‘What?’ said Cressida, looking up distractedly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Annie, glancing at Caroline.
‘Hello, you lot, all sitting around doing nothing?’ It was Patrick, beaming and jovial and smelling of cigars. Behind him was Stephen, looking defiantly pleased with himself.
‘Have you two been gorging yourselves on cigars?’ asked Annie, shooting a teasing look at Stephen.
‘Cigars and brandy,’ said Patrick, briskly rubbing his hands. ‘Just the job before a game of tennis.’
‘I don’t know how you can!’ exclaimed Annie. ‘I feel zonked enough as it is.’
‘Ah well, you women don’t have the stamina, that’s what it is,’ said Patrick. ‘Isn’t that right, Stephen?’
‘I wouldn’t like to say,’ said Stephen, grinning back at Patrick. He seemed in buoyant spirits, thought Annie. Perhaps she should stock up on brandy and cigars at home.
‘Now, we must get back to business,’ said Patrick. ‘Where’s the chart?’
Caroline groaned loudly.
‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘It’s Cressida and Charles against Don and Valerie.’
‘Well, we haven’t got Don, we haven’t got Valerie and we haven’t got Charles,’ said Caroline. ‘We’re doing well.’
‘Who hasn’t got Charles?’ Charles emerged around the corner, carrying one of the twins. Behind him followed Martina, carrying the other twin, and Valerie.
‘We’ve just been to look at your lovely horse,’ began Valerie. ‘I must say, he’s a beautiful creature.’
‘It’s a she,’ said Caroline. ‘Where’s your dad? You’re supposed to be playing.’ Valerie looked worried.
‘I think he went home to feed the dog. Perhaps he got held up.’
‘The thing is,’ said Caroline, glancing wickedly at Annie, ‘if he doesn’t make it back we’ll have to treat the match as if you lost, by default. We’ll have to score you both nil. Unless you want to play Charles and Cressida on your own?’
Valerie’s eyes darted nervously up the path. ‘I’m sure he won’t be long. Shall I give him a ring?’
‘Why not?’ said Caroline kindly. ‘You know where the phone is.’ Valerie disappeared up the path and Annie erupted into giggles.
‘What did you say that for?’ said Patrick. ‘There’s no hurry.’
‘So what? Serve Don right for being such a git.’
Charles went over to Cressida, kissed her lightly and perched on the arm of her chair.
‘I heard you were trying to find me,’ he said. ‘Was it something important?’
‘Oh, no,’ stammered Cressida.
‘You know,’ he continued, ‘I really think it would be a good idea to get the boys a pony when they’re old enough. We could move to a bigger place with a bit of land, perhaps. Have you seen Georgina’s pony?’
Cressida shook her head numbly. Charles’ eyes shone with enthusiasm.
‘It’s a very nice animal,’ he said. ‘And Georgina’s not at all a bad rider. I can see her eventing in a few years’ time. I’d really love the boys to be able to do the same one day.’
‘Eventers are expensive,’ said Cressida in a dry, scratchy voice. She stared at her hands, and forced her thoughts away from the bedroom with the pink satin cover and the vanity case and the letter.
‘Well, yes,’ said Charles, surprised, ‘but then so are a lot of things. Anyway, it’s just a thought.’ He leapt up and picked up his racquet.
‘Right!’ he shouted at Georgina and Nicola, still on the tennis court. ‘Who’s going to give me a game?’
‘Hello, beautiful.’ Stephen came over and wrapped his arms round Annie from behind. ‘Doesn’t she look fantastic in that gear?’ he said to Caroline.
‘Marvellous,’ said Caroline.
‘I’ve been telling her to ask you where you bought it,’ said Stephen. ‘I think my wife deserves a new tennis outfit or two, don’t you?’ Annie turned round to face Stephen.
‘You’ve been drinking too much brandy,’ she said, laughing, but slightly puzzled. She peered at his eyes. They were very bright and didn’t meet hers properly but darted quickly about. If he had been one of the children, she would probably have called him overexcited and told him to go to bed. But why was Stephen suddenly in this manic mood?
