by Romy Sommer
I only see Khara again that evening at the informal cocktail party in the hotel’s main salon.
I’m late to the party, as usual, though not for any of my usual reasons. I actually started reading Erdély’s constitution and lost track of the time. And now I know that Erdély does have a handful of vineyards, though they only supply domestically.
Max and Phoenix are already mobbed by arse-kissers and attention-seekers, so I grab a Champagne cocktail from a waiter and go in search of my protégée. I find her when I step through the French doors into the hotel courtyard. It’s a warm evening but gooseflesh rises on my arms as I look at her.
She is seated at one of the wrought iron tables dotted around the deserted courtyard. Her hair is tied up, pulled back into a bun so only the barest hint of blue is visible. I miss its wild abandon. Her make-up is still a little more nightclub than cocktail party and she’s wearing a plain black dress which hugs her breasts and waist, and black knee-high boots. Not standard cocktail party wear, but she looks more attractive than any other woman at this party. She looks unique. Something tugs in my chest, which is certainly unusual. That tug is usually far lower down in my anatomy.
“Have we tempted you over to the wild side?” I indicate the bright pink, cherry-decorated Cosmopolitan she’s holding.
She laughs. “Don’t tell anyone, but it’s a virgin cocktail.”
That’s my sister’s trick. She can drink all night and still be sober at the end of it.
Khara frowns. “I should be wearing that pink floral dress from the stylist. I stick out in there like a lump of coal in a box of jewels.” She nods back towards the salon.
“You look gorgeous,” I assure her, and I mean it. “And it’s better to save that dress for tomorrow, when there are cameras around.”
She stiffens, and I reach out and lay a reassuring hand over hers. “Don’t worry – those cameras will be pointed at Phoenix, not at you.”
“That only makes me feel marginally better.”
I laugh. “Are you ready to go mix and practice your new conversation skills?”
She sucks in a breath and squares her shoulders. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.”
I hold her gaze. “Remember: poise is, more than anything else, a result of self-confidence. All you need is to have faith in yourself. You can do this.”
For nearly an hour we circulate the room, and I introduce Khara to some of the other guests. She makes me proud. She stands the way I taught her, looking assured and at ease, and I think I’m the only one who can tell she’s faking it. She makes polite small talk, without mentioning money or politics or religion, and listens carefully, her whole attention focused on the person she’s talking to. I know she’s so focused because she’s concentrating hard, but the other guests are flattered by her interest. She’s a hit.
“Do you know everyone here?” she asks when we get a moment alone.
“Pretty much. Everyone knows everyone else.”
“Geez, it sounds like high school all over again, just on a bigger scale, and impossible to fit in unless you were born into it.”
I shrug. “You don’t have to be born into this world. Marry a title or earn a fortune, and you’re welcomed with open arms. It worked for Phoenix.” I smile to show I’m teasing. I don’t want her to take offence again.
Khara wrinkles her nose. “Thanks, but I think I’ll skip it. It takes money to make money, and I don’t happen to know any eligible single guys with titles.”
Her tone is sarcastic, so I suppress the laugh that wants to bubble up. If she only knew.
“So who is that?” She nods towards a tall, lean man with salt-and-pepper hair.
“The Count of Amiens. He runs a stud farm that breeds highly sought after polo ponies.”
“And her?”
A rather buxom woman in a purple dress that probably cost a fortune but makes her look like a giant aubergine. “Marielle Desmarais. She inherited an international supermarket chain, and her husband is a former professional polo player. He’s refereeing tomorrow’s tournament.”
She points out a few more people, and I tell her who they are. I’m rather enjoying this game. It seems I do know everyone in the room.
She indicates a man across the room. “And McSteamy over there?”
Maybe this isn’t as much fun as I thought. “My team-mate, Mateo.”
“Any chance of an introduction?”
At that moment Mateo looks up and spots us. He excuses himself from the leggy brunette who’s trying to wrap herself around him and strides towards us. Mateo is not only tall and fit for his age, but he’s got that silver fox thing going for him – and I haven’t yet met a woman who can resist his Argentinian accent. It’s never bothered me until now.
