Chapter 11
Eleven
Later in the week, Maycourt have a good start in their semi-finals match against The Buzzards, a team in orange and yellow, with a two-one lead in the first chukka.
Malcolm does a spectacular ride-off, galloping down the field and pushing an opponent off course before stealing the ball and passing it to Mateo, who takes it upfield and knocks it between the goal posts to make it three-one.
Eric cheers along with the Maycourt grooms and fans in the stands while Fitz circles his pony, slumped in the saddle, his head wobbling like those bobblehead toys you sometimes see on dashboards.
‘What’s wrong with Fitz?’ I ask Jules after the second chukka which has seen The Buzzards close the gap to four-three. ‘He’s playing badly.’
‘Because he went out last night, like a fucking idiot,’ Jules seethes, handing me two of the ponies who need cooling down, their coats drenched with sweat, their nostrils flaring with fast, heavy breaths, eyes alert and bright with exercise.
‘Mum told him not to, but he got goaded by the High Fives who were on the prowl. Did he score then? No, course not. Is he going to help us score today? No, doesn’t look like it. So it’s a lose-lose situation.’
In the third chukka, The Buzzards slip into the lead and in the fourth, Eric manages to get the ball out in the throw-in, hitting it on and watching in horror as Fitz attempts to make up for his performance so far by tearing after it.
An opposing player seizes the opportunity, chasing after him and swiftly hooking his stick.
Without much encouragement, Fitz’s stick falls from his grip and he’s left floundering on the field as the ball is blasted the other way by his opponent.
I hold up the spare mallet, wielding it like a sword, as Fitz comes over.
‘Here,’ I say, passing it to him. ‘Come on, you can do this!’
‘No, I fucking can’t,’ he mutters glumly. ‘This bar better have Bloody Marys.’
Maycourt crash out of the tournament, losing the semi-finals thirteen-ten.
Mateo dismounts and storms over to the Maycourt-branded tent, unclipping his helmet and chucking it to the ground, releasing a cry of frustration.
Running his hands through his damp, sweaty hair, he looks up to find Basilio strolling past, showered and dressed smartly after DQ’s win this morning.
Peering at Mateo over the top of his sunglasses, he stops.
‘Bad luck, Mateo,’ he says.
Glowering at him, Mateo turns and storms away, kicking the leg of one of the fold-up chairs in the tent as he goes so it tips before rocking back into a stable position. Basilio notices me hovering nearby.
‘I hope you’ll still come to watch the final, Ash? It’s always a great party afterwards and I’d like you there to celebrate our win.’
‘How can you be so sure you’re going to win?’ I challenge.
He shrugs. ‘You get used to it.’
Rolling my eyes, I turn to go back to the ponies, as Basilio calls out after me, ‘I’ll see you there then, yes?’
Pretending not to hear him, I search for Jules in the pony lines to help start loading the ponies back into the lorries, only to find Mateo having a quiet moment with Byron.
I stop abruptly. Mateo has his forehead resting on Byron’s nose, his eyes closed, listening to Byron’s steady breathing.
When Byron dips his head to snort, Mateo lifts his, opening his eyes and realising the interruption.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
He rests his palm gently on Byron’s nose. ‘I find him calming.’
‘I know what you mean,’ I say, gazing admirably at the pony nuzzling into Mateo, his favourite person in the yard by far. ‘Byron’s like the BFG. Big Friendly Giant. Majestic and gentle all in one.’ I hesitate, adding quietly, ‘Sorry you lost.’
‘It happens. We learn from our mistakes and go again.’
‘I don’t know whether this will help, but I thought you played brilliantly.’ I shrug. ‘Probably not much of a comfort, but you should know that anyway.’
He turns his head to look at me. ‘Thank you, Ash. That does help.’
Aware that he came here for some time alone, I turn to go. And as I walk away, he mutters something almost inaudible, but it sounds like, ‘More than you know.’
My stomach erupts with na?ve butterflies at the thought of being the one to lift him up in a moment of disappointment and hopelessness.
