Chapter 20 #2
And that’s it. The rest of the boat ride is mostly silence, an occasional bit of side talk, but all the fun and joy of the adventure has been sucked out of it by my hard-hitting summation.
I regret the timing of it, after he went to the trouble of organising this trip for me and at the end of such a perfect day, but I can’t regret being honest, especially as he doesn’t fight back.
As we stop at the door of my hotel, that’s what I remind myself. He hasn’t tried to persuade me that I’m wrong, that this would be more than it is. He’s heard me out and he’s drawing away. That’s everything I need to know.
‘Goodnight, Ash,’ he says, leaning forward and kissing me on the cheek. ‘Thank you for today. It was…’ He doesn’t quite finish his sentence, swallowing audibly.
‘Yeah.’ I smile politely. ‘You too.’
I’m not sure that even makes any sense, but it seems like the only way to conclude this awkward exchange. Turning away from him, I walk into my hotel, desperately fighting the urge to cry.
*
At the overcast Paris Open finals the next day, Mateo seems distracted and more aggressive than ever on the pitch.
He barely speaks to anyone in between chukkas, except to give sharp, abrupt orders to his teammates.
His dark mood almost goes in our favour and by half-time, we’ve taken the lead, but it doesn’t last. He makes more and more mistakes, fouling an opponent during a ride-off in the fifth chukka and awarding them a penalty.
I can see the other three players getting frustrated themselves, only Eric daring to snap at Mateo to get it together.
His ponies are as tense as he is, jittery and apprehensive, their boldness wavering as they read his displeasure.
The goals slip away from us and by the end of the sixth chukka, no one believes we deserve to win.
We accept the loss, disappointment weighing down in the pony lines and making all of us quiet and gloomy.
Mateo barely looks at me all day.
Having missed the after-party at Guards, Jules isn’t letting me off so easy this time.
‘We may have lost, but we should still celebrate that we made it to the finals,’ she reasons. ‘You have tomorrow morning off. And it would be insulting to Paris to spend the last night here holed up in your room. Do you want to insult this beautiful city? Do you?’
I admit I do not.
At her insistence, I head back to my hotel from the stables to get ready for a huge party in the centre of the city.
Our team have stayed at the Polo de Paris bar for initial drinks but will be transported to an exclusive venue, which is where myself and the other grooms getting the ponies to bed will meet them.
When I arrive at the bar as it starts to drizzle, Jules is standing under cover outside vaping with a dark-haired girl wearing striking blue mascara.
Gorgeous in a mint-green co-ord, she takes one look at me and her eyebrows fly up, exhaling a plume of smoke before saying, ‘Mateo’s going to have a heart attack. ’
‘What?’
She gives me a knowing look. Obviously, Mateo and I haven’t been as stealthy as we thought.
I’m wearing a short, black fitted dress for tonight with thin spaghetti straps and accessorised with statement gold earrings.
My hair is up in a loose do, so there’s a lot of skin on show, my collarbones glittering with highlighter, and I’m wearing the highest block heels I own.
Come on, this is a night out in Paris. I couldn’t go casual, could I?
And, when I was choosing what to wear, I knew I had to go with something that would make me feel confident and fierce. I had to show him I was fine.
Jules leads the way across the dark, sophisticated bar to the booth where the team are sitting.
Perched at the edge, Malcolm glances over to us and his eyes widen before he says something to the others, prompting Mateo to snap his head up sharply.
I pretend not to be intimidated by the group’s attention, brushing a tendril of my hair out of my eyes before greeting everyone and gratefully taking the glass of wine Jules thrusts into my hand.
I can feel his eyes on me. Whoever I’m talking to as the evening plays out, I can sense his gaze and it’s taking everything in me not to meet it.
I laugh with Malcolm as he teases me about wearing a top instead of a dress; I comfort Eric as he gets drunker and sadder over being ghosted by an influencer he was dating back in the UK; and I join Jules for some shots, the whole time fighting the urge to look in Mateo’s direction.
Determined to shake off the loss, the team are getting bolder and sillier by the moment, dancing, chanting, drinking, but not Mateo.
