be interested when you’re in love, thought Daisy sadly. Trying to take ten mugs out of the machine, one finger through each handle, her hands were shaking so much, she dropped one on the stone floor.

‘See what I mean, you’re so hopeless,’ said Hamish smugly.

Sweeping up the pieces, Daisy cut herself and wound a drying-up cloth round her hand.

‘And frankly,’ glancing in the kitchen mirror Hamish extracted a piece of muesli from his teeth, ‘I can’t put up with Perdita any more. I have forked out for that little tramp till I’m bankrupt.’

‘Perdita,’ said Daisy, losing her temper, ‘would have been OK if you’d ever been nice to her.’

‘Mother thinks she’s seriously disturbed. There must be some bad blood somewhere.’

‘That was definitely below the belt.’ Daisy started throwing forks into the silver drawer.

‘That is family silver,’ said Hamish.

‘Not my family any more,’ screamed Daisy, and picking up the drawer she emptied it into the Liberty’s carrier bag beside the whisky and the gin. ‘Take the bloody stuff away. So you’re leaving me because I’m lousy at housework, and don’t help your career, and you can’t stand Perdita, and Wendy makes you feel so alive. Why can’t you tell the truth and just say you enjoy screwing Wendy.’

‘I knew you’d resort to cheap abuse.’

‘Nothing cheap about those bills. Minicabs must have found their way blindfold to Wendy’s and you must have kept Interflora in business. It ought to be re-named “Inter-Wendy” – you certainly were.’

‘You’ve been snooping,’ sighed Hamish. ‘I was trying to conduct this with dignity. I had hoped to avoid animosity for Eddie’s and Violet’s sake.’

Daisy’s eyes darted in terror. ‘You’re not going to take them away . . . ?’

‘Only if you really can’t cope,’ said Hamish loftily. ‘We’ll have them at weekends and for a good chunk of the holidays. You can certainly have custody of Perdita and that appalling dog.’

‘She’s not appalling,’ said Daisy, throwing Ethel a Bonio from the red box on top of the fridge. ‘What about