Green Tea Won't Help You Now! (11 page)

"They play the best polo in Argentina. I wondered if you had been to any matches down there."

"I hardly ever was in Argentina." No, this was the most blatant lie.
 

"Did you know that they play on a field eight times as large as a football field?"

"No."
Yes.

"Each team has four players and they play seven sets."

"Aha."
They are called chukkas! Not sets! And they play eight!

We stopped the car among a pile of luxury cars on a meadow filling out as the event's parking lot.

"The rackets are hand-made and the pro players even get them custom-made."

"Is that so...?"
They are called mallets! Not rackets!

"The best horses are bred in Argentina."
Ponies! Ponies! They are polo ponies! Well, I call them horses, but I'm a pro.

I was already fed up with him. If you want to turn a woman off, explain something to her she knows far better than you and muck it up.
 

Imagine, I went on telling him:
look, that's what they call snow, and here (holding up a sled), this is a snowboard.

 
I checked myself. I was being unfair. I was not fed up with him, I was fed up with polo!
 

Alex took me by the hand and pulled me towards the field.
 

As always, everything was über-tasteful and über-exclusive. Right away, it got my hackles up. I wanted to puke into the first champagne bucket I encountered.

The event sponsors included the most expensive jeweller, the most discreet private bank, the most sophisticated car manufacturer and, hurray, my father's stud farm, "
Reyes del Viento CF
".

Alex's Spanish was obviously non-existent. "What does
Reyes del Viento
mean?"
 

"Kings of the wind."

"Suitable."

HELP!

A voice sounded over the speaker. "Dear friends of the Beverly Hills Polo Club, welcome to today's final of the International Masters Gold Series. We have seen great high goal polo so far, but now it's time for the game we all have been waiting for."

Alex whispered to me. "The guys with the high goal handicaps are the good ones. It's not like golf. The best players in the world have from five up to ten goal handicaps, but there are only twenty people in the world with a ten and they're all Argentinians."

"
I see."
All but Martin Higaldo-Ferguson, who's from Uruguay and my own beloved brother, who holds a British passport.
 

The speaker continued
. "
We all witnessed how they dominated the field in Santa Barbara. Today they meet here in Los Angeles for the series final encounter. The two teams are entering the field as we speak. Give a welcoming applause to Team Sycamore and to Team La Hermosa."
 

Alex was happily scanning the field, whereas I was unhappily scanning the audience. In the US, the polo crowd was small. At least in Argentina the important Polo Cups are played in stadiums. It makes for more anonymity.

"I think they use more than one horse for a match."
 

"Hm..."
One player uses fifteen to twenty horses per game in high goal polo!

"Here they come."

If you thought it could not get any worse for me, dear reader, you are wrong.
 

It could.
 

It did.

The speaker began to read out the player names.

I had slept with all of them, except one.
 

There present on horseback were fifty percent of all the men I had had sex with in my thirty years of life. (You see, I'm not as bad as I make myself sound. They were only fourteen men in total, but I used to employ a geo-political rotation system. I don't include my acts of oral prostitution in boarding school in this count because I would book them under heavy petting only.)

"For Team Sycamore, with the number one, one of two ten-goal players in today's encounter, Juan Martin Vargas."
I was nineteen and he was twenty-one.

"With the number two and a handicap of eight: Narciso Juarez McMahon."
I was twenty-one and he was nineteen, but he looked much older.

"Sycamore's number three, also with a handicap of eight, Sean Jerez-Jerez-Favilla."
The one I never slept with, because he's my cousin.

"And the number four, the defense player, with a handicap of nine, Mariano Herrera."
Several times. Early twenties.

"Now we present you Team La Hermosa. The number one, and a handicap of nine, Rodrigo Gallante."
Ah yes, Rodrigo. We did it only once and it sucked. His mallet was not custom made for me.

