Neither Phoenix nor I have the foggiest clue about the rules of polo.
“There are four players in each team, and the match is divided into six sections called chukkas, which are seven and a half minutes each,” she explains. “And that’s the extent of my knowledge.”
The playing field is a vast, manicured lawn which has to be the size of at least eight football pitches. The crowds gathering about the edges are dressed in classy casualwear, not a pair of jeans in sight. The men wear khaki pants and blazers, the women elegant pantsuits or sophisticated sundresses, and everyone wears practical sun hats. My pink floral dress blends in perfectly, and I send up a silent thanks to Adam for insisting I save it for today. Many of the spectators have brought picnic blankets and baskets, but we’re in the VIP enclosure, seated on plastic chairs beneath a white awning which flaps in the light breeze. There’s a bar, where Champagne is flowing like water. Both Phoenix and I stick to real water.
There are cameras and cell phones everywhere but, since most are pointed at the field, I manage to relax a little.
The first match is a women’s event. For such large animals, the horses are astonishingly fast and agile. Players and horses move as one, poetry in motion.
At half time, when the players lead their horses off to be watered and rested, Phoenix grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. “This is the fun part!”
We join the crowd surging onto the field. Apparently it’s a polo tradition for the spectators to spend half-time behaving like excited kindergarteners, running around the field stamping down the clods of earth and grass that the horses’ hooves have kicked up. “It’s called the divot stamp,” Phoenix explains.
Not that she gets much chance to join in the fun. Everyone wants a piece of her, a moment to bask in the attention of the soon-to-be archduchess. There are even a few who ask to have their picture taken with her, and I obligingly act as camerawoman, being careful to frame every picture I take with the half dozen top-of-the-range cell phones so that Phoenix looks good in every one. She told me on the drive here that she never lets anyone take selfies with her, as she can’t be sure what awful pictures will end up on the internet. It makes me laugh, the thought of complete strangers lining up for selfies with her, when I remember her carrying trays of beer or washing glasses or wiping up red wine spills. Or the lazy afternoons we spent at the side of the public swimming pool, the visits to the library, the supermarket, the laundromat. She’ll probably never go to a library, supermarket or laundromat again in her life. Unless she’s there to cut a ribbon to open it.
“How do you cope with all the attention?” I ask when we’re safely back in the VIP enclosure.
“It’s the price I have to pay if I want to share my life with Max, and since I can’t even imagine life without him …” She shrugs. “We cope because we’re in this together. We’re stronger because we have each other.”
It sounds cheesy, but it isn’t. Not if you know them, and I sigh with envy. I so want what they have – a true partnership. Though I think I’d miss being able to go to a real library, or do my own grocery shopping, I wouldn’t miss doing laundry.
After the break, the players return to the field with fresh horses, the teams swapping sides. When the ladies’ match is finished (and I have no clue which side won) it’s Adam and Max’s turn. Their match starts when a stunning woman in a figure-hugging sage-green dress throws the ball into play.
Phoenix and I giggle together as we make up our own commentary to go with the action happening on the field. “And then Max takes the quaffle from Adam and runs with it,” she says.
“Oh, no! But look – the man on the brown horse has taken it,” I continue. The crowd cheers. “Does that mean someone spotted the Snitch?”
The play moves away down the field and I squint into the sun. “He feints, he shoots, he … no! He doesn’t score. Looks like he overran the quaffle. I could really use a pair of Omnioculars right now.”
Phoenix squeezes my arm. “This is so much fun. I wish you could stay longer. Are you sure you have to go back to Vegas so soon after the wedding?”
The look I give her is the only answer she needs. When the clock strikes midnight, everyone knows what happens to Cinderella’s coach and ballgown.
I turn back to the match. The ground shakes as the horses thunder past. I may not know anything about the sport but it’s certainly exciting to watch, with the horses covering the massive field almost as fast as ice hockey players. But, unlike hockey players, polo players are dressed in a uniform that displays their assets rather well. There’s a lot of eye candy out on that field.
Max. Mateo. The fourth member of their team, who is barely twenty years old but looks like a supermodel. Despite how many other buff men there are to look at, and despite my best efforts not to, my gaze is constantly drawn back to Adam. Their team is dressed in white pants, riding boots, and forest-green polo shirts. The pants are just tight enough to give a good eyeful, especially when Adam stands in the stirrups and swings himself from the back of one horse onto another, a move that has me anxiously holding my breath until he’s safely reseated.
The close-fitting shirt perfectly outlines his broad shoulders and tapering torso, showing off those defined pecs I had my hand on in the grotto. The man really is perfection. I sigh. Yeah, I’d like to do him.
Phoenix sends me an amused glance, and I blush. “Did I say that out loud?”
