Chapter 10
Ten
It’s difficult to tell if I’m making good progress with an instructor like Mateo who isn’t naturally talkative and seems guarded in his expressions.
He doesn’t give much encouragement, focusing on pointing out the things I’m doing wrong, but at the end of my third lesson, he nods and says, ‘Better,’ with the hint of a smile. I grow about two inches taller.
I was shaken after my fall, so he took it slow the first lesson and went through all the basics.
The second lesson, I felt less nervous and he told me that my pony, Elinor, was naturally responding to that lift in confidence, making both of us look more comfortable.
And by the third, I’ve been too focused on his stern voice nitpicking every detail as I went from trotting to cantering to feel afraid of falling: don’t rush the transition, engage your core, upright posture, legs relaxed, heels down, don’t tense your shoulders…
His instructions were drowned out by the whooshing of the wind in my ears and my heart rate accelerating with the rush of thundering on a horse down a field, before I executed a smooth, sharp turn, and pelted the other way again.
It was euphoric and I’m on such a high afterwards, it’s hard to fall asleep that night.
I only wish Mateo had more time for lessons, but I’m lucky he’s given me any time at all, especially with his training in the run-up to the Prince of Wales Trophy tournament, the high-goal tournament held at The Royal County of Berkshire Polo Club that essentially kicks off the official British season of polo.
When we arrive in Berkshire with lorries of ponies in tow, the estate is calm and serene, grey skies over stretches of beautifully maintained green polo grounds lined with pristine white fences.
All the grooms are in a good mood. Match days are exciting, but this is the first high-goal tournament and there’s a crackle of excitement in the air as I help tie up the ponies to the iron rails before embarking on the first of many coffee runs of the day.
A steady stream of cars begin to trickle into the grounds later in the morning, either flashy sports cars or mucky old Defenders, fans arriving early to get a good parking spot at the side of the pitch so they can picnic by their car whilst watching the matches.
The sun eventually breaks through the clouds and, as the grooms warm up the ponies for the first chukka, spectators mill around the edge of the ground in their sunglasses, wide-brim straw hats, linen shirts, colourful trousers and floaty dresses.
Champagne bottles are popping, jugs of Pimm’s are filling, and the stand is swarming with people taking their seats.
All four of the Maycourt players are with their patron, her dogs pestering Mateo for a fuss while he sits to zip up his boots.
As I hold some spare mallets on Eduardo’s instruction, I spot Mateo crouch down to give Lady Maycourt’s two lurchers a neck scratch and a kiss on the head, before Garfunkel the corgi succeeds in getting a belly rub from him.
I’m smiling dreamily at the adorable exchange when someone knocks into my shoulder from behind as they pass by, causing me to stumble forwards.
‘Perdón,’ a voice says hastily, and I turn round to find it’s a polo player.
With light-brown hair, sharp cheekbones, a clean-shaven jaw and the way his lips naturally form a resting pout, he looks like a model. I know he’s a player on an opposing team thanks to the branded polo shirt clinging to his muscular and sculpted torso.
Jesus, I think, drinking him in.
It’s like an unwritten rule that you’re only allowed to play polo if you’re handsome.
His eyes widening at me, a warm smile begins to creep across his lips.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he emphasises, in English this time. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine, thanks. Don’t worry about it.’
His smile grows wider. ‘I’m Basilio. I play for Dominance Quarter.’
‘Oh right, DQ,’ I say, nodding in recognition. ‘You won the US Open this year.’
‘Yes,’ he says, looking at the ground with suitable modesty before lifting his eyes to meet mine again. ‘And you are?’
‘Ash. I’m a groom for Maycourt.’
‘Ash,’ he repeats. ‘I haven’t seen you before. I would remember.’
My cheeks flush with heat. ‘I only started the job recently.’
‘That so? Lucky Maycourt.’
I can’t fight a smile in the dazzling glare of his charm. His grin falters as his eyes drift over my shoulder. I turn my head to follow his eyeline and find Mateo has come over to join us, standing tensely behind me wearing a grim expression.
