Love-40 (23 page)

Ouch. Another wrong note. Michael was going for loneliness and the music was telling him pain …

And besides, he'd really messed up with the concert tickets, because why should she have bought them for him and her? Why should he expect any such thing? He should be doing that kind of stuff, instead of depending on her for food and shelter, instead of acting like a parasite, buying the occasional take-away and imagining that balanced the books. She had never told him she wanted to share her worldly goods with him – like she said, he'd assumed, and he'd assumed wrong. He hadn't listened either. He'd been a bloody fool, in fact.

Suddenly the tune came together in his head, and Michael played it a couple of times, changing a chord here, altering the rhythm there, intent on the song and almost unaware of the dark clouds gathering force in the sky above him, though at one point he put down his guitar to pull on an old blue sweatshirt draped on the back of his chair.

Castor woke again, got to her feet and stalked gracefully into the cottage to find the warmest corner. But Michael worked on. He had already woven a couple of his own songs into the act – the funny thing was that he'd never gone in for songwriting much before, but this was a creative place.

He let his gaze wander past Hester to the river beyond. He loved taking the dogs down the riverbank path to the sea, walking with them right over the cliff to Burton Hive. He was becoming an outdoor person, Suzi's sort of person, while Suzi was spending her days festering away in an antique shop. Odd, but it had never seemed quite Suzi somehow.

‘Someone else not you'. The song title came to him. Because that was what Suzi seemed to have become.

At last Michael put down his guitar, just as the first few drops of rain fell. He loved the taste of the salt air on his tongue, the sound of the waves creeping across the shingle. He felt at home here. He shivered. He didn't want to leave.

He knew he should get himself and the guitar back inside the cottage – the wind had picked up and there was clearly a downpour on its way. Even the hens were all inside the hen-house now, and Hester had that resigned look in her pale eyes that usually forecast bad weather. But he lingered, relishing the freshness in the air, using the moment to wonder about his future, his future with Suzi. If he had one …

She had said she wanted more independence, she had said she wasn't sure she wanted him living full-time at the cottage – that it was early days for their relationship, too soon to make any commitment. Michael leaned forwards, his elbows on his knees. He'd messed up. So, OK, he'd look for his own place – though it wouldn't be easy without a day job, without money in his pocket. Suzi knew that. Suzi understood that much at least.

He watched a thin-legged spider weave its fragile way through the long blades of grass. A harvester. The garden was a wild, cottage garden, crammed with herbs, meadow flowers, and plants that had sprung up from seeds blown from the riverbank – poppies, thrift and buttercups. In the far corner, Hester held sway over the small patch of lawn, to one side the greenhouse sheltered Suzi's strawberries, aubergines, peppers and tomatoes, to the other side were the hens and the cockerel in their narrow, dusty run.

Michael got to his feet. It was the planning that had gone wrong, he decided. He should have got things organised here before he upped and left Fareham. But it wasn't too late to make things right. When he had more money from performing, there wouldn't be a problem. He and Suzi would survive this – they had to.

He watched the dark clouds dispassionately as they thickened, seeming to drop lower, closer towards him. It wasn't over. That night, after she'd gone with Willis to that bloody car boot sale, Suzi had folded against him, Michael, and said she needed … Needed what? Needed him? Michael hoped so.

He'd held her that night and felt the rush, had tried, while trying not to try, because that was the trick. They had made it, made love, and he was glad. But somehow …

He picked up the postcard, which was wet, the ink beginning to run, as the rain splattered on to the table, on to his chair, his guitar, his hair.

Why hadn't she thrown it away?
Somehow, he had still felt like second best.

*   *   *

Liam scowled as he spotted the tall, tightly packed figure of Nick Rossi strolling out of the clubhouse accompanied by four lads. They were all members of the tennis club, of course, had probably all been playing since childhood. And they all had aquiline profiles, thin lips, insipid eyes – the easy, blond, confident good looks that Liam always associated with family money that had never had to be worked for. The opposition. He addressed Rossi. ‘Need some practice, do they – your lot?'

‘Hardly.' Nick shrugged as he glanced towards the next court. ‘Girls too?' he enquired.

‘Yeah, well, I assumed CG's could vaguely be called politically correct,' Liam said, though it was undeniably true that Erica Raddle and Deirdre Piston were doing everything they could to nullify this image. He could see them now, inside the conservatory, sitting at one of the tables that looked out to the tennis courts, Erica probably mouthing away as usual while Deirdre took notes of her pearls of wisdom.

‘No problem for us,' Nick said, still watching Jade.

‘She's only twelve years old,' Liam snapped. And as he spoke, the thought of this creep with his Estelle hit him so hard that he gripped his racket until his knuckles went white. He had to, otherwise he'd floor the smug bastard.

Rossi shrugged again. Liam would love to rip that shrug from those broad shoulders, love to make him care.

