Outside, white geraniums and impatiens grew in blue tubs and hanging baskets, and a fountain fell as regularly as a transparent comb into a pond edged with white irises. Everywhere the orange blossom wafted suffocatingly sweet.

Luke whistled at Leroy who, at a safe distance, was still winding up the Rottweilers.

‘Come and meet Red,’ he said.

Overwhelmed by such blatant perfection, Perdita snapped back sulkily that she absolutely loathed men with red hair.

‘Oh well, perhaps I don’t,’ she admitted in a small voice a second later. For there, cantering round a jade-green paddock with a cordless telephone in one hand and a polo stick in the other, his reddy-brown boots the same colour as his sleek sorrel pony and his gleaming chestnut hair, was Red Alderton. But there was no red in his deep, smooth mahogany suntan, which was enhanced by onyx-brown eyes with thick very dark lashes, a short straight nose and a wonderfully passionate, smiling mouth.

For three and a half years Perdita hadn’t been remotely sexually attracted to anyone but Ricky, but Red jolted her. Not only was he the best-looking man she had ever seen, but from the way he had knotted the reins on his pony’s neck, and was guiding her round the paddock with his thighs and his lean, supple, whipcord body, he was also the most effortlessly gifted polo player.

‘Hi, you guys,’ he said, waving his stick at them, and still giving himself time to execute another perfect shot, ‘be with you in a second. Lucy, baby, I gotta go. He’ll be home tomorrow, won’t he, so I’d better not call. Who did you say Chuck had run off with?’

A typical Gemini, Red lived on the telephone, adored gossip and had an increasingly low threshold of boredom. People were invariably pleased to see him because he made them laugh and had so much charm. Despite his languid insouciance, however, he had Bart’s killer instinct and, although he adored Luke, had to beat him at everything. Normally he never bothered to stick and ball. He was only doing so today because Luke, by sheer grind, had gone above him in the November handicap ratings.

He was now winding up his conversation.

‘Look, meet me at Cobblestones at six tomorrow. Love you too, baby.’

‘Cobblestones is the bar where all the players and grooms hang out,’ explained Luke.

And that’s not Auriel Kingham he’s talking to, thought Perdita.

As Red switched off the telephone, Luke introduced Perdita. ‘She’s from England. She’s going to play with Ricky and Dancer Maitland next year.’

‘I met Dancer at a Band-Aid concert in New York last week,’ said Red. ‘Christ, I wish I didn’t know it was Christmas. Nice guy, though, kinda fun to play with. I figured my stepmother had put me off English women for good, but,’ he smiled at Perdita, who blushed to the roots of her hair, ‘I guess you could convert me. How are you enjoying this hot, swampy, mosquito-infested paradise?’

Realizing Perdita was too jolted to speak, Luke said: ‘We only arrived yesterday.’

‘Bring any good ponies?’

‘One genius,’ said Luke, ‘and I’m not selling her on. Where did you get that one?’

‘Miguel bought her,’ said Red. ‘Got the speed, but still a bit green. Thank Christ you’ve come back to help us clinch the match tomorrow. Before the semi-finals Auriel and I had our own private party and I went on to the pitch absolutely looped. All I could see was two balls, two mallets, eight goal posts, four pony’s ears in front of me, sixteen players, four screaming umpires and after the match my father twice over chasing me round two polo fields, out to bury me. Jesus!’

Throughout this languid patter, dispatched with the broadest of grins, Red’s eyes roved over Perdita in a way that made her feel edgy and hopelessly excited at the same time.

The telephone rang, making the sorrel mare jump.

‘Hi, Lorna, sweetheart, how ya been? Sorry I didn’t call, I’ve been up to here.’ Then, suddenly flaring up, ‘Oh, for Chrissake, get off my case.’ Red switched off the telephone so she couldn’t ring back.

Then, as Leroy bounced up and nipped the sorrel on her pink nose, making her jump more than ever, he added, ‘And keep that brute away from me. He was so pissed off waiting for you to come home, he bit me last week. He’ll bite a patron one of these days.’

‘How’s Auriel?’ said Luke, calling an unrepentant Leroy to heel.

‘Pretty good,’ said Red blandly. ‘I’m teaching her to play polo. She’s teaching me other things. She’s in LA making a movie about the corrupting effect of money. As she’s making five million bucks out of it, I guess she’s being corrupted all the way to the bank.’

‘D’you want to play in a charity match next Sunday?’ asked Luke.

Red looked wary. ‘Not a lot.’

‘It’s for Ethiopia. Bob Geldof’s flying down.’

‘Auriel better throw-in,’ said Red. ‘She adores publicity. Who else is playing?’

