‘Beattie Johnson.’ Rupert was unable to resist boasting.

Bas whistled. ‘Is that wise?’

‘Sensational in bed,’ said Rupert.

‘And utterly unscrupulous in print,’ said Bas disapprovingly.

‘It’s all right. She’s abandoned The Scorpion for six months to ghost my memoirs.’

‘A house ghost!’ said Bas. ‘Look, Ricky’s coming out of prison next month.’

Rupert raised his eyes to heaven: ‘Christ! Having jacked in show-jumping, I know exactly how he must feel not being able to play polo. We ought to join Hooked on Horses Anonymous.’

‘Wasn’t so bad in prison,’ said Bas. ‘He had a routine and people all round him. He liked the people.’

‘Well, he was brought up on a large estate,’ said Rupert. ‘He should know how to get on with the working classes.’

‘How’s he going to cope when he gets out?’ asked Bas. ‘That bloody great house, no Chessie, no Will. Look, I want to show you an amazing girl.’

‘I’ve got one.’ Rupert looked at his watch. ‘In London.’

‘It’s on your way,’ said Bas.

Down at Rutshire Polo Club, the huge trees in their midi-dresses were turning yellow. A scattering of mothers lined Ground Two.

‘This is the Pony Club,’ said Rupert, outraged. ‘I’m off.’

‘One chukka,’ said Bas soothingly. ‘Watch number three in the black shirt on the dark brown mare with the white blaze.’

Only the narrowness of the waist, the curl of the thigh and the slight fullness in the T-shirt indicated that the player was a girl.

Next moment Perdita had tapped the ball out of a jumble of sticks and stamping ponies’ legs, ridden off the opposing number three, dummied past the white number four and scored. Two minutes later she scored again with an incredible back shot from twenty yards.

‘Not only does she get to the ball in time to examine it for bugs,’ said Bas, ‘but she plays with five times more aggression than any of the boys.’

‘Not bad,’ said Rupert grudgingly. ‘In fact she’s almost as good as I was when I started. But the competition’s pathetic. She wouldn’t stand up even in low goal.’

‘Would if she were properly taught. She’s fantastic-looking close up. Just think what a draw she’d be here in a few years’ time. A really stunning good girl player.’

‘Just because you want to push up the price of the land round the club.’

‘You can buy in too,’ said Bas.

Thundering down the field, Perdita caught one of the opposition on the hop.

‘Get off my fucking line, you creaming little poofter,’ she screamed and, whipping the ball past him, flicked it between the posts.

‘Fine command of the English language,’ said Rupert, ‘and that’s an exceptionally nice mare.’

‘It’s Ricky’s,’ said Bas. ‘Since he’s been in prison his ponies have been turned out and Perdita’s been borrowing them all summer without asking. That happens to be Kinta; Best Playing Pony at Deauville last year.’

Rupert took another look at Perdita as she lined up for the throwin.

‘Didn’t she come out with the East Cotchester last year?’

‘That’s the one. Father walked out, lost all their money. Girl like that ought to be sponsored. She’s bankable – and bonkable. Has the Ministry for Sport got any spare cash?’

‘None,’ said Rupert, getting into his car. ‘Polo’s too elitist. Everything’s going to the Olympic Fund.’

‘Well, at least let’s give her to Ricky. He can’t play for ages because of his elbow. He can’t drive or go abroad for a year. If he’s not going to drink himself insensible, we’ve got to find him an interest.’


14



To avoid the press, Ricky was let out of prison by a side door two hours early. His tweed jacket hung off him, the faded brown cords were held up by an old school tie, the cuffs of his check shirt slipped over his knuckles like mittens. Once through the door, he took a great shuddering breath. A thrush was singing in the sycamores. The sun had just risen in a tidal wave of rose and turquoise, but dense inky blue storm clouds gathered menacingly in the West.

Ricky was expecting Joel, his farm manager, with the Land-Rover. Instead, spotlit against this thunderous backdrop, lounging around a vast open Bentley, like characters out of Scott Fitzgerald, were Rupert, Bas, Drew and a tousled but undeniably desirable blonde who was wearing Rupert’s dinner jacket over her rose-printed silk dress.

Bas, being half-Latin and the most demonstrative, came straight up, put his long muscular arms round Ricky and kissed him on both cheeks.

‘Welcome back, dear boy,’ he murmured in his husky, caressing, almost exaggeratedly English accent.

Drew, very brown from the troopship, but more reserved, relieved Ricky of his suitcase. Rupert, his blue eyes bloodshot and slightly off centre, lipstick all over his evening shirt, put an arm round Ricky’s shoulder, leading him to the car: ‘You made it, you poor sod. Christ, I’m glad you’re out.’ Then, drawing forward the tousled blonde, ‘This is Beattie Johnson.’