He remains in the booth with his calm, cool demeanour, attracting friends and admirers, letting them all come to him and barely paying attention to any of them. I’m hopelessly aware of him.
When Jules is pulled into a warm embrace by a French player, I scuttle away to the bathroom but when I come back, I can’t find her anywhere.
Weaving through what is now a heaving bar, I consider that she may have gone outside to vape.
Glancing at the overcrowded booth, I don’t see an option more attractive than continuing my search for her.
The music is loud and it’s a strain to hear anyone in here anyway, so I slowly make my way to the exit, stepping out into the evening air to find it’s now pouring with rain and Jules isn’t out here.
Ducking into the covered smoking area, I get my phone out to message her.
‘Ash.’
I look up from my screen to find Mateo has followed me out.
‘Hi,’ I say with a nervous smile. ‘I-I’m sorry you lost today, Mateo. It was… close.’
‘I’ve been thinking about what you said,’ he says with a furrowed brow, ignoring my commiserations and coming to stand opposite me. ‘I actually haven’t been able to think about anything else. All day, it’s been bothering me and… angering me. I’ve worked out why. I’m ready to respond to you now.’
Stunned by his abrupt statements, I stare at him. ‘Respond to what?’
‘What you were saying last night. I want to continue the conversation. Is that okay?’
‘Uh. Yes. Yes, of course.’
‘Ash, I think—’
He’s interrupted by someone brushing past him as the smoking area becomes more crowded with people seeking refuge from the rain that’s hammering down on the canopy.
Mateo looks around us, agitated. I take his hand and lead him beyond the roped-off area into the street, hurrying around the corner and ducking into a doorstop around the side.
It’s a tight space and not exactly completely covered from the rain, but it’s private.
He shrugs off his jacket and holds it over our heads as a makeshift cover.
‘What is it?’ I ask, needing to know whatever it is he wants to say.
‘I think if you never take any risks, then you never win,’ he states, his eyes bright and wild.
‘Ash, I don’t know what lies ahead for you, for me – for anyone.
But from the moment you came trespassing into that field and into my life, everything changed.
I haven’t been able to shake you, not for one moment.
That scared me. It scares me still. It’s made me question everything; you’ve made me question everything.
I…’ He lifts his eyes to the jacket above us for a second, searching for the right way of putting it.
‘I want to be around you all the time. Your stubbornness is very annoying. Your laugh is perfect. I don’t feel myself unless I’m with you.
You drive me to be better at whatever I’m doing.
I want to win every match, every tournament, so that I might have a chance at winning you.
The way I feel for you… I’ve never felt anything like this before. ’
He pauses, breathing heavily, his expression softening.
The jacket is half-working. Our hair and faces are protected, but our arms are soaked, his shirt see-through and plastered to his toned muscles working hard to keep the jacket held high for our conversation.
‘I hated going up the Eiffel Tower, hated it,’ he continues.
‘I’ve been to Paris so many times and I promised myself I’d never, ever do it.
You’re the only person I could break that promise for, Ash.
I can’t persuade you to take this risk, but I can tell you that, if you want to, I will take it with you.
I want to take it. You won’t be alone in it.
’ His throat bobs. ‘Yesterday, you said this might not be real, but I don’t know what could be more real than that. ’
My heart is thudding at an alarming rate.
The rain is roaring in my ears. He’s watching me apprehensively, wide-eyed and waiting, as though his sanity depends on whatever it is I’m about to say.
But words won’t cut it. Because I don’t know how to put in words the way he’s made me feel on this stoop in the middle of the rain in Paris.
He’s made me feel a bit stupid, actually.
He’s right. I wanted to shut this off before it began because I was protecting myself before I knew how he felt. I know now. He’s told me.
Time to show him exactly how I feel.
Grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, I pull him towards me and drag his lips to mine, arching my body into his as I kiss him with a hunger and need I’ve never felt before.
He responds instantly, dropping the jacket as one hand cups my face, the other threading through my hair.
As his tongue parts my lips, I moan against his mouth and the hand on my jaw drops to press against my back, forcing my hips to press into him.
Without our cover, we are open and vulnerable to this unexpected heavy shower of rain.
Locked safely in his arms, I couldn’t care less. Let it pour.