"The number four, the eight-goaler Jonathan Ruiz."
Jonathan and I were a couple for over a year, when I was nineteen and spent my first year away from school at my father's stud farm. I cheated on him with Juan Martin.

"And here he is, wearing the number three but the undisputed number one ranking player in the world, with a ten goal handicap, the legend, Polo Superstar Sebastián Farley-Mendoza!"
He was the one who mattered. The only one who ever mattered. He robbed me of my innocence when I was sweet fifteen and he was twenty-five. He played for my father's team and was whipped off the property when we were found out. Oh, Sebastián... He was also the most recent candidate, since I had a short and dramatic affair with him a few months before I met Kyle. Sebastián was married, of course, to my cousin Amanda, who was Sean's sister. Sebastián. The one who tore me to pieces.

"And last but not least, again with a handicap of eight, Eduardo Gonzales-Cardoso."
Just like Mariano, he had been a serial offender. The defense players are reliable booty calls.

If you think it sounds improbable that all my Argentinian exes should participate in one single match of polo, think again. The polo community is very small. It is a hobby for a tiny ultra-rich community. The Argentinians are by far the best players with the best ponies. My father was the captain of the Argentine national team and is the country's most important breeder. If you are the daughter of Argentina's most important polo don, the only guys you will ever meet over there are the professional polo players. Wherever you go in the world, if you visit a high goal polo tournament, you will always encounter the same players. My brother and my cousins had slept with the sisters and cousins of all the guys I had slept with. If they had not married them, that is. Am I making sense?

The referee gave the signal and the first chukka was on its way.
 

"Would you like something to drink?"

"What?" I had been so caught up in my reminiscence.

"I see you're spellbound already. I asked you if you wanted a drink."

"Oh, yes, sure. Sparkling water would be great."

"I'll try to get hold of some. I may have to dig a well. These people only drink champagne. Strange folk."
 

As soon as he was gone, I took out my phone and wrote a text to Ryan. "
Date took me to BHPHC Gold Series Fin. Syc. vs La H. I want to die.
"

Much to my surprise, the answer came only seconds later.
 

"Hilarious! Looks like you have a pony in each chukka... Did you introduce date to Dad?"

"OMG
NO!"

At least, I mused, I could not run into any past lovers out here on the sidelines, since they were all busy galloping back and forth on the playing field.

Alex returned with my water much faster than I had expected and I was preparing to go into fainting mode, when he saw someone by one of the sponsor tents. "Can you excuse me for another second, I just saw my neighbours and they saw me too. I have to say hi."

"Go ahead."

My father discovered me two minutes later.

"Laetizia! My little pet! I thought you hate polo. What are you doing here?" He crushed me against his broad chest. I am the baby of the family and my father treats me accordingly. "Did you try to call me to tell me you were coming here,
pequeña
? I had no missed calls. Do you think my phone is broken? I don't know how to use these modern machines."

"No, I'm here with a friend."

At seventy, Augustin Corvera-Fabergé, the artist also known as Dad, was still a striking figure. There was not a woman over forty who did not turn her head to look after him. He was very tall and very fit and very elegant in his riding breeches and leather boots.
 

"A friend? A friend? What friend? Where is the friend?"

"He met someone."

"He leaves you standing here all alone? What kind of a friend is that? Huh? I want to meet him. I want to see who disrespects my little flower. I will take his
cojones
into my hands and squash them."

"Papa, calm down."

"Calm down? I? I am calmness itself. I was born calm." To emphasise his statement, he shouted over the field like a man possessed. "Sean! If you crash the horse into Sebastián one more time, I'm going to tear out your windpipe!"

All this was happening in rapid Spanish.

"My darling, look at your hair, where did it go? Take off the glasses, take off the glasses. I want to look at you. Show your papa your eyes, no? Better. Yes, I like the hair. You look very pretty. Like your mother. The others are more like me, but you always were like Frederica. "

Despite the fact that Frederica, my mother, had ceased talking to my father almost twenty years ago, he still referred to her as if she were waiting for him in the VIP tent.
 