“You didn’t have to.” She laughs. “I’ve never known you to hold back from having a little fun if you like a guy. So why not let loose and have some harmless holiday fun with Adam?”
Because with him it wouldn’t just be harmless fun. When the dice are so heavily loaded in one person’s favor, someone always gets hurt. I shrug, keeping my gaze on the field. “Because he’s a man whore.”
“Less than everyone thinks.” She suddenly jumps up, clapping and cheering wildly. I’m also on my feet by the time I spot the Flagger behind the goals raise his flag to indicate a goal. From the celebratory dance Max is doing in his saddle, I assume he scored the goal.
From an inauspicious beginning, their team have now pulled level with their opponents. The last chukka is going to be nail-biting.
The action moves closer to us now, and the thud of horses’ hooves, the whack of the bamboo mallets against the ball, and the voices of the players and the crowd all rise together to make my heart hammer with the thrill. I’m just as gripped as the rest of the crowd, gasping, cheering, clapping.
The scores are still neck-and-neck, with only a minute left in the game, when one of the umpires blows his whistle for a foul. Play stops instantly and the crowd grows quiet. Adam takes the penalty shot. The spectators are silent, holding their breaths. He swings his mallet. It thwacks against the ball, which flies through the air. And straight between the goalposts.
The crowd roars, Phoenix and I are both on our feet, cheering ourselves hoarse, and the game is over.
The men trot casually toward us. When they remove their helmets, they look tired but happy. They dismount as they draw near, then lead their horses closer. Phoenix, fearless as always, leans over the white picket fence to pat Max’s horse on its forehead, but I hang back. Up close, the horses look even bigger and I’m more than a little daunted, especially when Adam’s horse snorts and shakes its head wildly.
“That’s my girl,” Adam croons, rubbing her forehead affectionately. She nuzzles into his hand and he laughs softly. My heart does a stupid little leap.
Then he catches my gaze, and winks. I blush. I’d like to say it’s just the warm day and the sunshine or something, but I won’t lie. I’m blushing like a stupid, giddy teenager who has just been noticed for the first time (the only time) by the school jock. Get a grip, girl.
“Khara, I’d like you to meet my best girl, Bonney,” he says. “Named for William Bonney.”
“You named a girl horse after Billy the Kid?”
“In the National Pony Society’s Stud Book, she’s listed as Wilhelmina, but that’s such an old lady name. My sister suggested Billy, but that didn’t seem right either for this beautiful girl, so I call her Bonney.” He pats the horse’s side, looking at her in a way I suspect he has never looked at any human woman.
What is it about men who get mushy over animals, and what they do to feminine hormones? Or maybe it’s the shirt plastered to his back with sweat, which shouldn’t be sexy but absolutely is. Or the way his dark hair is tousled and all over the place. He must be the only man on the planet who can make helmet hair look sexy.
“Want to give her a sugar lump?” He holds his hand out to me.
Ignoring the flutter that has settled yet again in the region of my stomach, I take the sugar cube he holds out, shivering as my fingers accidentally stroke his palm. I reach toward the horse, which snuffles at my fingers, then daintily picks the sugar cube off my nervously outstretched palm with her lips.
Braver now, I stroke her forehead and she blows softly, as if in pleasure.
“And now you can say you’ve met your first pony,” Adam says softly.
“This is just a pony? She’s massive!”
“In polo, our horses are always ponies, whatever their size,” Max answers. Then he rubs his hair, which has gone dark with sweat. “I need a shower.”
“Need help?” Phoenix asks coyly.
He holds her gaze, his eyes darkening with desire, and I can almost see the sparks between them.
“You read my mind,” he says. Then he glances around. The crowd is slowly drifting to the pavilion where the luncheon will be served, but there are still people milling around within earshot. He sighs. “But I’ll have to take a rain check.”
I glance at Adam and see that for once we’re thinking the same thing: what a drag it must be to be royal, and to always be on your best behavior.
While the men head off to shower and change, Phoenix and I make our way to the big glass pavilion where the luncheon is being served. There is a carnival atmosphere away from the field: food stalls, music playing on loudspeakers, bouncy castles and other entertainments for kids.
Inside the pavilion, the air is cool and more subdued. A uniformed waiter shows us to our seats. There are already a few people seated at our table – an older gentleman with kind twinkling eyes, his elegant wife, and the stunning woman in sage-green who opened the men’s match. The elderly gentleman, president of the polo club, introduces us. Turns out the woman in green is Amalia Lecroix, one of France’s most famous actresses. Yup, not only am I sitting at a table with royalty, but also with a movie star. In seven years working the casino floor and the occasional shift in the restaurant, I haven’t seen this many celebrities.
