Polo. Part 83

Even the arrival of Dancer in Joan Collins's private plane didn't rouse the cameramen. Megastars were two a dime today. Fighting his way to the pony lines, Dancer found the English mounting their ponies for the fourth chukka. 'To fink I've been stuck in an Alderton sardine tin for the last fifteen hours just for your sake, Ricky, only to find you're nil-four down. Get yer f.u.c.king finger out.'

Then, seeing how ill Ricky looked: 'It's no big deal, sweetheart. If you lose and Chessie loves you, she'll come back anyway.'

Ricky stared at him bleakly. 'You think so?'

'Course she will. She's looking pretty cheesed off now. Here's somefink to cheer you up,' added Dancer.

It was a photograph of Little Chef in a polo hat and dark gla.s.ses.

Ricky laughed and turned it over, where Daisy had writ- ten, 'Good luck and love from everyone at Snow Cottage.' 'Good luck and love from everyone at Snow Cottage.' 'When did you see her?' 'When did you see her?'

'Yesterday,' said Dancer.

'Move your a.s.s, Reeky,' yelled Alejandro, 'everyone's waiting.'

Shoving Little Chef's photograph into his breeches' pocket, Ricky vaulted on to Kinta and galloped back on to the field.

At the beginning of the fourth chukka a machiavellian Red pulled up on the ball, convincing Alejandro that Seb had crossed him. Up went the American sticks. Alejandro awarded a penalty from the sixty-yard line, which Shark converted gloriously. The rest of the side crowded round him, their patting hands sinking into his fleshy back. Five-nil.

'Good thing we dropped Luke,' muttered Bart to Brad Dillon. 'Shark's playing great.'

He felt happier than ever before in his life. Red's speciality, the fifth chukka, was coming up. Ricky and the Brits would be utterly humiliated and his beautiful Chessie would stay with him. Earlier he'd seen Grace hanging round the pony lines giving Red advice. She was still a handsome woman, but in the harsh Californian light, she looked sixty. For the millionth time, despite everything, Bart was glad he'd left her for Chessie, whom he adored and understood. She'd be utterly miserable going back to the unimaginative, inhibited Ricky, who was playing like a nought. With any luck, he might be put down. It was a joke he could ever be considered a ten.

As play started again, and they lined up for the throw-in, a bored voice in the crowd called out: 'Oh, come on, England.'

Perdita turned in fury: 'We're doing our best, you f.u.c.ker,' she screamed. 'You try playing against this ape.'

The crowd shouted with laughter. In the ensuing mlee Shark swung his pony's head into Perdita's ribs once too often.

'You b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' she yelled. Then, to herself: 'Help me, G.o.d! We can't let them win so easily!'

And from the s.p.a.cious royal-blue firmament on high the Almighty seemed to answer by suddenly putting wings on her back and on her pony's heels.

'Cry G.o.d for Charlie, England and St George,' she screamed to the others and, cannoning off Shark, then into Red, then stopping short, then wheeling away under their horses' tails, she careered off and put a beautifully angled cutshot from twenty yards into goal. The crowd roared.

'That's better,' pleaded Terry Hanlon. 'Come on, you Brits in the crowd. Give the boys and the girl a chance. They need you.'

Thirty seconds later Perdita came pounding down again, whacking it to Seb, then racing ahead, picking up the ball again and sinking a big nearside neck shot.

'Come on, Ricky,' she yelled as she rode back to the centre, 'we can't do it on our own.'

Every time Red and Shark tried to ride her off now, she vas too quick for them and they found they were b.u.mping the breeze. Slowly the English, and particularly Ricky, steadied, and they ended the fourth chukka only 3-6 down.

'Well done! f.u.c.king marvellous,' said an ecstatic Rupert. 'Fantastic play, Perdita! Keep it up all of you. Your job in the next chukka, Seb, is to mark Red mindless. Stop him letting off any fireworks.'

The fifth chukka was uneven. Mike, rather than let Red score, fouled deliberately in the American goal-mouth, so that Shark had to go back to the sixty-yard line to take the penalty. Overcome by nerves, he hit wide.

'Luke wouldn't have missed that,' Perdita taunted him.

Goaded and desperate to make his mark on polo history, Shark was determined to score from the Number Four position, and kept trying to bulldoze the British defence, leaving his own back door wide open and enabling Perdita and Seb to score twice more.

'Corporal's now been promoted to Warrant Officer Two,' whooped Seb, triumphantly patting Dommie's little brown pony as they cantered back for the throw-in.