"How do you like your niece? Very small, am I right? But one forgets how small babies are. You were a fat baby, I remember it well. A very fat baby. — Narciso, you're a blind idiot! Look at the ball! You've been looking at some woman's tits!"
 

He has this terrible habit of jumping from one thing to another when he talks.

"Papa..."

"Yes, my darling. I have ordered chicken Pu Yi for you for tonight."

"You said so on my mailbox."

"Did I? Huh. I must have. Great, great. You know, I'm happy for your mother that she is a grandmother now. It might give her a new perspective in life."

"Let's hope so."

"We must never give up hope. Your brother has also turned into a human being. He is a decent polo player, but he was never a decent man until he met the girl. I have been on the telephone with your sister and she agrees. I wonder why
she
never has any babies."

I smiled. "Who knows."
 

He had no idea my sister's marriage was a farce, albeit a happy one. Her husband had a boyfriend of long standing and Camille herself was simply not interested in love. But who would dare to tell him?

"My pet, my pet, my pet. We brought plenty of wonderful ponies along with us from home. Would you like to see them? Ride a little?"

"No, Papa. Really. I can't, I'm waiting here for my friend."

"Where is this friend, what kind of a friend is he?"

"Papa."

"I don't tolerate any such friends of yours, you never had a good hand with men, you always took the bad ones. Look at Sebastián, the vain bastard, he thinks because he plays polo like a god he is allowed to do as he pleases. But not with me. You can come and inspect the ponies, you don't need to wait for anybody. My daughter is nobody's doormat!"

"Papa, please, daddy, I can see him coming, will you please, please, please pretend that we don't know each other?"

"What?"

"Please, you're the very best Papa in the world if you do."

"I,
pequeña
? I hope so. If your mother did not make such a fuss all the time, I could be there for you, like I used to."

Alex walked up behind me and towered over both me and my father. "Is everything alright, Trixie? Is this man molesting you?"

Now my father switched into his terribly accented English. "Am I molesting her? This, what did you call the girl, this Trixie? Miss Trixie, am I molesting you?"

"No, you are not, Sir. Thank you for your kind explanations."

"My kind explanations. Yes, yes. —
Sebastián! Vete para la verga
!"

"I think we should better go somewhere else," I whispered to Alex. "The gentleman's clearly not right in the head."

"I agree."

"Chicken Pu Yi!" shouted my father to remind me with his usual subtlety of our dinner engagement.

"Wow, what a lunatic. He looked so sophisticated."

"Maybe a horse hit him in the head."

We walked about a hundred yards farther. It was not far enough.

My father's bellowing had been heard by its addressee. Shortly into the second chukka, when the referee halted the game, one of the riders stopped his horse right in front of me as if by accident. I knew the auburn hair and the tanned, freckled skin. He was still phenomenal, even at forty. His Irish ancestors had left their mark on him. He negligently turned his head sideways and his forest green eyes glazed over me in a casual fashion.

He growled something I would roughly translate with 'look what the cat dragged in'. I did not react. He felt induced to say something more. His eyes moved back and rested on me.
"Te quiero todavia, lo sabes? Que haces con èl? -
I still want you, you know? What are you doing with him?
"
 

I wanted to jump over the fence and push him off the horse, beat him up with his mallet and kick his balls until he fainted.
 

Sebastián.