“You’re new,” he says to Khara, holding out his hand to her while he gives her a head-to-toe scan, lingering a moment too long on her chest. I flex my fingers to avoid curling them into fists. From his slow, heated smile it seems he likes what he sees. And it’s clear the interest is mutual.
“I’m Khara Thomas.” Her voice is breathless as she places her hand in his.
Mateo bows over her hand in a way I never could. I’m too English to get it right.
“Mateo Alvear de Villegas. Do you need to be rescued from this English rascal?”
“Only half English,” I mutter, but they both ignore me.
Khara smiles up at him. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
I blink. Mateo seems unsure whether that was intended as a brush-off or not. But he smiles again, with that smooth Latin charm that’s as natural to him as breathing. “Not necessary, maybe, but it would be my pleasure.” He’s still holding her hand.
“Actually, Khara and I were about to head out to dinner,” I say brightly. “So if you’ll excuse us?”
“We are?” She looks at me blankly, and I frown meaningfully at her.
“There’s still at least two hours of sunlight left. I thought you might want to go out and explore a little of the town before dinner.”
“You have not been to Chantilly before?” Mateo asks.
She laughs, extricating her hand from his. “I haven’t been anywhere before. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
I place my hand in the hollow of her back and guide her through the crowd towards the hotel reception, eager to leave the party and the stifling conversations and sideways glances.
“Very few women say no to Mateo.” I keep my tone conversational.
Khara darts me an amused glance. “Very few women say no to you too, yet somehow I manage it.”
I forbear to point out that I’m the one she’s leaving the party with. Nor did she refuse to have dinner with me. “I thought you were attracted to him?” I ignore the swift tug of an emotion I can only imagine is jealousy. It’s not something I’ve ever felt before.
She shrugs. “I was. Until he bowed.”
“You don’t like men who bow. I’ll add that to the list of things you don’t like.”
“I don’t trust smooth-talking men, that’s all,” she corrects. “I grew up in Vegas, where smooth-talkers are a dime a dozen. They come in all shapes and sizes, from all walks of life, but they all have one thing in common.”
“Oh?” The doorman opens the hotel’s front door and we step out of the air-conditioned foyer into the warm evening.
“Men like that leave.”
Her father took off before she was born, I remember.
A stone’s throw from the hotel entrance is the grand stone archway that leads to the famous Chantilly chateau. I guide her in the opposite direction, into the town, and we wander down the main street, taking in the sights. It’s a Friday evening and even though it’s late summer, and soon the leaves will be turning, the air is balmy and the sky is still blue as the sun dips down towards the horizon. The pubs and restaurants are full, music and laughter spilling out onto the pavement. We explore the town, making easy conversation as we stroll through the lengthening shadows.
Away from the room full of strangers in elegant clothes, Khara relaxes, loses the tension from her face and her shoulders, smiles more. She has the prettiest smile, rare enough to be magical when it finally emerges. It makes her eyes sparkle.
“I think I’ve died and gone to dessert heaven.” Khara sighs. “So far I’ve counted at least two bakeries, a pancake shop, an ice cream shop, and four chocolate shops.”
When it’s nearly dark, we choose a pub-like bistro with an outdoor seating area. The place is packed, but we find a small table for two outside on the pavement. I order – in French – but this time Khara doesn’t roll her eyes. Maybe because it sounds less pretentious when you’re shouting to be heard over a babble of voices. We order burgers and fries, and the meal is surprisingly good.
The sexual tension still simmers between us, but it no longer burns. Maybe forced proximity is the cure for what I’ve been feeling. Or maybe it’s because this feels like a date, and I know where dates usually end. In bed. Or in the shower. Or up against a wall. And when that happens I’ll stop obsessing over her and be able to get my head back on straight. Get back to what I’m supposed to be doing, which is figuring out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. But thinking of that gives me a headache, so I top up my wine glass.