‘Victor, Shark Nelligan, Bobby Ferraro and Alejandro, against Hal, me, Jesus and, hopefully, you.’

‘How much?’

‘We’re playing for free.’

‘Bullshit. Shark and Alejandro won’t even tack up for free. Nor am I going to be bashed around by all those thugs for nothing.’

‘Three thousand,’ said Luke.

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Red. ‘What colour’s Hal Peters on?’

‘Purple.’

‘Doesn’t suit me,’ grumbled Red. ‘Drains all my colour. Make it four. I’ve got to buy Auriel a Christmas present. I’ve had three offers for the World Cup and two for the Open, by the way.’

At that moment a car drew up in front of the barn and a man in a crumpled dark blue suit got out.

‘Mr Alderton? I’m from the Daily News.’

‘How the hell did you get in here?’ snapped Red. ‘Those Rottweilers oughta be fired.’

‘We had an appointment.’

‘Well, we don’t any more, right?’

‘Could you just tell me about your relationship with Miss Kingham?’

‘I could,’ said Red amiably, watching the reporter brighten at the possibility of a scoop, ‘but I’m not going to.’

He glanced at his watch.

‘I must fly – literally. I’ve gotta party in LA this evening. Christ, I better call the airport.’

The minute he switched on the telephone it rang. Red listened for five seconds, and then said, ‘Aw, fuck off, Lorna.’

As he held the telephone at arm’s length, Perdita could hear the stream of abuse. Cantering back to the stable, he calmly lobbed the telephone into the pond.

‘My brother’s allergic to commitment,’ sighed Luke. ‘He suffers from the seven-minute itch.’

‘That’s why he took up polo,’ said Perdita. ‘At least his attention span lasts a chukka. He’s not a bit like you,’ she went on as they drove back to Luke’s barn, ‘not a millionth as nice.’

‘He’s OK,’ said Luke. ‘He just can’t handle people getting heavy.’

‘But screwing $4,000 out of you.’

‘He’s always broke,’ countered Luke, ‘because he’s so generous, not just with himself, but to everyone else. He could make a fortune playing polo. Patrons adore having him on their teams because he’s so glamorous, but they’re cautious. Players these days tend not to party till three o’clock in the morning before a final. There’s too much at stake. Red’s a party animal. He’s likely to turn up looped or not at all.’

‘You love him, don’t you?’

‘Sure, he’s my kid brother. But I hope to Christ he gets back in time tomorrow.’


32



Red, however, did not get back in time. Perdita came in from stick and balling at midday the following morning to find Chessie had telephoned to ask her to lunch at the Players Club and then to watch the match. Perdita was livid.

‘I haven’t got anything to wear. I can’t wear shorts or a dress because my legs are so pale and I haven’t had time to shave them. And she only wants to pump me about Ricky, and I want to help you on the pony lines.’

‘I’d keep out of the way,’ advised Luke. ‘You’ll enjoy Chessie, and she needs some friends.’

Reluctantly Perdita did find herself liking Chessie. She was so unrepentantly bitchy, and even more ravishing today in pale pink Bermudas and a T-shirt to match her pale pink and perfect mouth. Perdita absolutely adored the Players Club, with its yellow and white striped awning and dark forest-green walls inside, which were covered with photographs of famous players. There were the Napiers looking thuggish, and Jesus very unholy, and Miguel and Alejandro conniving, and Juan younger before he grew his celebrated black moustache, and Bobby Ferraro and Shark Nelligan, the two great American players.

I’ll be up there one day, vowed Perdita.

‘They took Ricky’s picture down,’ said Chessie drily. ‘Probably because Bart offered them so much money.’

‘He’ll be back,’ said Perdita quickly. ‘Oh, there’s Luke.’

‘Made it for the first time this year,’ said Chessie.

They stopped in front of Luke’s photograph. He was so brown his freckles had almost joined up, and he was smiling so broadly his eyes had almost disappeared.

‘Lovely open face,’ mused Chessie. ‘And, goodness, he deserves to be up there. He works so hard, making those ponies night after night until he falls off with exhaustion. And Red just swans in and takes his pick of Bart’s ponies. I long to slip Luke the odd billion in his tea. Bart’d never notice. He spends that in a year on vets’ bills and Mrs Juan’s electrolysis.’

Perdita giggled. ‘She’s a horror, isn’t she? The umpires are more scared of her than Miguel.’

Chessie also showed Perdita the glass case full of trophies – the World Cup a towering three-foot samovar and the gold Jaipur horse on an ebony stand. Missing from its space on the green baize was the Fathers and Sons Cup to be contested in a couple of hours. Perdita wondered if Luke was getting nervous.