by Kim Izzo
We meandered through meadows and forests with Pebbles and me bringing up the rear but I don’t think he liked being last in line for he kept crowding the pony in front. I yanked on the reins as I’d been instructed but that seemed to piss Pebbles off even more because when we rode onto an open field he yanked the reins from my hands and took off at a gallop. I heard the trail guide scream to pull back on the reins but I no longer had the reins. I clung on to his neck for dear life until he’d have no choice but to pull up. When we reached the edge of a thick forest I was proven right. Within inches of hitting the tree line Pebbles slammed the brakes so hard that I flew over his head and landed face-first in a thorny bush. I lay there for I don’t know how long, unsure if I should move. I don’t even remember the guide lifting me out, bruised and scratched, but otherwise okay. My fall had terrorized the rest of the girls who had all begun to cry and were begging to dismount their ponies. The birthday girl whined that I had ruined her party and I went home in a huff and without cake. I’ve been terrified of horses ever since.
Orietta ordered a bottle of champagne, but after our glasses had been filled Anthony abandoned us and disappeared into the crowd. I was beginning to think Anthony didn’t like me and wondered if, as a rich man himself, he could sniff out my ulterior motive. Orietta didn’t seem to notice he was gone; she was busy scanning the room.
“When does the polo start?” I asked.
“At three o’clock,” she said, finishing off her second helping of eggs Benedict with a side of steamed mussels.
“That long?” I wondered what we were to do since it was only one o’clock.
“Don’t worry,” she said as though reading my mind. “I’ll make sure you meet people.”
But I wasn’t sure how I was going to meet anyone with us sitting at the table like two wallflowers. The only people who popped by were septuagenarian couples and the waitstaff. I watched as the grandstand adjacent to the clubhouse filled with spectators and across the polo field private tailgate parties were in full swing. Everyone was having a grand time but me. I kept myself busy by eating too much from the buffet. My excuse was I needed to soak up all the champagne; the truth was I hadn’t eaten much since I’d been here. The hotel didn’t comp my food and I didn’t want to spend more than I had to unless I was out with people I needed to impress, so I’d made do with granola bars and apples. If I filled up now I wouldn’t need dinner.
When eventually the polo began, it proved to be more exciting than I expected. Watching as men on galloping horses swung mallets and smashed into each other to score a goal was thrilling and I found myself cheering on the local team. Orietta explained that a polo game consisted of six chukkas of seven minutes and thirty seconds. But like in football, the referee would call timeouts so the first three chukkas took more than an hour to finish. When the clock ran out signaling halftime, Orietta stood up at last.
“Lady Kate,” she said with a slight burp, “this is our chance to mingle.”
I stood up and followed her to the edge of the patio. “Where shall we go?” I asked, scanning the grandstand. I was surprised to see a mass exodus as the crowd made their way down the steps.
“We go get a glass of champagne,” Orietta said with a smile as she teetered on the edge of the patio for a moment before stepping onto the field, her heels sinking into the grass with each step. I followed, determined to make a show of it. But as we progressed toward the champagne truck, I realized that Orietta was in her element. She introduced me to everyone and anyone. “Please just call me Kate; so nice to meet you,” I found myself repeating over and over.
There must have been over a hundred people on the field, all vying for a glass of free champagne. Eventually we made it to the source and I was shocked to see a pickup truck full of crates of Moët, with a man standing on its flatbed, free pouring the champagne as dozens of men and women swarmed him, holding their plastic flutes aloft to catch the drippings.
“It’s like a UN relief truck for the rich,” I said to no one in particular. But someone heard me and laughed. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a fine-boned blond woman wearing a dove gray cocktail dress and a matching gray fascinator with feathers that swirled around her head. Her eyes were hidden under oversize sunglasses, her full lips painted a brilliant red. She raised her glass to me and swanned off. She had to be at least fifty, older even, but she was one of those mature women who seemed ageless, the kind of older woman I wanted to grow into, the kind who could age gracefully and still be hot.
