Page 63 of Polo Fever
I laughed, turning round to kiss him.
He threw that idea out so easily, so convincingly, when he never had any intention of seeing it through. And I was so caught up in the idea myself, I didn’t stop to question it.
I sigh, looking at Mateo with pleading eyes that say,Please don’t fuck around with me. I’m too tired, I’m too broken, I’m too decent. Take your games somewhere else.
‘Mateo,’ I continue, ‘you’re right. I have been fighting whatever this is, because I can’t take any more risks. Maycourt saved me. You say that horses have the power to make you feel worth something – well, I couldn’t agree more and I’m living proof of that. When I arrived at that yard, I may have been functioning, I may have been putting one foot in front of the other, but beneath it all, I was struggling. It felt like the whole world hated me, and I was alone in it because the person I’d trusted had dropped me the moment reality hit.’
His expression is pained as I talk, his jaw clenched, the line between his eyebrows deepening. I pause for breath, my chest feeling lighter somehow.
It’s nice to talk about it, I suppose, even if it’s with the one person I shouldn’t.
‘As much as I… want…’ I trail off as I gesture at the air between us, unable to say it out loud and hoping he gets the picture. I clear my throat. ‘I can’t risk what I’ve managed to find again for a brief, meaningless fling. Something that might not bereal. And I’m sorry for the mixed messages. It wasn’t fair of me to keep giving in to… Look, I’m sorry for kissing you. I should have been stronger.’
He doesn’t say anything at my conclusion. There’s several moments of unbearable, torturous silence where he doesn’t move a muscle or speak a word, his mouth set in a hard, straight line, his hands grasped together. Then, finally he speaks.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ he says quietly.
And that’s it. The rest of the boat ride is mostly silence, an occasional bit of side talk, but all the fun and joy of the adventure has been sucked out of it by my hard-hitting summation. I regret the timing of it, after he went to the trouble of organising this trip for me and at the end of such a perfect day, but I can’t regret being honest, especially as he doesn’t fight back.
As we stop at the door of my hotel, that’s what I remind myself. He hasn’t tried to persuade me that I’m wrong, that this would be more than it is. He’s heard me out and he’s drawing away. That’s everything I need to know.
‘Goodnight, Ash,’ he says, leaning forward and kissing me on the cheek. ‘Thank you for today. It was…’ He doesn’t quite finish his sentence, swallowing audibly.
‘Yeah.’ I smile politely. ‘You too.’
I’m not sure that even makes any sense, but it seems like the only way to conclude this awkward exchange. Turning away from him, I walk into my hotel, desperately fighting the urge to cry.
*
At the overcast Paris Open finals the next day, Mateo seems distracted and more aggressive than ever on the pitch. He barely speaks to anyone in between chukkas, except to give sharp, abrupt orders to his teammates. His dark mood almost goes in our favour and by half-time, we’ve taken the lead, but it doesn’t last. He makes more and more mistakes, fouling an opponent during a ride-off in the fifth chukka and awarding them a penalty. I can see the other three players getting frustrated themselves, only Eric daring to snap at Mateo to get it together. His ponies are as tense as he is, jittery and apprehensive, their boldness wavering as they read his displeasure. The goals slip away from us and by the end of the sixth chukka, no one believes we deserve to win. We accept the loss, disappointment weighing down in the pony lines and making all of us quiet and gloomy.
Mateo barely looks at me all day.
Having missed the after-party at Guards, Jules isn’t letting me off so easy this time.
‘We may have lost, but we should still celebrate that we made it to the finals,’ she reasons. ‘You have tomorrow morning off. And it would be insulting to Paris to spend the last night here holed up in your room. Do you want to insult this beautiful city?Do you?’
I admit I do not.
At her insistence, I head back to my hotel from the stables to get ready for a huge party in the centre of the city. Our team have stayed at the Polo de Paris bar for initial drinks but will be transported to an exclusive venue, which is where myself and the other grooms getting the ponies to bed will meet them.
When I arrive at the bar as it starts to drizzle, Jules is standing under cover outside vaping with a dark-haired girl wearing striking blue mascara. Gorgeous in a mint-green co-ord, she takes one look at me and her eyebrows fly up, exhaling a plume of smoke before saying, ‘Mateo’s going to have a heart attack.’
‘What?’
She gives me a knowing look. Obviously, Mateo and I haven’t been as stealthy as we thought. I’m wearing a short, black fitted dress for tonight with thin spaghetti straps and accessorised with statement gold earrings. My hair is up in a loose do, so there’s a lot of skin on show, my collarbones glittering with highlighter, and I’m wearing the highest block heels I own. Come on, this is a night out inParis. I couldn’t go casual, could I?
And, when I was choosing what to wear, I knew I had to go with something that would make me feel confident and fierce. I had to show him I was fine.
Jules leads the way across the dark, sophisticated bar to the booth where the team are sitting. Perched at the edge, Malcolm glances over to us and his eyes widen before he says something to the others, prompting Mateo to snap his head up sharply. I pretend not to be intimidated by the group’s attention, brushing a tendril of my hair out of my eyes before greeting everyone and gratefully taking the glass of wine Jules thrusts into my hand.
I can feel his eyes on me. Whoever I’m talking to as the evening plays out, I can sense his gaze and it’s taking everything in me not to meet it. I laugh with Malcolm as he teases me about wearing a top instead of a dress; I comfort Eric as he gets drunker and sadder over being ghosted byan influencer he was dating back in the UK; and I join Jules for some shots, the whole time fighting the urge to look in Mateo’s direction.
Determined to shake off the loss, the team are getting bolder and sillier by the moment, dancing, chanting, drinking, but not Mateo. He remains in the booth with his calm, cool demeanour, attracting friends and admirers, letting them all come to him and barely paying attention to any of them. I’m hopelessly aware of him.
When Jules is pulled into a warm embrace by a French player, I scuttle away to the bathroom but when I come back, I can’t find her anywhere. Weaving through what is now a heaving bar, I consider that she may have gone outside to vape. Glancing at the overcrowded booth, I don’t see an option more attractive than continuing my search for her. The music is loud and it’s a strain to hear anyone in here anyway, so I slowly make my way to the exit, stepping out into the evening air to find it’s now pouring with rain and Jules isn’t out here.
Ducking into the covered smoking area, I get my phone out to message her.
