About the Author
Jilly Cooper is a journalist, writer and media superstar. The author of many number one bestselling novels, she lives in Gloucestershire with her family and her rescue greyhound Bluebell.
She was appointed OBE in 2004 for her services to literature, and in 2009 was awarded an honorary Doctorate of Letters by the University of Gloucestershire for her contribution to literature and services to the county, and also in 2011 for services to literature by the University of Anglia Ruskin.
Find out more about Jilly Cooper at her website:
www.jillycooper.co.uk
Read the next book in Jilly Cooper’s classic Rutshire Chronicles series
THE MAN WHO MADE HUSBANDS JEALOUS
Available in ebook now
Read on for a preview . . .
1
Lysander Hawkley appeared to have everything. At twenty-two, he was tall, broad-shouldered, heart-stoppingly handsome, wildly affectionate, with a wall-to-wall smile that withered women. In January 1990 at the finals of a Palm Beach polo tournament, this hero of our time was lying slumped on a Prussian-blue rug in the pony lines sleeping off the excesses of the night before.
The higher the standard of polo the better looking tend to be both grooms and ponies. On this punishingly hot, muggy day, all around Lysander beautiful girls in Prussian-blue shirts and baseball caps were engaged in the frantic activity of getting twenty-four ponies ready for the match. But, trying not to wake him, they swore under their breaths as they bandaged and tacked-up charges driven demented by an invasion of mosquitoes. And, if they could, these beautiful girls would have hushed the thunder that grumbled irritably along the flat, palm-tree fringed horizon.
But Lysander didn’t stir – not even when an Argentine groom working for the opposition jumped a pony clean over him on the way to the warm-up area, nor when two of his team mates, the Carlisle twins, Sebastian and Dominic, roared up in a dark green Aston Martin yelling in rage and relief that they’d finally tracked him down.
People loved doing things for Lysander. The grooms had kept their voices down. In the same way Seb and Dommie, both England polo internationals, had persuaded Elmer Winterton, the security billionaire who employed them for the Palm Beach season, to fly Lysander out as a substitute when the fourth member of the team had broken his shoulder in the semi-finals.
‘The little fucker,’ howled Seb, leaping out of the car, ‘after all the trouble we took getting him the job.’
‘He rewards us by getting rat-assed,’ said Dommie.
Together they gazed indignantly down at Lysander, sprawled lean-hipped and loose-limbed as a lurcher puppy. Lazily he stretched out and raked a mosquito bite in his sleep.
‘No-one looking at that angelic inertia,’ went on Dommie grimly, ‘could imagine his ability for wanton destruction when he’s awake.’
‘Well, if he channels some of that ability against the opposition we’ll be OK,’ said Seb, and, picking up a Prussian-blue bucket, he dashed the contents into Lysander’s face. ‘Come on, Mr Hawkley. This is your wake-up call.’
‘What the fuck?’ Leaping as though he’d been electrocuted, frantically wiping dirty water out of his eyes, Lysander slowly and painfully focused on two, round, ruffian faces and four dissipated blue eyes glaring down at him from under thick blond fringes.
‘Oh, it’s you two,’ he groaned. ‘For a terrible moment I thought I was seeing double. What the hell are you trying to do to me?’
‘Nothing to what you’re doing to yourself,’ said Seb briskly. ‘Game starts in half an hour. Get your ass into gear.’
‘Did you pull that blonde?’ asked Dommie, unbuttoning his grey-striped shirt and selecting a Prussian-blue polo shirt from the back of the Aston Martin.
‘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.
‘Lysander Hawkley is looking awful good,’ crackled the loudspeaker a minute later. ‘He’s got the line and he’s really motoring on Elmer Winterton’s yellow pony. Oh, where are you going, Lysander?’
Shying at one of Mr Beefy’s white-and-red paper napkins which had blown on to the field, Mrs Ex had taken off through the downpour carting Lysander, who was whooping with laughter, past Elmer’s and Mr Beefy’s ambulances, beyond the goal posts and goal judge off into the Everglades. Three minutes later, he cantered back, still roaring his head off.
‘When a horse takes off, there’s not much you can do. The only thing that stopped Mrs Ex was a huge croc on the river bank. I thought it was one of your security guards. Sir,’ he added hastily seeing the sudden fury in Elmer’s beady little eyes.
Fortunately Mrs Ex’s turn of speed proved more effective going the other way. Hanging on Lysander’s hands like an express train, she whisked him past three outraged Argentines, which enabled him to lean right out of the saddle and flick the ball between the red-and-white posts with a glorious, offside cut shot.