“Who is that?” I asked Orietta. She followed my gaze and smiled. “That’s Fawn Chamberlain. She was a beauty queen when she was a teenager, from the South, Tennessee, I believe. Never had a penny growing up. Now she’s fabulously wealthy and has been married three times. Would you like to meet her?”
I nodded. Fawn Chamberlain looked like a former beauty queen, all right. I had the gut instinct that Fawn knew all too well how to snag a rich man. As we made our way through the crowd Orietta halted abruptly and whispered in my ear.
“Oh, look,” she breathed. “It’s that English friend of yours, Griffith Saunderson.”
“Griff,” I corrected her.
Sure enough, Griff stood not five feet from us with an empty champagne flute in his hand. When he looked in my direction, I smiled and took a step toward him, but instead of acknowledging me he turned away. Was that a snub? Giving him the benefit of the doubt—maybe he hadn’t seen me—I walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and with what seemed a disappointed half smile, muttered, “Oh, it’s you.”
“Didn’t you recognize me?” I asked, ignoring his rudeness.
He looked perplexed. “Yes, of course,” he said in a tone that implied I was an idiot.
I didn’t know what to say next. Luckily Orietta jumped in.
“How lovely to see you, Griff,” she said, beaming. “I didn’t know you were interested in polo.”
“Always like the horse sports,” he said and turning his gaze to me, he stared intensely—was he sizing me up or did I detect derision? I felt the need to cover up, only I didn’t have anything to cover up with.
“So how’s it going with the B and B?” I asked. Despite my discomfort, I was determined to make conversation. After all, he was a familiar face and we had mutual friends, why shouldn’t we hang out together?
“Fine,” he answered brusquely and raised his eyebrow. Clearly, he didn’t feel the same about me. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to find someone.”
And with that, he disappeared into the champagne-mad crowd. I felt my face turn red, which only added to the embarrassment. I shouldn’t let him get to me; what did I care if Griff was rude? I gulped my Moët so quickly I felt ill. Not that it stopped me from fighting my way back to the truck for a second glass. As I stood with Orietta in the crush of people, the alcohol soothing my anxiety, I couldn’t help noticing how young everyone was. Many were in their twenties, including quite a few very tanned, coltish girls squeezed into tiny dresses. These were the very girls my article was aimed at, and more importantly, they were also my competition. It was disheartening. There was no mistaking the allure of young skin, a carefree disposition, and a body that was perky everywhere. I felt the anxiety rise again. What was I doing here? I should be in New York writing this article from the safety and sanity of my life, such as it was, on Ann’s sofa. I needed a third flute of champagne to give me courage. I stepped toward the truck and that’s when I saw Griff, smiling and flirting with a pretty blonde half his age. At least I had my answer as to why he had no time for me. What little remained of my confidence sank as quickly as my third champagne flute emptied. Then I spotted Fawn in the distance, laughing in a small group of men—the unchallenged center of attention. She didn’t seem to mind being the older woman.
“I know what you’d enjoy,” squeaked Orietta, snapping me out of my self-pity. “I’ll introduce you to a friend of mine who owns one of the teams. He’s very fetching.” She led me off the field a
nd I followed rather unsteadily from both the grassy terrain and my bubbly binge, but instead of returning to the clubhouse we went in the direction of the sand rings where a couple of teams seemed to be practicing. I froze. This was what I’d been dreading—being up close and personal with horses.
“I’m not so sure,” I said, trying to think of an excuse fast. “Won’t we get dirty?”
“Don’t be silly.” She laughed. “We’re not going to ride the horses. Besides, the owner is handsome, freshly divorced, and well-to-do.”
I sighed. This was what I was here to accomplish, meeting rich men, yet I felt as enthusiastic as I would about getting a root canal.
We walked past rows of horse vans with polo ponies hitched up to them as grooms darted about with buckets and tack. Orietta stopped abruptly when we came to a trailer that had “Team Madewell” painted on its side.
“Hello! Hello! Is Scott in there?” she called out.
