‘I know that. But you don’t have to sell your house to get all its potential from it.’ He looked directly at Stephen. ‘You don’t have a mortgage, do you?’
‘Well, no,’ said Stephen. ‘We just about had enough from my father’s legacy to buy it outright.’
‘And that was, what, ten years ago? It’ll have held its value since then, I’m sure.’
Stephen was silent, listening.
‘My point is only this,’ said Patrick. ‘That, if you wanted to, say, if you needed the money, you could always take out a mortgage on your house.’
‘That’s a bit extreme,’ said Stephen. ‘I mean, it’s one of the things I’m continually grateful for, that we don’t have mortgage payments to worry about.’
‘I know that,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m just telling you in case you ever need a large sum of money. Say, for an emergency.’
‘Some emergency it would be!’ said Stephen.
‘Or, of course, if you thought you could make a bit of money out of it,’ added Patrick. ‘But I don’t suppose that would really be your scene.’
‘What wouldn’t?’ demanded Stephen.
‘It’s something that some of my friends in the City have been doing,’ said Patrick. ‘I’d do it myself, if I weren’t mortgaged up to the hilt already. The idea is, you take out a mortgage on your house and invest the money yourself. Then, as long as you can beat the interest rate on your loan, you make a profit.’ He chuckled. ‘And let’s just say that beating the interest rate hasn’t been a problem.’ He paused, and took a puff from his cigar. ‘But these are all fairly high-powered people. They know where the opportunities are.’
‘Is that what Charles is doing?’ asked Stephen.
‘More or less,’ said Patrick. ‘I can’t really discuss it, I’m afraid—stupid really, considering we’re all friends, but rules is rules.’ He stood up. ‘Anyway, you haven’t told me what you think of the cigar.’
‘The cigar’s great,’ said Stephen absently. He looked around the luxurious, book-lined room, took in the aroma of leather and expensive cigar smoke, let his mind range over the words being bandied about. Investment, profit, money. That was what real life was about these days; a life that, so far, he had taken no part in. When was the last time anyone had talked to him about making money? He was a mere teacher; an impoverished academic; forever on the outside of this fast, financial world. But that could change.
‘Tell me,’ he said cautiously. ‘If, say, I took a mortgage out on my house and put the money into the same scheme that Charles is investing in—would I beat the interest rate? Would I make money?’ Patrick began to chortle.
‘Would he make money, he asks! You want to know if you’d make money? A client of mine put ten thousand pounds into a plan just like this one five years ago; now he’s sitting on a hundred thousand. He said to me, “If I’d known that would happen, I would have invested ten times as much. I’d be a millionaire!”’
‘Really? Only ten thousand?’ Stephen sounded interested.
‘But the point is,’ said Patrick, ‘that he should have put in ten times that much. He’d never have had to work again. In your case,’ he looked at Stephen, ‘I’d recommend at least eighty thousand. That must be about, what, a third of your house’s value?’ Stephen shrugged.
‘You tell me.’
‘Our house sold for two hundred and twenty thousand. And prices will have come up again by at least another twenty since then. If you, for argument’s sake, invested eighty thousand, it would only be a third of your available capital. Really, you’d still be underinvested—but, then you probably want to play safe.’ He looked at Stephen. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘I’ve got some charts in here. Just so you can see the sort of thing I’m talking about. And while we’re at it, what about a brandy?’
Stephen leant back into the leather and took a puff of cigar. He suddenly felt buoyant and sophisticated. Charles was not the only one who could do business with Patrick. He watched pleasurably as Patrick poured out two generous glasses of brandy, and then sat up intelligently as he approached, bearing a series of colourful-looking graphs. Stephen took a sip of brandy.
‘Fire away,’ he said. ‘I’m all ears.’
* * *
Cressida was clutching her glass harder and harder as Valerie’s hooting, fluting voice poured a mixture of inane observations and sycophantic questions into her ears. Caroline and Annie were chatting quietly to each other with a cosy intimacy that was impossible to join; Stephen had gone for a walk; Charles had disappeared off somewhere with Patrick; and Don had popped home to feed the dog. There was no escape.