As the bell went for the end of the fifth chukka the crowd hooted approval from the inside of their cars. Riding back to the pony lines through the deluge Lysander noticed a lone spectator huddling in the stands beneath the totally inadequate protection of a Prussian-blue Safus umbrella. Catching a glimpse of long brown legs Lysander recognized the brunette in the pink skirt he’d admired earlier. Returning for the last chukka, he carried a spare blue rug which had kept dry in Elmer’s trailer.
‘Oh, how darling of you,’ said the brunette as he jumped off and spread it over her legs.
Her hair, the rich brown of soy sauce, fell in dripping rats’ tails. The rain intensified the dark freckles that polka-dotted her thin face and arms. She was shivering like a dog in a vet’s waiting room.
‘You should be inside your car,’ reproved Lysander.
‘My husband likes to know where I am, in case he breaks a mallet.’ The girl pointed to three spare polo sticks propped against the low white fence in front of her.
‘Lucky bloke,’ sighed Lysander.
‘Lysander,’ called Seb sharply.
Glancing round, Lysander saw the other players were already lined up for the throw-in and galloped over to join them.
‘Don’t chat up girls in the middle of a game,’ said Seb in a furious undertone, ‘particularly when they’re the patron’s wife.’
‘She’s married to Elmer?’ asked Lysander, appalled.
‘Yup, and unless we win, he’ll take it out on her afterwards.’
In the last chukka, with Mr Beefy only one goal ahead, the tension got to both sides. Then Juan O’Brien swore so badly at the umpire for ignoring one of Elmer’s more blatant fouls that the umpire retaliated by awarding a penalty against Juan.
As Seb took the hit for Safus, Lysander belted back to the pony lines to change horses and have another look at Elmer’s wife. The way her white silk shirt was clinging to her body was nothing short of spectacular. How could she have married such an ape?
While Seb circled his pony then clouted the ball between the posts, Juan O’Brien came off the back line and blocked the shot with his pony’s shoulder. Lysander winced. He’d seen players stop goals with their pony’s heads. Enraged, he galloped upfield, picked up the ball, played cat and mouse with it, hit it in the air, before slamming it between the posts. The spectators honked their horns in ecstasy.
The storm had passed. Ponies steamed. Bits, stirrups and the huge silver cup on its red tablecloth glittered in the returning sun.
‘I guess Safus is going to stage a come-back situation,’ said the commentator.
Juan O’Brien guessed otherwise. In the closing seconds of the game he roared downfield, black curls streaming under his hat, swinging his stick, driving the ball gloriously before him, then, unmarked and overconfident, just in front of goal he hit wide.
Pouncing, Lysander backed the ball upfield to Seb who passed to Dommie, who carried on through the puddles until he encountered a wall of Argentine resistance and hastily cut the ball to a furiously racing-up Lysander, who met it gloriously. With twenty seconds on the clock, Lysander was perfectly poised to score the winning goal but, seeing Elmer scowling red-faced in front of the posts, and remembering Elmer’s drenched wife, who would get hell after the game, he passed instead to Elmer. The twins groaned in disbelief, but, by some miracle, on the bell Elmer managed to coax the ball between the posts.
All Elmer’s senators, flown down by private jet, who’d been wondering what the hell to say to him after the game, cheered with deafening relief. The company cameraman decided not to shoot himself after all. At last he had a clip he could show at the sales conference and later he was able to film Elmer brandishing the huge silver cup while his beautiful wife clapped so enthusiastically that she spilled champagne down her pink skirt.
Back at Elmer’s barn, Lysander, having drunk a great deal of Moët from the cup, hazily checked the legs of his ponies, thanking them profusely as he plied them with Polo mints. He then thanked the grooms with equal enthusiasm and passed round the individual magnum of Moët he’d been given as a member of the winning team.
‘You’re certainly flavour of the month,’ said Astrid. ‘Elmer reckons you’re the best Brit he’s ever played with. He wants you to stay on for the Rolex next month.’
In moments of excitement Lysander could do little more than open and shut his mouth.
‘Really?’ he gasped finally.
‘Really!’ Pretending to buckle under the weight, Astrid handed him a sheaf of faxes. ‘Here are your racing pages.’
‘I’d forgotten those!’ Lysander gave a whoop of joy. ‘Now I can have a bet.’
‘No you can’t!’ Seb marched in, already changed, with his hair slicked back from the shower. ‘It’s nearly midnight in England and the only thing racing at the moment is the very unblue blood through Elmer’s veins. In between copies of Sporting Life the fax managed to spew out confirmation of his Jap deal. Elmer is several million bucks richer now and he wants to party. So move it.’
