“Ugh,” I say, shuddering. “Can you imagine? Gross. I could never be with a guy for the money—not for all the billions in the world.”
“Not for a title, either—right?” she says, smiling at me impishly.
“I don’t like what you’re implying,” I say haughtily, “but no. Not even for a title. I don’t care if I marry a pauper or a prince, as long as he’s hot and he gets me.”
“Good,” she says. “That’s the spirit. I’d like somebody with a good sense of humor, who’s kind and thoughtful—and who’s taller than I am.”
“Taller than you? Tall order, indeed.”
She giggles at my pun. “Tell me about it. I’ll settle for somebody my height who doesn’t forget my birthday.”
“Now we’re talking. Aim high, Libs!” I still can’t believe she’s never kissed anybody. Scratch that—actually, I can believe it.
She’s sitting on the blanket now, legs spread out in front of her just like the blond women on either side of us.
“So, are things better between the two of you?” she asks. “You talked it over?”
I pull a face, sitting down next to her and wrapping my scarf around me tighter for warmth. “No. What would I say, anyway?”
“Tell him the truth! Say that your feelings were hurt. Ask him to confide in you. Let him know that you care.”
“Eh . . . thanks, but no thanks. Besides, why should it all be on me? I don’t see him worrying about our relationship.”
She nods. “That’s true.”
“I mean, we’re so casual anyway—I rarely see him alone anymore. I might need to downshift our relationship after the new year.” Even as I say it, I don’t completely believe it, but somehow it makes me feel in control. Thinking about it makes me feel bad, so I change the subject. “Thank God I didn’t wear a hat or a dress,” I say. “I would have been completely out of place. How embarrassing would that have been?”
“Hats are for Ascot. Women in America wear them at those Veuve Clicquot polo matches in New York and LA—but that’s not high goal. It’s not real polo.”
I burst out laughing. “You sound like a total snob.”
Her cheeks glow pink. “Do I? I don’t mean to sound like that. I’m just passing on what I learned.”
“The advantage of approaching even fun activities like homework, I guess.” I watch the men trotting across the field, their mallets slung over their shoulders. “It’s weird we didn’t go to more polo growing up.”
“Dad hates horses, and Mum was always busy with the business.”
“Yeah, but Cowdray Park is practically in our backyard. It’s like the biggest polo mecca in the world. You’d think we would have gone more than only once, if only so we would be ‘exposed,’ to use Mum’s language.”
“Cowdray’s the third biggest,” she corrects me. “Argentina is where the real action is.”
“And second?”
“Guards Polo Club. Right here.”
Once the game starts, Libby begins explaining it to me. I try to follow along as she talks about the line of the ball, but I quickly start to get bored. I upload a few Snaps of the field, a selfie of me and Libby, and an Instagram of my leather booties. I’m relieved when India texts me.
INDIA: How’s the polo?
ME: Boring.
INDIA: Sacrilege.
ME: Don’t tell Edward.
INDIA: Don’t tell Edward what? Xx
ME: Haha.
“Oh my God, you’ve been on that thing for the last twenty minutes,” Libby says. “I swear, you’d die without your phone.”
“Guilty.” I put my phone on my lap. “Plus, you see one horse, you’ve seen them all.”
She squints, taking in the action across the field as Edward swings his mallet.
“I think it’s exciting! And in polo they call them ponies.”
I shrug. “I’m remembering why I never go to polo matches at home. I’d rather be riding the horses—ponies, whatever—not watching them!”
Every few minutes, Edward gallops back to our corner of the field and switches out his horse, which Libby explains is to keep the mounts from getting overtired. Near the end of the game, when he’s hopping from one pony to another like he’s playing a game of musical chairs, he looks over at us and whoops. He swings his mallet over his head like in a war chant before kicking his pony and setting back off down the field at full speed.
The girls around us, who have mostly been ignoring us, suddenly start looking at us with interest after it becomes apparent we’re with Edward.
“Are you with Doha?” one of them says, a leggy blonde with faint wrinkles around her pretty eyes.
“Yes,” I say, smiling sweetly. “You?”
“I’m Pablo’s wife,” she says. Two small boys with beautiful long blond curls toddle around her. “And these are our boys, Matias and Joaquin.”
“Congratulations on the win at Tortugas,” Libby says. “Pablo played spectacularly, I heard.”
The woman smiles proudly. “Thank you. It was a nail-biter. Oh, excuse me—Matias, no!” She rushes after the younger boy, who’s trying to climb over the boards and run onto the field with his own mini mallet.
“Tortugas? Pablo?” I whisper to Libby.
“You’d be amazed what you can pick up by doing a little bit of reading—and by just being quiet and watching. Paying attention goes a long way.”
“Not my strong suit,” I laugh. “Thank God I have you along for the ride.”
Libby smiles, waving gaily at Pablo’s wife as she heads back our way, little Matias scooped up in her arms. “Thank God.”
After the game is over, Libby and I walk back to the tents to congratulate a jubilant Edward on winning. He’s filthy, his shirt soaked through with sweat and his boots and white trousers caked in mud.
“You were amazing!” I say brightly as we walk up.
In response, he picks me up and swings me around. “Did you see that last goal?”
“Oh, yeah, totally. It was awesome!” Actually, I missed it because I was watching Flossie’s Story on Snapchat. She’s in Copenhagen for the weekend with her family.
“I can’t believe you made that penalty shot,” Libby says. “And from fifty yards out! Seriously impressive.”
He beams.
“So, listen,” I say. “We were thinking of going out to celebrate. What do you think? Our treat.”
“I wish I could. The patron is throwing an asado for all the players tonight.”
I look at Libby quizzically. “It’s a barbecue,” she whispers to me. Her primary school Spanish is way better than my rusty French.
“Oh. Okay.”
“Sorry,” he says. “I’d much rather hang out with the two of you.”
“No, that’s cool. I get it. You have responsibilities.”
“Unfortunately,” he says, pulling a face.
“Are you back on campus tonight?”
“Not until Monday morning. Since we’re near Windsor, I told my parents I’d spend some time with them.”
I want to tell him that I miss him. I want to tell him that I’m feeling neglected. I want to tell him that I’m not okay with barely seeing the guy I’m dating. I want to tell him things need to change.
Instead, I say, “Cool. See you Monday,” giving him a quick kiss and a hug before turning and walking with Libby back toward the car park.
The following week, I wake up and lie in bed, stretching my arms over my head and trying to shake the sleep off me.