‘Put on the Rimmel mascara next,’ said Angel sarcastically.

‘Oh, fuck off.’

‘Knock it off,’ said Luke, picking up his stick. ‘Now come on, you guys. We may be the underdogs, but we’re gonna fight like pit bulls.’


28



And fight they did. The O’Briens, expecting a canter over, were unpleasantly surprised to find themselves pegged. Both Juan and Miguel had lunched not wisely but too well. Under a punishing overhead sun, lobster, steak tournedos and dulce de leche churned uneasily in their bellies. Not used to drinking, Juan was seeing the ball, if not double, at least one and a third, which led to a lot of misses and botched shots at goal.

The crowd, expecting a bloodbath, were captivated by such a young and aggressive side. Perdita goaded Miguel like an angry wasp. Angel, turned on by the odds stacked against him, hurled himself on Juan as though he was a Mirage pilot once again. He was also brilliantly interchanging with Patricio as Luke constantly fed them with passes, while doggedly taking out one O’Brien player after another as they thundered towards goal.

The cognoscenti, however, noticed that, although Perdita was often in a position to score goals, Angel and Patricio never passed to her and that Alejandro’s ponies, enjoying Luke’s light hands and sympathetic riding, were going really well. The girls noticed Angel’s hawklike good looks. Studying their score sheets and not realizing that he was a poor relation of the Solis de Gonzales, they were turned on by his ancient name. They were soon even more excited by his clowning. Miguel, sobering up and getting paunchy, was deeply unamused by this new young stag entering the forest.

Just as Angel was throwing himself out of his saddle for a nearside forehand Miguel put his knee under Angel’s knee so he overbalanced and tumbled off his pony. Next second Angel had leapt to his feet, belted after the pony and jumped on again before Miguel’s brother-in-law, the umpire, could whistle ‘Man Down’.

‘Idolo,’ shouted Juan’s busty blonde admirer, transferring her loyalties.

This piece of circus produced roars of laughter from the crowd and seemed to shatter the O’Briens’ concentration. Juan throughout the first half was noticeably eyeing Sharon Kaputnik, who was standing behind Victor coyly resting her pointed chin on his bald head which enabled her to eye anyone she chose. At the beginning of the third chukka, Luke came out on Fantasma, whose beauty drew all eyes like the rising moon. She was so quick at the throwin that Luke immediately got the ball out, lofting it upfield over Patricio’s head, so he was able to ride Miguel off and score. Two minutes later Miguel, one of those aggressive backs who got bored hanging around the back line and irritated because Luke was playing so well, came roaring down with the ball. Tearing after him, Perdita lurched forward to hook his stick. A second later, to her utter humiliation, he had blasted the ball, taking Perdita’s stick, and very nearly Perdita, with him. Acutely aware of Angel and Patricio raising their eyes to heaven, Perdita had to decide whether to dismount and pick up her stick or race to mid-field where Raimundo was brandishing another one. She opted for the latter. As Angel careered down the boards to stand in for her and bump Miguel, Miguel clouted the ball straight at Angel’s face. Seeing it coming, Angel threw himself off his pony.

‘Get back on that horse,’ screamed Patricio as Miguel picked up the ball again and took it towards the Mendozas’ goalmouth.

‘I don’t want to be killed,’ yelled back Angel. Once more the crowd howled with laughter.

Fortunately Fantasma believed in defending her goalmouth as ferociously as she protected Luke or even a bucket of pony nuts. Seeing Miguel hurtling towards the goal, she calmly sent his much larger pony flying, stumbled and miraculously righted herself. Then, positioning herself perfectly for Luke to hit the backhand, she instantly wheeled round and displayed a staggering burst of acceleration which enabled Luke to power the ball upfield.

Juan’s umpiring brother-in-law was so struck with admiration that his whistle dropped out of his mouth.

What a horse, thought Luke exultantly.

Devastating the O’Briens’ defence with an offside forehand, he put the ball twenty yards in front of a remounted Angel. Only Perdita and an O’Brien cousin were between Angel and the goal now. Angel didn’t want to pass to Perdita, but as a hundred and fifty-five pounds of O’Brien cousin with razor-sharp elbows hurtled towards him, it seemed the easier option. The sweat cascading into her eyes made it difficult for Perdita to see the ball.

‘Aim for the left goal post; don’t go to pieces,’ she told herself frantically as she scooped up the ball and tapped it into position.

‘You’re going to be hooked,’ bellowed Luke.

