The Wish List

by Jane Costello

  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?’

  Chapter 44

  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’ – tha
t’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.

  While this action-packed game is going on around me, Begonia displays only slightly more inclination to join in than Woody did. Part of the problem is that the last thing I want to do is encourage this animal to do anything hasty, like trot.

  It strikes me that the most difficult thing about polo is that your brain has to engage in not one but two exceedingly difficult endeavours. The first is riding a horse; the second is trying to score goals. You might as well attempt to iron a linen shirt during a snowboarding session.

  ‘Come on, Emma, get stuck in – get this ball off Matt,’ Nick shouts encouragingly as he spots me hovering behind the others, who are clearly having a thoroughly enjoyable time.

  Matt turns round and flashes me a grin. ‘Fancy it?’

  ‘Right,’ I huff, determined to pull myself together.

  I squeeze my feet against Begonia’s ribs, hoping to get her moving. Not too fast, obviously, but some sort of forward motion would be a clear benefit. She shakes her mane but barely stirs. If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess she was rolling her eyes and doing a mock yawn.

  I take another deep breath. ‘Come on, Begonia,’ I say, digging my feet in harder.

  Begonia doesn’t need to be asked twice. Begonia, in fact, acts as though she has a rocket up her backside, shooting across the yard until I’m next to Matt, gripping on for dear life.

  ‘That’s right, Emma! Push him out of the way!’ shouts Nick.

  ‘What? With my horse?’ I whimper, as the ball disappears under our feet.

  ‘Yes!’

  I edge to Matt’s side as he inches away from the ball, our mallets knotting between us. Matt’s horse pushes into Begonia and he wins control of the ball, only metres from the goal.

  ‘Get it back! Go on, Emma!’ Nick yells.

  With my heart pounding, I head back as Matt is positioning himself in front of the goal.

  ‘Push him, Emma!’ Nick shouts.

  I pull Begonia’s reins and tap her sides with my feet, this time hoping to add a little more oomph. My wish is granted. However, instead of just edging Matt out of the way and winning control of the ball, Begonia moves so fast that I realise I haven’t only pushed the horse out of the way – I’ve pushed its rider too.

  I watch in horror as Matt is unsaddled and topples off like he’s the top prize on a coconut shy.

  ‘Jesus!’ Matt yells, as he slams into the ground and Nick and Cally ride over.

  ‘Oh God! I’m so sorry!’ I splutter.

  ‘Hey, don’t worry,’ Matt says, wincing in pain as he stands and brushes himself down.

  ‘Is anything broken?’ I offer.

  He flashes me a look. ‘Yes, my pride has suffered several fractures and could be in plaster until February.’

  Chapter 45

  By the time the session is over, I’m exhausted and sweaty – and wishing that the odds on us winning the lottery were anything like Matt predicted. Rubbish as I was, it was undeniably great. And that rush of adrenalin – the one I usually hate – has left me nothing but exhilarated. For a woman who freaks at the sight of a spider in the bath, as Rob pointed out, this is quite a step forward.

  We spend the final twenty minutes watching in wonder as Giles trounces the team he was pitted against. He scores four goals and is a phenomenon – athletic, almost – which is something so at odds with the view I have of him most days (i.e. reaching for the biscuit packet) it’s like looking at a different person.

  ‘I’m pleased with some of the photos I took,’ Matt tells me as we trudge to the car. ‘The light was perfect today. There are some lovely ones of you in your first practice go.’

  ‘Tell me you made me look like I knew what I was doing,’ I groan.

  ‘I’ll show you while we wait for the others.’ He throws his bag into the boot of the car, before climbing into the driver’s seat.

  I slide in next to him, feeling less than enthusiastic. I am the least photogenic person I know. The mere presence of a camera seems to make me gurn spontaneously so that, when someone says they’ve taken a ‘natural shot’, it generally means I look like Goofy having his glands emptied.

  ‘You’ll have to delete that one,’ I begin. ‘Oh, and that. And . . . oh that’s awful!’