Phoenix engages the elderly gentleman in conversation. I have to admit, I didn’t know she spoke French. I watch as the room slowly fills with other guests and recognize some of the people I met at the cocktail party last night. There are smiles and hugs, air kisses and laughter, as the guests drift to their seats. It feels a lot like lunch break in our high school cafeteria, but with one crucial difference: here, some of the people I met last night actually stop to greet me as they pass by. They’re not so intimidating when you get to know them.
The tables are already full when Adam, Max and Mateo arrive in the pavilion. Heads turn as they wend their way between the tables. Three gorgeous men, all slickly dressed as if they just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren commercial. Be still, my beating heart.
“Where’s your fourth?” Phoenix asks as they reach us.
Max grins. “His girlfriend came with him for the weekend. Last I saw, they were making out in an empty horsebox. I don’t think we’re going to see them until after lunch.”
“He’s young. It might not last long.” Mateo winks. He offers his hand to me again. “It is a joy to see you again, Khara. Perhaps after lunch I can tempt you to take a walk in the paddock enclosure with me?”
There’s a wicked glint in his eyes, and I wonder if that’s supposed to be a euphemism. Then he turns to Amalia, the same suggestive smile in his eyes. “Enchanté, madame.”
She smiles, and flutters her eyelashes.
The club president performs the introductions again. When he introduces Adam to Amalia there’s a distinct chill in the air. Phoenix’s sharp eyes catch it, Max shakes his head, and Mateo’s eyebrows lift.
“You slept with her?” I murmur in an undertone when Adam takes the seat beside me.
“I don’t think much sleeping was done,” he whispers back with a swift grin. “But my memory is hazy. It was a long time ago.”
“She still hasn’t forgiven you.”
He grins. “She still hasn’t got over me.”
I roll my eyes.
His arrogance may have been a tad premature. Mateo and Amalia flirt throughout lunch, and she seems very over Adam.
The food is gourmet, which means small portions arranged artistically on the plate. But it tastes good, and I’m even able to enjoy it. I’m getting the hang of all the cutlery, know how to fold the napkin in my lap so it faces the right way and how to hold my hand over the wine glass to say ‘No, thank you’ when the waiter comes around to offer more, and I don’t feel so awkward making conversation. Not that I need to make much effort at conversation. Both Phoenix and Amalia are vivacious, larger-than-life personalities, and with them around I can fade quietly into the background, which is my preferred place to be.
You’d be excused for thinking I’m an attention-seeker. After all, I have blue-ombred hair and wear hot pants to work. But those are just me being practical. Hot pants and short skirts get me bigger tips, and colored hair ensures the patrons remember who their waitress is because, let’s face it, we can all look alike, especially to gamblers, whose focus is on the slot machines rather than on the person handing them a beer.
But I was the girl in the high school cafeteria sitting alone with my nose in a book. I wish I could do that right now, take the paperback out the bag at my feet and disappear into its pages rather than have to pretend I want to be here.
I give in to Phoenix’s suggestion and try a Pimms and lemonade, a light and refreshing alcoholic drink, which helps settle my nerves. Adam is right. I can do this. Everyone here is just human, after all, even the actress. Up close, I can see she has lines around her eyes and her skin isn’t perfect. We’re all perfectly imperfect.
The cheerful, lively atmosphere lasts until dessert, puffy balls of choux pastry filled with that same Chantilly cream we enjoyed last night, though this version has a delicate hazelnut flavor.
“Is it true you are your uncle’s heir now that your cousin has died?” the club president’s wife asks Adam. The table falls silent. I wonder how much wine the woman had to drink. Doesn’t she know it’s rude to talk about money in polite company?
“I can’t comment,” Adam replies quietly, his shoulders suddenly stiff with tension. “The announcement will only be made after the funeral.”
“Oh, of course,” the woman says, her tone conciliatory. “Protocols must be followed.”
The conversation resumes, but the air is changed and it doesn’t take me more than a moment to realize why. Amalia is no longer flirting with Mateo. She is so busy eyeing Adam speculatively that she doesn’t even acknowledge when Mateo leans in and whispers in her ear. No one else seems to notice, though. Max and Adam are teasing each other about the size of their horses, and Phoenix has engaged the club president and his wife with a funny story about the first time she attended a polo match. I catch Mateo’s eye across the table, and he shrugs ruefully. Then he folds his napkin in neat squares, places it on his side plate to indicate he’s leaving, and rises.
“Pardonnez-moi,” he murmurs to Amalia and she nods and smiles at him, then he is gone, striding away across the room. He’s clearly not one to waste time on a lost cause. Silently, I applaud him.
But then I wonder – just how big an inheritance is this that even women who know what a cad Adam is are willing to throw away their pride for a chance at it?