‘I’m not sure,’ Lysander’s wonderfully smooth, wide forehead wrinkled for a second. ‘I went back to her place, certainly, but I’ve got a terrible feeling I fell asleep on the job. I’d better ring and apologize.’

‘Later.’ Seb chucked him a polo shirt.

‘I bloody can’t,’ complained Lysander, taking a sodden piece of paper from his shirt pocket. ‘She gave me her number but the ink’s run. I’d like a tan like that,’ he added, admiring Dommie’s solidly muscled conker-brown back.

‘Well, you won’t get one unless you play bloody well this afternoon,’ said Seb, stepping out of his jeans. ‘Elmer’s threatening to send you home on the next plane. The fax in the barn is for business use only. Elmer is desperate for details of some massive Jap deal, and all morning the machine has been spewing out the racing pages of every English newspaper.’

‘Oh, great! They’ve arrived.’ Leaping to his feet, Lysander tore off his shirt without bothering to undo any buttons. ‘If I get changed quickly, I can have a bet. If Elmer won’t let me use the telephone in the barn, can I borrow yours?’

‘No, you cannot!’ Grabbing Lysander’s arm, Seb yanked him back. ‘Bloody get dressed and warmed up. We didn’t bring you all the way from Fulham to make fools of us.’

‘Foolham,’ said Lysander. For a moment, his head went back and his big mouth stretched in a roar of laughter showing off wonderfully even teeth. Then he looked perplexed.

‘Now, where did I leave my polo gear?’

The opposition team, who were called ‘Mr Beefy’, consisted of a fast-food tycoon, Butch Murdoch, a good consistent player, and his three Argentine professionals, one of whom, Juan O’Brien, was the greatest player in the world. Wearing red shirts, they were already hitting balls across a field which rippled beneath its heat haze like a vast green lake. A red mobile canteen was handing out free hamburgers to Mr Beefy supporters. Inhaling a waft of frying onions, as he and the twins rode onto the field, Lysander retched and clamped his mouth shut. Unable to find his kit, he was wearing boots that wouldn’t zip up, borrowed knee-pads and a too-large hat which kept falling over his perfect nose and which did nothing to deflect a white-hot sun from his murderous headache.

An utterly instinctive horseman, Lysander’s polo career had been held back in the past by his ability to be distracted during matches.

‘Oh wow, oh wow,’ he was now muttering as he took in the glamorous, gold-limbed female supporters, crowding the stands and lolling on the burning bonnets of the Cadillacs and Lincolns lining the field.

‘God, I’ve got a hangover. This horse is so over the top,’ he grumbled, trying to stop a madly excited chestnut mare taking off as Butch Murdoch’s private ambulance manned by an army of paramedics, stormed past to take up position at mid-field.

‘Kerr-ist!’ Lysander nearly lost his hat as he swung round. ‘Look at the legs on that brunette in the pink skirt.’

‘More to the point,’ Seb lowered his voice, ‘see that man in the panama in the second row of the stands. He’s an England selector flown specially over to watch you.’

‘Really!’ Lysander’s blue-green eyes widened in wonder.

‘So get your finger out.’

‘You bet!’ Squeezing the chestnut, Lysander galloped off in a cloud of dust, tapping a practice ball effortlessly ahead of him.

‘That’s not true,’ said Dommie who had slightly more principles than Seb.

‘Of course it’s not,’ said Seb. ‘But it might take his mind off fieldside crumpet!’

The twins were basically amused by Lysander’s antics. In their youth, when they had made more money ripping off rich patrons than by their polo skills, their own wildness had been legendary. But the chill hand of the recession was making patrons more parsimonious and hot horse deals less easy and, as Elmer Winterton paid them a long salary and picked up their expenses, it was very much in their interest that Lysander distinguished himself that afternoon.

And here at last, trailing security guards, and perennially late because he liked to give the impression of being delayed by matters of state, came Elmer Winterton. He was followed by a private ambulance even larger than Mr Beefy’s and manned by more paramedics.

Elmer’s company, Safus, not only produced the Safus House which was allegedly so well secured that no intruder could break in, but also specialized in screening high-risk computers for the American government and industry. Elmer could frequently be heard boasting that only he knew the passwords to the nation’s most crucial secrets.

Having flown several senators and their wives down from Washington by private jet to watch him play, he was desperate that his team should win the cup under the Prussian-blue Safus colours.

Dark, swarthy, squat, with eyebrows that without ferocious plucking would have met in the middle, Elmer had mean, small eyes and a long nose that jerked up at the end like a white rhinoceros. He also displayed the rhino’s erratic belligerence and was so unable to control his overbred ponies that he was as likely to crash into his own side as the opposition.

