‘Pack it in,’ muttered Winston Chalmers savagely.

‘I come to Eengland to avenge my brother, Pedro. We in Argentina honour the family.’

‘Your brother was a fine player?’ asked Brigadier Hughie, easing a sliver of cutlet en gelée out of his teeth.

‘Excellent. He make Red Alderton look like Veector Kaputnik.’

The Committee tried not to laugh.

‘I must tell zee truth,’ continued Angel. ‘I know Drew Benedict was polo player. I know everytheenk about ’im. ’E torture me in Falklands.’

‘What we want to know,’ asked David Waterlane, ‘is whether the whole thing was premeditated?’

‘I no understand.’

‘Did you plan it beforehand?’

Angel glanced out on to the dusty plane trees of Green Park. People were lounging in emerald-green deck chairs, girls were stretched out in bikinis. He felt a great wave of shame as he said, ‘No, I did not.’

Everyone left the room except the stewards and the discussion became very acrimonious.

‘We’ve got to suspend him for a year and send him home,’ said Brigadier Canford from Cowdray, who wanted to continue the ban. ‘Solis de Gonzales’s behaviour is utterly indicative of what will happen if we get the Argentines back. If he comes up against Rutminster Hall in the next few weeks he could easily take out the Prince of Wales.’

David Waterlane, however, who hadn’t won a major cup nor lost a wife since Miguel and Juan played for him, came down heavily in support of Angel.

‘Chap hasn’t displayed a trace of aggression in any other game. Played against Brits in Palm Beach. Plays in the same team as Perdita. She’s a Brit. Drew’s an isolated case. Gave him a hard time in the Falklands, had a rush of blood to the head. Suspend him for a week with a £5,000 fine.’

‘I remember a chappie in India,’ began Brigadier Hughie, ‘furious with another player for walking off with his wife. About to kill him, when a wild pig, wounded by some guns, ran across the pitch, so we all gave chase.’

‘Oh, shut up, Hughie,’ snapped David Waterlane. ‘I know for a fact that if you ban Gonzales, Bart for one will pull out of the Gold Cup altogether and go back to America.’

‘We don’t want that,’ said Brigadier Canford, going pale. Bart had promised to pour a vast amount of money into the club which he’d just joined, but hadn’t signed the cheque yet. Brigadier Canford had visions of being landed with a bill for new showers, a new bar and Ladies’ loos with a Tampax machine.

‘When I was in Singapore,’ interrupted Brigadier Hughie, ‘chappie got so miffed at being beaten, he hijacked the opposition ponies and syces on the train home.’

‘Oh, shut up, Hughie,’ said Brigadier Canford.

Angel waited outside in the smoking room. Forgetting its similarity to the Jockey Club in Buenos Aires, he thought how odiously British were the thick red carpet, the ornate plaster ceiling, the heavy, dark furniture, the members silently reading The Times and the Sporting Life.

He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning and he felt exhausted, miserable and desperately ashamed of himself for having lied to the stewards. Glancing up, he thought he was hallucinating, for there, hovering in the doorway with the club porter, was Bibi, looking adorably fragile and worried.

‘I just came from the airport. What’s happening?’

‘They’re still talking,’ said Angel.

Joyously crossing the room, he was about to take her in his arms when she said coldly, ‘What in hell were you doing trying to murder Drew Benedict?’

Angel could lie to the inquiry, but not to Bibi.

‘Drew Benedict is complete sheet who torture me in Malvinas. Now his jaw is cracked he won’t find it so easy to interrogate people.’

They were out in the passage now, both shaking with animosity and longing.

‘How long have you planned this?’

‘For ever,’ said Angel. ‘I had to avenge Pedro.’

Bibi went to the window and gazed past the swooning Union Jack over the windowbox of red geraniums at the lovers in the park. My life is over, she thought. Angel, gazing at her long, beautiful legs, her tousled, red hair and her hunched, padded shoulders in the petrol-blue suit, thought he’d never needed or wanted her so badly.

‘So you didn’t marry me for my money,’ whispered Bibi, turning on him. ‘You did it to get American nationality and your revenge on poor Drew.’

‘What other reason could there be?’ hissed Angel.

He didn’t mean it, but he was fed up with being lectured and shouted at, and was aware of newspapers being lowered in the smoking room next door.

‘I want a divorce. Winston’s over here, so he can handle it right away,’ said Bibi, and, sobbing hysterically, she fled down the stairs out into the traffic of Piccadilly. Angel was about to run after her when a voice said, ‘Mr Solis de Gonzales, will you come in, please.’