The sensible, despairing part of my brain reminds me that I’ve felt that before, when Chris Courtney acted as though I was the one getting him through his divorce.
The butterflies evaporate on cue. Nothing good can come of a silly schoolgirl crush on an aloof polo player with models and actresses falling at his feet.
*
The end of the tournament is celebrated with a glamorous bash at Fairfax Manor, the Berkshire country estate owned by Lord Vane, an oil tycoon and polo fanatic who travels too much to own a team but is determined to get involved as soon as he retires.
He keeps a hand in by throwing an annual polo party.
I’m wearing a satin, emerald-green dress that an up-and-coming designer who worked on a collaboration with Ren sent me as a thank you after her intern left behind a suitcase of designs on the train on the way to the photoshoot.
He’d been distracted by filming a ‘Come With Me’ video for TikTok and completely forgot he had a case at all.
A few frantic phone calls later and a helpful National Rail staff member tracked it down for me – the photoshoot was so delayed, it ran into the night, but we were all so relieved, none of us cared, and the designer gifted me this dress afterwards.
On entering the country mansion and taking a pink cocktail handed to me on arrival, I find Jules with Malcolm and Fitz in the corner of the ballroom surrounded by a huddle of elegantly-dressed women, clinking their shot glasses and downing them.
‘Welcome to your first proper polo after-party,’ Jules says to me as Fitz catches the attention of a staff member to order another round of shots. ‘This is where you’ll witness everyone let loose.’
She’s right about that. The booze is free and flowing, the music is thumping through the house, making the chandeliers shake, and the competitive spirit from the tournament has lifted.
You can see how the polo community works on nights like this as players of opposing teams greet and tease each other with friendly banter.
They may be enemies on the pitch, but they’re only signed up to a team for a few months, the players changing around all the time depending on assigned handicaps and international tournaments.
Which is why patrons are treated like royalty, revered and adored by their players, even if they played like shit in the tournament – those patrons are the players’ meal ticket and if you want to be signed next season, you don’t want to piss them off or burn any bridges for the future.
At one point in the evening, I leave the others to go to the bathroom and on the way back, unfortunately bump into Clara and Paige, who are here with the rest of the High Fives.
‘Interesting tactic, Ashley, flirting with the enemy,’ Clara says. ‘We all saw your little exchange with Basilio. Can’t say much for your loyalty. I’m curious, though, should you be entertaining other men when you’re already in a relationship with Chris Courtney?’
I instinctively tense.
‘Oh no, wait, you must have an open arrangement with him, on account of his wife and everything,’ she says, her innocent smile making my stomach churn.
‘You obviously have a thing for sportsmen.’ She reaches out to pat me on the arm as my jaw clenches at her ice-cold touch, leaning in to whisper loudly, ‘Leave some for the rest of us, won’t you? ’
Drawing back, she winks at me before gliding away, her cackling entourage following.
I try to shake off her comments, weaving my way through the crowded rooms back to where I left the rest of my team, but they’ve dispersed by now.
Floating around aimlessly, I feel someone tap my shoulder and spin round to see Basilio next to an older man in a mauve velvet smoking jacket with thick, grey hair and light-blue eyes.
Greeting me warmly with a kiss on each cheek, Basilio introduces me to the DQ patron, Ambrose Moore, an American technology and software billionaire.
‘Congratulations on your win,’ I say as he gives me a firm handshake, while Basilio snaffles a flute of champagne for me from a passing tray.
‘Thank you. We had fun out there.’ He claps Basilio on the shoulder. ‘Best team going. US Open in the bag, now the Prince’s trophy – it’s going to be one hell of a summer.’
They clink glasses and I take a large glug from mine, still smarting from Clara’s comments. If she sees me talking to Basilio now, it won’t help my case, but I’m not doing anything wrong. I take another gulp of champagne.
‘Ash is a groom for Maycourt,’ Basilio informs his patron.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Ambrose jokes, stroking his chin. ‘I haven’t seen Eliza yet, but I assume she’s around here somewhere. Hiding from me, probably. She’s had a bit of a losing streak. Then again, she’s used to that.’
