Everything makes sense, now: this is the reason why the polo matches are packed with all these women with binoculars. It’s not for the competition, but to look at the players’ equipment through their tight trousers!
I return to my seat as soon as the way is clear. I look at the spectators under the big gazebo. Sophia and her retinue of witches are crowded around the bar with their legion of snobs, drinking champagne and laughing, probably at me.
And I’m here, confined among these British Museum relics whose dentures sound like Spanish castanets every two words they say.
The second half begins after a few minutes, accompanied by the applause of the audience as the players enter. Against every prediction, I follow the game with much more interest. During the first half I gazed at the sky absent mindedly, but now I’m focusing on the game, on Ashford in particular. I watch him riding safely but positively and giving directions to his team mates. He’s the only one standing in his stirrups, and, with the reins in one hand and the mallet in the other, he changes direction quickly and reaches out to strike the ball. He’s my husband, but I had never considered him as a man, or that other women may find him interesting. Or attractive. Or sexy! And, above all, they know more about his ‘equipment’ than I do.
Lady Valéry sits next to me, with her walking stick in the left hand and a pair of opera glasses in the right hand; she’s absorbed by the match as if she had never seen anything more compelling.
“Excuse me, Lady Valéry, may I ask you a favour? Would you lend me your opera glasses for a moment?”
“Of course, dear,” she says, giving me the silver pair with a knowing wink. “And… congratulations, young lady!”
*
At the end of the match, all I can do is stand in the corner of the gazebo where the refreshments are. Well, if there’s one thing these pompous nobles are insuperable at, it’s feasts! Those I usually go to are either shop inaugurations – and I have to fistfight to conquer a couple of canapés – or they’re held in bars where I have to order a ten pound cocktail if I want to eat something, which usually consists of chopped up leftover sandwiches. I don’t understand why nobody here is enjoying the buffet, though! Perhaps they’ve already eaten at home.
Ashford is at the stables getting his horse ready to be brought back to the manor; since I have to wait here, I take another glass of white wine and put an empty one on the tray. Apart from eating and drinking, there isn’t much to do, as nobody speaks to me and I feel pathetic in the elders’ club.
Then a hand touches my shoulder and I hear a voice, the same one I heard in the toilets while the three gossips were laughing at me. “Jemma.”
I turn round slowly and cautiously. “Yes?”
“Cécile Loxley,” says the girl standing in front of me. Voluminous copper red hair, fair complexion, high cheekbones, big penetrating grey eyes, athletic body and, strangely enough, a sincere smile. And she’s the only one here wearing dark clothes. A gunmetal tailored suit and a veiled hat.
“Jemma Pears, um, Pa… Pa… Parker.” Strangely enough, I stutter.
“Tell me, Jemma Pa-Pa-Parker, how long were you stuck in the toilet cubicle listening to the Triple Six’s nasty talk?”
“Was it you in the toilets, then?”
She raises an eyebrow, as if I had asked the most widely asked question of the century. “What do you think?”
“Triple Six? What do you mean?” I ask, without understanding.
“Sophia Skyper-Kensitt, Linda Rickson and Julia Bromley. They were born on 6 April, 6 June and 6 July, respectively. I find it much more convenient to refer to them as ‘Triple Six’.”
That’s also Satan’s number. It fits those witches just fine.
While I’m looking for something to say to the only person who seems happy to talk to me, Cécile nods at someone behind me, then she takes a business card from her bag and puts it in my hand. “Here is my number. Home and mobile phone. Call me in the next few days. There’s also my address, but I suggest you don’t stop by without notice, as I could be out. I have to go now, see you soon.”
She leaves, and I remain there, frozen, contemplating that elegant ecru piece of cardboard, featuring embossed enamel letters and a coat of arms.
Cécile Margaux Loxley
Marquise of Hungeford
Foweyard Manor – Upton Hill – Gloucester
Olstrom House – Greeley Road – Hertfordshire
2, Hanover Square – London
24
Ashford’s Version
Today, after the session at the House of Lords, I skipped the club again.