Despite the noise, we manage to converse, talking about everything and nothing, about movies and books, polo and international politics, swapping stories about our lives. When she tells me she grew up in a trailer park, I’m careful not to let my shock appear on my face. Khara is nothing like the stereotypes I’ve seen on TV.
The stories she tells, of a tight-knit community, of eccentric neighbours and good friends, changes everything I thought I knew about people who live in trailer parks. Her childhood sounds just as happy as mine was. And her high school years sound every bit as awful.
She cups her chin in her palm. “I was ‘lucky enough’ to attend a private charter school. It had an excellent academic record, but didn’t score high on diversity, and no one wanted to be friends with the charity case from the trailer park.”
She doesn’t sound bitter when she says it, but I’m starting to see where she got that chip on her shoulder. I can only imagine how lonely she must have felt. But there has to be something more … Surely she didn’t develop such a deep mistrust of people with money just because she felt like an outsider in school?
“But look who I’m talking to!” She laughs. “Your school would probably have been even worse.”
I laugh. “Socially, my posh public school might have been more diverse than yours. Since it was a boarding school, we had boys from Africa, China, Russia, the Middle East. And a massive bursary programme to attract the best kids from all walks of life. But it was a very rigid school. Hundreds of years of tradition and discipline.” I grin. “Needless to say, I was never very good at doing what other people expected of me.”
As we talk, the strange funk I’ve been in for nearly a year disappears. I don’t usually talk this much with the women I date. Perhaps because most of the women I’ve dated aren’t this interesting. Or this interested.
I’m surprised when I look round and notice that the restaurant has slowly emptied around us. It’s later than I realised.
The crowning glory of the meal makes Khara’s eyes light up. A verrine with layers of chocolate mousse alternating with the local delicacy, thick, vanilla-flavoured crème Chantilly and topped with fresh strawberries.
“This is the best whipped cream I’ve ever tasted,” she moans. “This definitely doesn’t come out of a can.”
“This is the original whipped cream.” I lean across the table to wipe a small dollop from the side of her mouth. Her pupils go large and she holds herself still at my touch, but doesn’t shift away. I sense victory as I lick the cream from my fingers.
We walk back to the hotel in the dark, not touching, though our hands occasionally brush as we walk. The streets are quiet, and the temperature has dipped. I give her my jacket to keep warm as we walk. I certainly don’t need it, not with the desire heating my blood.
The hotel lobby is empty, the cocktail party long over. I walk her to her room, wishing I had more of that Chantilly cream so I can lick it off her when I get her naked.
She opens the door, but doesn’t step inside. Instead, she turns to face me, shrugging out of my jacket and handing it to me. Still lost in that vision of creamy skin, a great deal more of which is now visible, I take the jacket from her.
“Thank you for the lovely dinner.” She smiles, that too-sweet smile that sets off warning bells in my head. “But this waitress is still not on the menu.”
She steps through the door and, while I’m still trying to puzzle out the smile and the words, I find the door shut in my face.
I stare at the closed door and do a double-take.
Not a victory after all. Instead, her words set off an echo in my head, like a distant memory I can’t quite catch hold of. I shake my head to clear the nagging thought.
I could do what I usually do – head to the hotel bar either to see if some other woman is up for a little fun or to drown my sorrows. But I do neither. I head to my own room, to a cold shower and an empty bed, wondering where the hell this date went wrong, and whether I’m losing my touch.
Chapter 13
Khara
Neither Phoenix nor I have the foggiest clue about the rules of polo.
“There are four players in each team, and the match is divided into six sections called chukkas, which are seven and a half minutes each,” she explains. “And that’s the extent of my knowledge.”