We could hear rustling from inside the dark trailer and within moments, one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen stepped out into the sunlight. He was tall and lithe and wore a navy polo shirt with a crest over his heart; his biceps bulged as he held a bridle in one hand and a large bucket full of soapy water in another. He was swarthy with wavy black hair and equally dark eyes. He smiled at us. His teeth were bright white but naturally so; there was nothing fake about him. “Manly” was the only word I could think of to describe him. I was beginning to understand why there were so many young women around this sport.
“Scott is in the warm-up ring.” He spoke in a thick but entirely discernable Portuguese accent. I felt his eyes on me and blushed.
“Okay, we’ll find him.” Orietta turned and led me away.
“Who is he?” I demanded.
“Bernardo?” she asked as though she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to know. “He’s Scott’s pony manager. Such a cutie pie.”
“I like pie,” I teased.
“Careful,” she warned me. “He’s just a boy, only twenty-five years old.”
I shrugged and followed her to the sand ring. I tried to hang back, not wanting to approach the fence, worried that a sudden breeze would coat my white dress in dust, but Orietta wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, she grabbed my arm and marched me up to the gate where four horsemen were careening around the ring, practicing their swing and defensive maneuvers. We were so close to the horses that I could smell them.
“Is one of these riders your friend?” I asked fretfully. I was desperate to be back at the clubhouse with the champagne and smoked salmon instead of standing here with the flies and manure piles.
“He’s the one on the white pony. Wait until you see him up close,” she gushed. “He looks exactly like that James Bond actor.”
“Daniel Craig?” I asked, suddenly very interested.
“No, no, not that blond man,” she sniffed. “The really handsome one before him. Pierce Brosnan.”
At that, she proceeded to jump up and down and wave until the riders couldn’t help but notice. Terrified that her flailing arms would spook the horses, I took a step back and felt my heel squelch and sink into something soft. Manure. Mortified, I surreptitiously wiped my heel on a patch of grass and moved back to Orietta’s side as the man on the white pony trotted over to us. As he got closer I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me. Polo pony my ass, the horse was huge, and it was breathing hard, red nostrils flaring, veins popping all over its body, it looked like it belonged to one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
The rider removed his helmet and I felt a smile spread across my face. He really did look like Pierce Brosnan. My odds of falling in love with a rich man just improved.
“Hello, Orietta, it’s been ages,” he beamed. “How have you been? Anthony well?”
“We’re both divine. Scott Madewell, this is Lady Katharine Shaw,” she said proudly. “But she prefers Lady Kate.”
I smiled up at him. One thing was for sure; he was handsome and very sexy. He managed to be masculine even in a yellow polo shirt and tight white riding pants. I guessed he was in his late fifties, older even; I’d never been attracted to a man his age before and wondered briefly what sex with a man his age would be like. Not that it mattered. Scott was indisputably attractive—I could picture him in a tuxedo ordering a martini, shaken, not stirred all right. My confidence began to rise. To him I was still a pretty young thing.
“Lady Kate, it’s such an honor to have you in our little corner of the world,” he said graciously. Our eyes met and lingered. Ding, ding, ding. I felt a definite spark flare up between us. This day wasn’t a dud after all. Screw New York and Ann’s sofa! To heck with Griff and his blond friend! I was in the presence of a true gentleman.
“Lovely to meet you, but please just call me Kate,” I said with a note of flirtatiousness. What sort of compliment do you give a polo player? “Good riding,” I said as poised as I could. Then immediately second-guessed if that was a dumb thing to say. Apparently not. He jumped down from his horse—in my opinion a clear signal that he was interested—so I continued my horsey-set small talk.
“How often do you play?”
“Not nearly enough to beat the Argentineans today,” he said with mock solemnity, then asked me. “Do you play?”
“No,” I answered quickly, then immediately regretted it. I needed to find common ground. Thinking fast, I added with as much authenticity as I could muster; “I mean, my family used to. But we haven’t kept horses on the estate since granddaddy had a bad fall years ago, after the war.”
Orietta beamed at me, overjoyed that she’d brought an aristocrat into her inner circle.