‘But I want to get pissed with this lot.’ Lysander gazed wistfully at Astrid.
‘Lysander,’ said Seb wearily, ‘you want to play polo for a living. If you’re prepared to be charming and diplomatic, you can brownnose your way into riding some of the most fabulous horses in the world, but for a start lay off Elmer’s wife and his grooms.’
‘He sure is the cutest guy,’ sighed Astrid as Lysander was dragged protesting away.
2
The party was held in one of the soft brown houses clustering round the polo field. Male guests ranged from lithe, bronzed, professional polo players of all nationalities to rich businessmen, some of them patrons, some of who merely liked to be part of the polo scene. The women included glamorous groupies of all ages, wearing everything from T-shirts and jeans to strapless dresses showing off massive jewels.
The feeling of jungle warfare was intensified by the forest of glossy green tropical plants in every room and by the fact that all the professionals were on the prowl for rich patrons, and the patrons, despite having wives present, were stalking the prettiest groupies who were, in turn, hunting anything in trousers.
Loud cheers greeted the arrival of the Safus team.
‘If you have oats, prepare to sow them now,’ murmured Seb as the cheering died away and a hush fell over the room.
‘Talk about Elmer’s angels,’ drawled a predatory blonde in a fire-engine-red dress licking her scarlet lips.
Elmer, mean little eyes flickering with rage, was the only person who didn’t laugh. He’d kept on his brown boots and white breeches which the game had hardly marked, so that everyone should know he was a polo player, but had changed into a clean blue Safus polo shirt. As groupies started edging through the vegetation towards the rest of his team, Elmer, competitive as ever, was determined to annex the prettiest. Soon he was bosom to pectorals with a mettlesome brunette called Bonny whose bottom lip protruded more than any of the scented orchids massed in the centre of the living room, and whose buttocks swelled out of the briefest white shorts like an inverted Nell Gwyn.
Refusing to admit how blind he was without glasses, Elmer had to peer very closely to see the logo on her jutting orange T-shirt.
‘If you can read this,’ he spelled out slowly, then peering even closer, ‘You’re a dirty old man.’
Bonny shrieked with laughter. Reluctantly Elmer decided to join in. ‘That’s kinda neat.’
‘Yours is neater,’ said Bonny. ‘That deep blue is just great with your eyes. Has anyone told you how like Richard Gere you are? I’d give anything for a Safus T-shirt.’
‘Swappyer then,’ said Elmer.
‘He’d never have stripped off in public,’ muttered Seb, ‘if he hadn’t got a Barbados suntan and just lost ten pounds, none of it admittedly off his ego, on a pre-season crash diet. Jeees-us.’ He choked on his drink as Bonny’s head disappeared into the orange T-shirt and her upstretched wriggling arms showed off a pair of magnificent brown breasts.
Elmer’s eyes were popping like a garrotted Pekinese. The orange T-shirt, once he had wriggled into it, clashed with his port-wine face but in no way doused his lust.
‘I see your picture every time I pick up the Wall Street Journal,’ Bonny was now telling him. ‘But you are so much cuter in the flesh.’
‘The flesh is weak where lovely young women like you are concerned,’ said Elmer thickly.
The logo on Lysander’s faded grey T-shirt read:
Sex is evil,
Evil is sin,
Sin’s forgiven
So get stuck in.
He was getting drunker by the minute and had now been cornered by two stunning but interchangeable suntanned blondes.
‘Did you fly commercial?’ asked the first.
Lysander looked blank.
‘She’s trying to figure if you came over by private jet, preferably your own,’ explained the second.
‘Oh, right,’ said Lysander. ‘No, I flew Virgin. The air hostesses were really sweet.’
‘Surprised they were still intacta with you on board,’ said the first.
Glancing round for a waitress with a bottle, Lysander caught sight of Martha Winterton. Shaded by a vast yucca, she was chatting mindlessly to a senator’s wife and trying not to watch Elmer. Her desolation was tangible.
‘You’re not really a good friend of George Bush?’ Bonny was growing more raucous. ‘I would just love to meet him.’
‘It could be arranged.’ Elmer’s pudgy right hand was surreptitiously stroking her left buttock as they leant side by side against a dragged yellow wall.
The senator’s wife had drifted off to talk to Butch Murdoch. Martha was gazing despairingly into her empty glass. Oblivious of Seb’s stern warning that trespassers would be put on the next plane, Lysander crossed the room.
‘Have you dried off?’
Martha jumped. Her huge eyes, the clear brown of Tio Pepe held up to the light, were swimming with tears. It was a second before she recognized him.