Stephen was aware of Annie looking puzzledly at him, but he ignored her gaze. He was feeling confident, alive and invigorated. He watched Charles racing about the tennis court, clowning with the children—and didn’t feel the customary stab of envy. He looked genially around at his expensively clad friends, noting their gold watches and smart racquets, for once without a pang of jealousy. He was now up among them. He was as able as Charles, Don or any of them, to make high-powered deals over fat cigars; to talk of his investments, to wink knowingly at Patrick when he talked of stocks, shares and portfolios.
Signing that piece of paper had given Stephen the biggest rush of adrenalin he could remember having since discovering he’d got a first at Cambridge. Patrick had produced a beautiful Cross fountain pen and invited him to sit at his desk. He’d watched benignly as Stephen ran his eyes down the small print—looking for what? Stephen hadn’t really been sure—and suggested Stephen took it away with him to think about. But Stephen had made a dismissive, rather debonair gesture.
‘Think about what, Patrick?’ he’d said. ‘Whether I want to be rich or poor? I reckon I’ve thought about that enough already.’ Patrick had chuckled appreciatively and poured out yet another brandy. Stephen had taken one, final look at the paperwork and then signed briskly, coolly, matter-of-factly; as though he were used to making that kind of transaction on a regular basis.
Stephen tightened his grasp around Annie as his mind skated over the exact figure he’d signed away to Patrick. Patrick had assured him that it would all be covered easily by a part-mortgage on their house, and that he would be able to fix it up as soon as he got to the office on Monday. And of course, as Patrick had explained, there was no point thinking about it in the context of everyday amounts of money. Making a serious investment was quite a different business from, say, paying the gas bill, or even buying a car. Patrick had certainly looked unconcerned at the amount Stephen was entrusting to him. He was obviously used to sums as big as, if not bigger than, this one.
The feeling of power which Stephen had suddenly felt, dealing in such a large amount of money, was irresistible. He was suddenly reminded of a stag party to which he had once been invited by a Cambridge friend whose father was in the hotel business. They’d stayed, six of them, all expenses paid, at a big London five-star hotel over the weekend. By the end of the stay, the delight of signing large bar bills, choosing steak à la carte and drinking the mini bar dry had gone to Stephen’s head. He’d lingered in the hotel shop after they’d all checked out, fingering cashmere jerseys and silver-plated tankards appraisingly, desperate to prolong his role in the world of the rich. The exorbitant prices had begun to appear reasonable to him, detached as they were from the reality of his student grant and weekly budget. He’d even eventually gone so far as to buy a ridiculously expensive leather wallet, embossed with the name of the hotel, signing the cheque without flinching; even wondering aloud whether he ought not to have the key fob as well. And now he was experiencing the same heady sensation. He caught Patrick’s eye and grinned.
‘That’s a fine brandy you keep,’ he said jovially. Patrick’s eyes twinkled.
‘Well now, you’ll have to sample my other favourite after dinner,’ he replied in a genial tone.
‘Looking forward to it!’
Patrick smiled again at Stephen, and then turned away. His sensation of sheer delight at having snared his last, his most crucial deal, was proving difficult to control. He stared down at his hands, unable to stop a beam creeping over his face. One hundred thousand pounds bonus. One hundred thousand pounds! He clenched the back of the chair in front of him, and took a deep breath. It had been almost impossible to
stay calm as he had slowly manoeuvred Stephen into signing away exactly the right sum of money. It had been pure artistry, the way he had paced his pitch, balancing nonchalance with enthusiasm, keeping the warmth in his voice, the credibility in his smile, not pushing, but inviting. When it had come to the actual signature, he had almost lost his cool. Seeing Stephen poised, pen in hand, over the documents, scanning the page, looking as if he might hesitate, the desire to force his pen down onto the page and make him sign had grown frighteningly strong. But somehow he had managed to remain outwardly sanguine, resting his fingers lightly on the back of Stephen’s chair with a tense patience, keeping his voice smooth.
And finally it had happened. Stephen had signed away eighty thousand pounds of his money. Patrick didn’t allow himself to consider whether this was a safe move for Stephen. He had explained what the fund was; he had allowed Stephen to make up his own mind—it was Stephen’s decision, not his. And eighty thousand wasn’t so much, really. Not compared with the amount of business Patrick had already done that year. He remembered with a quiver of delight his performance charts, waiting in his desk drawer for the final figures. He would be top salesman again that year. And would be well rewarded. Patrick gazed at Georgina, playing tennis beautifully and giggling hysterically as Charles pretended to miss all her shots, and he felt a surge of triumph. Now they could afford a new house, a new pony—anything his daughter wanted, she could have.
