The first chukka went straight into polo history because, at the end of it, the Americans were 7-0 up with six of the goals scored by Red, the contemptuous smile hardly leaving his face. It was as though he’d already seen a video of the match and knew exactly where the ball was going, he and Tero achieving one of those miraculous fusions between rider and pony that happens once in a lifetime. Fear had given wings to Tero’s oiled hooves as she streaked after the ball, a blue greyhound chasing an Arctic hare, but at the same time her stopping and turning were so automatic, her positioning near the ball so exact that she seemed hardly to need a rider on her back except as a scoring machine. Perdita was torn between pride and utter humiliation, particularly as the crowd seethed with speculation around her.

‘Juan brought that grey over.’

‘No, he didn’t. Bart brought it for $100,000 from Jesus’s brother.’

‘She’s worth it,’ said Bas. ‘Christ, look at that acceleration.’

‘Isn’t that Perdita’s pony?’ asked Taggie.

‘Couldn’t be,’ said Bas dismissively. ‘She was never that good.’

‘It is,’ said Rupert. ‘Just needed a decent rider on her back.’

While America settled into a smooth rhythm, England were in total disarray, a quartet of prima donnas each used to captaining his own side, totally deficient in team spirit, marking badly, never in position. Ricky, in despair, was resorting to his old tricks, doing too much and exhausting his ponies. Drew was just tired. The Napiers barged about, bullies in china shops, bellowing with frustration.

By half-time the score was 12-2 and the crowd were reading their programmes. As the Americans rode back to the pony lines their knees bumped. The Brits rode apart, four thunderclouds symbolizing their alienation.

A square of pitch in front of the Royal Box, where the presentation would later be made, was temporarily roped off so the crowd could close in and gaze at the Prince and Princess of Wales. Babies in prams were wheeled over from the opposite stand. Two Jack Russells, a pug and a cairn in a green scarf were held aloft by their owners to have a good look.

After half-time the English steadied. Red, riding Tero again, stepped up his game and in his enthusiasm had three fouls blown on him. He redeemed himself by galloping across goal and blocking the penalties with a couple of amazing tennis volleys and, finally, with Tero’s head, just below the eyes.

‘Bastard,’ screamed Perdita as, in anguish, she watched Tero shaking her head frantically back and forth.

But her protests were drowned by the roar of the crowd as Angel picked up the ball and took it upfield, riding Drew off with unnecessary violence.

‘That’ll teach you to seduce my wife,’ he hissed.

‘Fucking gigolo,’ howled Drew, wondering whether Angel’s elbow had broken his rib. David Waterlane, who was umpiring, gave England another penalty.

‘And what can Red Alderton do this time?’ said Terry Hanlon.

Once more Red flew out, blocking the shot with Tero’s shoulders and bringing Perdita screaming to her feet.

Rupert and Bas were almost as upset. With England putting up such a pathetic performance, their collossal investment in the Westchester was looking increasingly precarious.

‘Come on, England, you’re playing like assholes,’ yelled Rupert. ‘Get your fucking fingers out.’

‘Ben and Charles Napier are supposed to be nine,’ said Bas, ‘but when they play together they’re about four. They’re not putting their backs into it because you don’t get paid for an International.’

‘God, he’s handsome,’ said a beauty behind Perdita, as Red scored again, a lovely sweeping shot under Tero’s neck. ‘If he’s really chucked Perdita Macleod, could you introduce me?’

Perdita gazed across the field to where a shining shingle of parked cars seemed to stretch to infinity. I want to die, she thought. Hell will be as welcoming as a log fire on a cold day compared with this. And now Red and Charles Napier were hurtling towards the boards inside which the ball was nestling. Red must bring Tero down.

‘Careful, Red, for God’s sake!’ she screamed.

But the next second Tero had hopped over the boards at full gallop and somehow, straining every tendon, had turned right in midair, positioning Red perfectly for an offside forehand, enabling him to scoop the ball out and blast it to safety. The crowd gave a sigh of ecstasy as the bell went for the end of the fourth chukka. Tero’s part in the match was over. Passionately relieved, shoving protesting onlookers out of the way Perdita raced down to the pony lines by which time Red and Glitz were back on the field.

She found Tero heaving and gasping for breath as she’d only seen ponies doing in the sweltering heat of Palm Beach, with four-inch weals from Red’s whip dividing the sweat on her nearside flanks and quarters.

