Polo. Part 43

'Oh dear!' Brigadier Hughie mopped his forehead with a red spotted handkerchief, 'Oh dear, oh dear.'

The press scribbled more feverishly. Miss Lodsworth, dammed up in mid-flow, turned puce.

'Hardly the time,' said Fatty Harris.

'When better?' Rupert was speaking very distinctly as though he was dictating to some idiot typist. 'I think the press might be interested to know that Ricky France-Lynch, the best player Rutshire has ever had, having survived a horrific car crash and six even more horrific operations, is anxious to return and bring back some glory to this clapped-out club.'

'This is disgraceful. How dare you?' spluttered Brigadier Hughie.

'Dancer Maitland may have been a junkie once,' went on Rupert, 'but has since raised millions for charity this winter, offering his services free to Band Aid. If you want crowds at Rutshire, Ricky and Dancer will pack them in.

'Bart Alderton,' Rupert was speaking even slower now, so even the reporters doing longhand got everything down, 'not only stole Ricky's wife, but now wants to rob him of the chance to return to the club he loves and for which his family has played for generations. Bart has therefore poured fortunes into the club and certain club secretaries' pockets' - Rupert smiled coldly at Fatty Harris - 'on condition that Ricky and Dancer are kept out. Pretty shabby behaviour.'

'Hear, hear,' said Victor. 'Bart's walked off with Ricky's wife. He's the one who ought to be blackballed.'

'Hey, steady on,' said David Waterlane. 'That's going a bit far. If we stuck to that rule we wouldn't have any members left.'

Rupert turned to the players. 'D'you lot want to play for a club as bent as it is lacking in compa.s.sion?' 'I resent that, sir,' said Fatty Harris.

'No,' shouted Dommie from the back of the hall. 'If you don't reinstate Ricky - and allow Dancer in - I'm off down the road to Cirencester.'

'So am I,' said Seb, draining his whisky and raising Perdita's hand, 'and so's she.''And so am I,' said Bas.

'And I,' said Drew, ignoring Sukey's look of disapproval. 'And me,' brayed Mike Waterlane, ignoring his father's even blacker look of disapproval.

'And I,' said Jesus, who'd been nudged in the ribs by Dommie.

'And I,' said Victor.

'Don't be silly, Victor,' said Sharon, seeing her ball for 350 fast rolling away.

'Anyone else?' said Rupert.

Every player and most of the non-playing members, except Miss Lodsworth and her satellite crones, got to their feet.

'This is most irregular,' spluttered Brigadier Hughie. 'But conclusive,' said Rupert briskly.

'I agree,' said David Waterlane, turning to Fatty Harris, whose pockets were suddenly feeling very unlined. 'You'll have to accept a majority vote, Stanley. I declare the meeting closed, and now you can buy me a gla.s.s of beer, Rupert, and tell me what really happened with you and Declan O'Hara.'

'I would,' said Rupert, as the press swarmed round and the waitresses surged in to clear the room, 'but we've got to m go straight back to Florida. Dommie and Jesus are playing in the finals.'

Dommie, Jesus and the girls could now be seen running across the white lawn to the helicopter, as the blades blew the rest of the snow off the trees.

'D'you mean you flew all the way from Florida just to vote, Minister?' asked the Rutshire Echo. Rutshire Echo.

'Ricky's a very old friend,' said Rupert.

39.

Bart Alderton was so incensed at the result of the AGM that he promptly put Rutchester Abbey back on the market and cancelled his trip to England, preferring to spend the summer playing polo on the American circuit. This meant that, although Ricky was reinstated at Rutshire Polo Club, he was deprived of Chessie's return.

'Why d'you all have to interfere in my life?' he shouted at Rupert.

'Of all the ungrateful sods,' complained Rupert furiously to Bas.

All this was extremely bad news for Angel who, banned as an Argentine from playing in England, had hoped for a restful summer, retained by Bart, but spared his company.

After a brilliant season in which he had contributed in no small way to the Alderton Flyers sweeping the board, Angel was tipped to go to four or even five in the November handicap listings. But this was no compensation for living in a horrible little bedsitter with no curtains nor air-conditioning and only a trickle of cold water which stopped altogether when the meter ran out; nor for being bullied by Miguel, who, operating his own mafia, bitterly resented Angel constantly seeking Alejandro's advice, nor being b.i.t.c.hed at by Juan, who equally resented Angel being as good-looking as he was and much better bred.

