Chapter 12
Twelve
‘Here,’ I begin.
He snaps his head up at my voice.
‘I brought you your drink.’
He takes it, resting it on the table. ‘Thank you.’
Carefully gathering the fabric of my dress in my hand, I sit in the spare seat next to him under his watchful gaze, setting my glass down next to his.
‘I’ve been meaning to properly thank you for having my back with that photographer the other day,’ I say, wiping away a speck of dirt that’s fallen onto my satin lap. ‘You didn’t have to do that, especially in the middle of a chukka.’
He looks at me innocently. ‘Do what?’
‘Try to take him out with the ball.’
‘Mishits happen all the time.’
‘Sure, okay. Thank you, anyway.’
We fall into silence for a bit, the muffled sound of the raucous party inside providing entertaining background noise.
‘Why do you and Basilio seem to hate each other so much?’ I blurt out, my directness encouraged by the champagne. ‘I know it’s a competitive sport, but most players are enemies on the field but then all jokey with each other off of it. With you two it seems… personal.’
He exhales a deep breath, leaning back in his chair as though relenting. ‘That’s because it is. Like he said, we grew up together. We trained together, came up on the polo circuit together. I’ve known him longer than anyone else here.’
‘The way he talks to you and the way you act when he gets to you,’ I frown at him, trying to work it out, ‘it’s pure dislike.’
‘Mm.’
He takes a moment, pressing his lips together and inhaling through his nose before speaking again in a soft, low voice, his fingers tapping on his lap every now and then. This is not a comfortable conversation for him.
‘When you’re somewhere like this and at the clubs, it’s easy to think that polo is only for the privileged.
I was not born into this. I fell in love with polo late, but enough that I was able to hold my own on an estate near Buenos Aires.
That is where I met Basilio, who learned polo there.
He’s from a polo dynasty. A long line of excellent polo players in his family.
He and I are from different backgrounds.
We couldn’t stand each other, right from the start.
When he mocks me, I remember how it felt back then, to be a little boy so different to everyone else.
Different in every way, except our love for polo. ’
He pauses, reading my expression and giving me a knowing smile.
‘When you saw me driving too fast in my car, I bet you thought I was one of them,’ he muses, jerking his head back at the roaring party inside the mansion. ‘Privileged and pompous, yes?’
‘And arrogant and entitled, yes.’
He gives a light laugh. ‘Polo is a sport of billionaires and royals, a world of money and power. But it’s also a sport of ponies,’ he breaks into a smile so big and sincere, it takes me by surprise, a smile so beautiful, it knocks the breath right out of my lungs, ‘and it was ponies that brought me to polo. I did everything I could to be around them when I was growing up. I was lucky that Rossi gave me a chance. Polo saved me.’
I nod, still a little dazed by that smile. It was like the little boy in him had reappeared for a moment to express the pure joy of being around horses, all the layers of seriousness, restraint and sadness that life piles on temporarily stripped away.
Realising I’m staring at him dopily, my brain kicks back into gear.
‘Who’s Rossi?’ I ask.
‘A professional player my mum worked for. He let me train and play on the estate. In return, I helped out in the stables. Something Basilio will never let me forget.’ He reaches for his drink, taking a swig before continuing. ‘I owe Rossi everything. He looked after us.’
‘Does your mum still live in Buenos Aires?’
A crease appears between his eyebrows. ‘She died when I was a teenager.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago and…’ He trails off, clearing his throat before reaching for his drink again. ‘Anyway, she was dedicated to my career. Thanks to Rossi, I became a pro when I was nineteen. I joined the Maycourt team, then.’
‘Whoa. You were so young!’
‘A lot of players start young, especially the ones who grow up in a polo family like Basilio. He turned pro even earlier.’
‘So you’ve been at Maycourt a long time. No wonder you and Lady M are close.’
‘Actually, we weren’t that close then. I was scared of her,’ he admits. ‘But Eliza was the one who believed in me right from the start. I played for Maycourt for two seasons, then I joined an American team for a while.’ His smile fades at the memory. ‘It did not work out.’
‘Was it Ambrose’s team?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, but Basilio was on it, too. We clashed. I played very badly and was substituted, then rightly dropped during the Argentine Open. It was… humiliating.’
‘Oh.’ I shift in my seat. ‘Shit. Sorry.’
‘I think it was a good thing in the end. It made me work harder, fight harder. I became a better player. A pro’s career is filled with ups and downs; you’re always on the hunt for the next season, never allowed to get complacent.
Your handicap changes after a bad patch and then that’s it, you can find yourself without a team. ’
‘Ruthless.’
‘That’s part of the rush. When things are going well, you’re in a world of luxury and high-adrenaline,’ he pauses as a huge cheer comes up from inside the house, perfectly timed, ‘but it can all suddenly slip away. I don’t want to lose it quite yet.’
‘You’re talking like you’re at the end of your career, but you’re, what, mid-twenties?
I know you became a pro a while ago, but that’s still so young.
This is just the start. I don’t think Lady M would ever want to lose you.
You’re the best player on her team and you work harder than anyone else.
You’re the first pro at the stables and the last to leave. ’
He studies me for a moment, as though he didn’t know any of that. ‘I don’t want to let anyone down. This is all I’ve ever wanted.’
A player stumbles out onto the patio, chugging from a champagne bottle with a woman draped round him and pressing him up against the wall. She’s frantically kissing his neck and opening his shirt to nip at his collarbones.
‘I can see why,’ I mutter, before the player sees us and holds his hand up apologetically, leading his companion back indoors, both of them giggling.
Mateo grins down at his lap. ‘There is a lot of fun attached to the job. But none of it is important. All that matters is the ponies and the sport. Everything else is just…’ He trails off, searching for the right word.
‘Distraction?’ I offer.
‘Yes, distraction.’ He brings his eyes up to meet mine. ‘Although some things are more distracting than others.’
My heartbeat quickens, thudding hard against my chest.
We’re interrupted by Malcolm, who bursts outside and throws his hands up in the air.
‘There you bloody well are!’ he cries at Mateo. ‘You’d better come in.’
‘Why?’ Mateo asks, finally tearing his eyes from mine so I can gather my thoughts.
‘Ambrose and Lady M got into a bit of a spat. All jokey at first but then he said something below the belt, the tosser. Now both teams have got involved and you know what Fitzy is like after a couple of drinks. Things are getting heated.’
His chair legs scrape across the stone as he rises to his feet. ‘Where are they?’
‘The drawing room. The music was too loud in the ballroom, but now I’m thinking it would have been better to stay in a room where they couldn’t actually hear what the other was saying.
Let the beat drown out the banter.’ Malcolm guffaws.
‘Anyway, I’ve been looking for you everywhere so you can come help me hold Fitzy back before he does something he regrets. He’s a liability, that idiot.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I tell Mateo, standing up.
‘I would save yourself and enjoy the party,’ Mateo advises.
‘If DQ and Basilio are involved then you might need someone to hold you back.’
His mouth tilts. ‘You think you could hold me back?’
‘I can try.’
There’s a beat of silence as he looks down on me with amusement until Malcolm clears his throat pointedly and says, ‘Sort of a time-sensitive issue here. Shall we?’