Barclay Cooke does not drink or smoke. Benson, on the other hand, was furnished for the final with all the Moet champagne he could put away, and that turned out to be an amount that would have floored a goat. Where did this champagne come from? The donor was Esmond Cooper-Key, who had taken the waiters aside and told them to keep Benson's glass full no matter what the cost.
Esmond, it developed, is married to the sister of Benson's dear friend. Lady Charlotte Anne Curzon, a lovely blonde girl who was sitting at Benson's side during the final match. Why did Esmond do this with the champagne? Was he for Benson or against him? "I'm totally for him, old man," Esmond explained. "I don't own a piece of him, and it's costing me a bloody fortune the way he drinks. But I want Benson to win, and he plays best when he's loaded to the ears."
"Merry Christmas," Benson said to Cooke before the match. "Let's shake hands now. It's liable to turn ugly later." That morning Benson had left the Tourist-Class disco at 5 a.m., at the gentle urging of Lady Curzon and Victor Lownes, a 46-year-old American who is managing director of the Clermont Club and of Playboy's European enterprises, of which the Clermont is one. "Look at Benson's eyes. He's in absolutely perfect shape for the match," Esmond said as the two opponents faced each other across one of the $1,000 leather boards that the Dunhill company had supplied for the tournament.
Whether a spectator cared much for backgammon or not, there was excitement in the Benson-Cooke match—two greatly different personalities opposing each other in the glare of movie lights, with the audience crowded close around and the waiters pushing to get through with trays of champagne. Benson started poorly but recovered to tie the 29-point match at 27-all. Cooke won the next point, and Benson tied the match again. The last point developed into a running game in which each player had his disks clear of his opponent's end of the board. The winner would be the one who threw the highest dice.
Benson looked at the board and took a thoughtful gulp of champagne. Cooke toasted him with a glass of ice water.
Benson spoke in a low voice to Cooke. He was asking if Cooke would care to split the prize money. That meant each would receive �7,500 instead of the �10,000 that was to go to the winner and the �5,000 to the runner-up. Cooke agreed. That done, Benson shook the dice cup and rolled double fours. Benson had won the tournament.
At the black-tie gala that night, wine was thrown about, large splashes of it landing on chests, laps and faces, and a great many speeches were made, including the one by Obolensky that was interrupted by Esmond Cooper-Key, champagne glass in hand. Later, Benson capered madly through the noisy Tourist disco with his shirt off, buying drinks as fast as they could be poured, howling and singing, unreservedly celebrating his victory.
"This was definitely not a triumph for clean living," Philip Martyn said, grinning as he watched his permanent guest crash through the dancers. "One drinks milk and is hard as nails. The other dunks champagne and is soft as butter, and wins."
In another room Barclay Cooke stood quietly in a corner, replaying the match in his mind. "I wanted to win," he said. "It wasn't the money, though that was pretty nice. I just wanted to win. My son, Walter, thinks I played the six-four move wrong. I don't think so. What do you think?"
Some people said they thought he was wrong. Some said they thought he was right. Benson hardly seemed to care.