Jilly Cooper - Polo

So Rupert had stopped bitching at Perdita and merely ignored her.

The media, of course, were everywhere – the freedom of the press extended even to the manger. Each time Perdita put a foot outside the door, or ventured down to the stables, a notebook, a camera or a microphone would be stuck into her face. How was she getting on with Rupert? What did she feel about seeing Red? How much more weight was she going to lose? Was she quite sure she wasn’t anorexic?

On the eve of the first match she took refuge in Spotty’s box. The ponies were restless and excited, knowing something was up after their long, long wait. Poor Spotty so loved showing off to the crowd, but, as Perdita was only reserve, he probably wouldn’t get a chance to play at all. Rupert had flown to New York for the day and Perdita was surreptitiously sneaking him a packet of Polos when a car drove up in a cloud of dust. Terrified it might be Rupert, who’d smell peppermint and catch Spotty crunching, Perdita shot out of his box only to find Ricky looking boot-faced.

‘The Americans have announced their team.’

‘What is it?’ croaked Perdita, feeling as if the cloud of dust had blown straight down her throat.

‘Ben, Angel, Red,’ said Ricky.

Oh, thank God, thought Perdita, I’ll see him again.

‘But they’ve dropped Shark and put Luke in instead,’ went on Ricky. If Luke had been tuning up all the American ponies, he was thinking bleakly, they’d be unbeatable tomorrow.

‘Oh, how wonderful!’ Perdita was overjoyed. ‘How wonderful for Luke!’

A pungent waft of sweet scent from the nearby orange grove reminded her poignantly of that day at Bart’s barn when Luke had first introduced her to Red. How comforting if he were there tomorrow to hold her hand when she saw Red again.

Another perfect afternoon followed next day with a gentian-blue sky arched over a field of bouncy, jade-green Bermuda grass. As the crowd poured into Eldorado Polo Club from all over the world, Perdita had never seen more ravishing sunkissed blondes in shorts and sundresses, or more handsome healthy-looking men. Here was polo at its most relaxed and friendly. Yet beyond the mountains, which ringed the oasis like wrinkled, sleeping elephants, lay the desert where coyotes and rattlesnakes lurked, where dust devils swirled round the creosote bushes and Jacob trees held up their strange, spiky branches like hands praying for an American victory.

In the pony lines Rupert was winding up his final pep-talk. ‘All that matters is marking. You’ve got to unnerve them early on.’ Then, turning to Perdita, who was sweating in breeches, boots and her dark blue England shirt, ‘Don’t think you’ve got the afternoon off, duckie. Your job is to watch your eyes out, assessing every American pony and player, and I don’t just mean Red Alderton.’

Perdita went scarlet.

‘Talk of the devil,’ said Seb. ‘Ouch,’ he yelled as Perdita clutched his arm.

For a second she thought she was going to black out. For there, getting out of a brand-new, dark blue Lamborghini to a chorus of female shrieking, was Red wearing the pale amethyst American shirt which went so perfectly with his conker-red hair and his smooth, brown face. Immediately, like cats on raw liver, the press fell on him.

‘Whaaddya chances, Red?’

‘Pretty good,’ drawled Red, then, catching sight of the English team, he started to laugh. ‘I guess the Brits aren’t exactly weighed down by the responsibility of false expectations. Seeing as how they’re fielding a has-been and three new caps, including Mike Waterlane, who’s about as thick as a Clydesdale’s dick.’

‘I say, that’s a bit steep,’ said Mike, going brick-red.

‘Don’t rise,’ snapped Rupert. ‘That’s what he wants.’

But Red was still wandering, smiling, towards them, as malicious as he was seductive.

‘I cannot imagine there’s ever been an English side quite so unfancied by the bookies,’ he told the battling, frenzied swarm of reporters. ‘Was it necessary to underplay your hand quite so obviously, Ricky? And hi, Rupert.’ Another flash of white teeth beneath the coldly calculating, fox-brown eyes. ‘I’m surprised you’re not wearing your paternity suit. I hope you’ve got a hot line to the BPA because re-inforcements are sure going to be needed.’

Motionless, the English team watched him. The press were writing avidly, adoring every moment, shoved by television and radio reporters desperate to get their mikes within earshot.

‘Any message for Perdita?’ yelled the Sun .

‘Oh, there you are, Perdita darling,’ Red’s voice softened. ‘I couldn’t see you for assholes. You’re looking good. Your new Daddy must certainly have pulled every string to get you on the team.’

Stung and humiliated, Perdita stumbled away, frantically rubbing away the tears.

‘I’ve nothing to say,’ she howled to the swarm of reporters. ‘Leave me alone.’

Then, suddenly, ahead of her she saw a big, blond man with blacksmith’s shoulders and lean, cowboy hips moving down the American pony lines, checking tack and bandages, joking with the grooms, outwardly utterly relaxed, keeping his fears to himself.

‘Luke,’ called out Perdita desperately.

Swinging round, catching sight of her tearful, anguished face, he was beside her in an instant. His sheer size made the reporters back off.

‘I’m really sorry about Tero,’ were his first words. ‘It blew me away when Red told me.’

She had remembered him slumped with pain, green-faced, pouring with sweat. Now his hair was bleached the colour of faded bracken, and freckles merged in his suntanned face. Pale amethyst wasn’t the best colour for him, but he looked great, and Perdita thought once again what a lovely open, generous face he had.

‘I’m sorry about Fantasma,’ she stammered. ‘Have you heard how she is?’

Just for a second the pain flickered in his eyes.

‘She’s fine,’ he said firmly. ‘Winning a lot of matches for Alejandro.’

‘Luke,’ yelled Bart impatiently, ‘For Chrissake, stop yakking. Come and take a look at this fetlock.’

‘I gotta go,’ said Luke.

‘Good luck,’ whispered Perdita.

The press surged forwards. ‘How was Red? Any chance of a reconciliation?’

Perdita had behaved well for too long. ‘Why don’t all you bastards fuck off?’ she screamed.

She was further jolted when she climbed up into the packed stands to the seat Taggie had kept for her and found herself knocked backwards by a huge, juddering, black, rubber bullet. It was Leroy who’d slipped his lead and, bashing his tail back and forth like a hooked salmon, was frantically licking her face.

‘Oh, darling,’ she moaned, clutching his wonderfully solid body. Then, on his forehead she breathed in a scent, sharp, sophisticated with musky overtones which unsettled her far more than the waft of orange blossom had yesterday. She got a sudden vision of Luke in hospital doubled up with pain.

‘Leroy, you’re incorrigible,’ said a cool voice. ‘If you’re going to assault the opposition, you’ll have to stay in the truck.’ Perdita found herself looking up into the lean, olive-skinned face of Margie Bridgwater, the beautiful girl who’d been sitting on Luke’s bed in hospital. She was wearing white jeans, loafers and a red shirt and the brilliant sunshine bounced joyfully off her blue-black hair.

‘Hi, Perdita,’ she said drily. ‘Congratulations on making the team.’

‘Thanks,’ muttered Perdita, collapsing beside Taggie.

‘Yes, congratulations, Perdita,’ called Chessie and Bibi, who were sitting above Margie, both looking thoroughly over-excited.

‘I do hope you win,’ added Chessie in a much-too-audible whisper. ‘I’m knocked out Luke’s been picked,’ she added to Margie. ‘About bloody time.’