‘I do love your ring,’ said Valerie. ‘Is it a real diamond?’ Cressida nodded, feeling a sudden, alien desire to shout, ‘No, it’s out of a cracker!’
‘I thought it must be,’ said Valerie. She glanced down at her own pudgy, white hands. ‘I’ve never bothered with rings,’ she said.
I’m not surprised, thought Cressida, eyeing Valerie’s slug-like fingers with distaste.
‘I don’t suppose … would you mind if I tried it on?’ continued Valerie in a rush, looking at Cressida with suddenly eager eyes. She thrust a finger out and Cressida shuddered.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I must go and find Charles.’ She got up, stiff from the morning’s tennis.
Valerie looked down disappointedly. Caroline, glancing up, saw Cressida making her escape and called, ‘What do you want to see Charles for? You must see him enough every day!’ She smirked at Cressida, who gazed at her in cold fury.
‘There was something I wanted to mention to him,’ she said offputtingly. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’
As she passed through the terrace doors into the house, she heard Caroline sniggering, and then Valerie’s voice calling, ‘Cressida! Charles is out here! He’s walking towards the paddock! Cressida!’
Cressida ignored them. She went quickly through the hall, suddenly desperate to get up to their bedroom for some peace. Voices were coming from behind one of the doors; she recognized them as Patrick’s and Stephen’s. But her tennis shoes were silent on the carpet and she was soon safely behind the door of the spare room. She sank onto the bed, grimacing as her skin slipped against the satin.
She looked at her watch. It was only three o’clock. Another twenty-four hours to go at least. It was simply too much. But she had promised Charles she would try to make an effort. He wouldn’t be very impressed if he heard how she’d skulked away inside, ignoring his friends. She would have to say she had come inside for a reason. To finish unpacking—her eyes fell on Charles’ half-empty suitcase—and deal with the letters. Of course.
She went into the bathroom—rather nicely done, she grudgingly admitted to herself—and splashed her face with cold water. Then, feeling restored, she went back into the bedroom to tackle the rest of the unpacking. She left the letters until last, until she’d put away every one of Charles’ shirts, socks, pieces of shaving equipment and cuff-links. Then, with a sigh, she sat down at the pink-frilled, kidney-shaped dressing table in the corner of the room and began to slit open the envelopes.
She left the crisp, white, London-postmarked one till last, even though it was addressed to her rather than to Charles or both of them. It was bound to be some boring notice to shareholders, or a statement of account that she would immediately pass on to Charles. As she opened it, her mind was still on the dress bill that the last envelope had contained (was it for the cream suit or the cocktail dress? Charles would be bound to ask her), and for a few moments she didn’t register the words before her.
Then, gradually, they began to impinge upon her consciousness; one by one arresting her attention; bouncing off her brain and mixing themselves up in her mind so that, with a sudden exclamation, half of impatience, half of panic, she closed her eyes, opened them, and forced herself to read the letter, slowly from the beginning.
When she had finished reading it for the first time she thought she might be sick. With customary self-control,
she folded the letter, slid it carefully back into its envelope, and put it with the others. She sat completely still for a moment, staring blankly at her reflection in the mirror, reminding herself that she was a complete ignoramus when it came to financial affairs. No doubt it was all a mistake.
But before she could even finish articulating the thought, her hands had grabbed the envelope again and ripped it open, and she was gazing at the sheet of paper once more, her hands unable to hold it still, her heart thumping, her eyes flickering from the heading at the top of the paper down to the signature and up again, focusing first with disbelief, then with terror, at the figure, in pounds sterling, glaring in black and white in the middle of the page.
She closed her eyes for a moment, swaying in her chair, and emptied her mind. Then she opened her eyes again. The letter was still in her hand; the figure in the centre of the page still glared blackly at her, seeming to increase in size until it filled the whole of her view and she could see nothing else. With a sudden smart of humiliation, she clutched her stomach and rushed into the bathroom.