A second later the play was down near the English goal and an utterly rattled Shark mis-hit so the ball ricocheted off the boards over the back line.

'You stay there, Fatty. I'll be back in a minute,' yelled Perdita at Shark as she belted off to take up her position as Mike hit in. The crowd howled with laughter.

'Wash your mouth out with soap, Perdita,' said Terry Hanlon, 'but isn't she playing well!'

Catching the other side off guard, Mike powered the ball to Ricky who, keeping moving to lure Angel away, broke off to the right to receive the ball, then before Angel could blink, backed it to a hovering Seb, who, swinging Corporal round, scored yet again.

'Corporal's an RSM now,' whooped Seb.

Six-all to England on the bell.

The whole crowd were on their feet yelling their heads off as the teams went into the last chukka, and the Americans steadied and rallied.

'England, England, England,' chanted the galvanized British contingent.

Now they were into a frantic mlee in front of the American goal. Angel somehow managed to clear and Ricky sent the fleet-footed Wayne after the ball. As he could hear Red thundering down on him, the only answer was to back it. Turning round in his saddle, a miracle of cool, Ricky took a lightning look at the posts, then, picking the left-hand one as a target, keep- ing his body steady and Wayne moving, leant over to the left until his head was level with Wayne's gallant, pounding heart and raked the ball over the antheap of players slap between the posts. As the flag went up, the crowd gave a collective sigh of horror and ecstasy. Overheard by everyone, Chessie uttered a shriek of joy and raised a clenched fist in a Black Power salute: 'Oh Ricky, darling, what a wonderful, wonderful goal,' she screamed ecstatically.

The cameramen went berserk. They had a picture at last.

The English were also ahead at last. But with three minutes to go they could feel their ponies wilting. Spotty was panting like an obscene telephone caller and his brown patch foamed, under his breastplate, like an overflowing washing machine. Red and Angel had taken the opportunity when the last goal was scored to change ponies. The English problem was to stop either of them getting the ball. Next minute Mike gave his side a breathing s.p.a.ce by clouting the ball firmly into the stands.

'Unsporting but necessary,' said Seb as the players lined up. 'You're learning, Mike.'

In the closing seconds a perfect eighty-yard drive from Red took the ball down to the English end where it was centred by Bobby Ferraro. One after another, yelling with frustration, Angel, Bobby, Shark and a furiously galloping-up Red tried to hammer the ball between the posts. As Mike cleared for England through a thick curtain of dust, a great groan went up from the stands. For once again Shark had left the American posts unattended. Taking the ball up the boards with two mighty driving pa.s.ses, kicking up a halo of dust as he went, Ricky could feel Wayne struggling to stay ahead and Red on a new pony gaining on him. Just in time he jumped the boards and did a forehand cutshot to Seb, who, hearing Angel's pony behind him and seeing five seconds left on the clock, took a frantic swipe at goal.

Realizing it was going wide, Perdita catapulted forward for the offside forehand.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' she screamed as the ball hit a divot and bounced awkwardly to the left. Rupert had permanently taunted her that she had no nearside cut shots. She'd show him.

Dimly she was aware of the great roar of the crowd chorusing: 'Spotty, Spotty, Spotty.'

Triumphant in his moment of glory, revelling in the circus blood which was now pumping on overtime through his veins, Spotty noticed the ball had shifted. Jamming on his brakes, he pirouetted like Nureyev on his conker-brown legs sixty degrees to the left, thrusting Perdita withinreach of the ball, but at the same time wrapping her in a cloud of dust.

She couldn't see what she was doing, but, trusting Spotty and her instincts, she leant perilously out to the left and with a flick of her wrist like a tennis backhand stroked the ball where she prayed the posts might be.

Then she dropped her reins and clapped her hands over her eyes, unable to watch as the dust cleared. Slowly opening her fingers, she saw the miracle of the flag going up, then frenziedly joyful waving. The bellow of the crowd was so deafening that no-one heard the final horn. It had been such a wonderful match that the sporting, marvellously good-natured crowd could forgive a British victory and poured on to the pitch to honour all the eight heroes.

Perdita's throat was so dry that she couldn't whoop for joy. Instead she hurled her stick high into the blue and people rushed forward to catch it.