How much pain had I suffered, how many nights had I wished on the stars that they would make him mine? He had married my cousin when I was only twelve years old and I had loved him to the brink of madness. It was around the time my brother Simon died, when my mother threw my father out of the house. My grief found a catalyst in him. I remember sitting in St. Cecil's school chapel every morning, praying to God, he would give him to me. If only I could have Sebastián, I was sure my life could be good again. It was one of those prayers the Almighty should have left unanswered. But in the summer I turned fifteen, he came to me. It was winter on the southern hemisphere and by 7 pm it was dark outside and the estancia was silent. I had been cleaning my gear in the tack room when he suddenly stood there, tall and lithe and devastatingly handsome. "
Hola guapa
- hello beautiful," he said. He asked me if anybody was with me, but there was an important football match on TV and all the men were watching it, so I shook my head. He told me he loved me, but that I was too young and he had needed to marry a rich woman to afford his horses, he did not want her, he never slept with her. He asked me if he could come to my room at night, if I would let him in through the window if he climbed the wall. I nodded. That night he came and he made beautiful love to me. From then on he came every night... He promised me he would leave his wife for me when I turned eighteen, but for the time being, he needed a wealthy woman to pay for his sport. When I left for England I was sore with longing, I even got my mother to allow me to go to Argentina for Christmas. I flew back there on the wings of desire and when I arrived he told me he had cried every night from the pain of missing me. We made love out in the fields. In the end it was my cousin Amanda, Sebastián's wife, who found us out. She alerted my father and he caught us in the act. He marched up to us, bullwhip in hand. He lashed at the running Sebastián and screamed he should never show his face at our estancia again, that he was a money grubbing, calculating son of a whore. I pleaded and begged my father to leave him be, I told him Sebastián loved me and I loved him, but my father did not listen. Later that day my father sat me down and told me Amanda was four months pregnant. He said Sebastián would have divorced her for me one day, not because he loved me, but because I was one of the richest girls in the world. It was the pregnancy that shocked me most, because he had sworn he never touched her. It was the same old lie every "other" woman in the world has heard for times eternal. It broke my young heart. He never tried to get close to me again. Because of him I slept with the other players. I wanted to punish him, I wanted to let him know he was not the only one who wanted me, how I could have them all, all the pretty, rich boys. I got together with Jonathan to prove to Sebastián and to myself I could love somebody else. After one year the story with Jonathan grew tepid and I returned to England. Fortunately, I was called to the British Eventing team for the Beijing Olympics. Sinclair de Beausejour and I were winning big time all over Europe and the future looked bright. But the horse died. I fled to Argentina again and this time I found solace in the arms of young Narciso, but it had been Sebastián I wanted. Somehow life lost its purpose in those days. I started to go out more and I started to drink a lot of alcohol. My sister got married to Laurent and they were very involved in the yachting community. They took me along. I began to drift. I took the occasional pill in a nightclub and there was always somebody who had a bit of cocaine up their sleeve. I was numb. My home was broken, my horse was dead and with it my career. I gave up on myself. There was nobody to pick me up. Camille never had a sensitive bone in her body, she did not see what was going on. Ryan was too busy making money as if his life depended on it. As soon as I had left school my mother had left England and moved to her finca in Mallorca so I had nowhere to go. Living on a yacht was the logical solution. I was at home without ever staying anywhere. My finances were limitless. My grandfather had left me close to three billion dollars and my brother had the audacity to double it within a few years. I had nothing to strive for. Then one day, not quite five years ago, Camille and I had just got back from our father's house in Palm Beach—where everybody spends the winter polo season—when a voice hailed me from the side. I had drunk very little that night because I always tried to behave in my father's presence, therefore my senses were quick and I recognised the voice right away. It went through me like a blade. "Titia... don't run away, I want to talk to you", he said. He said he thought I looked very sad and how sorry he had been when he read about Sinclair's death, how a horse like him was one in a million. He told me Amanda had stayed in Argentina with the children. He told me he was fed up with polo, how he wanted to be free, how he regretted