When she emerged again, her legs felt shaky. She looked at herself in the mirror and was shocked to see that her face was white, her lips were dry, her whole face seemed to have crumpled. She longed to lie down, curl up and bury her head in her knees. She sank to the floor of the bedroom and sat still for a few seconds. But she was self-conscious and could not relax. This was a stranger’s house—what if someone came in and saw her behaving oddly? Then a more alarming thought occurred to her. The letter still lay on the dressing table, for anyone to see. With a sudden dart of panic, she looked around for somewhere to store it until she could show it to Charles. At the thought of Charles, another spasm hit her stomach, and she half-crawled, half-ran into the bathroom.
Coming out again, her first priority was to remove the letter from the dressing table. She looked feebly around the room for somewhere to put it. Was Caroline the sort to employ a maid to turn down the beds? One could never be sure of the limit to the excesses of that sort of parvenue. Eventually, she slipped it into the lining of her beauty case. Then, paranoically, she immediately imagined Caroline coming in to borrow some make-up, fiddling with the case, saying loudly, ‘You’ve got something stuck in here,’ pulling it out, reading it, gazing up in horror …
But that really was a foolish, hysterical way to think. With the letter safely out of sight, Cressida began to feel better. She slapped her cheeks, combed her hair, and sprayed some scent behind her ears. She rubbed some lipsalve vigorously into her lips and took a few deep breaths, as she had been taught in elocution lessons when she was eleven.
But when she went to the door of the room, she found that her nerve was failing her. Twice she reached for the door handle, paused with her hand on the knob, physically unable to leave the safety of her temporary haven. On the other side of the door were people, reality, Charles, the children. This side of the door there was only herself, the pink satin bed and the letter—which, stuffed into her vanity case, didn’t really exist yet. Not while she hadn’t told anyone about it.
She looked at her watch. Half-past three. Earlier she had been desperate for time to move on; now she wished it could stay still. She would have to tell Charles tonight, in bed, where there was no chance of anyone hearing. Until then, for a few hours, perhaps she could pretend nothing had happened. But she would have to display her usual confidence. She would have to put on a good show. Summoning up unknown reserves of determination, Cressida grasped the door handle firmly and strode out into the corridor and, staring ahead blankly, unthinkingly, her mind deliberately dead, she made her way out into the garden.
CHAPTER SIX
Caroline and Annie had taken a jug of Pimm’s down to the tennis court. There Georgina was teaching Nicola to play tennis while Toby sat happily in the umpire’s chair. Nicola grasped the lightweight racquet awkwardly, and swung ineffectually at each ball that Georgina threw, only occasionally making contact. But Georgina continued patiently to make cheerful, encouraging comments.
‘She’s incredible, your daughter,’ said Annie quietly.
‘I could say the same thing to you,’ said Caroline. ‘Nicola’s made so much progress. You must be thrilled to bits. I mean, did you ever think she’d be able to play tennis?’
‘Well,’ said Annie, ‘we never gave up hope. But I have to admit, there were times when I couldn’t see her leading a normal life.’ She gazed silently ahead for a moment. ‘She’s got so much willpower,’ she continued, ‘she’s so absolutely determined to succeed, it makes one feel quite weak in comparison. She’s got more tenacity than both of us put together.’
‘And she’s bright, too, isn’t she?’ said Caroline.
‘Oh yes.’ Annie flushed with pleasure. ‘I think in other circumstances she might have been labelled gifted. But it would seem a bit ironic, under the circumstances.’
They both involuntarily looked at Nicola’s skewed foot, her clenching, uncoordinated arm, her glowing face.
‘Poor little sod,’ said Caroline. ‘How does the school treat her?’
‘Oh, very well, considering,’ said Annie slightly defensively. ‘It must be difficult for them. She’s so bright, and so enthusiastic to learn, but then when she has to write it all down, of course, she’s much slower than all the others. She gets very frustrated with herself. And then,’ she added, slightly bitterly, ‘some of the teachers seem to think that nothing can be any good unless it’s written out neatly.’
‘Doesn’t sound great to me,’ said Caroline. ‘No offence.’ Annie shrugged.
‘What can you do? They’re overstretched, they’re busy, they haven’t got time for a child who doesn’t conform. I do all I can to help Nicola at home, but … How’s Georgina getting on?’ she added abruptly.
