Shooting Basilio a look of disapproval, which he misses since he’s busy greeting another player, I grab Mateo’s drink from the waiter who’s reappeared with it and slip out of the room. I check the various areas in the downstairs of the house that are being used for the party before I finally spot him through a window sitting alone outside at a garden table on the patio. I step out to join him.
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 thechampagne. ‘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.’
