‘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 youmake 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.
