Part 11 (2/2)
”Eeeuch!” declared Lauren, perusing the menu. ”Gerski, are you trying to poison us?”
The menu was deadly. Offerings included a meriton of c.o.c.ks combs and a baked pie stuffed with chicken plucks and liver.
”All very healthy. You must try it,” said Oksana. ”The chicken plucks keep the skin soft.”
”So, your friend Mr. Monterey will definitely be at the ice polo tomorrow afternoon,” said Gerski later on in the evening.
”He's not 'my friend,' Gerski. I am here for Faberge cuff link acquisition only,” said Lauren, utterly unconvincingly.
Lauren was, of course, on a mission. She had her sights firmly set on Giles Monterey. For all the flakiness about marriage and love, the debutante divorcee takes her ”work” very seriously. Lauren swished the c.o.c.ks combs around her plate.
”I can't eat this. I feel like I'm in biology cla.s.s. Well...hmmm, Ok...maybe I can get the jewels and score Make Out Number Three at the same time. That would be convenient.”
”How do you know Monterey will be there for sure, Gerski?” I asked.
”Because he's playing. So he better show up or there won't be a game,” replied Gerski.
”G.o.d, a polo player! How hot! I can't stand it,” exclaimed Lauren, nearly bursting with excitement. Noticing Gerski scrutinizing her disapprovingly, she quickly added, ”You know me, Gerski...nothing's ever all business with me, is it?”
”I don't want you getting involved with someone like Monterey,” said Gerski sharply.
”Why not?” asked Lauren, a smile creeping to the edge of her lips.
Gerski just looked at her and sighed. Then Oksana said, ”He's serdtseyed. He's a number-one, top-quality, first-cla.s.s-how do you say it?-heart-eater.”
”Heartbreaker,” breathed Lauren. ”He sounds exactly my type.”
Even gently fluttering snowflakes couldn't disguise the depressing Stalinist architecture of the stadium that Lauren, myself, Gerski, and Oksana drove across town to that Sat.u.r.day afternoon. Cinder blocks are cinder blocks, snow-covered or not. Still, excited, we trudged in our snow boots across the racetrack, dodging ponies and traps racing around it in the snow.
When we finally arrived at the polo field, it was hardly the romantic, Anna Karenina-esque scene I had expected. Moscow's tower blocks loomed in the distance, and the snow on the pitch was muddied and disheveled. Still, inside the tent alongside, the Russian girls were a glittering diversion. Twenty-first-century Dallas is the best way to describe the dress code at the ice polo that afternoon. The uniform consisted of high-heeled s...o...b..ots (honestly, and in case you're wondering, they're YSL), reams of yellow diamonds, and as much fox fur as was humanly possible to load onto one female without crippling her.
The tent was packed, and a Russian folk band was performing loudly at the far end. Sbiten, a hot wine that tastes like boiling maple syrup, was being handed around. Along with the jewels, the furs, and the noise, one thing was for sure: this was not, thank G.o.d, the Bridgehampton polo.
Gerski found some friends, and we joined their table. The polo wasn't due to start for half an hour, so there was much gossiping to be done in the meantime. Suddenly I heard an American voice exclaim, ”Sylvie! Hi! Lauren! Ola! It's so rad to see you here.”
I turned to see Valerie Gervalt walking toward us. She was with Marj Craddock, a waspy girl Hunter vaguely knew from New York, and both their husbands. Decked out in pearls and the palest furs, they looked extraordinarily understated next to the Russian girls. Valerie and her gang flopped down at a table next to ours.
”Isn't Ralph Lauren genius for wearing in the snow?” said Marj.
”I like it better in Aspen,” said Valerie. ”Why aren't we in Aspen?”
”I love it here. Where else can you get away with the Ralph white minky?” replied Marj, stroking her coat.
You know what they say. You can take the girl out of Bridgehampton, but you can't take the Bridgehampton polo out of the girl.
”Is your husband here?” asked Valerie, looking at me. ”I'm dying to meet him. I keep hearing so much about him.”
”He's working in Germany,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders.