‘Oh sure – it was so dear of you to bring me that blanket.’
She had a husky, hesitant voice. Her creased white shirt still clung to her body. Her dark hair, which had dried all fluffy, was pulled back in a bandeau making her freckled face look even thinner.
‘You needed a lifeboat,’ said Lysander.
‘I could use one now.’
‘Have a drink first.’
As Lysander grabbed a bottle from a passing waitress, Martha noticed a badge saying: ‘Birthday Boy’ pinned to his grey T-shirt. Clutching her glass of champagne as though it was boiling tea and she a shipwreck victim, she took a great gulp.
‘There’s a nice fire in the garden,’ said Lysander seeing the goose-flesh on her thin freckled arms.
Outside, the dull aquamarine of the swimming-pool reflected a few faint stars. Rain had bowed down the hibiscus and the oleander bushes, but their flowers, pink, red, amethyst and yellow, glistened jewel-like in the floodlighting. Great drenched pelts of purple and magenta bougainvillaea clung to the house and the garden fences.
To an almost overpowering scent of orange and lemon blossom was added a tempting smell of roast pork, garlic and rosemary as half a dozen sucking pigs jerked above the glowing coals of the barbecue. Apart from an inscrutable Mexican houseboy who occasionally plunged a skewer into their shining gold sides, the place was deserted.
Caressed by the warm night air Lysander gave a sigh of pure joy.
‘Such bliss to go outside and not shiver, but I expect it’s cold for you.’ Solicitously, he edged her towards the fire.
‘Poor little things,’ Martha looked sadly at the sucking pigs, then, pulling herself together, ‘You’re kind a tanned for someone just arrived from England.’
‘It’s fake,’ confessed Lysander, lifting the light brown hair flopping over his forehead. ‘Look how it’s streaked on the hairline and turned my eyebrows orange. I borrowed the stuff from Dolly, my girlfriend. She’s a model and always having to turn herself strange colours. I wanted to terrorize everyone into thinking I’d got brown playing in Argentina all winter. But I was pissed when I put it on last night.’
She’s so sweet when she smiles, he thought. To hell with Seb and Dommie.
‘And it’s your birthday?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Lysander glanced down at his birthday-boy badge, ‘but it gets me lots of free drinks.’ He opened his blue-green eyes very wide and then roared with such infectious laughter that people standing in doorways and sitting in windows and even the inscrutable Mexican houseboy looked up and smiled.
‘When is your birthday?’ asked Martha.
‘25 February, I shall be twenty-three.’
‘You’re a Pisces.’
Lysander nodded. ‘Friendly, warm, considerate, easygoing, but cross me and you’ll see how tough I can be. My father who’s a classical scholar pronounces it, “Piss-ces”.’
‘What does your daddy do?’
‘He’s a headmaster. Supposed to be a great teacher, but he spends most of his time raising funds and wowing mothers.’
‘Does your mother wow the fathers?’
For a second an expression of utter anguish spilled over the boy’s sunny, innocent, charming face. Shutting his eyes he took a couple of deep breaths as though trying to survive some horrific torture without crying out.
‘She just died,’ he mumbled, ‘last October.’
‘Ohmigod!’ Martha put a hand on his arm which was clenched like cast iron, ‘Whatever happened?’
‘She had a fall on the road. The horse went up. She wasn’t wearing a hard hat.’
As the Mexican plunged in another skewer the boiling fat dripped on to the red coals which hissed and flared up, lighting Lysander’s face like a soul in hell.
‘You poor little guy,’ said Martha. ‘Were you very close?’
Lysander nodded. ‘She was more like my sister. All my friends were in love with her.’
‘Your father must have been devastated.’
Lysander’s face hardened. ‘Dad doesn’t show his feelings. Basically we don’t talk. He prefers my brothers, Hector and Alexander. They’re better at things.’
From inside the house the band struck up. ‘I get no kick from champagne,’ crooned a mellow tenor.
‘I do,’ said Lysander, emptying the bottle into Martha’s glass.
‘What d’you do?’ asked Martha.
‘Estate agent.’
‘Not much fun with the recession.’
‘Best thing that ever happened to him.’
Gliding up, Seb Carlisle topped up both their glasses. ‘Recession enables Rip-Off Van Winkle here to sleep and sober up all day in the office when he’s not ringing Ladbroke’s or sloping off home to watch Neighbours. He couldn’t do any of that if he had to sell houses.’
‘Oh shut up, Seb,’ said Lysander. ‘Now guard Martha for a minute.’
