She flushes. “Sorry. I was just trying to help. I took a first aid course a few summers ago. It never hurts to be prepared.”
I smile at her. “I know. But Edward’s tough,” I say, slapping him on the back. “He can handle whatever’s thrown at him.” For some reason, I suddenly feel more like a teammate than a girlfriend.
As Libby eats her lunch, laughing at everybody’s jokes, giving Edward study advice, and piping up here and there with supportive comments, my heart melts. She really is trying.
I resolve to put the Edward situation behind me. I’ll be mature if it kills me.
ten
As promised, Edward takes Libby and me to a polo match in Windsor Great Park the next week. It’s the annual Chairman’s Cup, marking the end of the polo season, and Edward is playing.
“Where’d he say to meet him?” I frown, looking around anxiously as we drive up the long gravel driveway through the woods toward Guards Polo Club. Libby told me that she and Edward discussed it in maths class and so I left the planning to her.
It’s been a full week since Edward and Libby had dinner together, and things haven’t been sitting right for me ever since. I know I should probably gather up the courage and talk about it with Edward, but something’s holding me back. Shouldn’t he confide in me? Should I have to drag secrets out of him? Maybe I’m overthinking it, but all these little details are adding up to make me feel like Edward and I aren’t a good fit. He and I barely see each other and always want to do different things when we are hanging out.
Right now, a tiny part of me doesn’t even know why we’re still dating.
I mean, he’s hot. And he’s a prince. And he’s sweet most of the time . . . at least, when I actually see him. But is that enough? I’m not sure.
Libby scrolls through her phone. “He says to drive to the end and then turn left. There’s a car park by the grandstands, and we’re supposed to show the people our badges to get through. Are you wearing your badge?” She looks down at my lapel, continuing. “Okay, good. Then he says he’s at the northeast end of the field, by the giant maroon-and-white tent.”
Our taxi driver drops us off, and we tentatively make our way past the gates.
“Are you sure we’re not underdressed? Shouldn’t we be wearing dresses and hats?” I’m wearing a pair of skinny jeans, a flowy top, black leather booties, an oversized scarf, and a leather jacket to help combat the early November chill.
“We should be fine. Apparently, you’re only supposed to get dressed up for the Gold Cup and the Queen’s Cup—and that’s mostly just for spectators. We’re with Edward, so . . .” She’s wearing her new skinny jeans and knee-high brown boots with a chunky knit jumper and her army jacket. She looks like she’s about to go fishing at Balmoral, not watch polo at the most elite club in England.
“Are we allowed to walk on the field before the game?” I ask, looking around anxiously.
“I think so, yes.”
We step onto the lush, manicured lawn, looking back and forth as if we’re expecting security to come drag us away. Nobody does anything, so we keep walking. I look across the field and see a few other random people streaming across the field confidently.
“Edward’s over there,” Libby says, pointing to a maroon-and-white-striped awning. “By the giant D.”
I feel out of place, but remind myself that it’s important to act confident. If you fake social graces, even if you don’t feel them, it puts other people at ease. Everybody’s usually too busy focusing on how awkward they feel to notice your own discomfort. My mother sat me down and taught me that once my old friends ditched me—a lesson that’s served me well at Sussex Park.
As we get closer, I wave toward Edward and call out, “Hi, babe!”
But he doesn’t seem to hear me.
“He must be distracted,” Libby says. “It’s probably stressful right before a game.”
“He’s always distracted,” I say, walking up to Edward and patting his bum. “Hey.”
“Jesus, Charlotte! You scared me.” He turns around, looking slightly irritated.
“I called out to you,” I say, feeling rejected.
“Sorry,” he says. He hugs me with one arm. He looks dead sexy in his polo uniform: a white polo shirt with a maroon stripe emblazoned on the front, white breeches, and dark brown riding boots. On his sleeve, there’s a maroon “4,” and the word “Doha” is on his chest in white, down the stripe.
“Hi, Edward. Good luck today,” Libby says.
“Thanks, Libs.”
Libs? They have one dinner together and a few study sessions and she’s Libs to him now?
“Um, let’s go over to the sidelines, I guess,” I say, flustered. “We’ll see you after the game?”
“Sounds good,” he says distractedly, blowing me a kiss before turning away. He huddles together with one of his teammates, a short, balding man with ruddy cheeks and a substantial paunch.
Libby looks around. “Should we go over there?” she asks me, using her arm to shade her eyes as she points to a row of Land Rovers and Audis. Several blond thirtysomething women in aviators, jeans, flowy tops, and Barbour jackets are standing around, looking like professional girlfriends. I’m relieved to see that our outfits are right on point. Funny, relying on Libby for fashion advice.
“Okay.” I shrug, letting her lead me. “I doubt it matters. This seems way more casual than I expected. Those girls are in jeans, too, thank God.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I get the feeling that it looks casual—but one slipup, and we’re branded for life.”
Maybe Libby understands more than I give her credit for.
“Here,” she says, leading us to a patch of grass near a car and pulling a blue blanket out of her bag. “Sit.”
“Look at you. All prepared.”
“I did some research online yesterday. I was scared we would feel like outsiders—so I needed to arm myself. Knowledge is king.”
“I’d make fun of you for being a nerd if I weren’t so grateful. Explain this to me: I thought everybody in polo was supposed to be a hot Argentine. Why’s that dude playing? He’s like fifty years old.”
“Ah!” Libby says, punctuating the air with her finger. “I read about this, too! He’s probably the patron. Polo is a pro-am sport, so it’s played by both professionals and amateurs. The patrons are the team owners, and they hire the professionals.”
“The hot Argentines.”
“Precisely.”
“So the old dude owns the team.”
“Yes. Likely.”
I shake my head. “Why not just enjoy it from the sidelines like all the other rich men who own sport teams? Make your money and go home.”
“Nobody makes money on polo. It’s a million-dollar money pit. And he’s not just any old guy. His family owns half of Qatar. Hence the team name: Doha.”
“Oh. Well, that’s something, at least,” I say, looking at the patron with renewed interest before turning back to Libby. “Do you think any of these girls is his girlfriend?”
“Maybe,” she says. “He’s a billionaire. I’m sure there are at least a few women out there willing to play the part.”