Jilly Cooper - Polo

There were pictures of Ricky looking stony-faced and much, much thinner, arriving at court and, on the inside pages, of a bewitchingly glamorous Chessie and the adorable little boy, and also of Ricky’s friends: Basil Baddingham, Rupert Campbell-Black, David Waterlane and the twins, all looking boot-faced after the verdict.

Daisy’s eyes filled with tears. Poor Ricky, he was far, far worse off than she was. Outside the sky was leaden grey and a bitter north wind ruffled the hair of the wood, but at least the hazel catkins hung sulphur-yellow like a Tiffany lamp. Ricky can’t see any of that, thought Daisy, incarcerated in Rutminster prison.

‘Ricky France-Lynch got two years,’ she told Hamish, as she handed him a cup of herbal tea.

Hamish glanced at the paper. ‘He’s already done six months’ remand. If he behaves himself he’ll be up before the parole board in a few months. He’ll probably only do a year in the end.’

‘You are clever to know things like that.’

‘Wife’s bloody good-looking. I don’t blame Bart Alderton,’ said Hamish, helping himself to muesli.

Daisy was so busy reading all the details of the trial, and that Rupert and Bas were going to appeal, and wondering whether to send Ricky a food parcel, that it was a few minutes before she noticed two suitcases in the hall.

Oh God, Hamish must be off to recce some new film, and she’d been so preoccupied with penury and painting, she didn’t know what it was. He was bound to have told her, and he’d be livid because she hadn’t listened. She must be a better wife.

Putting his muesli bowl in the sink, Hamish removed some bottles of whisky and gin, given him by hopeful theatrical agents for Christmas, from the larder and asked Daisy if she’d got a carrier bag.

‘Here’s one from Liberty’s, rather suitable if you’re wanting your freedom,’ Daisy giggled nervously. ‘Going anywhere exciting?’

‘Very,’ said Hamish calmly. ‘I’m leaving you. I’m moving in with Wendy.’

For once the colour really drained from Daisy’s rosy cheeks.

‘For g-g-good?’ she whispered.

‘For my good,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m afraid I’ve come to the end of the road.’

Like Harry Lauder, thought Daisy wildly, Hamish should be wearing his kilt.

‘I can’t cope with your hopeless inefficiency any more,’ he went on. ‘The house is a tip. You never diary anything or pick up my cleaning. The children, particularly Perdita, are quite out of control. Their rooms are like cesspits. I owe it to my career. I can never invite backers or programme controllers, or anyone that matters, to the house. You can’t even cope with Mother for a few days. It isn’t as though you even worked.’

To justify leaving her, Hamish was deliberately pouring petrol on resentment that must have been smouldering for years.

‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Daisy, ‘I will try and be more efficient, I keep thinking about painting.’

‘One wouldn’t mind,’ said Hamish with chilling dismissiveness, ‘if you were any good. I married you fifteen years ago because I felt sorry for you. I feel I deserve some happiness.’

He’s enjoying this, thought Daisy numbly. She could see Biddy Macleod crouched on top of the fridge like an old Buddha applauding him. Picking up her coffee cup she found the washing-up machine already full and clean, and started unloading it.

‘Until I met Wendy, I didn’t know what happiness was,’ said Hamish sententiously. ‘She makes me feel so alive.’

‘Alive, alive oh-ho,’ mumbled Daisy. ‘Cock-ups and muscles, alive, alive oh.’ I’m going mad, she thought, I can’t take this in.

‘Wendy’s so interested in everything I do.’

Easy to be interested when you’re in love, thought Daisy sadly. Trying to take ten mugs out of the machine, one finger through each handle, her hands were shaking so much, she dropped one on the stone floor.

‘See what I mean, you’re so hopeless,’ said Hamish smugly.

Sweeping up the pieces, Daisy cut herself and wound a drying-up cloth round her hand.

‘And frankly,’ glancing in the kitchen mirror Hamish extracted a piece of muesli from his teeth, ‘I can’t put up with Perdita any more. I have forked out for that little tramp till I’m bankrupt.’

‘Perdita,’ said Daisy, losing her temper, ‘would have been OK if you’d ever been nice to her.’

‘Mother thinks she’s seriously disturbed. There must be some bad blood somewhere.’

‘That was definitely below the belt.’ Daisy started throwing forks into the silver drawer.

‘ That is family silver,’ said Hamish.

‘Not my family any more,’ screamed Daisy, and picking up the drawer she emptied it into the Liberty’s carrier bag beside the whisky and the gin. ‘Take the bloody stuff away. So you’re leaving me because I’m lousy at housework, and don’t help your career, and you can’t stand Perdita, and Wendy makes you feel so alive. Why can’t you tell the truth and just say you enjoy screwing Wendy.’

‘I knew you’d resort to cheap abuse.’

‘Nothing cheap about those bills. Minicabs must have found their way blindfold to Wendy’s and you must have kept Interflora in business. It ought to be re-named “Inter-Wendy” – you certainly were.’

‘You’ve been snooping,’ sighed Hamish. ‘I was trying to conduct this with dignity. I had hoped to avoid animosity for Eddie’s and Violet’s sake.’

Daisy’s eyes darted in terror. ‘You’re not going to take them away . . . ?’

‘Only if you really can’t cope,’ said Hamish loftily. ‘We’ll have them at weekends and for a good chunk of the holidays. You can certainly have custody of Perdita and that appalling dog.’

‘She’s not appalling,’ said Daisy, throwing Ethel a Bonio from the red box on top of the fridge. ‘What about the house? We’ve only just moved in, and until we pay Pickfords I don’t think they’ll move us again.’

‘You’ll have to rent somewhere cheaper.’

Watching Ethel slotting the Bonio between her paws and eating it like an ice-cream, Daisy wished Violet could see her. ‘What about the children?’

‘Wendy and I told Eddie and Violet last night. We drove over to see them.’

‘How did they take it?’ whispered Daisy. The blood was beginning to seep through the drying-up cloth.

‘Very calmly, as I expected. Once they realized they’d still see a great deal of me, they stopped worrying.’ He peered into the machine and picked out the potato peeler. ‘Wendy’s doesn’t work, so I’ll take this one.’ He dropped it into the carrier bag. ‘And how many times have I told you not to put bone-handled knives in – oh, what does it matter?’

Fluttering on the bottom window pane, Daisy suddenly saw a peacock butterfly which had survived the winter. Trying not to bruise it with her shaking hands, she let it out of the window.

It was Hamish’s calmness that paralysed her. He might have been explaining to his leading lady that he was dropping her mid-film. Wendy would be so much better in the part.

‘But I don’t know anything about money,’ she said in terror.

‘You better learn. It’s time you grew up.’

‘And we’re dreadfully overdrawn.’

‘Whose fault is that?’ said Hamish, gathering up his suitcases in the hall. ‘You didn’t exactly pull in your horns over Christmas. I can’t afford you, Daisy. You can contact me through my lawyers.’

Daisy started to shake.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you wanted a divorce, before we went through all this hassle of moving?’

‘I doubt if you’d have listened. You were so anxious to get here so Perdita could have her pony and you could paint, you couldn’t think about anything else.’ And he was gone.