Epilogue
The stands of the Campo Argentino de Polo of Palermo have been filled with noise from the crowds since the start of the thrilling final of the Argentine Open.
Cheers, groans, gasps and screams of encouragement have been drowning out the thundering hooves of the ponies as they tear past in pursuit of the ball, the spectators more passionate and invested than I’ve ever known in a polo match.
But in this moment, mere seconds away from the end of the final chukka, the stand falls silent, as every single person holds their breath.
Mateo, in a light-blue shirt with a navy number one printed on the back, has come charging up our side of the pitch after the ball, his opponent too slow to catch him.
He glances across the way towards the goal from the sideline.
It’s a difficult, wide angle. To us in the stands, it looks an impossible shot.
He could try to hold the ball until one of his teammates has made it into position for a pass, or he could take the opportunity of the open ground and try for the goal. Will he take the risk?
The crowd falls silent in anticipation.
Jules, sitting next to me, grabs my arm nervously, her nails digging into my skin.
Swinging his mallet, Mateo sweeps the ball under the pony’s neck towards the goal.
All eyes are on the small, white dot zipping across the pitch and clipping the post as it sails through it.
The flag goes up, the crowd roars with approval and amazement, and the bell rings for the end of the sixth and final chukka.
Mateo scored the winning goal. He’s won the Argentine Open.
Tears filling my eyes, Jules and I hug while we cheer at the top of our lungs, jumping up and down in each other’s arms. Mateo performs a victory lap, cantering past the stands with his stick in the air, the spectators going wild with appreciation for such a nail-biting and exquisite finish.
He won’t be able to spot me amongst the sea of people jumping up and down for him, but he will know I’m here.
As his team dismount to celebrate with their grooms and the field is set up for the trophy presentation, we gradually make our way down the steps through the heaving crowds onto the grass, finding a spot at the front of the steel barriers they’ve set up to separate the podium area from the spectators.
‘You should go find him!’ Jules is saying to me whilst looking out for Lady M, who is here somewhere but got stuck talking to a former friend of her father’s at half-time and couldn’t seem to come up with a polite excuse to get away.
‘He should share this moment with his team,’ I insist, leaning on the barrier, enjoying the goings-on around us, unable to stop smiling. ‘I’ll be here waiting when he’s ready.’
Someone is giving the trophy some last-minute polishing while the winning team line up one side of the sponsor-branded podium, their hair dishevelled from their helmets and sweat, their cheeks flushed with joy.
Mateo looks so relaxed, his eyes sparkling as he waits to be called up to lift the trophy.
All that hard work over the last few weeks, all that training and dedication and focus, the pressure he endured as he rode and practised for hours every day to feel like he’d earned a place on this team – it’s all come to this perfect conclusion.
He doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone.
He’s proven it to himself now and that’s what matters.
When he plays with his heart, he is unstoppable.
Since we reunited that day next to Spud – who has kept her name at my insistence – I have witnessed a notable shift in Mateo’s thinking towards polo.
He doesn’t train any less and his focus is still as intense as it needs to be, but he takes losses and mistakes as necessary challenges through which to persevere rather than stumbling blocks on his way to glory.
His ease in attitude has made him even more dangerous, in my opinion.
He still gets frustrated, like any athlete, but he’s concentrating more on the joy he takes in the sport now and that translates into intelligent and passionate play on the pitch.
He’s beautiful to watch and now, thanks to his performance today, the best polo players in the world know it.
God, I’m so proud of him.
And I’m proud of myself, too. I’ve formally taken a permanent position at Maycourt Polo and I’ve been working my arse off to learn everything there is to learn from Eduardo and Jules and everyone else still working there so that by the time the British polo season returns in a few months, I’m going to be as integral to the show as they are.
If Mateo doesn’t ask me which ponies I think he should ride for each chukka then I’m going to be pissed, because I’m starting to know those horses better than I know myself.
I still have the closest bond with Serafina, but I have dedicated fans in Byron and some of the others too, who greet me with excited whinnies and snorts when I arrive each morning, their heads poking over their stall doors, waiting for me to come to them.
There isn’t a better greeting. Eduardo has also been letting me help him get Spud into shape and she is already proving herself to be a great polo pony, if a greedy one.
And Lady M, Mateo and I have discussed plans to set up a programme welcoming kids from urban areas to spend time at the stables. It was Mateo’s idea.
I’m still staying with Jasper at The Old Greyhound but now that I’m on a proper salary, I’m paying him rent and saving up to find my own place to rent in the area.