Turning, he was nearly sent flying by the predatory blonde in the fire-engine-red dress.
‘If you’ve finished with your toy boy,’ she said pointedly to Martha, ‘I’d love to dance with him.’
‘You’re sweet,’ said Lysander, ‘but I must have a slash.’
‘He’s just adorable.’ Martha watched Lysander drifting gracefully as smoke across the lawn.
‘Isn’t he?’ agreed Seb. ‘Unfortunately his boss put him on commission only and as he’s not selling any houses he’s running up terrible debts, betting and going out clubbing every night.’
‘He ought to do something else.’
‘He’s about to go to a new job working in the City for some merchant bank which specializes in pretty, personable young men; but he’ll never last. He’s not cut out for the City. He ought to be a jump jockey or a polo player. You saw what a beautiful horseman he was this afternoon, but it took him four chukkas to get his act together.’
‘He’s very upset about his mother.’
‘Devastated,’ agreed Seb. ‘Completely lost his base, drinking himself stupid; can’t settle to anything. Unlike his pompous achieving brothers, he’s pretty dyslexic and he left school without an O level. His mother spoilt him rotten – the worse the prank the more she laughed, but she always bailed him out when he ran out of money. Pity Elmer can’t sign him up for the whole season. Pedro Cavanali broke his leg falling on the boards this afternoon. He plays medium goal with Elmer.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Martha.
The Mexican had carved two of the sucking pigs. Maids were carrying bowls of salad and baked potatoes through to the dining room as Lysander bounded through the french windows brandishing another bottle.
‘Clear the lawn for ballet,’ he shouted, then standing on one leg executed a pirouette, spilling a lot of champagne and only just avoided collapsing on the grass.
‘You need an early night,’ said Seb pointedly.
Inside the house, Lysander could see Elmer bending over Bonny, playing with the ends of her hair, no doubt boasting that Mrs Ex’s equine ancestors had come over in the Mayflower.
‘I’ll stick around,’ said Lysander.
‘Well, at least behave yourself,’ warned Seb.
‘Some hope,’ said Dommie, who wandered over tearing the flesh off the leg of a sucking pig with very white teeth. ‘Grub’s up. It’s very good, although,’ he dropped his voice so only Seb could hear, ‘our patron seems to have started already. He’s eating that slag alive.’
Going towards the house, Martha caught sight of Elmer and went into reverse.
‘That Bonny’s a bucket,’ said Lysander in outrage. ‘You’re much, much prettier.’
‘She’s newer.’ Martha took out a cigarette with a trembling hand. ‘Have you got a light?’
Lysander hadn’t, but, before Martha could stop him he’d plunged a twenty-dollar bill into the coals of the barbecue.
‘You’re crazy but awful sweet,’ reproached Martha, as he almost burnt his fingers getting the charred paper to her cigarette in time, but she was too immersed in her own misery.
‘It’s my fault,’ she confessed. ‘My last husband was faithful and dull and I was bored out of my skull, so I ran off with Elmer, who had a roving eye and I haven’t slept since.’
‘Elmer’s a shit,’ said Lysander with such disapproval that Martha looked up. ‘Dad was a shit to my mother and he’s already found someone else, a Mrs Colman, an army widow. She’s got veiny ankles and wears shirts with pie-frill collars,’ he went on in disgust. ‘The boys call her “Mustard” because she’s so keen on Dad. She helps him fund-raise. They’re turning the stables where Mum kept her horses into a new music school.’
‘The speed with which Mrs Ex carted you this afternoon,’ said Martha bitterly, ‘is only equalled by the haste with which men shack up if they’re divorced or widowed, or bored with their wives. Oh God, no!’
Following her gaze, Lysander saw Bonny run off shrieking excitedly into the wet depths of the shrubbery followed by Elmer.
‘Could you bear to take me home?’
‘Oh wow, that’s like offering me a ride in the National,’ said Lysander. ‘Could I bear? I certainly could.’ Then, seeing Seb beadily advancing on them with two platefuls of food, ‘Look, I don’t want the twins getting heavy. Let’s escape through the garden.’
About the Book
In Jilly Cooper’s third Rutshire chronicle we meet Ricky France-Lynch, who is moody, macho, and magnificent. He had a large crumbling estate, a nine-goal polo handicap, and a beautiful wife who was fair game for anyone with a cheque book. He also had the adoration of fourteen-year-old Perdita MacLeod. Perdita couldn’t wait to leave her dreary school and become a polo player. The polo set were ritzy, wild, and gloriously promiscuous. Perdita thought she’d get along with them very well.
