My Favourite Part

21: a honey-eyed lolly

This is my first time in an Aston Martin DBS Superleggera, and it rides smoother and cleaner than any other fast car on the market. I wouldn't know that, of course, but Freddie's told me in 4 different ways since we left.

I think we're almost there. I've managed to avoid any probing topics with Freddie thus far, swerving all the so, where did you guys meet kind of questions, and enjoying the smooth, clean ride. Freddie's more than happy to do all the talking anyway, except he doesn't seem to actually say much. Although he does say a lot of 'oh my wow', with very crisp enunciation. That and 'oh my fuck'. I figure it's a posh thing.

"It looks pretty full..." I say, peering around as we reverse into the polo club car park. It's packed, and every space is occupied by some new class of Mercedes or BMW.

Freddie chuckles politely and keeps driving through the lot. When he looks over at my plain expression, he says it again,

"Oh my fuck, you're not joking. Well, we, er, we have a box."
"A box?"

At the end of the parking lot is, indeed, a large box, of about 10 spaces, marked out in white paint: RESERVED FOR MACKLIN & CO.

"Oh. Right, a box, okay."

He laughs as we back into one of the spaces,

"Christ, where did he pull you out from?"

I'm not sure if he means that as a genuine question or a condescending rhetorical one, but either way, I pretend to be too intrigued by the game to hear him.

I've seen polo on TV a few times, usually when Harry falls off his horse and makes headlines, so about once a year, but in person it's so much more impressive. The players have this amazing control, of the horse and the mallet, but seem to have this air of chatty sportsmanship, making funny comments to one another in between the powerful downward strikes – sometimes during.

When the car comes to a soft and soundless stop, Freddie climbs out, and I follow suit, although I get the impression that I wasn't supposed to from his puzzled expression and opening-closing mouth that actual words don't manage to leave. He's pointing at the door, though.

"Oh, was I supposed to wait?"

"No, no, I mean, if you want to open the door you can open the door, it's a free country, although I don't mind doing that for you, you know, I don't mind being gentlemanly, and opening the door for you, it's no trouble at all, really, I-" Christ, he sounds like he's malfunctioning.

I hope my smile doesn't look as amused as it feels. I have to raise my voice a little over his babbling, but I try and put him at ease,

"Got it, Freddie," he's stopped, so my voice falls back into its quieter register, "I'll wait next time."

He's breathless, but he nods thankfully before going to the trunk of the car. Note to self: chivalry is alive and kicking.

Looking around, the crowd looks as sophisticated as I'd imagined it, with champagne flutes bubbling, men in straw boater hats, and ladies in... skirts much longer than mine. Apart from mine, I don't see a pair of legs in sight. The sun's out, so I thought I'd wear a little sundress, but shit, was there a dress code I missed?

"Freddie?"

"Yah?" He says, walking around the car with his own straw hat on now.

"Uh," my eyes dart up to the boater, "is there some sort of dress code here? Or rule about skirt length, because I..." I don't finish, but he seems to understand, and waves his hand dismissively as he starts walking towards the field.