the life he had chosen, how he longed for a way out, a simpler way of life. He had aged well, the slight creases that appeared around his eyes gave him more depth. I was tired and weak. I let him take me to a bar, then I went with him to his place and I let him have me again. He was a wonderful lover, I have to give him that. Most guys I had been with had not been all they had made themselves out to be. He was passionate, but patient, he did not talk irritating nonsense, he never made disturbing noises, he had no disgusting habits, he could handle a woman like he could handle horse and ball. With grace and power and with the right touch. I fell in love with him all over again, believing the beautiful lies he told me. I met him in secret, nobody could know we were at it again. I felt alive once more, full of purpose, I had a goal. After all, I told myself, had it not always been him? Had not God sent him to me? Was he not the promised land? No, he was not. Amanda was back and again, she found out about us, this time, she did not run to my father, this time she told Sebastián he would never see his children again if he did not stop seeing me. It was legally impossible, I told him, he should divorce her and be with me. He said he would only do it if I promised him to marry him. I saw the red flag then and there. It was only the money, still the money. There had been a Venezuelan beef heiress, too, at the same time. I left Florida and returned to my life as a drifter who had lost her faith in the world. And then came Armageddon. On a lovely September day, four years ago exactly, I walked along the quay at the Monte Carlo Yacht Show and I was struck by lightning. My golden prince had shown at last. All the scars Sebastián had left were healed by the magical apparition leaning against the rail of a mega yacht, holding a glass of Champagne. He saw me too and cheered. I gave him a big smile and he asked me if I wanted to take a look at the boat or if I wanted to do something more interesting. I said I wanted to do something more interesting and he said, "are you in for speed?" He took me out to the open sea on a Garibaldi high-speed boat. He had brought gin and tonic and half the cocaine reserves of Columbia. Kyle. He was such a gentleman, no Argentinian macho, but suave, funny, well-educated. He had the most beautiful cock I had ever seen and the stamina to match it. I was addicted to Kyle and the more time I spent with him, the more addicted I got to the drugs he gave me. He was a yacht broker. He made a living collecting commissions on the yachts he sold or chartered out. It was good money, but it was nothing compared to my wealth. We travelled from one exclusive destination to another, higher than the moon on sex, drugs and booze. Six months later, he proposed to me and I accepted. I was delirious. But before we got married he wanted to be written in on my business deals, my companies, my shares, real estate and other assets. My brother refused to give him access and had Kyle's finances checked in return. Turns out, Kyle was deeply in debt. He asked me what it mattered, I had more than the both of us could ever spend in a lifetime. I said we would need to make a prenuptial contract. He exploded. A week later, I discovered he had pawned my jewellery. I said I could not marry him if I could not trust him. He hit me black and blue and called me a moronic, gullible bitch. I was too weak to call the police or sue him. Instead, I had a nervous breakdown. I am kind of high strung, I guess. My father and Ryan, for once of an opinion, dragged me off to a rehab in Arizona where they got me off cocaine but on sleeping pills. The place was a total nightmare. Nurses who spoke to me as if I was a three year old. Patronising doctors who believed I was not only an addict, but also stupid. I released myself, pretending things were good. I went to visit
my mother for a week until her pseudo ascetics nearly drove me to the bottle again. I decided I had led an okay life on the jet set circuit and I could do it without drugs or booze as long as I had my sleeping pills. They had some fascinating effects. I chewed them like M&Ms. It went alright until I ran into Kyle in the marina of Porto Cervo in Sardinia. He was accompanied by Anna Litovskaya. You know her, the model who is in almost every underwear advertisement at the moment. Strange mouth, funny jaw. He saw me, sneered, "Oh Fuck off, it's Snow White", and pushed past me, dragging Anna along. I kept a stiff upper lip for a few more hours because it was the night of our annual family party and I knew Ryan was bringing Poppy Jude along for the very first time. She had been a year above me at St. Cecil's and I had not seen her for over a decade. Watching my ever detached, superior and cold hearted big brother brought to his knees by love and me being all alone and unloved was too much for me to handle. I collapsed on the rear deck where I was found by Poppy Jude and dragged away to the Myrtle. The rest is history. I flew to Berlin, I recovered, I went to India and Nepal, and I moved to Venice to become Trixie Beaumont.