‘You’ll never do that either.’
‘Why not?’
‘You were nearly hysterical on half the rides at Alton Towers. You’re scared of spiders. You even said that when you were in Edinburgh you weren’t keen on those fish things
that eat your feet.’
‘Okay!’
‘Any more
weird
ones?’
‘They’re all totally above board, I promise you,’ I tell him. ‘Come on, are you up for it?’
‘Up for what?’
‘The next thing on my list – polo. I’m taking a taster lesson.’
He sips his Prosecco. ‘I’ll sit that one out, Em, if you don’t mind.’
‘Fine,’ I say.
‘Fine,’ he replies.
We stare at each other for a while, wondering how the evening has taken this turn.
‘Look, let’s get onto something a little less controversial, shall we?’ He reaches over to touch my hand. The movement of his fingertips warms my skin and makes me smile.
‘I’ll drink to that.’
The impending polo lesson is exactly what I need to take my mind off my less than perfect performance at the job interview. And because I’m now so convinced I can’t
go through with the skydiving, I cut it off the bottom of the list and stuff it down my waste disposal unit.
With Rob refusing to even consider joining me for the polo, I’d assumed it would be just me and Cally, whose mum has offered to babysit. Until, that is, my doorbell rings the weekend
before we’re due to go – as I’m midway through dyeing my eyebrows and have two large brown caterpillars crawling across my forehead.
I hesitate, but decide eyebrow-dyeing is not a good reason to turn someone away, so instead answer the door holding my hand to my head, as if swooning in an amateur dramatic society’s
production of
Pride and Prejudice
.
‘I’ve brought you this,’ Matt grins, thrusting something into my free hand. It’s a bag of posh-looking coffee.
‘Thanks,’ I say, unsure whether or not to invite him in.
‘Is now not a good time?’
I hesitate, before opening the door. ‘It’s fine, come in.’ I direct him to the kitchen while I dive into the bathroom to rinse off the dye, about six minutes after I was
supposed to, then emerge looking like Bert from
Sesame Street
.
I don’t know how we get onto the subject of my polo lesson, in between Ollie’s piano lessons, the fact that Joshua has suddenly started wetting the bed, my interview – which I
still haven’t heard about – and Stacey’s satsuma jam (which just keeps coming, according to Matt). But I do know that his reaction was startlingly similar to Cally’s.
‘Polo? Hey, I’ll come with you!’ he announces, as if Christmas Day is happening twice this year. ‘If you want, that is.’
‘Of course,’ I reply, even though my first thought is that if Rob finds out, it’d be a disaster. ‘It’s not like it’s a date or anything.’
He scrunches up his nose, and I pray for a giant golden eagle to swoop down, grab me by the shoulders and whisk me off somewhere a long, long way away.
Of course
it’s not like
it’s a bloody date, you idiot! He clearly never thought that for a second.
‘Have you ever played polo before?’ I ask, leaping at the chance to change the subject.
‘No, but I love the idea of it. I can ride – just about – but that’s it.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Are we talking Cheltenham Gold Cup contender or Blackpool donkey aficionado?’
He laughs. ‘Somewhere in between.’
‘Hmm. Me too. Although it’s closer to the latter, so you’re no doubt going to see me make a complete buffoon of myself.’
‘You? Surely not.’
I decide to ignore him.
In some ways it isn’t a surprise that Matt is up for something like this. It’s definitely not a surprise that Cally is, although for different reasons. Unless her
instruction is personally delivered by a bona fide Rupert Campbell-Black lookalike, complete with rakish smile, plummy vowels and possibly a whip, she’ll be distinctly disappointed.
What is a surprise is how our little trio of novice polo players becomes a quartet. Actually, surprise isn’t the word. I could not be more shocked if I stuck three fingers in an electric
socket and sneezed on them.
‘Polo? Oh, it’s been years,’ says Giles casually, while we’re midway through conjuring up a script about a storm in Bibblybobbly that makes the Bingbahs’
marshmallows explode.
I narrow my eyes, wondering if I’ve heard right. ‘
What’s
been years?’
He scratches his beard and goes to take another Hobnob, before realising that the pack’s empty. ‘It’s been years since I played.’
I am momentarily silenced by these words, for Giles does not and never has looked like my idea of a polo player.