Glancing round she saw Juan thundering down on her, a predatory smile on his handsome face. Lowering her stick, aware of Angel on her left, she flicked the ball to him under her pony’s neck, and with a lovely click of his mallet, Angel stroked in an exquisite nearside cut shot making the score 28-9 to the Mendozas on the half-time bell.

‘Well played, Angel,’ said Patricio, falling on his neck as they cantered off the field.

Bastards, thought Perdita, patting her pony over and over again. We made that goal.

Back at the pony lines, morale in the Mendoza camp was sky high. The O’Briens might have scored nine goals, but they had all been penalties. It was only when she stopped playing that Perdita realized how hot it was. Towelling the sweat off her face, she wrung out her wet shirt. She would have liked to have drunk a whole bottle of Evian but limited herself to a few gulps, which she immediately spat out. Angel’s olive skin had hardly changed colour, but Luke rode up with his face brick red from the heat and delighted that Fantasma and his team had played so brilliantly.

‘Well played, you guys. They’re mad now. They’re rowing amongst themselves. That was a helluva shot, Angel, and from you, Patricio. You’re making Juan look as though he’s never been on a horse before.’

Then, taking a swig of diet Coke, he turned to Perdita.

‘Well done, baby! You made that last goal, setting up the shot for Angel.’

Perdita could have wept with gratitude, particularly when he turned on the others: ‘You gotta give Perdita more work. She’s dying of loneliness and heat stroke out there.’ For a brief minute he massaged her shoulders, pressing his thumbs in, unknotting the muscles. ‘And I hope you notice she’s covering for you whenever you get loose.’

Patricio put a perfunctory hand on Perdita’s shoulder, which was an amazing concession, but Angel’s eyes were still as cold as an Alaskan lake.

‘Christ, I wish there was a Ladies’ loo,’ said Perdita, taking a swig of Luke’s diet Coke and rubbing ice all over her burning face.

‘Use the Men’s room,’ said Luke. ‘I’ll keep guard, but be quick.’

Perdita was in such a hurry that at first she didn’t notice the gasps and groans that were coming from the next-door cubicle, the walls of which seemed to be heaving as violently as Fantasma’s sides after the last chukka. Then, overwhelmed by curiosity, she climbed on to the lavatory seat and, peering over, had to stifle a scream of laughter. For there was Sharon, her big hat lying like a whole Brie on the floor, her parasol neatly folded in the corner, and her muslin skirt and silk petticoat once more over her head, while Juan, bronzed hands clamped to her snow-white bottom, drove in and out with far more energy than he’d shown on the field.

‘Oh, Hoo-arn, Hoo-arn,’ gasped Sharon, as one of his brown hands disappeared into her bush, ‘ay’m comin’.’

Glancing out of the glassless window, Perdita saw a grim-faced Mrs Juan advancing towards the Gents, and not wanting to be blamed, shot out of the door. Hysterical with giggles, she told Luke.

‘Sharon’s umbrella is down – probably thinks it’s unlucky indoors – but Juan is definitely up.’

‘Pity,’ grinned Luke. ‘There’ll be no holding him now.’

‘Sharon was certainly holding him just then,’ said Perdita, doubling up with laughter again. ‘Talk about Long Dong Juan! Shall we tip off Victor? Then he won’t buy any of Juan’s ponies.’

‘Come on,’ said Luke, trying to be serious. ‘Get back on Chimango. We’ve got a match to win.’

‘Thank God my father isn’t playing,’ murmured Patricio to Angel as, aware of the admiration of the crowd, they rode back on to the field. ‘I love my father, but Señor Gracias is better captain. He doesn’t shout all the time and he puts us on the right horses.’

‘I hope he stops that shit Miguel killing me,’ said Angel, chucking away his cigarette. ‘I can’t believe we’re so much ahead.’

‘And can beat them,’ said Patricio.

But as they went into the fatal fourth, the sun went behind a donkey-grey cloud and everything went wrong. Angel, trying to block a shot, went straight across Juan, who was given a thirty-yard penalty, which Miguel tipped between the posts. Patricio, at last obeying Luke’s nagging, gave Perdita a lovely pass just in front of goal, which she promptly hit wide; then down the other end Angel backed the ball by mistake to Miguel, who promptly scored.

‘I know about zee horses,’ sighed Raimundo at mid-field, ‘but not about zee players.’

Two more dubious fouls were called against the Mendozas and then Juan, liberated by his bang in the loo, suddenly woke up. Eyes sparkling, medallion glittering in the returned sunlight, he went into an orgy of brilliance notching up nine goals in one chukka.