His eye fell on Charles and he felt a twinge of anger that he had not been able to close the deal with him. Fucking tight git. But then, Charles was always there for the future. Whereas Stephen … Patrick shook his head. Stephen was about the least likely person he could imagine having as a client. It had never even occurred to him to pitch at Stephen. But a good salesman should be able to sell to anyone. And he had excelled himself that afternoon. It had been a model exercise in salesmanship. Suddenly he felt too keyed up to stand still, and he wandered over to Caroline. He ran his hands over her hips, and nuzzled her neck.
‘You’re gorgeous, you know that?’ he whispered. ‘Fucking gorgeous.’
Caroline eyed Patrick suspiciously. First this morning’s good mood, now this. What was he up to? She had not failed to notice him invite Charles into his study. What had been his reason? To look at those prints he’d bought a couple of weeks ago. She’d been surprised when he’d shown them to her. Weird, modern efforts—not his kind of thing at all. It really wouldn’t surprise her to learn that he’d bought the prints especially to have an excuse to ask Charles into his study. And Charles had gone along trustingly. But it didn’t fool her. Had Patrick tried to sell some sort of plan to Charles? And had he succeeded? She glanced up at Patrick’s face. He had an expression of suppressed glee; his mouth was twitching into a smile and his eyes were bright. He must have sold Charles something. No wonder he was in such a good mood. No wonder he had plied poor old Stephen with brandy so generously. It must have been a big deal. Caroline looked consideringly at Charles, romping on the tennis court. He seemed in a good mood as well. She inwardly shrugged. Good luck to them. And now Patrick had achieved his aim of extracting money out of Charles, perhaps they wouldn’t have to invite them over again. She could certainly do without Cressida’s bloody miserable face about the place.
Eventually Don turned up, rather flustered, and was ushered onto the tennis court by a smirking Caroline. Valerie followed him, looking rather anxious, and finally Cressida got up and made her way silently onto the court. Her face was still pale, and she fingered her racquet in a desultory way. But Don’s face lit up as he saw her and realized that he and Valerie were to play against Charles and Cressida.
‘Here’s a real challenge, Val!’ he exclaimed. He turned and grinned perkily at Annie and Stephen. ‘This’ll be a nightmare! Wake me up when it’s all over!’
Annie smiled back encouragingly.
‘Fucking prat,’ murmured Stephen.
Georgina and Nicola, usurped from the tennis court, flopped down, panting, on the grass.
‘You’re very good at tennis,’ said Annie to Georgina.
‘I’m all right,’ she replied conversationally. ‘I’m in special coaching at school. But I’m not in the house team. You see, about ten people in each house have special coaching if they’re good enough, but only six are in the team. And a reserve.’ Patrick raised his eyebrows at Caroline.
‘You didn’t tell me Georgina was having special coaching for tennis.’
‘That’s because I didn’t know,’ said Caroline unconcernedly.
‘Sweetie,’ Patrick addressed Georgina, ‘why don’t you tell us things?’ Georgina shrugged.
‘I do tell you things.’
‘You didn’t tell us about that.’
‘I forgot.’ Georgina abruptly leapt up. ‘Time for another rehearsal. Martina, bring the twins.’ She looked around and called in a stentorian voice, ‘Toby! Come on!’
‘What are you rehearsing?’ said Annie.
‘A play,’ said Georgina, discouragingly. ‘You’ll see it tomorrow. Toby!’
‘He’s stuck in the umpire’s chair,’ said Nicola. ‘Someone’ll have to get him out.’ But already Martina had put down the twin she was carrying and hurried over to release Toby from his perch.
‘She’s certainly got them all organized,’ said Stephen admiringly, as the troop of children left the tennis court. ‘Even the nanny.’
‘She’ll overdo it one of these days,’ said Caroline. ‘Not everyone likes being bossed about.’