Today he’s wearing his over-washed black Metallica T-shirt, the one he interchanges with his over-washed Judas Priest, Motorhead and Black Sabbath T-shirts. The fact that his style bible
is non-existent is but one issue, however; for Giles’s physique is a long way from that of Prince Harry. He’s a behemoth of a man, a big, hairy, muscular chunk of human being which,
with my admittedly limited expertise, strikes me as rather different from that on show at the average Cartier polo event.
I narrow my eyes. ‘You?’
‘You what?’
‘
You
have played polo?’
He knocks back his espresso. ‘A while ago. I played it with a couple of people at school.’
I sit back in my chair, lost for words. Then I shake my head. ‘Giles, my school friends and I played rounders. Or hockey. Occasionally, there’d be a spontaneous conkers tournament.
What sort of school did you go to where your mates played
polo
?’
He shrugs. ‘Just a school. You know, with teachers . . . pupils . . . dinners capable of causing dysentery.’
I open my mouth in disbelief, unable to stop the smile spreading across my face. ‘Are you telling me, Giles, that in all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never even realised . .
.’
He frowns. ‘What?’
‘You’re
posh
?’
He opens his drawer, removes a packet of fags, and raises his eyebrows. ‘Couldn’t you tell?’
Our taster lesson is taking place at the Rose Polo Club in Cheshire. I’ve spent days looking at its website, at the fresh-faced horsey types that adorn its home page, and
wondering if everyone’s vowels will be as long as their jodhpur-clad legs.
The journey from Liverpool takes an hour, which means leaving at eight thirty on a Sunday morning. Getting up this early at the weekend feels deeply unnatural to Giles and me, but not to Cally
and Matt, for whom, as parents, this apparently constitutes a lie-in.
Disloyal as it feels to say it, I’ll confess to some concerns about unleashing Giles on Matt and Cally, who’s only ever been introduced to him fleetingly, and years ago –
usually when our respective work nights out ended up colliding (messily) at two in the morning. It’s not that Cally doesn’t get on with everyone, nor indeed that I suspect the same of
Matt.
But while I’ve had years to get to know and love the real Giles, you’d forgive anyone for failing to spot his charms instantly. This isn’t helped by his tendency to dismiss
anyone with whom he comes into contact as a prat (or worse), until they prove otherwise.
In the event, I needn’t have worried. Giles and Matt hit it off perfectly.
‘Did you ever go to see Guns N’ Roses live?’ Matt asks, as we hurtle through the countryside.
‘I’d have loved to,’ Giles replies, before they launch into another discussion of some obscure heavy-metal event.
‘I didn’t know you were into that sort of music, Matt,’ I point out.
‘I’m into
all
sorts of music. I went through a metal phase when I was a teenager.’
‘Me too. I never grew out of it.’ Giles laughs, which makes his face do a weird and rarely seen thing: it makes him stop frowning.
‘So are you going to show us all up with your polo-playing, Giles?’ smiles Cally, leaning forward between the seats. ‘I believe you’re an expert.’
Giles freezes. ‘Um . . . not really,’ he mumbles, then he bends down and rustles around in his rucksack, cutting short the conversation. Cally looks at me – and I shake my
head, baffled by what she’s done to offend him.
When we arrive, the presence of a small private plane on the edge of a vast green field – which turns out to be the pitch – makes me glad we’re not in my car. It would look
about as at home here as a can of Special Brew in the Royal Box at Ascot.
We’re greeted by Katie, who runs the polo school, an effervescent South African with long blonde hair and an irrepressible passion for the sport.
‘There are sixty members of the club and they range in age from eleven to seventy-two,’ she tells us. ‘This is a sport for everyone. You’re going to be
hooked
.’
‘I hope not,’ I mutter to Matt, ‘or I may have to organise a bank robbery to fund this hobby.’
‘Hmm, I did hear that you can only be a member of a club if you own not one, but two, ponies,’ Matt whispers. ‘But don’t worry, we’ll buy a lottery ticket on the
way home. We’re
bound
to win.’
Because Giles has played polo before, he joins a group of advanced learners. The rest of us are with the beginners, taught by a Kiwi instructor called Nick. There are seven of us in total, which
at first gives me a sense of safety in numbers. Until a quick vox pop makes it apparent that, of all the attendees, it’s
me
who’s the least experienced rider.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ shrugs Cally. ‘Polo ponies are meant to be easy to ride.’ She turns to the instructor. ‘It doesn’t matter that she’s not
an expert rider, does it?’