‘The season has only just started,’ I say, bristling.
‘True, true. It’s all to play for. I hope Maycourt can give us a bit of a challenge.
It does get boring after a while if you make it too easy,’ he teases.
‘Don’t mind me, you can ask Basilio here – it’s all harmless; I like to poke the bear.
I’m afraid your boss is one of my favourite targets, but believe me, she gives as good as she gets. ’
‘I hope so.’
He cackles with laughter. ‘What about you, Ash? You a horsewoman?’
‘I’m trying to be. But I haven’t played any polo yet.’
‘Why not?’ Ambrose demands to know.
‘I should probably master a few more technical details in my riding first.’
‘You’re confident up on a horse?’ he checks, waiting for my nod. ‘Then to hell with technical details. This is the problem with Maycourt: they never take any risks. Here you are, a confident, keen rider, and they stick you in the back with the hose pipe.’
‘If you want to learn to play polo, you should come to a real polo yard,’ Basilio says. ‘What do you think, Ambrose? Space for another groom in the stables?’
‘There might be space for another polo player if Basilio doesn’t fetch me another drink,’ he jokes, shaking his empty tumbler. ‘What do I pay you for?’
Basilio forces a laugh and then catches the attention of a waiter, putting in an order for another round of drinks.
It’s then that I feel a presence at my side, someone else who has joined our circle with a gentle waft of cologne.
Mateo looks devastatingly good wearing a suit jacket over an open collared shirt, and my eyes linger a little too long on the slope of his tanned neck and his Adam’s apple as he reaches out to shake Ambrose’s hand, his arm brushing against mine.
‘Congratulations, Ambrose,’ he says in a way that seems passably sincere.
‘Mateo!’ Ambrose greets him with delight. ‘Shame about your own tournament. Next time, eh?’
‘Next time,’ Mateo echoes.
‘We’ve been trying to poach your groom,’ Basilio reveals, grinning at me.
‘Sly and conniving. Why am I not surprised, Basilio?’ Mateo glances down at me, his hand pressing lightly and momentarily on the small of my back, my skin beneath the thin satin there tingling long after his hand has dropped. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ I reply, before finishing off my glass, happy to see the next round has arrived.
‘Another of these for my friend here,’ Basilio says to the waiter, pointing to his own drink, before he tilts his head at Mateo apologetically.
‘You’ll need something to drown your sorrows.
’ He turns to his patron. ‘What do you think, Ambrose? Is it the Maycourt players or the ponies that’s the problem this year? ’
‘A bit of both, I’d say. Eliza thinks she knows ponies, but she doesn’t have the eye of her father,’ Ambrose claims jovially. ‘As for the team, you know my thoughts, Mateo. You’re a top-class player. Your man Malcolm isn’t bad, either.’
‘Good of you to say,’ Mateo notes gratefully, before Ambrose is distracted by a friend, deserting our conversation for another huddle of people nearby.
‘Don’t get too excited, Mateo,’ Basilio sneers. ‘Ambrose was being polite.’
‘Threatened?’ Mateo counters. ‘I hear he’s interested in shaking things up for Argentina.’
Basilio snorts. ‘Be serious. If he thought you were good enough for Argentina, he’d have tried to sign you for the English season.
He didn’t consider you. And after your performance in the US this year?
I’m surprised the Maycourt team still wanted anything to do with you.
’ He sighs. ‘Plus, we all know how you fare under the pressure of Argentina.’
Mateo tenses next to me, his eyes cold and angry beneath a furrowed forehead.
Someone bumps his shoulder and he staggers forward, muttering, ‘Excuse me,’ and sliding through the gap of a group of guests sashaying past, disappearing into the crowd.
Shooting Basilio a look of disapproval, which he misses since he’s busy greeting another player, I grab Mateo’s drink from the waiter who’s reappeared with it and slip out of the room.
I check the various areas in the downstairs of the house that are being used for the party before I finally spot him through a window sitting alone outside at a garden table on the patio. I step out to join him.