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.

"The important rules are obvious, Angie, and I think you'll find that the unimportant ones don't tend to apply to you – to us." What does that mean?

I start to ask, but he barely finishes his sentence before a decisive horn sounds, and he yells with hands cupped around his mouth,

"Aubs!" I'm not sure he's supposed to do that, and I cringe a little when every guest and player turns their attention turns to us, but when the riders get down from their horses and the helmets come off, Eric sways his arm in the air, waving back at us, his pleasant expression growing into a surprised smile when he spots me. He puts a finger up, just a sec, and shakes a few hands, pats a few backs. The final hand seems to want a longer conversation than the others.

"Who's that?" I ask Freddie. They're the last to take their helmet off, but their air is confident, comfortable.

"Must be Lolls," he says more to himself than to me, "Louisa," he adds, as though I should have any clue who that is.

When Eric starts to jog over to us, 'Louisa' pokes the stick-end of her mallet lightly into his back. When she takes off her helmet, she's grinning cheekily, laughing about something or the other, and when she shakes her long hair, it fucking ripples. Holy shit, she's gorgeous.

Her hair and brows are dark, and from here her eyes look dark, too - upturned and bold. I don't know if it's jealousy or captivation, but I can't stop staring. Suddenly, at something Eric says, her eyes meet mine, directly and intensely, and the two start to walk towards us. Shit, shit, shit, why is she coming over here? Did she feel my staring?

"You know, Louisa and I used to go out."

"Oh, really?" I say, using as few words as possible so I don't throw up from nerves.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, before all this 'liking girls' business." Huh?

"Louisa likes girls?"

"Claims to," Freddie scoffs, "but to tell you the truth, I just don't think she ever got over me." Oh, God. He's one of those guys. Freddie, you just get better and better.

"When did you guys break up?"

"Um, summer of '13, I think?"

"As in, 2013?" As in 7 whole years ago?

"Uh-huh."

"Ah." Dumped Freddie and isn't into Eric... Louisa doesn't seem so bad.

Every step brings me closer to my Eric, and God, I missed him, but I'll be too shy to say it here.

"God, I missed you." He says it for me as soon as I'm within his reach, wrapping his large arms around me in a tight, warm hug. He's smells like musky sweat, but I don't mind.

"I missed you more." I say quietly, with a shy smile.

"Where's my hug for bringing her then, hey?" Freddie jokes, and Eric's tight, polite smile makes me stifle a laugh. Neither he, nor Freddie's alleged ex-girlfriend, who's given him no notice at all, seem to be Freddie's biggest fans either.

"This is her," he says to Louisa, and I've decided that I like the this is her thing – it makes me sound special, enigmatic.

She's looking right at me, and I was right about her eyes – they're dark like honey, or brown sugar, and alive with intrigue. Her rose-coated lips stretch into a smirk, and she surveys me when she speaks,

"So, you're the latest model... Oh, Auby... you've got your very own Tess of the D'Urbervilles." She says, and the words roll off of her tongue as though referencing literary characters when meeting new people is a habitual amusement of hers.

"A pure woman faithfully presented; I'll take that as compliment, I think..." People often forget the full title, and it's cocky to cite, but it's the first thing that comes to my mind and out of my mouth.

I say it with a challenging cocked eyebrow, and hers raise too, impressed, as though she hadn't expected a response from me. I wonder if I should take offence when she looks at Eric with delighted astonishment, like my mouth is a testament to him, but instead, I feel a little proud to hold my own in front of the tall, honeyed-eyed girl.

"So, you're pure, are you?"

I blush at the implication, and my gaze turns bashful and drops. Hers is unwavering. Eric rolls his eyes at her, holding me to his side,

"You'll have to excuse her, Evie, she finds herself rather witty. This is Louisa, second cousin and principal fiend who relentlessly dragged me out this morning."

Ah, cousin! Second cousin! ... So why is she staring at me like she's going to eat me?

Louisa laughs, but it doesn't soften her defined, pouty look somehow,

"I'm also the principal fiend buying the drinks to drown Auby's losing soul in. Do you drink, Evangeline?" When she says my name, she enunciates every syllable, like she's tasting it with the tip of her tongue.

"Yeah..." I say, although my undecided tone makes it sound as though I'm trying to convince myself more than her.

"She drinks socially and graciously," Eric steps in, emphasising his words to Louisa's entertainment, "meaning that you needn't corrupt her."

