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“Why do you wish to work for me, Ms. Benoit?”
Why? Isn’t it obvious? Your record speaks for itself. Polo hasn’t been the same since you stormed onto the pitch. I don’t just want to work for you, Mr. Arias, I want to play alongside you. I…
Actually, no. It’s more than that. I want to work for Mariano, rather than any of the other players at the club, because of the way he comports himself onandoff the pitch. I’ve seen him school his horses when no one is looking and remain calm and kind, no matter the disobedience. I’ve watched him offer water to his horses between chukkas and sponge them down before he ever takes a drink himself. He’s chipped in to do basic chores any lowly groom could do, for no other reason than it will make the horses more comfortable. And he has always, always been unfailingly kind and considerate toward both me and Gustavo whenever we cross paths. We’re generally invisible to the polo elite and the stuck up, toffee-nosed clients whose horses we tend to. I’d say seventy-six percent of the people who walk through our gates treat us like the help. Just a notch above servants. But not Mariano. He treats us like people. Humans. Equals.
I don’t know how to say that in an interview. “I think you’re a decent man?”
Whether he’ll be impressed or galled by such a reply, I can’t tell. But he presses on, in my brain still the perfect interviewer. Why not? He’s a gentleman the rest of the time! He has impeccable manners to go with those looks. But better than all of that, I believe that our polo superstar has a good, good heart.
“I see from yourcurriculum vitaethat you are the epitome of steady.”Esteady.His accent—the way he puts an ‘e’ in front of any word starting with an ‘s’—is perfection. Just enough to remind anyone who hears him that he’s Argentinian. His diction and syntax, so much more formal than anyone else in the club. I love it—it reminds me of childhood summers in the Cotswolds and riding in the Peak District after we moved back to England.
Then what happens?
Then his eyes crinkle at their corners, roving over me, lingering in the right places. He reaches for me, doing all the things I’ve always wanted him to do—
The needle on the record screeches to a halt.
Nope.
None ofthosefantasies.
I might want his big, bold hands on me, but that’s got nothing to do with landing this job.
Eyes on the prize, Charlotte. Do not waver.
“Charlotte… May I call you Lolly?” He places my resumé on the table and folds his hands.
You can call me whatever you want. Just hire me.
The moment lasts for so long I think I might explode, even though it’s just me and Mr. Wiggins sitting in my Ford Maverick in a hotel parking lot, drumming up the courage to walk into the hotel, hit the elevator button, and ride all the way to the top where Mr. Polo himself is waiting for me.
I keep my eyes shut tight, returning to my visualization, willing him to say the words. I have to believe it’s possible. If I can’t even imagine it, how can I make it happen?
I’ve been working my butt off behind the scenes—mucking out stalls, exercising the lesson-string ponies, hiring myself out to players like Stephanie who want a “full service” experience, and generally acting as the gofer—but here’s my chance to step out of the shadows and shine! It happens! Lowly stable hand with talent and gumption gets noticed and promoted up the ranks. Who says it can’t happen to me!?
Say it. Go on. Please. Do it. I know this is just a fantasy, but I NEED to hear you say the words!
“You’re hired!”
Balloons, streamers, fireworks, the whole enchilada! He said it. End fantasy. We’re ready! Don’t let it fade. March on the up note. Now, Lolly! Now!
I lower all four truck windows a couple of inches. Even in winter, we can’t be too safe. “I’m heading out, Mr. Wiggins! I’m going to nail it!”
Hahahahahaha. I wish Alicia lived closer. She’d lap this stuff up while bolstering my confidence and prepping me for the interview of a lifetime. All laughter aside, bills are coming due, funds are running low, Lolly Benoit needs to turn this vehicle around before she careens into debtor’s prison—or worse, is made to turn tail and run, begging bowl in hand.
Certain people who shall not be named (Mother), would give me a job right this minute, but not doing what I want and at such a huge price… I couldn’t bear to pay it.
No, bootstrapping my polo career is the way for me.
Lolly Benoit you’re going to meet Mariano Arias, blow his socks off, land the job, problem solved.
I’d prod Mr. Wiggins for another kiss, but he’s snoring loud enough to wake the kraken, so I leave him be.
I close the truck door, latching it as quietly as I can, and pad across the parking lot toward the Corinthian columns that do nothing structurally but add an air of luxury to the hotel’s frontage.
The bellhop—turned out in his natty uniform and pillbox hat—scans me. Sorry, bub, no luggage for me today.
I know how to handle front desk people. The trick is to look like you belong. In this instance, being part hobo works in my favor. The ultra-rich don’t dress up if they don’t need to. My muddy boots say that I’m comfortable just being me. I march to the desk and wave the clerk over. “Mr. Arias is expecting me. I’m here for the interview.”