Jasper is as happy about that decision as I am.
We’ve always been close, but I love that we’ll be living in the same area from now on, always on hand for each other if we need.
And as much as I miss being in the same city as Mum and Sam, I think they probably knew before I did that Maycourt was where I belonged.
‘You’ve provided me with the perfect country escape from London,’ Sam claimed when she last came to visit, warming herself by the roaring log fire in the pub and smiling gratefully at Jasper as he brought her a glass of red wine. ‘It’s very idyllic here, isn’t it?’
It is, and I’ll always be weirdly grateful to Chris Courtney for screwing me over and driving me here to this idyllic escape in the first place. In the end, it turned out it wasn’t an escape at all. I was coming home.
Thanks to the lull in polo seasons, Mateo and I were able to spend a lot of time together after I came back from my hiatus in London.
It got busier for him in the lead-up to Argentina this December and he’s had to travel a lot, but our relationship has only got stronger.
Whenever he arrives at the stables, he seeks me out to lift me into his arms and kiss me until one of the ponies whinnies and kicks at their stall impatiently or Jules tells us to get a room.
He’s still giving me polo lessons when we get the chance.
We spend evenings cooking and eating together, telling stories, disagreeing over music, and watching films until I fall asleep in front of them and he has to carry me to bed.
I’ve learnt Argentine recipes and Spanish swear words, and asked for and listened to anecdotes about his mother.
‘I wish I’d met her,’ I said once.
‘Me too,’ he said wistfully, moving my hair so he could softly kiss my shoulder. ‘But she knows I’m happy now, and she knows that’s because of you.’
It was such a lovely thing to say. I buried my head against his chest, closed my eyes to listen to his heartbeat and made a promise to his mum without saying it out loud that I would love and look after her son forever.
He’s had to make a similar promise to my mum. She was happy to help him with that set-up at the stables in Kent, but gave Mateo the impression that if he fucked things up with me again, it might be the last thing he did.
‘It was simple, really,’ Mum said breezily when I asked her what it was that had persuaded her to play along with Mateo’s ploy to talk to me.
‘He told me how he felt about you, the mistakes he’d made and why he’d made them, and I believed him.
It takes a mum to know when someone is genuine about their daughter and when someone is full of shit. ’
It seemed a reasonable explanation to me.
By the time the players are called up on the podium in Argentina, a lot of the crowd have descended from the stands to swarm around the barriers and I’m grateful to have a front-row spot.
The band plays, the smoke cannons go off either side, and the team lift the huge, silver cup in the air, grinning for the cameras and their elated fans.
I’m too busy clapping to notice Mateo has been peering at the crowd, his eyes scanning over the faces carefully until they land on me.
A satisfied smile settles on his lips. He’s finally found what he’s looking for.
Before the others have lowered the trophy, he’s jumped off the front of the podium and is walking my way.
While the other members of his team are handed magnums of champagne to shake up and open, Mateo ignores the person carrying the bottle meant for him and instead gestures for me to come join him.
‘Here,’ Jules says, pushing the barrier forward to create a gap between it and the next one along. ‘Go through. Go to him!’
I do as she says and slip through the gap. He stops in front of me, wraps his arms around me and lifts me into the air, spinning me around and making me shriek with surprise.
‘Where have you been?’ he asks, lowering me to the ground.
‘I wanted you to have your moment!’
‘I want you to be a part of every moment.’
‘Mateo, you did it,’ I gush, holding his face in my hands as he grins down at me. ‘You won the Argentine Open! You did it.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ he whispers, his eyes glistening with tears.
‘I can. You deserve all of this.’ I slide my hands down to lay them flat against his chest, his heartbeat thudding hard and fast beneath my palm.
‘So, what’s next in your sights? The Triple Crown of Argentine polo?
Make history at the US Open somehow? Now that you’ve achieved your dream, what are you going to do? ’
He shakes his head.
‘Things have changed. For a while now, I’ve had a new dream,’ he says gently, gazing down at me. ‘And I’m looking at her.’
The noise, the people, the music, the cheer at the spraying bottles – everything fades away as Mateo presses his lips to mine.
My hands loop around his neck while his arms wrap around my waist. We break away briefly to smile against each other’s mouths as his teammates aim the spray of their bottles at us, our hair soaked, bubbles running down our cheeks.
He laughs and kisses me again, lifting me up on my tiptoes, the two of us in the middle of a polo pitch helplessly caught in a shower of champagne and the wonder of everything yet to come.