”He's never around, is he? Poor thing, he must get so lonely.”
”He's with a colleague,” I said, thinking suddenly of Sophia's language skills.
”Could that 'colleague' be one Sophia?” said Marj, giving me a pitying look. ”I'm glad she's not my husband's 'colleague'! Ha ha ha!”
Everyone laughed, but I can't say I was enjoying this line of conversation. Sensing my discomfort, Lauren cut Valerie off saying, ”They've started! Quick!” and rushed off toward the viewing balcony, which was already getting crowded.
We all watched as eight glistening polo ponies-four on each team-galloped out onto the snowy field. The Moscow Mercedes Team were up against the Cartier International Four.
”There he is, number three,” said Lauren, pointing out a man galloping fast up the far side of the field. ”He's so devastating.”
It's amazing. Lauren's the only girl I know who can see if a man is devastating even if his face is completely obscured by a helmet and safety mask.
Half an hour later, Lauren had changed her mind. Maybe number three wasn't so cute, she decided, after his team had lost resoundingly to the opposition. Jack Kidd, an English player in his early twenties, had skidded around the snow-covered arena at terrifying speed, scoring every goal for the Cartiers. The hero of the game, he was cheered when he stomped into the tent, muddied and sweating, a few minutes later.
Polo kit is designed with one purpose in mind-to make its wearer look like a total hottie. Even Prince Charles used to look like a s.e.x G.o.d when he played polo. Tight, spattered white breeches and hand-tooled leather riding boots have a devastating effect on the female. Add a handsome face and a beautiful smile to the look and you have, in Oksana's words, a heart-eater.
”OK, so he is cute, after all,” said Lauren gazing at Giles Monterey as he walked into the tent. Suddenly she looked flushed. ”Oh, G.o.d, I've got stomach flutters. Am I getting my nervous rash on my neck?”
Swigging a gla.s.s of hot wine, Giles Monterey headed to the far corner of the tent, where he was greeted merrily by a glamorous group of Russians. For someone so elusive he certainly looked very popular. He was conspicuously tall-he must have been six three-and his dark blonde hair was caked to his head with sweat. His face was flecked with dirt from the game, which only made his eyes look bluer and his smile whiter.
”No wonder he's UnGoogle-able,” said Lauren. ”If you could find him on the internet he'd have more groupies than Elvis. I'm so nervous. I can't possibly just go up to him.”
”You have to,” I said, egging her on.
”Maybe if I had six tequilas,” she said, swiping a gla.s.s of wine off a tray and chugging it. ”Ooh, this is strong stuff.”
She grabbed another one, and finally headed, somewhat anxiously, in Monterey's direction. I went back to our table and joined Gerski and Oksana.
From where we were sitting I could see Lauren's progress from the corner of my eye. Dressed in a 1960s Givenchy honey-blonde fur cape and matching hat inherited from her mother, Lauren looked like a very stylish Eskimo. As she approached Monterey, it became quite clear that he had noticed her well before she arrived. He stopped talking to his companion and watched her approach, captivated. As they spoke, his face registered first surprise, then delight. They seemed to chat easily, until, a few minutes later, Lauren put her head close to his and whispered something in his ear. Suddenly, Giles Monterey's face darkened. The smile vanished. He shook his head at Lauren, and they soon parted company.
”It was so weird,” said Lauren.
We were installed in the back of Gerski's Mercedes waiting to leave the parking lot in a line of identical black cars. All of them, including ours, had black, ruched curtains pulled across the windows. It was like being inside a moving funeral parlor, only we weren't moving. The traffic was chaos. No one was getting anywhere.
”What happened?” I said.
”Well, we became absolute best friends in thirty seconds, but when I suggested he might want to sell his Faberge cuff links to Sanford, he freaked. He said, 'Never would I sell anything to that man.'”
”I can't believe you're taking no for an answer, Lauren. That's not like you.”
”You know what? For once, I'm going to quit immediately. There was something about the look on Giles' face when I mentioned Sanford. He won't change his mind.”
”Really?”
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