Ricky stiffened, his eyes wary and hostile. Beattie Johnson had written some vicious lies about him and Chessie during the trial.

‘It’s OK,’ said Rupert quickly. ‘She’s off duty.’

Although Rupert had kissed off all her make-up and reddened her face with his stubble, she was even sexier close up. Curling her arms round Ricky’s neck, she kissed him on the edge of his mouth.

‘You poor old thing, the nightmare’s over. I have to tell you, you’re much more glamorous in the flesh.’

Beattie’s flesh, in its clinging softness, reminded Ricky agonizingly of Chessie. Beneath the sharp tang of her scent, he caught the unmistakable fishlike reek of sex and nearly blacked out.

‘Leave him alone, Beattie,’ snapped Bas. ‘You sit in the front, Ricky. Isn’t this a truly terrific motor car?’

‘We decided it wasn’t worth going to bed,’ said Rupert, as he headed towards the motorway. ‘We thought we’d all have breakfast at Sheepfield Chase. Bas got them to lay on a private room, so you won’t get gorped at.’

‘And the uncondemned man is going to eat a hearty breakfast,’ said Beattie, putting her hands on Ricky’s shoulders. Ricky tried not to freeze away. Having taken a large swig out of a bottle of Krug, Bas handed it forward to him. Ricky shook his head.

‘Go on,’ chided Beattie. ‘You’re about three bottles behind the rest of us.’

‘No thanks,’ said Ricky. Looking down he saw Beattie’s rather dirty toe-nailed foot edging down the gear lever to rub against Rupert’s black thigh. Putting down a hand, Rupert caressed her instep.

‘Bugger off now,’ he said to her, ‘or I’ll be done for drunk driving. And for Christ’s sake, get that black tie off, Bas.’

Ricky wished he could go straight home. He needed to touch base, but it had been so kind of them to turn up, he must make an effort. He turned to Drew. ‘Glad you got back safely.’

‘Bloody nuisance missing a whole season,’ said Drew.

‘It must have been wonderful all those cheering crowds welcoming you back,’ gushed Beattie.

‘We’d no idea of the strength of feeling back home,’ said Drew. ‘It was a complete surprise. We were overwhelmed.’

‘How did you feel when the truce was finally signed in Port Stanley?’ went on Beattie. ‘Did you have a fantastic piss-up?’

‘No,’ said Drew. ‘We were simply glad to be alive.’

He’s changed, thought Ricky. The golden boy’s grown up and been jolted out of his habitual sang-froid.

‘Drew’s being recommended for an MC,’ said Bas.

‘Sukey must be thrilled,’ said Ricky.

They’ve all done so well, he thought wistfully – World Champions, Gold Cups, MCs.

The conversation inevitably got on to polo and what a bore it was not being able to buy ponies from Argentina any more.

‘I’m getting some from Australia,’ said Bas, ‘and the Prince of Wales.’ Then, realizing Beattie was listening, he started gabbling away in Spanish to Drew.

‘Speak English,’ said Beattie furiously, hearing the words, ‘Charles and Diana’. ‘It’s bloody rude.’

When she could get no change out of either Drew or Bas, she turned back to Ricky.

‘Did they give you a hard time inside because you were a gent?’

‘No.’

‘How was Dancer Maitland?’

‘Great.’

‘Did he make a pass at you?’

‘Oh, shut up, Beattie,’ said Bas.

‘Well, he is a screaming pouf. I’d have made a pass at Ricky if I’d been in prison.’

‘Dancer’s f-f-fine,’ said Ricky, wanting to strangle Beattie. ‘He’s a lovely man. Everyone adored him.’

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Beattie writing ‘lovely man’ on her wrist with eye pencil. The inky black cloud had spread over the whole sky. They only just managed to reach the hotel and get the roof up when the heavens opened.

‘I guess MP stands for Moderately Pissed,’ said Rupert, as ravishing waitresses, hand-picked by Bas, brought more bottles of Krug into the private room. Ricky put his hand over his glass.

‘Go on,’ said Bas. ‘You must celebrate today.’

‘Honestly, I’ve given it up.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Rupert. ‘You used to drink for Rutshire.’

‘I don’t want a drink,’ said Ricky through gritted teeth. Then, lowering his voice, ‘I’m sorry, I just feel I owe it to Will.’

‘Ah,’ said Rupert, also dropping his voice, ‘I understand. Sorry. But don’t punish yourself too hard. Christ, look at the tits on that waitress.’

Attack came next from Ricky’s left.

‘You mustn’t be sad,’ said Beattie, pouring him a cup of coffee. ‘Spare men are at such a premium these days, you’ll be snapped up in a trice. I’ve got some stunning girlfriends. You must make up a four with Rupert and me.’