anything remotely passable, that she felt so invisible in her old jeans and grey shirt.
‘Dearie me,’ said Chessie happily as they drove past the pony lines and heard shouting, ‘I suspect Ethel-Red the unready hasn’t turned up.’
She was right. Bart, Luke and Bibi and their opponents the Van Dorens – the father, once a great player and still with a nine-goal mind, and his three sons – were all waiting to play. Red’s pony for the first chukka was tacked up in his duck-egg-blue bandages and saddle blanket. The umpires were looking at their watches – but there was no sign of Red.
The Aldertons had won the Fathers and Sons match for the last three years, and with Bart on five, Red and Luke on six and seven respectively, and Bibi now a useful one, they should have walked it today. But without Red they were stymied. The
‘I don’t know the shorthand for asshole or son of a bitch,’ grumbled a girl reporter. ‘I wonder if they’re grammalogues.’
The Van Dorens, who were cool and WASP, with very long arms to hook their opponents’ sticks, were much amused that Red hadn’t arrived. Like every other player in Palm Beach, they were fed up with Bart bringing in ringers and spending so much on ponies that he priced everyone else out of existence. Chessie, sitting in the aluminium stands with Perdita, was most amused of all.
‘The little shit,’ she remarked, not lowering her voice at all. ‘I warned Bart not to rely on him. And best of all his ghastly mother is sitting down below us: “
Having only seen Grace once a long time ago, Perdita couldn’t identify her at first.
‘The one in the scrambled-egg-yellow dress,’ said Chessie.
Perdita was shocked. It was though Medusa and Jack Frost had ganged up on Grace in a single night, turning her face to stone and her dark hair hoarfrost-white. She had aged twenty years. She looked grief-eroded and quite out of place on such a lovely day.
Rain all morning had given way to brilliant sunshine. Every leaf and grass blade glistened. Palm trees like unkempt, emaciated drunks lurched above the flawless, green field and the mushroom-brown houses. A large crowd had assembled on both sides behind the boards. The true polo addicts watched with the sun behind them. Those more interested in getting a tan, principally the Red Army, faced the sun. Pitch and ponies beckoned. Oh, I wish I could play, thought Perdita.
‘Bart will murder Red when he arrives,’ said Chessie with satisfaction. ‘Last year Red got so fed up with Bart shouting that he hit a ball straight into his ribs. The year before Bibi got knocked unconscious in a ride-off. Bart just bundled her into an ambulance and went on playing. Blood certainly isn’t thicker than polo.’
‘Why’ve they got three ambulances?’
‘One’s Bart’s, another’s the Van Dorens’, the third belongs to the club. Good thing they’ve brought two fire- engines to put out the blaze when Red finally turns up. Look, Gracie is twisting her Hermes scarf to shreds,’ said Chessie gleefully. ‘Talk about Grace under pressure. We are not amused.’
Poor Grace was even less amused a second later, when a passing cameraman yelled up into the stands for Mrs Alderton.
‘Yes,’ called back Grace, rising regally to her feet.
But the cameraman was looking at Chessie. ‘Mrs Alderton?’
‘Yes,’ said Chessie silkily.
‘Can I get a picture of you on the pitch at divot-stomping time?’
‘Sure,’ said Chessie, ‘if there is one. Doesn’t look as though this match is going to get started.’ She added in an undertone to Perdita. ‘That will really wind up the old bag.’
Looking at Grace’s stricken face, Perdita totally understood why Red and Bibi loathed Chessie.
The crowd was getting restless. Down on the pony lines Bart and Luke were still arguing about a substitute. Luke had tried to ring Angel, but he’d pushed off to spend the day with some Argentine players and couldn’t be traced, which did not endear him to Bart. He wanted a six-goal substitute, which would enable Red to play if he turned up. Luke, who wanted Perdita, was arguing that they’d never find a six as good as Red, and with a lower handicapped substitute at least they’d get a four-or five-goal start, which they’d be more likely to hold on to because the Van Dorens were chiefly strong on defence. Bibi was backing up Luke. Leroy, who disliked rows because they reminded him of his former home in Miguel’s yard, came to his master’s aid by biting Bart sharply on his booted ankle, causing Bart’s security guards to reach for their guns. Luke called Leroy off. The row escalated.
Up came the umpire, Shark Nelligan, a rough-tough cowboy with crooked teeth, who repeatedly claimed he was not going to kiss anyone’s butt. Shark hated Luke because Hal Peters had been Shark’s patron in medium-goal matches last summer, but, fed up with being ripped off and bawled out, Hal had switched to Luke for the high-goal Palm Beach season.
‘You’ll have to forfeit, Bart,’ said Shark with some relish, ‘if you’re not on the pitch in five minutes.’
‘You can hear the Aldertons rowing three continents away,’ said Chessie. ‘At least you’re sitting in the best part of Palm Beach to hear all the latest scandal – whose horses are unsound, whose are for sale, which pros are about to be dropped, who’s made the latest hot-horse deal.’ Chessie’s eyes sparkled wickedly. ‘Who’s screwing who. You’re the
‘Me?’ gasped Perdita.
Chessie lowered her voice only a fraction.
‘Luke bringing you back from Argentina. Cassandra Murdoch, his girlfriend, is shattered.’
‘But I’m not his . . .’ began Perdita aghast.
‘That’s her down there.’ Chessie pointed out a tall brunette in a rust-coloured shirt and white sawn-off jeans. ‘Luke’s levelled with her, wrote to her some weeks ago, saying it was over and how desperately sorry he was. They’ve been together for three years. She’s wiped out, even more cut-up than the pitch is going to be if they ever start playing.’
‘But Luke and I aren’t having an affair,’ said Perdita, deeply shocked. ‘He’s my friend.’
‘Faithful and just to me,’ mocked Chessie. ‘Rumour has it you’re sharing his bed.’
‘I am
Chessie shrugged. ‘I’m only passing on what’s being said.’
Perdita was so shaken it was a few seconds before she realized Luke was yelling at her. ‘Perdita, move your ass. You’ve gotta play.’
Frantic desire to escape from Chessie’s interrogation overcame any nerves Perdita might have had. She shot down the steps and, only for a second as she raced along the boards, was she aware of the hollow-eyed anguished face of Cassandra Murdoch.
One of the grooms had picked up her knee pads, gloves, boots and stick from the back of Luke’s car. Keeping on her jeans, she dived behind a trailer and swapped her grey T-shirt for the Alderton Flyer’s duck-egg blue with the streak of dark blue lightning down the front and back, and borrowed a band from a groom to tie back her hair. There was no time to discuss tactics.
‘With a weak Number Four, you could leave him,’ advised Luke, ‘but Chuck Van Doren’s very solid, so stick around.’
‘We’re going to be a fucking laughing stock,’ snarled Bart, glaring at Perdita. ‘Two broads for Chrissake.’
‘Knock it off, Dad,’ said Luke curtly, zipping up Perdita’s boots. ‘We’ve gotta five-goal lead. Let’s bloody well hang on to it.’
Next moment he had shoved Perdita up on to Red’s pony for the first chukka, a skewbald with a broad white face and a jaunty walled eye.
‘This horse is called Spotty,’ said Luke, adjusting her stirrups. ‘He couldn’t outrun a fat man, but he gets everything done, because he’s so handy, and he never runs out of gas. He also counts the crowd and shows off accordingly. Today he’ll shift faster than the lightning down your back.’
Vaulting on to the dark brown Ophelia, he cantered beside her on to the field where the Van Dorens, Bart and Bibi were waiting. News sizzled round the pitch that this was the English girl Luke had brought back from