"Oh, Auby, never! Do you really think so low of me?" When she speaks, she's both frisky and fearless, and as intimidating as it is, I'm hanging on every pert word.

I squeeze Eric's hand gently, and mouth Auby? I heard Freddie call it out earlier, but I didn't know he was talking to Eric.

Louisa's sharp honey eyes catch it, and they home in just like Freddie's did on Ana's legs,

"Oh my fuck," she says it too, "you haven't told her about Auby!"

"Oh, Christ, here we go." Eric laughs, and he's the most magnetic I've ever seen him, with his slicked back hair, gentlemanly grin, and diplomatic charm. If this is the Eric I'll have for the next week, there'll be no complaints from me.

"Once when we were kids, 3 or 4 or something, following our mums 'round shopping in Paris, we stopped for tea at Le Baudelaire. And I think your mum, no no, it was my mum! My mum asked for two highchairs, and the server says mais il n'y a qu'un bébé..." She inserts the flawless French so perfectly that I suspect it's her second language, and I feel Eric chuckling softly beside me, although I didn't know he spoke French.

Every time he puts his hand out to stop her, she laughs and slaps it, continuing with renewed zeal,

"... So, they look down, and it's just little me standing there, and everyone's in a panic. We rush out of the restaurant, calling for this troublesome little boy all over Rue Duphot, and finally we find him, about 10 minutes away, and he's being absolutely swarmed with kisses and cuddles by some ladies in this little lingerie boutique called Aubade! And so, our Auby was born."

This story sounds vaguely terrifying to me, but she titters proudly when she finishes telling it, and Freddie's in hysterics. I laugh lightly, wiggling my eyebrows at Eric,

"A ladies' man from the beginning, hm?"

"And one lady's man now," he smiles, pressing his lips to my neck in an innocent peck.

Louisa surveys me again, looking me up and down, and when she darts her tongue out and swipes it across her full lower lip, Eric pulls me away from her and against him,

"Al-right, alright, let's stay on good behaviour, Lolly, shall we? Let's go home," he says to me, and I love how it sounds. My home is wherever he is, ten bedrooms or two.

As we leave the field hand in hand, he spins me playfully,

"So, how are you, my love? How's your morning been?"

I purse my lips for a moment, pretending to think,

"Well Freddie almost talked my ear off on the drive here, and I think it's vaguely disturbing your family calls you a variation of a French lingerie store, but apart from that, I'm having the time of my life." I grin when he laughs out loud and slings his arm around my waist.

"Louisa seems nice..." I say. I'm not sure exactly what word comes to mind when I think of her, but nice'll suffice for now. "How come you guys call her Lolly?"

Before Eric can answer, a smooth, breathy voice comes closer to my ear and makes me jump,

" 'Cause I'm a licker." Louisa, who's managed to acquire a girl under either arm in the time since we walked off, wiggles her tongue at me, and the harem giggles accordingly.

"You can call me Lolly, too, if you'd like." She says. "See you at home, Aubs! You too, Jelly," and when she winks, Eric laughs but pulls me closer again, "looking forward to getting a feel for you."

She and the girls head to the tent at the end of the field where the alcohol's flowing from, and they giggle raucously again when she whispers to one of them and licks the shell of the other's ear. Poor Freddie's swaggering behind them laughing at joke I'm not sure he's in on.

"Jelly?" I ask Eric incredulously once we're in the car, and far out of Louisa's earshot.

"Nicknames are sort of her thing," he chuckles, "I guess it's like Evan-geli-ne? I think she likes you."

"You jealous, Auby?" I tease, and when he laughs, he tilts his head like he just might be,

"Only a little."

Now that we're on our own, I can touch him the way I want to, and I reach my hand out to lie his hair down. He's driving, so he can't move his hands, but he smiles and leans in.

"So, Freddie says your mum's flying in tonight?"

"More like early morning," he says, and I see his jaw tense for a moment, "with Dad, too, if they're not still arguing."

"Still?" I ask. "What are they arguing about?"

"Whether or not they want to take the jet here." He shakes his head like he can't believe the ridiculousness of it all and I sigh a silent sigh of relief that it's not just me.

"Jesu- A jet? As opposed to what?"

"First class," he laughs humourlessly, "God, Evie, London makes you see things differently. Promise that if I turn into that kind of prick, you'll pour a bucket of ice water over my head or something."

I might laugh if his face wasn't so serious. Instead, I place a firm hand on his knee, and my smile's assuring and attentive,

"I promise."