“You sound American. Where’s your estate?” Scott asked, eyes still locked on mine, a playful grin on his worldly face.
“I live in New York,” I answered. “But I inherited the estate from my Scottish side.”
“A Scottish lass? No wonder you’re so beautiful,” he said with a naughty look. We were definitely getting somewhere, and fast. Then he asked something that tripped me up completely. “What sort of game do you keep there?”
I didn’t know what to say; I was much better at flirting than discussing my fake past. My mind raced for an answer. “Croquet,” I said at last. But from his puzzled expression I knew it was the wrong answer. “We play cricket, too, but only during summer,” I continued hopefully. He seemed to be stifling a laugh.
Orietta cleared her throat. “That’s very nice, Lady Kate, but I think what Scott meant was what shooting birds are on your estate, such as grouse.”
Now it was my eyes that widened, only in horror.
“Oh, you mean animals!” I laughed as if it were Scott who had made the error. “No birds, unless you count peacocks.” But that sounded dumb, too, so I quickly added, “We have cattle. We keep Highland cattle.” Good God, what had gotten into me? I knew nothing about cattle. But Scotland had highlands didn’t it? Wasn’t that a good place for cows? He smiled politely but I couldn’t tell by his expression if he was impressed or more confused.
“So, is this your first polo match?” he asked, wisely changing the subject.
“Yes it is,” I admitted. “I loved it. I would definitely watch another match.”
“But there is still half a game left to see.” The voice came from over my shoulder with an accent that packed a sultry European punch. I watched as a young woman looked straight through me and beamed her assets at Scott. She had long blond hair, which, as she got closer, I could see were extensions. She had large breasts that were corseted inside a push-up bra, and bee-stung lips painted a dewy pink. Her dress was pale lavender and she wore silver gladiator sandals. She couldn’t be older than twenty-one, if that. She glided up to Scott and curled herself around him. I felt invisible.
“This is Tatiana,” Scott announced. “She’s visiting from Slovenia. Aren’t you, my dear?”
“I am,” she purred and kissed his cheek.
Well, that’s that, I thought. So typical that all the interesting
men were taken and by girls young enough to be their daughters. What an idiot I was assuming that at forty, I would be young enough! I sized up Tatiana. She would be tough to beat. I felt my confidence sinking once more. She could write the damn article better than me!
“This is Orietta del Bianco, she’s Palm Beach’s most elegant hostess,” he said making pitch-perfect introductions. “And this is her friend Kate.”
Tatiana gave me a critical up-and-down gaze, but laid on the charm when she spoke.
“Nice to meet you, I hope you enjoy your visit here.” Then she sniffed dismissively and turned her eyes back to Scott. I instantly despised her. Just then Orietta’s cell phone blared.
“Hi, Anthony,” she squeaked. “Oh, all right, I’m on my way.” She snapped her phone shut. “I have to race back to the clubhouse; one of my husband’s business partners just showed up with his new girlfriend and his ex-wife is livid and has thrown vodka in the poor girl’s face.”
“How awful!” I said.
“I can take you in my golf cart,” Scott offered generously.
But Orietta wouldn’t hear of it. And she flatly refused my offer to walk back with her. “You stay here and learn about polo,” she said with an obvious wink and darted away, leaving me alone with the happy couple.
“Do you play polo?” I asked Tatiana.
“I can ride,” she said, tearing her eyes off Scott just long enough to answer. “But I do dressage. It’s much harder than polo.”
“That’s not true,” I corrected her, even though I hadn’t a fucking clue what dressage was, but I did have a clue how men liked to be defended.
“Oh, do you ride, too?” she asked me with a raised eyebrow.
“Whenever I can,” I lied. Then I turned my attention to the animal in front of us. “Very beautiful horse. What’s his name?”
“Jackson,” Scott said proudly. “You can give him a pat, if you like.”
I froze, not expecting such an invitation.
“I don’t want to get dirty,” I said with a smile, using the white dress as an excuse for the third time that day, but Tatiana wasn’t buying it. It was as though she could smell my fear and wanted to go in for the kill.