Angel detested Bart and dreamed of cuckolding him with the exquisite and discontented Chessie. His worst cross, however, was Bibi, who had taken on the job as Bart's polo manager with all the fervour of a neophyte. Finding Angel surly and temperamental, she was constantly pulling him up for never getting up in the morning and letting down the Flyers by slopping round in sleeveless T-shirts, designer stubble, and too long hair flapping under his polo helmet.

In return, Angel had not revised his opinion at Christmas that Bibi was a spoilt, uptight, ugly b.i.t.c.h. He was fed up with her recording his botched shots in her little red book, and noisily remonstrating with him between chukkas. Argentine women were beautiful, submissive, admiring and not like this.

Angel had been often tempted to walk out, but swallowed his pride and clung on because he was desperate for a green card which would establish him as a registered alien and enable him to work anywhere in America. Half the foreign grooms and low-goal Argentine players were, like him, in the States illegally and, although they didn't pay tax, they could be arrested, fined and immediately sent home if they were rumbled - which made Angel feel very insecure.

The day before the first round of the World Cup, Angel was taking six ponies round the vast, oval, sandy exercise ring at Palm Beach Polo Club. Persistent drizzle and lowering dark grey clouds reflected his mood. Refusing him player status, the infernal Bibi insisted that he do grooms' work when he should be stick and balling. The sole compensation was that ahead, above the rump of a sleek, sorrel pony, bounced the even sleeker rump of Samantha, Shark Nelligan's blonde and beautiful groom. Working for Shark for four years had bashed any a.s.sertiveness out of Samantha, and she thought Angel was absolutely wonderful. As Angel squeezed his pony and dragged the other five into a gallop to catch her up the April drizzle suddenly became a deluge. A second later Angel was overtaken by Jesus's Chilean groom who, like a cat, loathed getting wet and was thundering his six ponies home as fast as possible. Next minute Angel was into a horse race.

w.a.n.ker,' he screamed at the Chilean as his own six ponies fanned out, nearly pulling his arms off. He managed to stay put until he caught up with Samantha. Then one of her six horses kicked up a clod of sand into his face, and he had to let go of three of the lead ropes for fear of garrotting Samantha from the back. In the stampede that followed he was bucked off and, letting forth a stream of expletives, he watched the rest of his ponies disappearing into the Everglades.

Bibi, who'd just arrived by helicopter totally drained after filling in for Bart and having to address the Boston Chamber of Commerce last night, was absolutely furious. A mocking bird perched on the fence laughing at her and now Angel hobbled into the yard minus six of the horses who should have been playing in the World Cup tomorrow.

Nor would she listen to any excuses that Jesus's groom had triggered off the cavalry charge. It was all Angel's fault for trying to cut corners, ponying too many horses at once, who were now no doubt stuffing themselves with scrub, drinking contaminated swamp water and being threatened by alligators and rattlesnakes.

A prolonged search rounded up four of the ponies, two in Victor's garden where they disturbed Lady Kaputnik sunbathing in the nude, one trying to enter the Players Club without membership and the fourth outside the local hypermarket.

'Probably knew they were offering half-price carrots this week for the Easter Bunny,' said Angel.

Bibi's lips tightened. Miguel's best pony, Maria, and Glitz, the black gelding Juan always saved for the vital fifth chukka, were still missing.

'I'll look for them in the Skylark. You'd better come with me,' she ordered Angel, 'and bring some headcollars.'

Angel growled histrionically. He hated woman drivers, particularly in helicopters, and Bibi had only just pa.s.sed her test.

'Why d'you need a helicopter?' he hissed as he climbed into the pa.s.senger seat. 'I thought you flew everywhere on your broomstick.'

Bibi's bloodshot eyes glared at him over her huge horn-rimmed spectacles. 'If you want to go on working for my father don't give me any more lip, OK?'

The control stick had been taken out on the pa.s.senger side, but Angel still had pedals and a collective lever in front of him. A groom locked the doors and gave Bibi a thumbs up. Satisfied everything was in order, she started the two engines. With a last look round to see everything was clear, she pulled on the power with the collective lever, and with a shudder the Skylark lifted off the ap.r.o.n scattering orange blossom, putting up the mocking bird and sending the ponies galloping around the paddock.

Making a slow turn through 360 degrees to make sure no other machine was coming in behind her, she called the control tower who asked her her destination.