But before she had time to grow up, Ricky’s life exploded into tragedy, and Perdita turned into a brat who loved only her horses – and Ricky France-Lynch.
Ricky’s obsession to win back his wife, and Perdita’s to win both Ricky and a place as a top class polo player, take the reader on a wildly exciting journey – to the estancias of Argentina, to Palm Beach and Deauville, and on to the royal polo fields of England and the glamorous pitches of California where the most heroic battle of all is destined to be fought – a match that is about far more than just the winning of a huge silver cup . . .
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
One of the joys of writing this book has been the friends I made during my research. I have seldom encountered more charming or helpful people than among the polo community. Travelling alone to strange places can be very daunting. I am therefore eternally grateful to Ronald Ferguson and Pilar Boxford for opening so many doors for me and, above all, to Geoffrey and Jorie Kent in Palm Beach and Jean-Jacques and Zou Zou de Wolff and their family in Argentina for offering me endless hospitality, the run of their yards, introductions to top-class players, grooms and ponies alike, and transforming what might have been a terrifying ordeal into a great adventure.
Many other people helped me. Like those referred to above, they are all skilled in their own fields, but, as I was writing fiction, I only heeded their advice in so far as it fitted my story. The accuracy of the book in no way reflects their expertise or their views. They include:
Anthony and Mary Abrahams, Sally Armstrong, Paula Atkins, Susan Barrantes, Garth and Diana Bearman, Steve and Sandi Berg, Garth and Pat Booth, Michael Brown, Nene Martinez Castro, Peter Cadbury, Johnnie Cahen-D’Anvers, Alina Carter, Charles and Tita Carter, Sarah Clark, Louise Cooper, Richard and Rosie Costelloe, Leone Cran, Francis Craven, John and Liza Crisp, Robert Cudmore, Kuldip Singh Dhillon, Gabriel Donoso, Richard Dunhill, Taylor Duvalle, John Ellis, Tom and Gilly Emerson, Susan Ferguson, Tom Fletcher, Tracy Forman, Edward Fursden, Cecil Gifford, Martin Glue, Peter and Elizabeth Grace and their daughters Jane, Pippa, Victoria and Katie, Edward Green, Janet Greep, Terry Hanlon, Ritchie Harrison, Anthony and Sue Hayden-Taylor, Felicity Higson, Howard and Camilla Hipwood, Julian and Patricia Hipwood, John Horswell, John Hunter, Richard Jarvis, Gregg Keating, Chrissie and Brett Kiely, Dee Kiely, Alan and Fiona Kent, Kate Kavanagh, Robert and Sandi Lacey, Manuel Lainez, Mary Latz, Philippe Leopold-Metzger, Robert and Barbara Lindemann, Norman and Aly Lobel, Stewart Lodge, Dora Lowenstein, William Lucas, Cassandra MacClancy, Stuart and Chrissie Mackenzie, the late Charles Mackenzie-Hill, Anthony Marangos, Cassandra Marchessini, David Marchwood, Ted Marriage, Gil Martin, Sherry Merica, George and Sarah Milford-Haven, Edgar Miller, Sheila Murphy, Caroline Neville, Alex Olmos, Joan Pardey, Andrew Parker-Bowles, David Phillips, Hilary Pilkington, Mike Ponting, Billy and Dawn Raab, Laura Lee Randall, Timmy Roach, Derek Russell-Stoneham, Edwina Sandays, Maggie, Allan and Warren Scherer, Andrew Seavill, Anthony Sebag-Montefiore, Sam and Angie Simmonds, J.P. Smail, Adam Snow, Scott Swedlin, Harriet Swift, Peter Thwaites, Henry and Mandy Tyrone, Andrea Vianini, Walter Wade Welsh, Alana Weston, Caroline Wheeler, Jack and Marjory Williams, Nick, Ginny, Zoe and Rod Williams, Francis Willey, and Paul Withers.
Nor as a writer does one automatically expect generosity from one’s own profession, but few could have been kinder or more unstinting with encouragement, time and advice than William and Lilo Loyd, John and Lavinia Watson, John and Cilla Lloyd, Hugh and Maria Ines Dawnay, and Michael Hobday.
Although I enjoyed hospitality in polo clubs internationally, I am especially privileged to live near one of the loveliest polo clubs in the world, Cirencester Park. I would therefore like to thank the Earl and Countess Bathurst, The Hon. Mark and Rosie Vestey and, particularly, Douglas and Sally Brown, Ronnie and Diana Scott, Alison Roeves, Eika Clark, Claire Millington, Sarah Ridley, Ted Allen and all the other staff and members of the club for all their tolerance, friendliness and co-operation.
