‘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’salways 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 naïve butterflies at the thoughtof 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 hiswifeand everything,’ she says, her innocent smile making my stomach churn. ‘You obviouslyhave 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.
