Jilly Cooper - Polo

Then, as Sharon swept in, somewhat flushed, with a boot-faced David Waterlane, they started singing: ‘For she’s a jolly good fellater, for she’s a jolly good fellater.’

‘Shut up, you two,’ said Rupert, grinning.

He was trying to listen to the head of Revlon who was forecasting the worst share slide in US history.

‘Dollar’s sagging, interest rates are soaring.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’ve sold all my capital stock and gone liquid.’

‘I’m much more worried about this hurricane reaching England,’ said Rupert. ‘Christ knows how many trees I’ll have down.’

He glanced at his watch – half past ten in the morning in England. Seeing Taggie was safely sitting down near Bibi and Angel, he nipped out to ring his stockbroker.

Red and Perdita had a perfectly polite conversation as they both failed to touch their pale pink lobster mousse, but there was no longer a flicker of empathy between them. Here is a man who used to have me screaming and begging for more, thought Perdita, as he experimented on my body with all the detachment of a behavioural scientist testing a cageful of rats.

It was like visiting a garden which had seemed vast and mysterious when one was a child, but which now had shrunk to insignificance. Mercifully Luke was at a different table. All she could see was his broad back and his red-gold hair starting to stick upwards despite being slicked down with water. Far too often Margie’s laughing, aquiline profile turned towards him. Each time she put a crimson-nailed hand on his arm Perdita felt red-hot pokers stabbing her gut.

Bottles rose green and empty from the table. Courses came and went. A cake with scarlet icing in the shape of the red rose of England was cut by Ricky and passed down the tables and thrown about. The Westchester Cup, brimming with champagne, was passed round and round and each valiant victor and brave loser toasted.

Perdita had no idea what she or Red talked about or what Hughie told her about Singapore, until Brad Dillon, handsome in a sand-coloured suit, rose to propose the toast of the winners to a bombardment of flying grapes.

‘We’ve skunked you in twelve out of fourteen of the series, so I guess we can be generous at this moment in time,’ he said expansively, ‘but we’re coming over to get it back next year. We’ve only loaned it you.’

I wish Spotty could come in and eat bread dipped in salt like the Maltese Cat, thought Perdita. As Brigadier Hughie, who could never miss an opportunity to yak, lurched to his feet a piece of cake hit him on the shoulder.

‘And the Brigadier’s blocked the shot,’ shouted Seb as the cake was followed by a carrot, a piece of celery and an After Eight which fell out of its paper.

‘Shut up, you chaps,’ said Hughie. ‘I’ve got a surprise announcement to make.’

‘The Japs have invaded Singapore,’ shouted Rupert.

Everyone howled with laughter.

‘A surprise announcement,’ Hughie ploughed on. ‘By mutual agreement of the British and American Polo Associations, I should like to announce that Ricky France-Lynch has finally been put up to ten, the first British player since the war to achieve that honour.’

An amazed and delighted storm of cheering followed. People were thumping Ricky on the back and yelling, ‘Speech, Speech.’

He’s made it, thought Perdita dully, the final rung. How was Chessie taking the news? But, looking across the room, she went cold. Chessie’s chair was empty.

Back in Eldercombe, Daisy, unable to sleep, stayed up all night putting the finishing touches on a painting of Mrs Hughie’s Burmese cats before watching the second half of the match live at five o’clock in the morning. Venturer must be delirious. It was truly gripping television – and Daisy was thrilled Perdita played so brilliantly and didn’t seem unduly fazed about Red. She also experienced passionate relief when Perdita rang to say Rupert had at last forgiven her and admitted paternity and how lovely he’d been.

But all this bounty made Daisy even more bitterly ashamed that she should feel so suicidal at a British victory. Throughout the match her eyes had constantly been drawn to Ricky who, despite his suntan, looked incredibly grim and gaunt.

She ought to be pleased for him and managed to congratulate Perdita very convincingly when she rang up, but when Perdita said, ‘Talk to Ricky,’ Daisy couldn’t face it and had hung up and taken the telephone off the hook. Outside the sun was rising and in the hall mirror she saw, wiping away the tears, that she’d streaked burnt sienna all over her face.

Having let the dogs out, she retired to bed, pulling the duvet over her head and falling into a miserable half-sleep. After lunch she took the dogs out for a walk. She noticed next year’s sticky buds, the same Mars-red as polo boots, pushing their way through the ragged, orange leaves of the horse chestnuts. She passed a burdock bush, so mildewed, brown and shrivelled among all the ravishing autumnal oranges and golds. It left a cluster of burrs on her coat. Shivering, she thought how it symbolized a desperately clinging, defeated, abandoned woman. Oh, please don’t let me get like that, she prayed. A huge, red sun was dropping behind the woods as she crossed Ricky’s watermeadows. The dogs were sniffing frantically beside the gate and there was a strong smell of fox. It must have just killed a baby rabbit – soft, grey fur littered the grass.

Daisy started to cry again. Back in the house she put the telephone back on the hook. Immediately the Daily Star rang.

‘Hi, Daisy, great about Perdita. You must be a very proud Mum.’

‘I am.’

‘Great about Rupert accepting paternity.’

‘It’s lovely, but I don’t want to talk about it. I won’t have any mouth left if I keep shooting it off.’

Slamming down the receiver, Daisy took it off the hook again. She tried and failed to paint and then at eight o’clock took a large vodka and tonic into the sitting room to watch a recording of the match. It was the real thing this time, all six chukkas and Luke winning the MVP award. His freckles were exactly like the puppies, thought Daisy. He’d be lovely to paint. And then she saw Chessie hurtling into Ricky’s arms, and, feeling as though someone had dropped a tombstone on her from a great height, turned off the television. All hope gone. She’d never, never, known misery like it.

Outside the wind was rising, so she shut the windows. In the kitchen the puppies were chewing up a dark red book called The Nude in Painting. On the table was a thank-you letter Violet had started to the mother of her boyfriend:

‘ I had a really good time ,’ read Daisy. ‘ It’s lovely to get away from Rutshire. Mum’s so depressed at the moment .’

And I hoped I was putting on a brave face, thought Daisy. Wondering if Red Indians put on brave faces when they got up in the morning, she started to cry again. The only answer was to get drunk. Sobbing unceasingly, she finished the vodka bottle and then passed out.

She woke to find herself on the drawing-room sofa with the dogs crammed into two armchairs gazing at her reproachfully. Outside the Niagara Falls seemed to have been diverted under the house. Whimpering, she opened the curtains and shrieked as a laser beam of light pierced her eyes. There had obviously been a terrific storm in the night. You could have gone white-water rafting on the Frogsmore as it hurtled past. Branches littered the lawn. She could see several trees down in Ricky’s woods and the track to Eldercombe was full of puddles turned the colour of strong tea by the disturbed earth.

Incapable of anything else, Daisy carried on crying. As the telephone was off the hook, a succession of reporters were reduced to rolling up at the house to discuss Perdita’s great triumph. Unable to face them, Daisy took refuge in the potting shed. Here she discovered the nude she’d done of Drew three years ago and brought it into the kitchen determined to burn it.