Jilly Cooper - Polo

The Westchester Cup had been described by a former player as a singularly hideous trophy, but nothing had ever looked more beautiful to the English team as Ricky walked up to deafening cheers to accept it from Prince Charles, who was obviously as delighted as he was amazed by the result.

‘Well done, Ricky, absolutely marvellous.’

It was hard to curtsy with any grace in boots and breeches, but when Perdita, still red-eyed from dust and her rapprochement with Rupert, approached the Prince, he bent forward and kissed her cheek, and when he pinned a little ruby brooch in the shape of a rose on her dark blue jersey the crowd roared their approval.

To Perdita’s amazement Spotty won Best Playing Pony. He was so delighted to be stuffed so full of Polos and the centre of attention that he forgot to fart. There was a brief pause as the Most Valuable Player was announced.

‘Must be Red,’ whispered Perdita to Seb.

‘By general consensus of opinion,’ said Brad Dillon rustling his papers, ‘because his utter stability held the American team together and because he refused to ride off a seriously injured player in the true tradition of sportmanship, the award for the Most Valuable Player of the series goes to Luke Alderton.’

An amazed hush was followed by the most deafening storm of cheering of the day and it continued long after Luke, in a pair of torn jeans and an old, blue denim shirt, had fought his way up to collect the beautiful, rearing silver pony. Overwhelmed with longing and pride, Perdita wanted to rush forward and hug him, but the whooping, yodelling, ecstatic crowd divided them and the next moment she found herself being swept off by Ricky to ring Daisy before the press conference.

Only Chessie, the ultimate upstager, having ostentatiously flung off her black silk shawl, managed to pummel her way past a clicking frenzy of cameramen and security guards and fling her arms round Ricky’s neck in ecstasy.

‘You won, my darling, you won! Don’t you realize what that means?’

As the photographers swung into action, frantic to capture the moment, Perdita turned away, horror-struck, and found herself looking straight at Bart and Red.

‘It was your fucking fault,’ Bart was hissing at Red. ‘You forced them to drop Luke.’

Red, greyer beneath his suntan than ever Ricky had been, was looking utterly desolate.

After the match there was a celebration dinner at the Quinta Hotel organized by the American Polo Association and the cock-a-hoop sponsors.

‘Everyone is expected to get plastered,’ Rupert told the England team, ‘but there seems to be a general consensus of opinion that the men will wear ties and you will all behave well, at least for the duration of dinner. That means no eloping before the Queen,’ he added in an undertone to Ricky.

When they met up in the lobby, Rupert looked disapprovingly at Ricky’s black tie. ‘At least you might have left that off after winning the Westchester. You can’t wallow in misery for ever.’ Then, seeing Taggie’s face: ‘No, I’m sorry, you’ve won the Westchester. You can do what you bloody well like.’ Perdita, in a black, backless dress which matched her bruises and the dark circles under her eyes, had a feeling of total unreality. The euphoria of winning and of Rupert at last accepting her was fast receding. She was worried about Ricky who seemed unbelievably twitchy and couldn’t get plastered like everyone else, but all she could think about was whether or not Luke would turn up.

A louring, glowering Bart arrived with Chessie, who was looking thoroughly over-excited and more minxy than ever in a gold tunic exactly matching her suntan and with a golden rose in her hair.

‘Well, thank you, Perdita,’ she murmured as she passed. ‘You certainly contributed to an English victory this afternoon.’

But before Perdita could answer, there was a burst of cheering as Red walked in with the American team. He had totally regained his composure and was laughing and joking. He was wearing a pink blazer edged with purple, because the entire Polo Youth of America seemed now to have gone back to wearing pale blue blazers braided with emerald green.

There was even more noisy rejoicing when Mike and Seb rolled up, already plastered, with Lily and Annie from the Nevada brothel and a blissful Louisa wheeling a rather pale Dommie, with his knee in plaster, around in a large shopping trolley which they’d pinched from a local hypermarket.

‘Haven’t you got any dope for Ricky?’ whispered Perdita as she hugged Dommie. ‘He needs something to cheer him up.’

‘He’s just won the fucking Westchester,’ said Seb. ‘Some people are never satisfied.’

‘Sharon is,’ giggled Dommie. ‘She’s just seduced Brigadier Hughie.’

‘And we’ve promoted Corporal to General, so he’ll be Sharon’s next target,’ added Seb, chucking a cauliflower floret at Bobby Ferraro.

‘She’s going to lose David Waterlane at this rate,’ said Louisa.

‘I think her sights are set somewhat higher than a baronet,’ murmured Seb. ‘She was last heard remarking, “How naice his hay-ness looked in his off-whaite suit.” Oh, come on, Perdita, cheer up ! We won!’

Taggie, realizing that Perdita’s spirits were at rock bottom, took her aside. ‘It’s so heavenly Rupert’s accepted you at last. He’s so pleased. He can’t wait to get you up on all his ponies. I promise he’ll be a marvellous father. Once he’s on someone’s side, it’s one hundred and fifty per cent.’

‘You do love him,’ said Perdita wistfully.

‘Oh, more than anything. I still wake up sweating in the middle of the night, and have to reach out and touch him to prove it isn’t all a dream.’

‘How can you be so nice?’ asked Perdita, shaking her head. ‘You ought to give lessons.’

After that Perdita got no peace. Everyone wanted to congratulate her and take her through every stroke of the game, until Seb came up grinning wickedly.

‘You’ve drawn the short straw, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to sit on Hughie’s right. Talk about the price of fame. And watch out now he’s in bimbo limbo. He may start touching you up.’

Joining them, Ricky pushed a loose tendril of hair behind Perdita’s ear: ‘You OK?’

‘Of course. I just wish Mummy was here.’

‘So do I,’ said Seb feelingly.

Ricky frowned: ‘Oh, fuck off.’

Then, as Seb sloped off grinning, Ricky added: ‘Look, will you give Daisy a message when you get home?’

But Perdita never heard what he was going to say because, as dinner was announced, Luke walked in with Margie Bridgwater who was looking staggering in clinging crimson, slit up the sides to show an eternity of long, brown leg.

I must behave, I must behave, Perdita told herself through gritted teeth. As she fought her way down to her seat at the top table, she had to pass Luke, and almost wrenched her stomach muscles pulling them in, so she needn’t touch him.

‘Well done,’ he said slowly. ‘I knew you had mega-star quality, but I never figured you were that good. You pulled them together. You won that game.’

Oh, that deep, slow husky voice. Perdita wanted to collapse into his arms, but Margie was hovering, smiling but tense.

‘You taught me everything I know,’ stammered Perdita. ‘We’d never have won if they hadn’t dropped you.’

For a second they gazed at each other, both hollow-eyed, neither able to smile.

‘Buck up, Perdita,’ said Brigadier Hughie, putting two sweating hands on her bruised arms. ‘I’m starving. Too nervous to get any lunch.’

Some joker, to make matters worse, had also put her next to Red. The twins, very drunk now, started bombarding them with rolls, yelling: ‘Kiss and make up, kiss and make up.’