He felt no better when Brigadier Hughie told him that this time he’d get away with a fortnight’s suspension and a £5,000 fine.

‘And you can fucking well pay it,’ roared Bart. ‘You only got off because I threatened to pull out of the Gold Cup.’


64



Perdita was in turmoil. There was no doubt Red was playing her up. It was as if, spurred on by the media attention showered on Angel, he wanted to establish himself as the chief headturner, the one the girls flocked round the most. He was also furious with Perdita for playing so badly in the semi-final of the Queen’s Cup. Since then he had hardly touched her, and Perdita, deaf, dumb and blind with love, didn’t know how to play it. She should have backed off and flirted with other men. Instead she made scenes, then, overwhelmed with remorse, crawled back again with morale plummeting.

The Polo Ball at Hurlingham the following week didn’t help matters. Bart, furious they’d been beaten by the Tigers, who’d in turn been smashed by Apocalypse in the final, insisted that all the Flyers turned up. It was a foul night with torrential rain drumming a million, irritable fingers on the roof of the marquee, flattening the blue hydrangeas and preventing anyone stealing off into the romantically shadowed garden glades.

Perdita, who had a black eye, a tooth knocked out and a swollen purple lip from playing in the Royal Windsor and had to play in an All-Ladies match at the Royal Berkshire the following day, longed to back down.

‘If you hadn’t made me cut my hair off,’ she stormed at Red, ‘I could at least have trailed it over my face. Now I just look hideous.’

Red, by contrast, always looked his most desirable in a dinner jacket. He had no truck with white tuxedos, or coloured ties, shirts or cummerbunds. Just black and white, perfected after ten fittings and setting off his beech-leaf colouring.

Bart, having annexed a table for six, promptly disappeared to telephone. Red, who was in a strange, detached mood, took advantage of his father’s absence to bitch up Chessie, who was looking heart-breaking in Prussian-blue strapless taffeta with white roses dyed Prussian blue in her hair.

Angel, whose mood was anything but detached, was attaching himself to every blonde he could find. Aware that she had lost him, but unable to tear herself away, Bibi was near to suicide. Looking round at all the smooth brown backs, the shining manes, the jewelled, lit-up, happily chatting faces, she gave a sob.

‘I must be the only ugly woman in polo.’

Perdita, who couldn’t get drunk because of the All-Ladies match next day, took another slug of Perrier.

‘That makes two of us,’ she said gloomily.

‘But you’ll be beautiful when the bruises go,’ said Bibi despairingly.

Realizing she should have contradicted Bibi’s earlier remark, Perdita said quickly, ‘But you’re terrific-looking.’

Idly Red turned Bibi’s profile to face him.

‘I don’t know why you don’t have a nose job. Then you’d be fine.’

‘Then she’d look just like you, you mean,’ snapped Chessie. ‘If you had a heart job, you’d be fine. Yes, I’d love to come and dance,’ she added, grabbing Dommie Carlisle who was sidling past.

‘I’m on my way to the Gents,’ protested Dommie.

‘Well, you won’t find any at this table,’ said Chessie.

She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman in the room. Eyes followed her. Men pressed their cheeks against their partners so they could gaze undetected as she passed. The Prussian-blue taffeta seemed part of her body like a fish’s tail. The roses in her greeny-gold hair gave her the look of some naiad.

Red, flanked by two girls miserably aware of not feeling beautiful, watched Chessie lazily.

‘What’s bitten her?’ he asked Bibi.

‘Dad’s been calling Mom about me and Angel. Ricky’s been talking to Dancer and Rupert all evening and hasn’t asked her to dance. Take your pick,’ said Bibi.

‘Any news of Luke?’ asked Red.

‘Good,’ said Bibi, cheering up for a second. ‘The last op’s been a total success. And he’s talking about starting a green pony clinic in Palm Beach. You know how he could always sort out anything difficult.’

‘Didn’t work with Perdita,’ drawled Red.

‘Don’t be bitchy,’ said Bibi. ‘Oh, Christ.’

Through a gap in the dancers, she could see Angel bopping with Jesus’s baby sister, whose sense of rhythm was as good as his. All her seventeen-year-old peanut-butter-coloured body seemed to be bouncing out of her gold dress.

Seeing his worst enemy’s wife miserably neglected, Drew Benedict felt it was not only a duty but a pleasure to rescue her.

‘May I have this dance?’

Bibi looked up with a start. ‘Oh my God, Drew. How are you?’