He considers this for a second. ‘Being good at riding obviously helps.’
‘But your website said you took
absolute
beginners,’ I say, my voice rippling with panic. ‘
Ab-so-lute
.
That’s
what it said.’
‘Yeah, we do, very occasionally. Why . . . is that about your level?’
I stiffen, suddenly conscious I’m surrounded by people who are very clearly more competent than me. ‘Not
exactly
,’ I reply cagily. I accompanied Zachary on a horse in
Center Parcs only a few months ago. ‘I have
some
equine experience.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ he smiles unreassuringly as he marches to the stables. ‘Besides, I love a challenge.’
The first part of our instruction involves perching on a wooden horse – nicknamed ‘Woody’ – to learn to hit the ball with mallets. Nick performs a demo
that’s so effortless you’d be convinced that learning to use a knife and fork was more challenging.
‘Bring the arm forward, then back . . . and, in a nice smooth movement, forward again . . . and make contact. Like so.’
The mallet hits the ball with a sharp, gratifying pop, propelling it across the field in a quasi-supersonic arch. He does it again, and again, smashing balls one after the other as far as the
eye can see.
Cally nudges me. ‘Piece of cake, eh?’
‘Right, let’s go in height order, shortest first. That’s you,’ he grins, pointing at me.
Marvellous
.
I step forward obediently, my knees trembling so much I’m barely able to walk over to Woody, let alone perform all the moves that Nick has just demonstrated.
With seven sets of eyes scrutinising me, I hope to scale the wooden horse with grace and elegance, using the approach those women in
The Tudors
take when mounting (horses, not Jonathan
Rhys Meyers).
Sadly, despite the presence of steps, my ascent is distinguished only by its spectacular ungainliness. I scramble on breathlessly, with all the finesse of Widow Twanky, pulling out tufts of
nylon mane and apparently unable to prevent my arse from protruding comically in the air.
It’s only when my bum cheeks have finally made contact with Woody that I realise how high up I am. I’m literally nowhere near the ground or indeed the balls I’m supposed to
hit. You might as well ask me to play swing ball around the top of the Eiffel Tower.
‘Your position should be like you’re doing a snow plough in skiing,’ says Nick, as if this helps in any way. ‘Up on your stirrups, knees and toes pointing in, leaning
down to the right.’
What he really means – as I discover when he positions me correctly – is that I am to perform the most accomplished impression I can of a knock-kneed ostrich suffering from
excruciating constipation.
‘Now,
swing
!’
The instruction is so forceful that all I can do is take a deep breath, focus, and, with utter determination, follow it.
I do everything as instructed. I don’t put a foot wrong. By rights, I should smash that ball to the other end of the field in a move that’d make Princess Anne want me as her
god-daughter.
There’s just one problem, a matter that becomes apparent as I sit up, put my hand above my eyes and gaze into the distance to locate the ball.
‘Nice attempt,’ Nick smiles.
‘Thanks!’ I beam, pleased with myself.
‘You do realise you missed, don’t you?’
I’ve come to learn that determination only gets you so far in life when you’re completely devoid of ability.
This becomes painfully clear in the latter half of the lesson, during the ‘chukka’ – that’s a game to you and me.
A chukka is supposed to last for only seven-and-a-half minutes, but I find it impossible to believe that this is anything less than seven-and-a-half hours.
There are four of us playing: Cally and Matt, who are paired together, and Nick and I, who, despite being at opposite ends of the talent spectrum, are going head to head with my friends.
If I exaggerated my riding experience slightly, it is immediately obvious that they played down theirs, as if anyone is going to thank them for modesty in these circumstances.
While I perch stiffly on my pony, Begonia, struggling to get her to even think about moving, Cally and Matt scamper up and down the training yard as if this is the most natural thing in the
world, hitting balls, scoring goals, riding each other off (which I promise isn’t as rude as it sounds).
I’m not saying they’re anything close to perfect – both repeatedly miss the ball and Cally almost falls off twice. But they are managing to
play
. I, on the other hand,
am not managing to play. I am not even managing to move. I don’t remember a single scene in
Riders
being like this.