‘Auriel better throw-in,’ said Red. ‘She adores publicity. Who else is playing?’
‘Victor, Shark Nelligan, Bobby Ferraro and Alejandro, against Hal, me, Jesus and, hopefully, you.’
‘How much?’
‘We’re playing for free.’
‘Bullshit. Shark and Alejandro won’t even tack up for free. Nor am I going to be bashed around by all those thugs for nothing.’
‘Three thousand,’ said Luke.
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Red. ‘What colour’s Hal Peters on?’
‘Purple.’
‘Doesn’t suit me,’ grumbled Red. ‘Drains all my colour. Make it four. I’ve got to buy Auriel a Christmas present. I’ve had three offers for the World Cup and two for the Open, by the way.’
At that moment a car drew up in front of the barn and a man in a crumpled dark blue suit got out.
‘Mr Alderton? I’m from the
‘How the hell did you get in here?’ snapped Red. ‘Those Rottweilers oughta be fired.’
‘We had an appointment.’
‘Well, we don’t any more, right?’
‘Could you just tell me about your relationship with Miss Kingham?’
‘I could,’ said Red amiably, watching the reporter brighten at the possibility of a scoop, ‘but I’m not going to.’
He glanced at his watch.
‘I must fly – literally. I’ve gotta party in LA this evening. Christ, I better call the airport.’
The minute he switched on the telephone it rang. Red listened for five seconds, and then said, ‘Aw, fuck off, Lorna.’
As he held the telephone at arm’s length, Perdita could hear the stream of abuse. Cantering back to the stable, he calmly lobbed the telephone into the pond.
‘My brother’s allergic to commitment,’ sighed Luke. ‘He suffers from the seven-minute itch.’
‘That’s why he took up polo,’ said Perdita. ‘At least his attention span lasts a chukka. He’s not a bit like you,’ she went on as they drove back to Luke’s barn, ‘not a millionth as nice.’
‘He’s OK,’ said Luke. ‘He just can’t handle people getting heavy.’
‘But screwing $4,000 out of you.’
‘He’s always broke,’ countered Luke, ‘because he’s so generous, not just with himself, but to everyone else. He could make a fortune playing polo. Patrons adore having him on their teams because he’s so glamorous, but they’re cautious. Players these days tend not to party till three o’clock in the morning before a final. There’s too much at stake. Red’s a party animal. He’s likely to turn up looped or not at all.’
‘You love him, don’t you?’
‘Sure, he’s my kid brother. But I hope to Christ he gets back in time tomorrow.’
32
Red, however, did not get back in time. Perdita came in from stick and balling at midday the following morning to find Chessie had telephoned to ask her to lunch at the Players Club and then to watch the match. Perdita was livid.
‘I haven’t got anything to wear. I can’t wear shorts or a dress because my legs are so pale and I haven’t had time to shave them. And she only wants to pump me about Ricky, and I want to help you on the pony lines.’
‘I’d keep out of the way,’ advised Luke. ‘You’ll enjoy Chessie, and she needs some friends.’
Reluctantly Perdita did find herself liking Chessie. She was so unrepentantly bitchy, and even more ravishing today in pale pink Bermudas and a T-shirt to match her pale pink and perfect mouth. Perdita absolutely adored the Players Club, with its yellow and white striped awning and dark forest-green walls inside, which were covered with photographs of famous players. There were the Napiers looking thuggish, and Jesus very unholy, and Miguel and Alejandro conniving, and Juan younger before he grew his celebrated black moustache, and Bobby Ferraro and Shark Nelligan, the two great American players.
I’ll be up there one day, vowed Perdita.
‘They took Ricky’s picture down,’ said Chessie drily. ‘Probably because Bart offered them so much money.’
‘He’ll be back,’ said Perdita quickly. ‘Oh, there’s Luke.’
‘Made it for the first time this year,’ said Chessie.
They stopped in front of Luke’s photograph. He was so brown his freckles had almost joined up, and he was smiling so broadly his eyes had almost disappeared.
‘Lovely open face,’ mused Chessie. ‘And, goodness, he deserves to be up there. He works so hard, making those ponies night after night until he falls off with exhaustion. And Red just swans in and takes his pick of Bart’s ponies. I long to slip Luke the odd billion in his tea. Bart’d never notice. He spends that in a year on vets’ bills and Mrs Juan’s electrolysis.’
Perdita giggled. ‘She’s a horror, isn’t she? The umpires are more scared of her than Miguel.’
Chessie also showed Perdita the glass case full of trophies – the World Cup a towering three-foot samovar and the gold Jaipur horse on an ebony stand. Missing from its space on the green baize was the Fathers and Sons Cup to be contested in a couple of hours. Perdita wondered if Luke was getting nervous.
‘Where’s the Westchester?’ asked Perdita, without thinking.
‘Incarcerated in New York,’ said Chessie mockingly. ‘And I imagine it’s going to stay there.’
They lunched on Sancerre and lobster salad, served by beautiful blonde waitresses in dark green shirts the colour of the walls, and white shorts showing off their long, smooth, brown legs.
‘Red’s had most of them,’ said Chessie dismissively.
‘He’ll get some competition when he meets Angel,’ said Perdita. ‘Gosh, this lobster is wonderful. And the orange juice here is the best I’ve ever tasted. I had four glasses for breakfast. I went into a supermarket with Luke last night, and they were offering a free bottle of champagne for every bottle you bought.’
‘That’s Palm Beach,’ said Chessie bitterly. ‘When men get married, they offer them a free bimbo as well.’
‘Is Red really keen on Auriel?’ asked Perdita, forking up raw spinach.
‘Likes the publicity,’ said Chessie, ‘although he won’t admit it, and adores annoying his father. It’s also a wonderful coup for her. She may be the most famous forty-five year old in the world, but heterosexual men are like gold dust in America, and in Palm Beach non-existent. I promise you, the women round here are carnivorous. If I left Bart for a weekend some frisky bit of crumpet would snap him up, and it’s not just the bimbos. Every time he goes out to dinner he feels some crone’s claw on his thigh.’
‘Does Red really go through lots of women?’
Chessie nodded. ‘This afternoon at the match you’ll see legions of amazing girls enjoying the sunshine and loathing each other. They’re known as the Red Army. They turn up in droves to watch him play.’
‘Like Rupert Campbell-Black,’ said Perdita.
Chessie perked up. ‘He adored Ricky so much he bypassed me. I was very disappointed. They say there isn’t a marriage he can’t crack. Now he really
As they drove over to Field Two Perdita felt despondent. Chessie was right; she’d never seen so many beautiful girls, mostly blondes with hair that looked as though it had been tossed in the tumble dryer. No one seemed to be looking at her. Perhaps it was because she’d come from Argentina, where men stared and whistled at
