Jilly Cooper - Polo

‘And Kinta won Best Playing Pony. Any problems?’

‘No, everything’s fine. They’re all turned out except Wallaby, and his hock’s much better. Come and have a drink to celebrate.’

The whoops and howls were increasing.

‘Who the fuck’s that?’ shouted a voice.

‘No thanks,’ said Ricky, handing Louisa a garlic sausage, and a bottle of Cointreau. ‘For you, where’s Chessie?’

Louisa looked guilty. Ricky thought it was because he’d caught her having a party.

‘Gosh thanks, she’s left a note on the kitchen table. Millicent hasn’t been eating,’ she called after Ricky, as he tottered towards the house. ‘But she will now you’re home.’

Ricky realized how drunk he was when he tripped up the back doorstep, and nearly dropped the cup. God, that cheese stank. There was no moon, so he spent ages finding his keys.

The kitchen was incredibly tidy. Usually by Sunday night it was a tip. He dumped the carrier bags on the table, poured himself a large whisky, and was just about to open a tin of Chappie for Millicent, when he saw Chessie’s letter. How odd, she’d put it in an envelope.

‘Dear Ricky,’ he read, ‘I’m leaving you. I can’t put up with a miserable, totally meaningless marriage any more. I’m taking Will. My lawyers will be in touch. Don’t try and find me. Yours, Chessie.’

Very carefully he spooned the contents of the Chappie tin into Millicent’s bowl and, putting it down, sprinkled biscuits over it. Then, as he walked towards the telephone and realized he’d scattered biscuits all over the floor, he started to shake, his thighs suddenly seemed to have a life of their own, leaping and trembling. His heart was crashing against his rib-cage.

The telephone was dead, so he went over to Louisa’s flat, where he found a young man in pink boxer shorts brandishing the garlic sausage, like a large cock, at a frantically giggling Louisa. Her giggles died when she saw Ricky.

‘Can I use your telephone?’

Louisa nodded. ‘Use the one in the bedroom.’

‘Chessie’s left me,’ Ricky told Drew over the telephone.

‘Christ – I am sorry.’

‘Did you know anything?’

‘I’d heard rumours.’

‘Why the fuck didn’t you warn me?’

‘I hoped it would blow over.’

‘Who’s the man?’

‘You’re not going to like this,’ Drew paused. ‘Bart Alderton.’

‘Bart,’ said Ricky incredulously, ‘but he’s old enough to be . . .’

‘Her sugar daddy; that’s what attracted her. Look, I’ll come over.’

‘No – I’m going round to kill him.’

‘For Christ’s sake, you’re in no condition.’

But Ricky’d hung up.

Louisa was standing in the doorway, her eyes filled with tears.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she stammered. ‘You oughtn’t to drive. Wait till morning.’

But Ricky pushed straight past her. Millicent, having wolfed her dinner and hoovered up the biscuits on the floor, was determined not to be left behind and jumped belching into the now mended BMW.

It was a warm night. The clouds had rolled back leaving brilliant stars and a rising moon. As Ricky couldn’t find the top of the whisky bottle, he wedged it in the side pocket, taking repeated slugs as he drove. He covered the twenty miles in as many minutes, overtaking two cars at once on the narrow roads, shooting crossroads. A cold rage had settled in. It wasn’t Chessie’s fault. Bart Alderton could corrupt anyone.

The electric gates had not yet been installed, so Ricky was able to open the iron ones. Deer and sheep blinked in the headlights as he drove up an avenue of chestnut trees. As he rattled over the second sheep grid, where the drive opened up into a big sweep of gravel, the beautiful seventeenth-century manor house, with its ruff of lavender and white roses clambering to the roof, was suddenly floodlit.

Little Millicent quivered in the back as four Rottweilers came roaring round the side of the house, fangs bared, growling horribly, scrabbling at the car’s paintwork with thick black claws. Taking another slug of whisky, Ricky got out of the car and, because he was totally unafraid, only stopping to pat a sleek, snarling head or mutter a casual ‘good dog’, was able to walk unscathed through the pack and ring the door bell.

A security guard answered. His shoulders seemed to fill the door.

‘Mrs France-Lynch?’ said Ricky.

‘You’ve got the wrong house, buddy.’

‘I’m coming in to wait for her.’

‘Who’s that?’ called Chessie’s voice.

For a second the security man was caught on the hop. Shoving him aside, Ricky walked into the house. Chessie looked floodlit too. She was wearing a red silk dress, long-sleeved, high-necked and slinky, black shoes with four-inch heels, and huge rubies at her ears, neck and wrists. Her hair had been newly streaked, cut shorter and swept off her flawless face. Ricky caught his breath. She looked staggering. The tramp had become a lady.

‘How dare you barge in here?’ Radiant with spite, Chessie moved towards him. ‘Get out. Bart’ll be back in a minute, then we’re going out – to Rubens’ Retreat.’ It was as though she was outlining the evening’s whereabouts for a baby-sitter.

‘How long’s this been going on?’

‘My being miserable? Since I met you, I guess.’

‘You’re coming home.’

‘To that dump! I’m bloody not.’

She caught a waft of whisky. Ricky was wearing a crumpled dark blue shirt and jeans. Unshaven, very brown, his black hair falling over his forehead, he looked savage and dangerous.

Ricky dropped his eyes first and, aware of the hovering guard, turned left into the drawing room which had been exquisitely furnished in soft corals and yellows by Grace. All the cushions looked as if they had been blown up with bicycle pumps.

‘L-l-look, I know things have been difficult, but I love you.’

‘Do you now?’

‘I’ve been spending so much time on the ponies, so we could get straight. Things’ll get better.’

‘Bullshit,’ screamed Chessie hysterically. ‘Polo’s a drug only curable by poverty or death, and you’re hooked.’

‘We won today.’

‘So fucking what?’ sneered Chessie. ‘Bart’s still going to drop you.’

Ricky bit his lip. ‘David’s going to sponsor me next year, and I’ve almost certainly got a patron for Palm Beach.’

‘That still won’t be enough to live on.’

‘I’ll tap my father.’

‘Your father’s a disgusting, crabby old man,’ taunted Chessie, ‘and you’re getting more like him every day. I’m not having you damaging Will, like Herbert damaged you, making you incapable of showing affection for anything but a horse. I’m surprised you noticed we’d gone.’

Under the chandelier in the centre of the room, he could see she was uncharacteristically wearing a lot of make-up – making her look much harder. Bart’s influence was already working.

‘And you think Bart’s the answer,’ said Ricky slowly. ‘I was fooled at the beginning. He’ll crucify you; he’s only interested in conquest. He beats up his horses; soon he’ll do the same to you.’

He already has, thought Chessie, stretching voluptuously. She could hardly sit down after Bart had spanked her that afternoon.

‘Bart’s the most considerate man I’ve ever met.’ Then, as Ricky raised his eyebrows, ‘and the best lover. He could give you a bit of coaching. I’m fed up with being married to a failure in and out of bed.’

Ricky clenched his fists. For a second Chessie thought he was going to hit her. Mocking him with her enhanced beauty, she sauntered over to the drinks trolley, and with a totally steady hand poured herself a vodka and tonic. Her dress was so low-cut at the back that Ricky could see a violet bruise above the cleft of her buttocks.