  He snatches away the camera. ‘Emma, you look lovely. I thought they were great.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t doubt that from a purely artistic point of view you’ve captured wonderful aspects of light and shade. Matt, you could probably win awards with these. Nevertheless, any artistic talent is entirely negated by one crucial, overriding fact.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘My bum looks big.’

  Before he has a chance to respond, the back doors spring open and Giles and Cally tumble in.

  ‘Oooh, stop it! My sides are hurting,’ Cally hoots, as she slams the door. ‘Oh, Giles – you are terrible.’

  I glance at Giles, but his eyes are fixed on Cally. He’s smiling, providing a full view of several incisors I never knew existed.

  The pair of them spend the rest of the journey giggling like sixth formers on the back of a bus while Matt and I drop into their conversation only intermittently. When we approach south Liverpool, he offers to drop them both at home.

  ‘That’d be fantastic, if you don’t mind,’ Cally says. ‘Although, Mum’s just texted to say she doesn’t mind baby-sitting if I want to go for a drink tonight. I need to get back to see Zachary first and put him to bed but . . . anyone fancy joining me later?’

  ‘Sorry, but I’ve got to get back for the kids. Their mum will be dropping them off soon,’ Matt replies. ‘Plus, I’ve got a few work trips in the next few weeks, then I’m off to Iceland in November, so I want to spend as much time as possible with them when I can.’

  ‘Em?’ she asks.

  ‘Rob’s making Sunday dinner for me.’

  Cally hesitates, glancing at Giles.

  ‘I’ll join you for one.’ And from the look on his face, this doesn’t represent much of a hardship.

  By the time I’ve showered, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and made it over to Rob’s, it’s gone six thirty. He’s made a delicious roast dinner for me, as if his credentials as the world’s most perfect boyfriend could be any greater.

  His roast potatoes are crispy and light, his chicken is as succulent as can be. It’s all home-cooked and comforting and exactly as I’d fancied. We make love afterwards; at least, Rob makes love. I’m so stiff after my session on Woody I manage only the most basic of positions, the sort that tend to prelude a smear test.

  He tries to persuade me to stay, but I always crave my own bed on a Sunday – Monday mornings are challenging enough even when I have all my personal possessions about me. Still, it’s late before I get home and the crunch of gravel on my drive breaks the twilight silence in Grassendale Park.

  The living-room light is still on in Matt’s house, and I imagine him o
n the sofa, editing photos on his laptop after putting the kids to bed.

  I go into the kitchen to flick on the kettle and make a chocolate drink, before taking out the list and crossing off another item. Then I approach the window to close the blinds. At that exact moment, I look up and see Matt drawing his curtains. He stops and catches my eye. We both laugh at the coincidence.

  Then we stop laughing.

  As I gaze through his window across the night air, his expression softens, but he doesn’t move and neither do I.

  He looks away first, glancing down at the windowsill. He bites his lip, looks up again and waves. I wave back.

  Then we both turn away and are gone.

  Chapter 46

  I get to work early the next day so I can send some emails to check the availability of bars on my birthday. The inconvenience of being born in the peak Christmas party season means this necessitates getting in there in good time.

  My heart is set on one venue – Leaf, a tea shop that serves food, drinks of the alcoholic and non-alcoholic variety and, if you fancy it (although I rarely do on a Saturday night), hundreds of varieties of tea. As well as hosting art and vintage markets, music and club nights, it’s available for private hire – which my dad, God love him, is insisting on paying for me.

  I also have to prepare for a meeting Giles and I are having with the animation studio. Usually, the creative director would be joining us, but in the absence of one – and with Perry still doing whatever he’s doing in Austria – it’s just us.

  Giles hates meetings even more than he hates everything else in life that isn’t real ale, heavy metal and technology, but even that doesn’t account for how fine he’s cutting it today.

  He’s normally the first in to work and the last to leave, an obsessive perfectionist who would never contemplate submitting a script that wasn’t honed and polished until you could see your face in it. Only, today, it’s 9.28 before he stumbles through the door.

  ‘Hello, Sir Lancelot – did all that time on a horse yesterday tire you out too much to get up on time?’