‘Oh, great guns,’ said Caroline. ‘Reckons she’s going to be head of junior house next term, whatever the hell that means. I think she’s getting in a bit of practice on poor old Nicola. She’s getting far too bossy.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Nicola,’ said Annie laughing. ‘She loves it. She simply gobbles up all those boarding school books—pretty trashy stuff, really. And to meet someone who actually does all those things—you know, trunks and tuck boxes and dormitories—is utter bliss.’
‘Well, tell her she can come and pack Georgina’s trunk any time,’ said Caroline, ‘since I’m the one who always ends up doing it.’
‘Oh, but that’s the mother’s job,’ said Annie, grinning at Caroline, ‘and she’s supposed to hide a little surprise under one’s nightie. That’s what my mother always did.’
‘Then she was a mug,’ said Caroline. ‘As soon as Georgina’s in the senior school she’s doing her own trunk, or it doesn’t get done. Anyway, she’s much better than me at that kind of thing. I can’t understand how she turned out so bloody efficient.’ They both looked at Georgina, busily picking up tennis balls.
‘So she’s going to stay on at St Catherine’s?’ said Annie.
Caroline shrugged. ‘We had a bit of a look round other senior schools, but there didn’t seem any point moving her. It’s a lovely school, she can take her pony there, the staff seem OK—a bit snotty maybe, but, you know, all right basically. And she knows the place.’
‘It is a lovely school,’ agreed Annie. ‘I remember visiting it once, when Nicola was tiny.’
‘Really?’ Caroline looked surprised.
‘We always meant to send her to a private school,’ said Annie, ‘when she was eight or so. We thought that would give us time to get the fees together. Toby, too.’ She shrugged. ‘Things didn’t work out quite as we planned. First the stroke—then Stephen going back to his doctorate.’
‘How much longer does he have with that thing? He’s been doing it for bloody ages.’ Annie shrugged.
‘Depends how it goes. Another year, perhaps two.’
‘Christ, I don’t know how you put up with it. I couldn’t. I mean, no job, no money—I’d go crazy.’
&
nbsp; ‘Well, he still teaches a bit,’ said Annie, ‘and I do proofreading when I have the time. It’s not so bad, really. And with no mortgage on the house and no school fees—you know, we can keep our outgoings quite low.’ Caroline shuddered.
‘Rather you than me. Can’t you persuade Stephen to get a job again, give up this degree?’
‘It’s what he wants to do,’ said Annie firmly.
There was a noise behind them and they both looked round. Cressida had come down the path to the tennis court and stood, watching the girls playing tennis. As they turned, she seemed to wobble slightly. Her face was drained of blood and her smile appeared artificial.
‘Hello, Cressida,’ said Annie cautiously. She hesitated, and then added, ‘Are you all right? I mean, do you feel OK?’
‘You look terrible,’ said Caroline, bluntly. ‘Must be too much sun. Here, sit down.’ She drew up a chair and patted it invitingly. ‘Have some Pimm’s. Or do you want something stronger?’
‘If you’ve had too much sun, perhaps you shouldn’t have any alcohol,’ said Annie.
‘Is it the sun?’ Caroline peered closely at Cressida’s face. ‘Hang on a minute. Do you feel sick? Is there any chance you could be…?’ Cressida gazed at her uncomprehendingly. ‘You know, pregnant,’ said Caroline impatiently. ‘Are you? Tell me quick before I pour out all this lovely booze and you say you can’t drink it.’ Cressida exhaled sharply.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said slowly, ‘I can drink all I like.’
‘Attagirl,’ said Caroline approvingly. She gave Cressida an appraising look as she poured out the drink. ‘There, now you relax and take it easy,’ she said. ‘I always thought playing tennis was a bad idea. Why not just have people round for the weekend? That’s what I wanted to know. But Patrick insisted on this stupid tournament and now the whole thing seems to have turned into bloody Wimbledon.’
‘That’s hardly fair,’ protested Annie. ‘We’ve only had two matches. And I like playing tennis. What about you, Cressida?’ she said, turning to Cressida in a friendly manner. ‘You’re really good. You must enjoy it.’