I must also stress that Polo is a work of fiction, and none of the characters is based on anyone, except when they are so famous or so central to the polo world – as Ronald Ferguson or Terry Hanlon are – that they appear as themselves. Any resemblance to any living persons or organizations is purely coincidental and wholly unintentional. The polo world, however, is full of legends and wonderful anecdotes, and if an incident or a line of dialogue is attributed to a character in the book, this character is on no way intended to portray the original subject of the anecdote or the speaker of the line of dialogue.
Polo took a long time to write. I am therefore deeply grateful to my publishers at Transworld: Paul Scherer, Mark Barty-King, Patrick Janson-Smith, and all their staff for their kindness and encouragement. I also had marvellous editorial help from Diane Pearson, Broo Doherty and Tom Hartman.
In addition I am immeasurably lucky to have Desmond Elliott not only as my literary agent, but as my best friend.
Polo is a very big book and consequently I owe a vast debt of gratitude to Annette Xuereb-Brennan, Annalise Dobson and Anna Gibbs-Kennet, who bravely deciphered my ghastly handwriting and typed great chunks of the manuscript; and also to Beryl Hill, Diane Peter, Jane Brooks, Chris Ingersent, Verity Tilling and Catherine Parkin, who all typed individual chapters. Thanks should also go to Tony Hoskins and Diane Stevens for driving me to numerous polo matches.
Nor could the book ever have been written without the stoical back-up of Ann Mills, whose obstacle race over the piles of books and papers to clean my study resembled participation in the Grand National rather than a polo match, or Jane Watts, my PA, who spent hours collating manuscripts, transcribing corrections and generally providing cheer and comfort when I despaired the book would ever be finished.
It is not easy living with a writer, who is totally absorbed when a book is going well and suicidal when it is going badly. Therefore the lion’s share of my gratitude must go to my family, including my mongrel Barbara and her agent Gypsy (who met a very nice class of dog at polo matches) for their endless understanding and good cheer.
Finally, I would like to pay tribute to all the gallant ponies who take part in the game and to the grooms who spend such long hours looking after them.
Also by Jilly Cooper
FICTION
RIDERS
RIVALS
POLO
THE MAN WHO MADE HUSBANDS JEALOUS
APPASSIONATA
SCORE!
PANDORA
WICKED!
JUMP!
NON-FICTION
ANIMALS IN WAR
CLASS
HOW TO SURVIVE CHRISTMAS
HOTFOOT TO ZABRISKIE POINT (with Patrick Lichfield)
INTELLIGENT AND LOYAL
JOLLY MARSUPIAL
JOLLY SUPER
JOLLY SUPERLATIVE
JOLLY SUPER TOO
SUPER COOPER
SUPER JILLY
MEN AND SUPERMEN
WOMEN AND SUPERWOMEN
THE COMMON YEARS
TURN RIGHT AT THE SPOTTED DOG
HOW TO STAY MARRIED
HOW TO SURVIVE FROM NINE TO FIVE
ANGELS RUSH IN
ARAMINTA’S WEDDING
CHILDREN’S BOOKS
LITTLE MABEL
LITTLE MABEL’S GREAT ESCAPE
LITTLE MABEL SAVES THE DAY
LITTLE MABEL WINS
ROMANCE
BELLA
EMILY
HARRIET
IMOGEN
LISA & CO
OCTAVIA
PRUDENCE
ANTHOLOGIES
THE BRITISH IN LOVE
VIOLETS AND VINEGAR
AUTHOR’S NOTE
To avoid confusion, I should point out that although Polo brings back many of the characters from my earlier books Riders and Rivals, it is not, in the strictly chronological sense, a sequel. The story begins in the very early 1980s, a year after Riders ended and Rupert Campbell-Black split up from his wife Helen. It finishes in the late 80s, two years after the end of Rivals.
A word of explanation is in order about the handicapping system in polo which is at least as complicated as A level maths.
A full game of polo consists of six chukkas of approximately seven minutes each. There are four players in each team: a forward at No. 1, two midfield players at Nos. 2 and 3 and a back at No. 4. Every player has a rating known as a ‘handicap’, which is reassessed by the polo authorities twice a year. These handicaps reflect individual ability and range from minus two for an absolute beginner up to a maximum of ten for the very best players. No Englishman has been rated at ten since the Second World War.