‘Oh, my poor baby,’ moaned Perdita. ‘What has that bastard done to you? And you played so brilliantly, I’ll murder him when I catch him.’

But although apparently sound, the little mare seemed utterly shellshocked, not even responding to her mistress when she covered her with kisses. Perhaps it was total exhaustion. Perdita helped dry her off.

‘Give her a polish and put on a couple of rugs. She might win Best Playing Pony,’ she told Bart’s groom, Manuel, before going back to the stands for the last chukka, where America, still leading 12-4, were beginning to get complacent. Red, trying to block another shot, leapt out before Ricky had hit the penalty and a free goal was awarded to England. Ricky then scored two goals and Angel missed an easy one. Furious with himself, he swung his pony’s head round inadvertently straight into Drew’s face.

Drew, who was far more jet lagged than he had realized, conscious of playing like a geriatric and fed up with Angel histrionically twirling his stick above his head at every real, contrived or imagined foul, lost his temper.

‘You fucking grease-ball,’ he howled.

‘It was a meestake,’ howled back Angel, the gold St Christopher glittering in the damp bronze curls on his chest. ‘I teach you to race after my wife,’ he hissed, lifting his stick.

‘Bad luck for her getting tied up with a gigolo,’ snapped Drew, also raising his stick.

‘Pack it in,’ said David Waterlane, riding between them, ‘or I’ll send you both off.’

‘Tempers getting up on the field,’ explained Terry Hanlon. ‘Polo’s been called a game for gangsters played by gentlemen, or a game for gentlemen played by gangsters. They say you need a cool head and hot blood to play it, and David Waterlane’s made the decision. Penalty to England.’

While Ricky converted the penalty Red belted off to change ponies. Looking eastwards Perdita noticed that the frantic activity in the pony lines had subsided and most of the grooms were lined up behind the scoreboard, holding spare ponies and cheering on their respective sides. Then she stiffened. It couldn’t be! Snatching Brigadier Hughie’s binoculars and nearly strangling him, she saw that Red was actually galloping back on Tero, riding her for the third time which was against the rules. Crashing along the row of protesting spectators, she tore down the steps, sending a returning B. A. Robertson flying.

‘Red, you can’t! Please not,’ she screamed from the second step. ‘She’s exhausted. You’ll kill her.’

But once again, as Red thundered past, her protests were drowned by the ecstatic screams from the crowd.

12-8 to the Americans with four minutes to go. At last England were in with a faint chance. The crowd, catching fire, began to roar. Frantic with worry, Perdita watched only Red. Tero was so game and willing, she’d give him her last ounce. Red picked up his whip. Suddenly the field seemed to stretch from one end of the world to the other as he galloped up and down hooking and fencing with his stick, frantic to gain position. Two minutes to go. Taking advantage of a loose ball, Ricky scored again.

‘Come on, England!’ shouted Rupert in exultation. ‘You can do it.’

At the throw-in, Drew got it out and passed it to Ricky who took off on Kinta towards the posts. Whipped by Red, somehow Tero caught up with them and grimly Red closed in to ride Ricky off. Tero, like the good pony she was, dropped her shoulder and shoved, but Kinta was almost twice the size and strength of her and she took the weight of the bump, flying through the air and nearly going down on her fore-end. As Brigadier Hughie’s binoculars shook in Perdita’s frantically trembling hands, Tero’s head seemed to be all white with lather. Her huge panic-stricken eyes rolled as Red yanked her round with all his strength to pick up the ball which Bart had backed upfield.

‘Bastard, stop him,’ screamed Perdita from the steps, but her cries were taken by the wind.

‘Sit down,’ yelled the crowd.

Oblivious, hands to her face, she watched, demented, as Red whipped Tero almost the length of the field, his spurs glinting in the sunshine as they stabbed at the little mare’s sides like the needle of a sewing machine. At the last moment he passed to Angel.

Angel, in turn, waited until Drew was almost on him before flicking the ball back to Red who, as Tero strained herself for a final, gallant effort, leaned right out of the saddle, stroking the ball between the posts, almost as an afterthought. 13-9 on the bell.

The cheers ringing out politely for an American victory turned to cries of horror as, like some ghastly danse macabre, Tero appeared to lose all co-ordination and Red and she were both down rolling over and over. Red jumped to his feet. Somehow, lurching drunkenly, Tero staggered up, but she was heaving, shuddering and careering round totally disconnected, with all four legs sticking out straight.