‘She doesn’t boss people,’ objected Patrick at once. ‘She just gets what she wants. That’s the way you’ve got to be.’ Caroline rolled her eyes at Annie and said nothing. She turned her gaze to the tennis court.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said after a few moments. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with Cressida?’
The four on court had begun to knock up. Don was sending a series of swift, low balls to Cressida, who seemed barely able to return them.
‘Sorry,’ she kept saying, as another went into the net.
‘Saving it till the match,’ quipped Don. ‘I know that trick!’ He beamed at Cressida, who returned a weak smile. They tossed for sides; Don and Valerie won. As they walked to the back of the court, Don began to mutter to Valerie an audible series of instructions and warnings about Cressida’s and Charles’ play.
‘Guard the net; she’s got a nasty sliced forehand, might take you on the hop; don’t try to lob him unless it’s over the backhand. Is he steady at the net?’ he suddenly demanded.
‘Well, quite steady,’ stammered Valerie.
‘Mmm. Well, don’t play to either of them at the net. Off you go, now. It’s me to serve, remember?’
Valerie scuttled to the net and Don prepared to serve to Cressida. She stood, apathetically watching his mannered action, and lunged dispiritedly when the ball came spinning into her service box.
‘Bad luck, darling,’ said Charles. Don shook his head and clicked his tongue.
‘You had that one,’ he said to Cressida. ‘Don’t know what happened there.’
Charles returned the next serve straight to Valerie, who put it away with a vicious volley.
‘Good girl,’ said Don. ‘Nice approach, that was, well away from the body.’ He prepared to serve to Cressida again. The first serve went out, and he stood stock still for a minute or two, as though meditating on the horror of such a mistake. Then, shaking his head slowly, he took a second ball from his pocket and served again. His second serve was a looped shot which landed just the other side of the net and bounced surprisingly high. Cressida, who had begun to run forward, was taken unawares, and hit the ball wide. It veered towards Valerie, who made an exaggerated jump aside to avoid it, and landed well outside the tramlines.
‘Forty-love,’ called Valerie.
‘Sorry,’ said Cressida to Charles. ‘I can’t think what’s wrong with me.’
‘Watch the ball,’ piped up Don. ‘That’s always the answer. If things are going badly, don’t think about
anything but the ball.’
‘Yes,’ said Cressida shortly. Don served again, Charles returned the ball to him, and he sent an easy shot to Cressida. She volleyed it straight into the net.
‘You’re just not watching the ball,’ said Don complacently. ‘That’s all it is. Isn’t that right, Valerie?’
‘Well,’ said Valerie uncertainly. She looked at Cressida’s face, drawn and tense. ‘Maybe.’
Cressida’s misery seemed to be getting deeper and deeper. Sitting quietly by the side of the tennis court, watching Charles clowning with the children, it had abated slightly, and she had, for a few blissful minutes, forgotten about the letter. But now she could think of nothing else. And everyone seemed to be watching her. Don, with his comments; Valerie, with her cow eyes; even Charles, thinking he was encouraging her by turning round and making faces behind Don’s back. Caroline and Annie, too, were probably staring at her, wondering why she was playing so poorly.
She stared blindly at the tennis net, trying to rationalize her feelings. The letter could be a mistake—was probably a mistake. Charles would soon sort it out. He would sort it out. She repeated it to herself, trying to sooth herself into a state of calm. But a pounding background worry would not let her spirits rest. What if it wasn’t a mistake? What if they had to pay? Where would they find the money? Cressida had successfully managed to close her ears to most of the financial information that had passed her way during the last ten or so years since her mother had died. She had only a hazy idea of her fortune; an even hazier one of where it had been invested. But she knew that most of it had dwindled away since her marriage. Was there still enough there? She screwed up her mind, trying to remember what her last account from the portfolio managers had said.
‘Darling?’ Charles was looking quizzically at her. ‘We’re changing ends.’
Cressida flushed and her head jerked up. Everyone was staring at her. Of course. They had lost the first game. Charles was already on the other side of the court; Don and Valerie were hovering at the net, looking at her in polite surprise. They were all waiting for her. Any minute now, someone would ask her if she was feeling all right. Caroline was so insensitive, she would probably shout out something awful, like, was it Cressida’s period and did she want some Feminax. Or they might guess that something was wrong, and show a horrible, over-familiar sympathy.