'Local flying along the coast and around the Everglades and Palm Beach not above a thousand feet,' replied Bibi, trying to appear wildly confident. She'd only done a few hours without an instructor, but she was d.a.m.ned if she'd betray any nerves.

'Too much engine,' said Angel idly.

'Concentrate on the job,' said Bibi curtly. 'There are some binoculars behind you.'

Peering down, Angel saw sc.u.mmy ca.n.a.ls, swamp, olive-green scrub, ribbons of grey road and emerald-green polopitches. There was the big stand, the aquamarine flash of a swimming-pool, and the white-and-yellow awnings of the Players Club - but no sorrel or black ponies. As they flew towards the ocean, sighting shrimp-pink swimmers and a few small boats on the azure water, the sun beat down on the gla.s.s bubble and the weather seemed perfect.

'Nice piece of real estate,' said Angel, squinting down at Donald Trump's house.

'You're looking for forty thousand bucks' worth of horses,' reproved Bibi. 'I'm going to switch on to automatic pilot.'

Angel watched her set the white b.a.l.l.s on the auto-pilot indicator and, when she was satisfied they were stable, click on the switch. Hesitantly she took her hands off the controls, but the Skylark held its course and height. Bibi s.n.a.t.c.hed the binoculars. She'd show this Latin creep how to search.

There's Victor's barn, thought Angel, leaning over to see if he could see a naked Sharon. The Everglades seemed to stretch out for ever, the ca.n.a.ls glinting dully like crocodiles' eyes in the baking sun. In the distance was a line of hills where, as usual, hung a bank of elephant-grey cloud. As they drew nearer, Angel disliked the look of the rain that hung like a dingy lace curtain between the swamps and the clouds. Bibi had not noticed any storm and was still busy scouring the scrub for ponies.

Then suddenly they were into rain. Bibi, who'd never faced a downpour before, hadn't realized that the clear gla.s.s of the bubble would immediately lose its transparency like the frosted gla.s.s in a bathroom, making visibility impossible. Instinctively she reduced the power and the Skylark immediately slowed, making it even harder to see out without forward speed to clear the gla.s.s of rain. Next moment one of the engines had stalled. Seeing Bibi's white knuckles on the controls, Angel realized she was absolutely terrified.

'Christ, the altimeter doesn't seem to be working!' The rain became denser, a white snake of lightning unzipped the sky.

'What am I going to do?' screamed Bibi.

'I can fly 'elicopters,' Angel said. 'Let me take over.' 'Don't be stupid,' said Bibi hysterically.

Ignoring her, totally in control, Angel reached across and turned off the auto-pilot. He had the pedals and the collective lever on his side, but no control stick. Gently, but firmly, he tried to remove her hands. The Skylark was loosing height fast now and they were encased in lashing rain.

'D'you want to get us both keeled? Let go. Leave it to me.'

Bibi was too frightened to resist. Flying a helicopter from the left-hand seat is not recommended in the flight manual, but somehow Angel managed to turn the machine round so they were flying out of the deluge and into the sunshine. To steady his hand, Angel rested his elbow on Bibi's knee. Now he could feel the heat of her body, her T-shirt drenched with sweat, her heart hammering her ribs and the surprisingly full firmness of her left breast. Instinctively he moved his elbow up until it was resting in her groin.

Glancing down, Bibi saw Angel's grooved, brown arm with its down of dark blond hairs lying along her thigh. Suddenly her legs seemed to have a mind of their own and closed to increase the pressure on his arm. As the Skylark shrugged off the rain and emerged into bright blue sky, she found herself wildly excited by such physical contact which was heightened by terror and a feeling half of resentment, half of slavish grat.i.tude towards this handsome boy, who had so effortlessly taken over and probably saved her life.

She was in no hurry for him to remove his arm as they cruised slowly back to the polo club. But as Bart's barn came into view, Angel handed back the control stick.

'You breeng us down, I think.'

'Shall I?' she asked tentatively.

'Is OK. I am here.'

Overwhelmed with relief that she wasn't going to be shown up in front of the grooms, Bibi asked somewhat ungraciously where he'd learnt to fly.

'In the Argentine Air Force - four years,' said Angel simply. 'Four months in zee Malvinas.'

'Helicopters?' whispered Bibi disbelievingly.

'No, Mirages,' said Angel.