The term ‘high-goal polo’ in England means that the aggregate handicap of a team entered for a particular tournament must be between 17 and 22. A 22-goal team, for example, could be composed of a forward with a handicap of two, two midfield players, each on eight, and a back on four. In Palm Beach, where the standard is higher, the ceiling for a high-goal side is 26, and in Argentina as high as the ultimate 40, with each of the members of the team on ten. No player can take part in high-goal polo unless he has at least a handicap of one.
In medium-goal matches the aggregate handicap of the team is normally between 16 and 12 and in low goal between 8 and 0.
Most tournaments are based on handicap. Thus the team with the higher aggregate concedes goals at the start of a match to the other side.
1
Queen Augusta’s Boarding School for Girls has a splendid academic reputation, but on a sweltering afternoon in June one of its pupils was not paying attention to her English exam. While her classmates scribbled away, Perdita Macleod was drawing a polo pony. Outside, the scent of honeysuckle drifted in through the french windows, the cuckoo called from an acid-green poplar copse at the end of the lawn. Perdita, gazing out, thought longingly of the big tournament at Rutshire Polo Club where the semi-finals of the Rutshire Cup were being played. All her heroes were taking part: Ricky France-Lynch, Drew Benedict, Seb and Dommie Carlisle, the mighty Argentines, Miguel and Juan O’Brien, and, to crown it, the Prince of Wales.
Fretfully, Perdita glanced at her exam paper which began with a poem by Newbolt:
‘And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned coat,’ she read,
‘Or the selfish hope of a season’s fame,
But his Captain’s hand on his shoulder smote –
Play up! Play up! and play the game!’
‘Are Newbolt’s views of team spirit outdated?’ asked the first question. Perdita took a fresh sheet of paper and wrote ‘Yes’ in her disdainful blue scrawl, ‘the schoolboy in the poem must be an utter jerk and a poofter to boot to prefer his captain’s hand on his shoulder to a season’s fame and a ribboned coat.’
She put down her pen and thought how much she’d like a ribboned coat, one of those powder-blue blazers, braided with jade-green silk. Hamish, her ghastly stepfather, never gave her nearly a large enough allowance. Then she thought of fame. Perdita wanted to be a famous polo player more than anything else in the world. Being at a boarding school, she could not play in the term-time and had so far only achieved the first team of a suburban pony club of hopelessly low standard. When her family moved to their splendid new house in Rutshire in the autumn, however, she’d be able to have a pony and join a good club like Rutshire or Cirencester just over the border.
God, she was bored with this exam. She lit a cigarette, hoping it would encourage her form-mistress, who was adjudicating, to expel her. But, despite the furious wavings of paper by the swot on her right, her form-mistress didn’t react. She was far too engrossed in Perdita’s Jackie Collins, which she’d confiscated the day before and round which she’d now wrapped the dust jacket of Hilary Spurling’s biography of Ivy Compton-Burnett.
Perdita took another drag and glanced at the next question: ‘Do you find the poems of Thomas Hardy unduly preoccupied with death?’
It wasn’t an afternoon for death. Perdita slid through the french windows across the sunlit lawn. Once out into Rutminster High Street, she tugged out the tails and undid the top buttons of her shirt, hitched up her navy-blue skirt a few inches and wrinkled her navy-blue socks. Conscious that men fancied schoolgirls, she left on her black and pink striped tie, but loosened her hair from its tortoiseshell clasp so it cascaded white-blond down her back, eliciting wolf-whistles from two workmen mending the road.
Perdita stuck her nose in the air; her sights were set higher than roadmenders. She was a big girl for fourteen, tall and broad in the shoulder, with pale, luminous skin and a full, sulky mouth. A long Greek nose and large, very wide-apart eyes, as dark as elderberries, gave her the look of a creature of fable, a unicorn that might vanish at any moment.
The main gates of Rutshire Polo Club were swarming with police because of the Prince’s visit. Taking a short cut, Perdita clambered over a wall to the right, fighting her way through the undergrowth, scratching her legs on brambles and stinging nettles, until she reached the outskirts of the club. A vast emerald-green ground stretched ahead of her. On the right were the pony lines, where incredibly polished ponies, tied to iron rails in the shade of a row of horse chestnuts, were stamping, nudging, flattening ears at each other and aiming kicks at any fly eating their bellies.
God, they were beautiful, thought Perdita longingly, and curiously naked and vulnerable with their hogged manes and bound-up tails.
Beyond the pony lines stood the little clubhouse with its British, American and Argentine flags. Beyond that reared the stands and the pink-and-white tent for the sponsors’ lunch before Sunday’s final. Cars for today’s semi-final already lined both sides of the field. Polo fever had reached an all-time high this season due to the Prince’s impending wedding to Lady Diana Spencer.