The playing field is a vast, manicured lawn which has to be the size of at least eight football pitches. The crowds gathering about the edges are dressed in classy casualwear, not a pair of jeans in sight. The men wear khaki pants and blazers, the women elegant pantsuits or sophisticated sundresses, and everyone wears practical sun hats. My pink floral dress blends in perfectly, and I send up a silent thanks to Adam for insisting I save it for today. Many of the spectators have brought picnic blankets and baskets, but we’re in the VIP enclosure, seated on plastic chairs beneath a white awning which flaps in the light breeze. There’s a bar, where Champagne is flowing like water. Both Phoenix and I stick to real water.
There are cameras and cell phones everywhere but, since most are pointed at the field, I manage to relax a little.
The first match is a women’s event. For such large animals, the horses are astonishingly fast and agile. Players and horses move as one, poetry in motion.
At half time, when the players lead their horses off to be watered and rested, Phoenix grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. “This is the fun part!”
We join the crowd surging onto the field. Apparently it’s a polo tradition for the spectators to spend half-time behaving like excited kindergarteners, running around the field stamping down the clods of earth and grass that the horses’ hooves have kicked up. “It’s called the divot stamp,” Phoenix explains.
Not that she gets much chance to join in the fun. Everyone wants a piece of her, a moment to bask in the attention of the soon-to-be archduchess. There are even a few who ask to have their picture taken with her, and I obligingly act as camerawoman, being careful to frame every picture I take with the half dozen top-of-the-range cell phones so that Phoenix looks good in every one. She told me on the drive here that she never lets anyone take selfies with her, as she can’t be sure what awful pictures will end up on the internet. It makes me laugh, the thought of complete strangers lining up for selfies with her, when I remember her carrying trays of beer or washing glasses or wiping up red wine spills. Or the lazy afternoons we spent at the side of the public swimming pool, the visits to the library, the supermarket, the laundromat. She’ll probably never go to a library, supermarket or laundromat again in her life. Unless she’s there to cut a ribbon to open it.
“How do you cope with all the attention?” I ask when we’re safely back in the VIP enclosure.
“I
t’s the price I have to pay if I want to share my life with Max, and since I can’t even imagine life without him …” She shrugs. “We cope because we’re in this together. We’re stronger because we have each other.”
It sounds cheesy, but it isn’t. Not if you know them, and I sigh with envy. I so want what they have – a true partnership. Though I think I’d miss being able to go to a real library, or do my own grocery shopping, I wouldn’t miss doing laundry.
After the break, the players return to the field with fresh horses, the teams swapping sides. When the ladies’ match is finished (and I have no clue which side won) it’s Adam and Max’s turn. Their match starts when a stunning woman in a figure-hugging sage-green dress throws the ball into play.
Phoenix and I giggle together as we make up our own commentary to go with the action happening on the field. “And then Max takes the quaffle from Adam and runs with it,” she says.
“Oh, no! But look – the man on the brown horse has taken it,” I continue. The crowd cheers. “Does that mean someone spotted the Snitch?”
The play moves away down the field and I squint into the sun. “He feints, he shoots, he … no! He doesn’t score. Looks like he overran the quaffle. I could really use a pair of Omnioculars right now.”
Phoenix squeezes my arm. “This is so much fun. I wish you could stay longer. Are you sure you have to go back to Vegas so soon after the wedding?”
The look I give her is the only answer she needs. When the clock strikes midnight, everyone knows what happens to Cinderella’s coach and ballgown.
I turn back to the match. The ground shakes as the horses thunder past. I may not know anything about the sport but it’s certainly exciting to watch, with the horses covering the massive field almost as fast as ice hockey players. But, unlike hockey players, polo players are dressed in a uniform that displays their assets rather well. There’s a lot of eye candy out on that field.
Max. Mateo. The fourth member of their team, who is barely twenty years old but looks like a supermodel. Despite how many other buff men there are to look at, and despite my best efforts not to, my gaze is constantly drawn back to Adam. Their team is dressed in white pants, riding boots, and forest-green polo shirts. The pants are just tight enough to give a good eyeful, especially when Adam stands in the stirrups and swings himself from the back of one horse onto another, a move that has me anxiously holding my breath until he’s safely reseated.