Page 1 of Polo Fever
Prologue
Thirteen Years Ago
Mateo can hear the other boys sniggering and jeering as he dismounts. His cheeks flushed with shame and heat, he focuses on patting his pony’s neck, refusing to look at them. When he hears footsteps approaching, he glances up and his embarrassment deepens.
‘You did well,mi amorcito,’ his mother says, a reassuring smile on her face.
He shakes his head. ‘I fell.’
‘You got back on again. That player crossed you. It was dangerous. We all saw it.’
Mateo shrugs. ‘It doesn’t matter. He won.’
‘Winning isn’t everything.’
‘Yes, it is.’ His eyes flash up at his mother, alight with fierce determination.
She sighs. ‘You will get there, Mateo. I know it. You mustn’t give up.’ She places her palm flat against her chest. ‘Your heart and your spirit. That is what it takes to win.’
Dejected, Mateo fiddles with the reins. ‘I should go cool her down.’
His mother steps aside to let him pass as he begins to lead his pony back to the stables, then calls his name to stop him.
‘Rossi believes in you,’ she says, his eyes fixed on the dusty ground. ‘He can see your natural talent in the saddle. He thinks, with some training, you will make a great polo player.’ She takes a few steps towards him and lowers her voice. ‘You may not have had the same start in life as these boys, but Rossi still believes you can match them. Sometimes, that’s all you need, Mateo. Someone to see your talent and recognise that it’s worth their time and effort to believe in you.’
Mateo nods and continues on his way to the stable. Her words reverberate in his head as he begins the process of cooling down his pony. He knows she is right. He has been given a rare opportunity to not just work on theestanciaof one of the best polo players of all time, but to train with him, too. His mother has sacrificed everything for this chance. And he will not waste it. Mateo lifts his chin defiantly.
Polo is all that matters now.
One
The moment I step through the doors of the club in Soho, I’m surrounded by a flock of frazzled-looking people desperately needing answers to their questions. Shrugging off my trench coat and draping it over one arm, I’m forced to hold a hand up to silence them before calmly requesting that they speak to me one by one, like a teacher handling a bunch of overexcited school children.
‘Ash, where do you want the extra chairs set up?’ a panic-stricken intern asks me.
‘No extra chairs,’ I answer simply.
‘I thought Ren—’
‘He’s changed his mind,’ I inform her. ‘We’re now going for a bare and minimalist theme.’
‘But… what about the flowers?’ checks one of the venue staff, practically buckling beneath the weight of two vases filled with large displays of blooms in his arms.
‘No flowers.’
He blinks at me over the giant blue hydrangeas. ‘Noflowers?’
‘No flowers,’ I confirm.
‘But what do I do with—?’
‘Whatever you like. Keep them, give them away.’ I shrug. ‘But no flowers in here anymore, please. Thanks so much. Next question.’
I begin to walk across the venue to the back, my heels clacking across the shiny floor, my panicked entourage in tow. As I hang up my coat and bag in the cloakroom, I continue to answer questions about the lighting, the music, the caterers, the cocktail menu, the official photographer and last-minute changes to the guest list. On the face of it, I seem cool and collected, perfectly in control despite my boss’s sudden U-turn over the theme for tonight’s big launch of his latest menswear collection. Under the surface, I’m bricking it.
If I had the liberty to scream, I would.
I never set out to be a fashion assistant. I left university with a degree in history and no set idea of what I wanted to do. I was vaguely thinking something along the lines of a research position or a job in a museum, something to which my skillset would be suited. But after floundering to get a job anywhere, my mum, a TV producer, suggested I apply for the assistant role going with Ren, an up-and-coming designer whose career she’d boosted when one of her breakfast presenters wore a loud shirt of his that got people talking. It was only meant to be temporary while I worked out what I actually wanted to do, but I’ve worked for Ren for almost four years and am still no clearer on my vocation in life. I should have moved on by now, but the problem is I’m good at this job. It actually helps that I’m not devoted to a career in fashion because I don’t feel the need to suckup to anybody or feel intimidated by those in this industry. I’m a good gatekeeper – nobody gets to Ren without going through me first – and, four years in, I know Ren and his dramatics well enough to prioritise what’s important and keep him happy.