Desperate to get the first quote, a Scorpion Scorpion reporter had pinched one of Bart's ponies and thundered up the field to thrust a tape recorder under Perdita's nose. What with the frantic panting of Spotty and Perdita's delirious croaking, the reply was pretty inaudible. reporter had pinched one of Bart's ponies and thundered up the field to thrust a tape recorder under Perdita's nose. What with the frantic panting of Spotty and Perdita's delirious croaking, the reply was pretty inaudible.

'Well done, Perdeeta!' It was Angel, reaching out to shake hands and hug her. Next minute Shark was beside her, looking like his namesake deprived of a nice fat human. Then suddenly his ugly face split into a great grin and he clamped a vast sweaty arm round her shoulders.

'Well done, honey. I've gotta admit you outplayed us. I never thought I'd say that to a slip of a girl.'

'Who gave you the slip?' Bouncing through the crowds like a dog through a barley field, Seb hugged Perdita and pumped Shark's hand.

'Jolly big of Shark,' he added in an undertone. 'Evidently Bart offered him a quarter of a million bucks if they won.'

'Christ!' said Perdita in awe, as Spotty nearly disappeared beneath a wave of patting hands.

Refusing to shake hands with anyone, his face a death mask, Red galloped past her.

'Well played,' called out Perdita, amazed that she suddenly felt so sorry for him.

He turned unsmiling. 'Fat lot of good it did me. You did great. Back off, you f.u.c.kers,' he snarled at the advancing photographers. Then, seriously endangering their Nikons and their lives, he galloped straight through the lot of them.

It seemed ages before Perdita could wade through the surging ocean of wellwishers back to the pony lines. On the way she lost her hat and her whip and very nearly her shirt. Looking up, she noticed Rupert fighting his way towards her. Seeing the expression of blazing triumph on his face, she glanced wistfully round to see at whom it was directed, but there were only swooning, excited cheering crowds. Slowly it dawned that he was looking just at her. An instant later he'd dragged her off Spotty into his arms.

'I'm all hot and sweaty,' she stammered.

'Well done, my darling! Oh Christ, I'm I'm proud of you!' proud of you!'

As she looked up, bewildered, he put a hand on her soaked head and pulled it against his chest. He could feel the frantic pounding of her heart.

'Come on, Rupe,' shouted the Sun Sun as the press closed in. as the press closed in.

'You must recognize Perdita as your daughter now.'

Rupert grinned round at them: 'Course I do. Only a Campbell-Black could have played that well.' He looked down at Perdita. 'It's all right, lovie. There's no need to cry. You're mine now. I'll take care of you.' Then, to make her laugh: 'We'd better not hang around or The Scorpion'll The Scorpion'll accuse you of parent-molesting.' accuse you of parent-molesting.'

As the teams lined up, even the normally impa.s.sive Ricky was hard put to hide his elation.

'They said we hadn't a fox's chance in a hunt kennel,' he stammered to the grey-mushroom field of microphones, 'but we did it. The boys and Perdita played so well, I just had to follow them round. That's not to say the Americans didn't play brilliantly. But in the end we played better.'

'D'you think all the flak you got from everyone in the last month sharpened up your game?' asked The Sunday The Sunday Times. Times.

Ricky smiled briefly. 'No, I was always good.'

'Oh, isn't he macho?' sighed the girl from the Mail on Sunday. Mail on Sunday. 'Talk about a cliff face turning into an avalanche on the field. What are you doing this evening?' 'Talk about a cliff face turning into an avalanche on the field. What are you doing this evening?'

The Westchester Cup had been described by a formerplayer as a singularly hideous trophy, but nothing had ever looked more beautiful to the English team as Ricky walked up to deafening cheers to accept it from Prince Charles, who was obviously as delighted as he was amazed by the result.

'Well done, Ricky, absolutely marvellous.'

It was hard to curtsy with any grace in boots and breeches, but when Perdita, still red-eyed from dust and her rapprochement with Rupert, approached the Prince, he bent forward and kissed her cheek, and when he pinned a little ruby brooch in the shape of a rose on her dark blue jersey the crowd roared their approval.

To Perdita's amazement Spotty won Best Playing Pony. He was so delighted to be stuffed so full of Polos and the centre of attention that he forgot to fart. There was a brief pause as the Most Valuable Player was announced.

'Must be Red,' whispered Perdita to Seb.

'By general consensus of opinion,' said Brad Dillon rustling his papers, 'because his utter stability held the American team together and because he refused to ride off a seriously injured player in the true tradition of sportmanship, the award for the Most Valuable Player of the series goes to Luke Alderton.'