‘Mateo,’ Basilio says with forced cheer. ‘Cómo estàs?’
‘Basilio,’ Mateo responds through gritted teeth.
‘Uh-oh.’ Basilio laughs, raising his hands as though in surrender. ‘Sounds like you’re still sore from Palm Beach. Surely you’re used to me beating you by now? It’s been, what, thirteen, fourteen years?’ He addresses me with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Mateo and I grew up together near Buenos Aires.’
‘You should get back to your team,’ Mateo advises gruffly.
‘I was just meeting the latest member of yours,’ Basilio responds, gesturing to me.
‘Ash, I hope Maycourt is treating you well. If not, then you should consider DQ. We have the best of the best working for us and I can tell you’d fit in perfectly.
You might find being a part of a polo yard that wins once in a while a lot more rewarding. ’
I glance at Mateo as a muscle in his jaw flickers and his fists clench. He looks like he’s fighting the urge to punch this guy in the face. Basilio, on the other hand, is completely relaxed in his company.
‘I’m happy at Maycourt, thanks,’ I tell him.
‘Okay.’ He shrugs. ‘Things can change.’ His attention returns to Mateo.
‘You had better start preparing for your match, Mateo. I hope you win this one. That way, we’ll have the chance to meet later on in the tournament.
It’s always a lot of fun. Chau. A pleasure to meet you, Ash. I look forward to seeing you again.’
He turns to saunter back to join the rest of his team, all of whom listen to something he says before looking our way.
Basilio glances back at me and one of his teammates grins, slapping him playfully on the arm.
As well as being handsome, it seems that every polo player also needs an inflated ego, a dash of charm and a pinch of fuckboy energy.
I check in on Mateo, who hasn’t moved, his features scrunched with anger as he glares at them.
‘You okay?’
The question forces him to look at me and I catch something there in his eyes that wasn’t there before. A flare of hurt or sadness. It’s gone too fast for me to work it out.
‘I’m fine,’ he says in a low, terse voice that tells me he clearly isn’t. Shaking out his hands, he clears his throat. ‘When you’re ready, Lady M wants a word.’
His expression still thunderous, he marches off in the direction of the pony lines before I can thank him for delivering the message. Wondering what the deal is between Basilio and Mateo, I pick my way over the grass to our patron, waiting to the side while she finishes her conversation with Fitz.
‘Ah, Ash,’ she says once her nephew has left. ‘Everything set for today?’
‘We’re raring to go,’ I confirm, still holding the spare mallets Eduardo gave me earlier. ‘Is there something you need? Mateo mentioned you wanted to talk to me.’
‘Yes.’ She comes closer to me and lowers her voice. ‘I thought you should know that one of the official photographers for the event here today recognised you. He asked me earlier if I could confirm that you were working for me. He knew your name.’
‘Oh. Ooh,’ I say, my heart sinking as it dawns on me why a photographer would be interested in me. My eyes fall to the grass. ‘I should have… talked to you about this before, about why I came here from London in the first place. You’ve probably read a few things about me and I—’
‘Ash,’ she says gently, ‘I hope you don’t think I need you to justify anything. None of that interests me. All I care about is your passion and care for my ponies, and your work and dedication in the yard and, so far, I’ve heard good things. That’s all I need to know about your character.’
I force myself to look up at her, smiling gratefully.
‘I wanted to warn you in case he approaches you today. I didn’t want him to catch you off guard,’ she emphasises, before she waves at a fellow spectator making a beeline for her. ‘All right, I imagine Eduardo and Jules are looking for you. Back to your duties.’
‘Thanks, Lady M.’
I rush back to the pony lines as the players mount for the first chukka, pretending as though my heart isn’t pounding with dread against my chest. I knew I wouldn’t be able to escape this story, but it’s been nice not to have been living in its shadow the last few weeks.
Surrounded by new people, distracted by my busy daily routine and with the online onslaught lessening over time, I could almost pretend it hadn’t happened at all.
But as I glance nervously around at the photographers setting up in their positions at either end of the field, I start to feel the overbearing weight of it descending upon me once again.
*