Page 95 of Polo Fever
Turns out I wasn’t the only one, or even the first.
For now, the release of his memoirs is still going ahead and I’m sure it will sell. People will believe the story they want to. Either way, I’m letting it go and focusing on what’s ahead for me.
I’ve been researching polo jobs, seeing what else is out there and working out what might make sense for my next steps. Being a groom isn’t the only option in polo if you’re not a player – there’s the marketing side to it, the events organisation, sponsorship and hospitality. I don’t have to pigeonhole myself if I don’t want to.
But I like being around the ponies and riding them. Those other roles would be office jobs, albeit with glamorous perks and the joy of still being in the polo world, plus normal working hours, but I wouldn’t be greeted by ponies every morning. I wouldn’t have that comforting smell of the stables. I wouldn’t get to ride every day or practise stick and ball. My heart lurches whenever I think about Serafina or Byron or Violet or Lyra or Wickham or any of the other ponies expecting to see me every morning and being greeted by someone else.
I think I’m meant to be a groom. Yes, I’ve decided I want to be the kind of polo groom that players consult. The thought of it gives me a fresh boost of motivation, a sense of purpose that lifts my spirits. I’m going to work in a polo yard and learn as much as possible about the sport, about the ponies, about the players. I’m going to become the Yoda of polo, an all-knowing expert who can advise top professionals on which ponies to choose for which chukkas. I’m basically aiming to be Eduardo.
That dream doesn’t have to become reality through Maycourt. There are some lovely polo yards in the country, some of which are closer to London and have great reputations. I note down the ones I like the look of and decide to talk it through with Mum to see what she thinks about applying to them. It might be a good idea to gain experience in a different yard. A new place, new people, new challenges. I might learn something different being somewhere else. I wouldn’t have to say goodbye to Maycourt forever. Grooms move around yards all the time. I feel content with this new drive in my life. For the first time, I knowexactlywhat I want to do and I’m going to bust my gut to get there.
*
One evening, Mum calls when I’m in the middle of prepping my dinner.
‘Hey,’ I say, my eyes scanning the spice rack, ‘I was about to call you. Do you have any paprika? I thought I’d try making a tagine.’
‘What?Ash, don’t be ridiculous. You’re not a tagine-level chef.’
‘You know that most parents tell their kids that they can be whatever they want to be, right?’ I mumble, continuing my quest for paprika amongst the jars.
‘Sure. Reach for the stars. But listen, before you start your tagine – I was calling to ask you for a favour. We are about to film a segment for the show tomorrow and you’ll never guess what it is.’
‘A chef showing your audience how to cook tagine?’
‘We’re talking to an equestrian! Some of my camera crew and a reporter are about to set off to interview him at hisstables on the outskirts of London – somewhere in Kent – and get some lovely sunset shots of the horses galivanting about.’
I pick out and examine a pot of red spice that turns out to be cayenne. ‘That’s nice.’
‘The thing is, this segment has all been set up very last minute to fill in for an interview on an actor who’s pulled out without any warning whatsoever and none of my team know a thing about horses. Guess what I’m thinking?’
I straighten slowly. ‘What are you thinking, Mum?’
‘I’m thinking I know someone who isextremelyknowledgeable about horses. And having someone like that join them for this little excursion and be on hand to make sure they don’t make fools of themselves would be very useful.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Ash, do you think instead of cooking up what I’m sure will be a delightful tagine, or something perhaps resembling a tagine, you could get ready to be picked up in twenty minutes to accompany my lovely team on this exciting equestrian excursion?’
I smile into the phone. ‘Despite you insulting my culinary prowess, I am tempted. I have missed being around horses.’
‘And you’d love to do your brilliant mother a favour.’
‘And I’d love to do my brilliant mother a favour,’ I repeat dutifully.
‘Great! One of them will be with you in twenty, so get out of your sweatpants and into something presentable,’ she says chirpily, and I can hear her heels clacking in the background as she marches around the studio.
‘I’m not wearing sweatpants,’ I lie, still insulted at the assumption.
‘Good luck, Ash, and let me know how it goes.’
We say our goodbyes and hang up, before I trudge upstairs and change into jeans and a loose-fitting jumper, brushing my hair and everything. As I lock up the house, I feel excited about spending an evening with horses, proud that I might prove useful in some way. The car pulls up as I’m coming down the steps, a blue Mini Countryman driven by a fair-haired man who I’d guess to be in his forties and most of the back seat taken up with camera equipment. He introduces himself as Hal, the assigned cameraman for this segment.
‘The others are meeting us there,’ he explains cheerfully, turning down the radio. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard quite a bit about you from your mum. She tells me you work at the polo? That’s interesting. I’m not mad on horses myself. They’re quite big.’
‘They are,’ I say, smiling at his naturally warm, friendly demeanour.
‘I’m glad you’re coming with us. You can go in first and tell me which ones are safe to film and which ones will kick me in the face with their trotters.’