It would be hard to have been uglier or a worse rider than Elmer, as he lumbered on to the field intolerably pounding the kidneys of his delicate dapple-grey pony, but such were his power and riches that the gold-limbed girl groupies licked their lips and rolled their shorts up an inch or two higher as he passed.

The heat was stifling. To the west, sinister black clouds advanced like a procession of Benedictine monks. Shaggy palm trees quivered with stillness above the mushroom-brown houses that flanked the outfield. As sweating ponies lined up and the umpire chucked the ball into a shifting forest of legs, Lysander could be heard saying, ‘I wonder if Elmer’s paramedics have got any Fernet-Branca.’

By half-time, Safus was trailing 2–8 and Lysander was dying of shame. Not having played since last summer, he was scuppered by hangover and the cauldron heat of Palm Beach after a freezing English winter. Unused to such fast well-bred ponies or such hard dry ground, he had had a terrible three chukkas. Mr Beefy’s three Argentine hired assassins hadn’t allowed him near the ball. Nor were matters helped by Elmer barging around like some geriatric in an ancient Mini, who keeps pulling in front of faster drivers on the motorway. Of the eight goals scored by Mr Beefy, six had been penalties awarded against Elmer. Elmer was also aware that a photographer, hired by the Safus PR Department, was videoing the entire game to show at the sales conference next month and he hadn’t touched the ball once.

‘I pay for this fucking team,’ he was now yelling at Seb and Dommie in the pony lines, ‘and I’m going to fucking well hit the fucking ball as much as I fucking well like, and as for him,’ he stabbed a stubby finger at a cringing Lysander, ‘hired assassin indeed. Hired asshole more likely, that son of a bitch couldn’t assassinate a fly.’

Matching Elmer’s mood, the black clouds now hovered above the pony lines like a vast impenetrable yew hedge. Lysander’s eyes and throat were lined with dust. He’d towelled off a bucket of sweat as he came off the field, and now he was wringing wet again.

Comfort, however, was at hand from a honey-blond groom called Astrid.

‘Don’t listen to Elmer,’ she told Lysander, ‘and don’t be fooled by this mare. She doesn’t have brakes, but she sure is fast,’ she added as she pulled down the stirrups of a mean-looking yellow pony, whose coat quivered irritably against the flies.

‘What’s she called?’ Lysander asked listlessly as he put his foot in the stirrup.

‘Mrs Ex, after Elmer’s ex-wife,’ said Astrid, jumping to avoid the mare’s darting teeth, ‘because she’s always bombing around causing trouble.’

‘Surprised he got anyone to marry him,’ shuddered Lysander, gathering up his reins and his stick.

In defence of her master Mrs Ex put in a terrific buck. Next moment Lysander was sitting on the ground.

‘See what I mean,’ bellowed Elmer, ‘that asshole can’t even stay on a fucking horse. Get the paramedic. He’ll certify the guy injured and we can put in a sub.’

But the fall had sobered Lysander. Vaulting on to Mrs Ex, he galloped back into the fray. In the fourth chukka, Dommie and Seb both scored twice, and Lysander once. Then Mr Beefy’s Argentines rallied and Lysander was so transfixed with admiration for Juan O’Brien’s forehand pass that he completely forgot to mark the number two player to whom Juan was passing.

‘Take the bloody man, Lysander,’ screamed Dommie. But he was too late, the number two had scored.

Three minutes later to placate Elmer, who was bellyaching about being the only member of the Safus team not to have scored, Dommie dropped a ball a foot in front of him and bang in front of the goal.

‘Take your time, Elmer,’ he shouted, galloping upfield in support.

‘Elmer Winterton is looking awful good,’ said the commentator.

Elmer took a swipe, missed, and, losing his temper, started to beat his pony.

‘Hi,’ yelled Lysander, thundering across the field, ‘that is absolutely not on.’

‘It absolutely isn’t on, is it, you little fuckwit.’ Elmer mimicked Lysander’s English accent. ‘I can hit anything I want,’ and raising his stick he took a furious swipe at Lysander who promptly lifted his stick in retaliation.

‘Stop it,’ roared Seb.

Fortunately, like a bucket of water over a dogfight, the dense black cloud keeled over in a tidal wave. Like cats, the spectators shot into their cars. Most of the players, particularly the Argentines, who detested rain, would have followed suit. But Lysander felt only blessed relief. For the first time in forty-eight hours he was cool and he was utterly used to playing in the rain.