An amazed hush was followed by the most deafening storm of cheering of the day and it continued long after Luke, in a pair of torn jeans and an old, blue denim shirt, had fought his way up to collect the beautiful, rearing silver pony. Overwhelmed with longing and pride, Perdita wanted to rush forward and hug him, but the whooping, yodelling, ecstatic crowd divided them and the next moment she found herself being swept off by Ricky to ring Daisy before the press conference.

Only Chessie, the ultimate upstager, having ostentatiously flung off her black silk shawl, managed to pummel her way past a clicking frenzy of cameramen and security guards and fling her arms round Ricky's neck in ecstasy.

'You won, my darling, you won! Don't you realize what that means?'

As the photographers swung into action, frantic to capture the moment, Perdita turned away, horror-struck, and found herself looking straight at Bart and Red.

'It was your f.u.c.king fault,' Bart was hissing at Red. 'You forced them to drop Luke.'

Red, greyer beneath his suntan than ever Ricky had been, was looking utterly desolate.

After the match there was a celebration dinner at the Quinta Hotel organized by the American Polo a.s.sociation and the c.o.c.k-a-hoop sponsors.

'Everyone is expected to get plastered,' Rupert told the England team, 'but there seems to be a general consensus of opinion that the men will wear ties and you will all behave well, at least for the duration of dinner. That means no eloping before the Queen,' he added in an undertone to Ricky.

When they met up in the lobby, Rupert looked disapprovingly at Ricky's black tie. 'At least you might have left that off after winning the Westchester. You can't wallow in misery for ever.' Then, seeing Taggie's face: 'No, I'm sorry, you've won the Westchester. You can do what you b.l.o.o.d.y well like.'

Perdita, in a black, backless dress which matched her bruises and the dark circles under her eyes, had a feeling of total unreality. The euphoria of winning and of Rupert at last accepting her was fast receding. She was worried about Ricky who seemed unbelievably twitchy and couldn't get plastered like everyone else, but all she could think about was whether or not Luke would turn up.

A louring, glowering Bart arrived with Chessie, who was looking thoroughly over-excited and more minxy than ever in a gold tunic exactly matching her suntan and with a golden rose in her hair.

'Well, thank you, Perdita,' she murmured as she pa.s.sed. 'You certainly contributed to an English victory this afternoon.'

But before Perdita could answer, there was a burst of cheering as Red walked in with the American team. He had totally regained his composure and was laughing and joking. He was wearing a pink blazer edged with purple, because the entire Polo Youth of America seemed now to have gone back to wearing pale blue blazers braided with emerald green.

There was even more noisy rejoicing when Mike and Seb rolled up, already plastered, with Lily and Anniefrom the Nevada brothel and a blissful Louisa wheeling a rather pale Dommie, with his knee in plaster, around in a large shopping trolley which they'd pinched from a local hypermarket.

'Haven't you got any dope for Ricky?' whispered Perdita as she hugged Dommie. 'He needs something to cheer him up.'

'He's just won the f.u.c.king Westchester,' said Seb. 'Some people are never satisfied.'

'Sharon is,' giggled Dommie. 'She's just seduced Brigadier Hughie.'

'And we've promoted Corporal to General, so he'll be Sharon's next target,' added Seb, chucking a cauliflower floret at Bobby Ferraro.

'She's going to lose David Waterlane at this rate,' said Louisa.

'I think her sights are set somewhat higher than a baronet,' murmured Seb. 'She was last heard remarking, "How naice his hay-ness looked in his off-whaite suit." Oh, come on, Perdita, cheer up! We won!'

Taggie, realizing that Perdita's spirits were at rock bottom, took her aside. 'It's so heavenly Rupert's accepted you at last. He's so pleased. He can't wait to get you up on all his ponies. I promise he'll be a marvellous father. Once he's on someone's side, it's one hundred and fifty per cent.'

'You do love love him,' said Perdita wistfully. him,' said Perdita wistfully.

'Oh, more than anything. I still wake up sweating in the middle of the night, and have to reach out and touch him to prove it isn't all a dream.'

'How can you be so nice?' asked Perdita, shaking her head. 'You ought to give lessons.'

After that Perdita got no peace. Everyone wanted to congratulate her and take her through every stroke of the game, until Seb came up grinning wickedly.

'You've drawn the short straw, sweetheart,' he said. 'You've got to sit on Hughie's right. Talk about the price of fame. And watch out now he's in bimbo limbo. He may start touching you up.'