When they got back to the barn, both ponies had been caught and were no worse for their joy ride. Bibi rang Luke the moment she got home. 'Why didn't you tell me Angel flew Mirages in the Falklands?'

'You didn't ask,' said Luke flatly. 'He and his brother Pedro brought down more Brit planes than any other pilots. Angel crashed behind enemy lines, and was interrogated by the Brits. Pedro was killed. Angel doesn't like to talk about it.'

Bibi told Luke about the storm and Angel saving her life.

'I guess you'll have to be a bit nicer to him in future,' said Luke curtly. 'I gotta go. You might tell Dad what Angel did, then he might be a bit nicer to him too.'

Bibi felt rebuked. Red claimed that Luke hadn't even been sleeping with Perdita, but he'd certainly been in a vile mood since she'd gone back.

Bibi, despite her cranky exterior, had a very big heart. She had never really got on with Grace, who quite blatantly preferred Red. Jealous of Red's dazzling looks and charm, Bibi had nevertheless been conscious that Bart preferred her to Red, of whom Bart was also wildly jealous. But then Bart had fallen for Chessie and for months on end had had no time for Bibi at all, and Bibi had felt as though she'd lost a lover. Being so rich, she couldn't comprehend any man loving her except for her money. Being Bart's daughter, she worked triply hard in the hope people would think she'd got to the top by her own abilities rather than by nepotism.

Perversely, in the same way that an actress lets herself put on weight or is habitually late for auditions so she can blame her fatness or the lateness and not herself for not getting the part, Bibi wore huge spectacles and ugly baggy clothes and sc.r.a.ped back her hair, so she could attribute this to her not having a steady boyfriend. Anything rather than the agony of being hunted for her fortune. What she really wanted was an old-fashioned billionaire and loads of children, but felt that this was as against her feminist principles as it would have been to have a nose job in order to attract men.

Ahead lay one of the busiest weeks of Bibi's life. Frantic at the office, she was also organizing a large charity ball for Cancer Relief in Palm Beach.

After a panic on Friday afternoon, because one couldn't serve non-vintage champagne if one was charging $600 a ticket, Bibi got home to a smirking Chessie and a thunderous Bart. Her Trust Fund Baby boyfriend Skipper, who was supposed to be taking her to the ball, had begged off again saying his stepmother was dying.

'The rat,' said Bibi furiously. 'Skipper loathes his stepmother.'

'Perhaps he's planning to hold a dance on her grave,' said Chessie, who was having a manicure.

'And it's too late to get someone else.' Bibi crashed down a large, white jasmine someone had sent for the tombola.

'Take a shower, honey,' said Bart. 'I'll find you a partner.'

The moment she was out of earshot, he dialled the barn.

'I guess I've gotta thank you for saving Bibi's life,' he said to Angel.

'Is nothing.'

'For a start, I want you to have dinner with us tonight.' Angel said he had a previous engagement.

'Cancel it.'

'Mrs Miguel ask me to deener.'

'I'll square Mrs Miguel. She'll understand.'

Angel was outraged, particularly as Mrs Miguel had also asked Shark Nelligan's groom, Samantha, and Angel would have had Samantha on a plate as well as the asada asada Mrs Miguel must be already cooking. Mrs Miguel must be already cooking.

Having dressed for dinner frequently at home, Angel was further incensed when Bart ordered him to wear a tuxedo.

'The hire-shop's open on Worth Avenue, and for Chrissake don't get a coloured shirt or a made-up tie, and see you shave properly, and don't be late. Bibi'll expect you around half seven. You're going to the ball, Cinderella.'

Bart summoned Bibi out of the shower. She was wrapped in a pink towel, her soapy hair rising in a unicorn horn above her head. She had a glorious body and wonderful shoulders, reflected Bart. Such a pity she covered them up with all those butch suits and baggy dresses.

'I've found you a guy - Angel. Luke tells me he saved your life.'

'Did he tell you why he saved my life?' said Bibi, suddenly hysterical. 'Because he was ponying five horses and they carted him and we nearly lost the lot. I'd rather have no no partner than him. Anyway, I'll be too busy organizing things. And he's a hick. He may have flown Mirages, but he's got no savvy. He'll probably roll up in jeans.' partner than him. Anyway, I'll be too busy organizing things. And he's a hick. He may have flown Mirages, but he's got no savvy. He'll probably roll up in jeans.'