Page 15 of Polo Fever
I’m still fuming about the driver’s idiotic, dangerous arrogance when I get back to the pub, walking in to find Jasper carrying a crate of glasses that he’s placing on the bar.
‘Good walk?’ he asks, brightening at the sight of me.
‘I saw some horses and it was all very peaceful until somedickhead came along, speeding around the narrow lanes in his sports car.’
Jasper doesn’t look surprised. ‘What was the car?’
‘A racing-green sports car. Looked retro.’
‘Ah. Sounds like Mateo,’ he tells me. ‘He’s back from the US Open. He may have been driving angrily because his team just lost.’
‘He didn’t seem angry. He had a beautiful blonde passenger giggling next to him.’
Jasper gives a knowing smile. ‘I heard he met a model in Miami who was… uh… a big fan, let’s say.’
‘A fan?’
‘Mateo Pérez is a professional polo player. He’s on the Maycourt team. The horses you saw probably belonged to his patron, Lady Maycourt. Her estate is nearby.’
‘He playspolo?’ I say, deeply unimpressed as I pick up the wine menu. ‘Figures.’
Five
I don’t want to give Jasper the satisfaction of telling him that he’s right about the countryside being the answer to my problems, but after a few days, I’m starting to realise that there is something inherently soothing about this setting and way of life. It’s easier to be offline here: in the mornings, I go on long walks and in the afternoons, I help out at the pub, during which I can’t be on my phone. Keeping busy distracts me from the chaos of the life I left behind in London and I like feeling helpful. I don’t feel so lost here, I guess. Or at least, I don’t have so much opportunity to think on what’s gone wrong – there’s always pints to be poured or tables to be cleaned.
I’ve got to know a couple of the locals too, who couldn’t be less interested in my scandalous past. My favourites are Rhys and Noor, both retired, who come in almost daily to have a chat over a pint of local cider or beer and discuss the state of the world or, where Noor is concerned, the polo season ahead. As someone who knows nothing about polo, I don’t know what Noor is talking about when I overhear snippets of their conversation but it’s obvious he’s veryknowledgeable on the subject, like a lot of people around here. I’m in the heart of polo country, they’ve declared, and if I’m going to work here, I’ll have to get into it.
‘You’ll love it,’ Noor has told me. ‘And considering you’re on good terms with the Maycourt ponies, it’s only right that you should learn about what they can do.’
He’s talking about the relationship I’ve struck up with ‘Chestnut’, the horse I met my first day here and the one I’ve taken to visiting every morning on my walks. As I thought during our first meeting, she’s a stubborn and aloof character, preferring to play things on her terms. I like that about her. I haven’t been overdoing it and trying to win her over – instead, I’ve kept my distance, sitting on the fence and chatting to her while she grazes nearby, both of us happy in our own space. After a couple of days of listening to my ramblings about my failed love life and public humiliation, she decided she might come say hello. I didn’t act like it was a big deal, even though I was very excited. I patted her neck and stroked her nose, then strolled off. The next morning, she saw me and came plodding over straight away.
Playing it cool doesn’t just work on humans. It works on horses, too.
The relationship has become mutually beneficial: she gets nose rubs, I get to talk about what happened with Chris without fear of judgement. It’s cheap therapy.
One morning, I’m in my usual spot in the field, having hopped over the fence to be on the same side as Chestnut. I’m leaning back against the fence while I pat her neck and tell her about the latest twist in my sorry saga: Ren has given an interview in which he was asked about his feelings on the launch-party scandal and he flew to the defence of Chris.
‘He said he knew Chris well and that he was a dedicated family man who loved his wife dearly,’ I reveal to Chestnut as she munches on the grass by my feet. ‘Then he said that everyone makes mistakes and he believed people were too quick these days to cancel others. He didn’t mention the fact that he’d been very quick to cancelme.’
Chestnut lifts her head and whinnies.
Then she shakes her ears and gets back to eating her grass.
‘Exactly my thoughts,’ I agree, nodding slowly. ‘I’ve had a lucky escape from both of those jerks.’ I sigh, adding dismally, ‘Still hurts, though. I did a lot for Ren, but he’s dropped me without a moment’s hesitation. Then there’s the injustice of it all. Everyone out there thinksI’mthe bad guy. I wish I didn’t care about that, but… I do.’
As she turns her head away from me, I realise we’re not alone.
A man is approaching across the field. I don’t notice until he’s practically right next to us. Panicking, I straighten, knowing it’s too late for me to climb back over the fence to the public path now. His thick, dark hair and square stubbled jaw are familiar. He’s the knobhead from the green sports car: Mateo, the polo player.
He comes around Chestnut’s front and reaches out to stroke her nose as he passes, but she lifts her head away from his reach, snorting indignantly. In his other hand, he’s holding some kind of basket-shaped muzzle, the straps of it hanging loosely down by his side. He stops in front of me. Hands on his hips, mouth set in a serious, straight line, he looks me up and down unashamedly, his forehead creased in puzzlement. He’s intimidatingly good-looking, tall and broad-shouldered with dark eyes framed by bold eyebrowsand long, full eyelashes. It makes sense that he’d be the type of Argentine polo player to have a legion of ‘fans’, as Jasper had informed me, whether those fans were into polo or not.
‘Hola,’ he says.
‘Uh… hi.’
‘What are you doing?’ he asks in perfect English with his sexy Argentine accent.
He’s not smiling but he’s not asking unkindly. He sounds more curious.