‘When do you think you'll be ready for the tournament?' Rossi pulled out a black leather Filofax from the zipped pocket of his sports bag and regarded Liam cooly. The implication was clear.

‘Anytime you are.' Liam groped in his tatty black briefcase on the ground at his feet for his own battered red diary.

As they fixed a provisional date for mid-season, Liam looked up to see Tiger hit an easy volley into the net. He winced, but knew Rossi had seen it too.

Sure enough, he raised his eyebrows. ‘Looks like you've got a long way to go,' he remarked.

‘Maybe we'll surprise you.' How could she tolerate him? The guy was so bloody obvious. Liam realised he was grinding his teeth again. He took a deep breath, looked towards Gazza who was … ‘Put that bloody fag out!' he yelled.

Nick laughed. ‘Let's wait and see. C'mon boys…'

Boys? More like androids, Liam thought, with their identical white joggers and cream, zipped fleeces.

‘Hugh and Barnaby up the other end. James and Oliver, this end. May as well warm up a bit…' Nick pulled off his sweatshirt, slung it casually over one shoulder and smoothed his layered blond hair back into place.

Hugh and Barnaby? Liam smirked, tried not to watch them, but did anyway, his glance drifting over to the far court and then pulling back again, his ear attuned to their banter. They were showing off for his group's benefit, he could see that much, playing long sweeping ground strokes, smashing serves into court, going for shots that were on their way out anyway, not playing the percentages and not giving a stuff. They didn't have to, thought Liam. They were a different class. In more ways than one.

‘We need to practise some volleying,' Liam told his lot, thinking of Tiger's gaffe. He demonstrated the grip as Deirdre scuttled out of the conservatory brandishing a tape measure in one hand and a clipboard in the other. ‘C'mon, Jade – let's show them.' He tossed a couple of balls to her, which she volleyed, crisply and neatly with the precise punching action required.

‘Hammer grip,' she told Bradley fondly as he tried to follow suit and missed the ball completely. ‘I'll show you.' She took hold of his hand.

‘You can show me too, if you like,' came the call from one of the lads on the far court. Hugh, Barnaby, whoever, they all looked the same to Liam.

‘Gosh, and me!'

‘Bugger off,' said Jade.

Deirdre dropped her clipboard.

‘That one looks a little low…' Erica was standing in the doorway of the conservatory, issuing instructions. ‘Check it, will you, dear?'

Deirdre and her tape approached the net in question.

Erica was droning on. ‘Once the re-surfacing on the top courts is done…' she was saying.

Liam did a double-take. Had he heard right? ‘Re-surfacing?' he yelled back at Erica. ‘What re-surfacing?' He strode towards the conservatory.

Erica bared her teeth. ‘On the top courts,' she said, arms akimbo, polyester blouse crackling.

It took Liam a moment to absorb her meaning. ‘The courts used exclusively by the tennis club?' He was at the door now, close enough to count the red veins on Erica's horsy face.

‘Precisely. Green and purple as per Wimbledon seems to be the consensus.' She went to shut the door, but Liam got there first.

‘What about the courts used by the youth club?' he demanded, his voice dangerously low. She had gone too far this time. Who the hell did she think she was? ‘And whose consensus is green and purple?'

Erica sighed one of her gusty sighs. ‘We've taken advice, Liam,' she said. ‘It's that or blue, because of visibility, you know. And we can't be blue.'

‘Why the hell not?' Blue sounded just fine to Liam. The kids would like blue, for a start. It would be different, something un-fusty, bright and that bit Continental, to attract them on to the courts.

‘Chestnut Grove has always been green.' Erica was looking dangerously close to explosion point.

‘So?'

‘And although we have some private sponsorship, there's not enough, I fear, to re-surface
all
the courts.'

‘Private sponsorship? Where the fuck did that come from?' Liam too was wound up now, good and proper.

Erica winced. ‘An anonymous sponsor has decided to remain so for a reason. I can't say more at present.' She tapped her nose.

Liam leaned closer. ‘And what I'd like to say – just in case you've forgotten – is that all decisions are supposed to be made at Committee.'

‘Naturally.' Erica folded her arms. ‘And in the meantime, Simon is continuing his research into the green and purple issue.'

‘And when,' growled Liam, ‘is the next meeting?' He'd give her green and purple issue.

Deirdre – who had completed her net-checking and was now standing a safe distance from Liam, ready to leap to Erica's defence if necessary – consulted her clipboard. ‘The 2nd of next month,' she announced.

That date rang a bell and it only took Liam a moment to remember why. ‘I've got a parents' evening,' he said, slapping his forehead with the ball of his hand. ‘Can't you re-schedule?' But he knew even as he said this, that Erica would be thrilled he couldn't make it. Why should she change the date when her main objector wouldn't be there to stop her getting her own way?

‘I'm afraid I can't set a precedent,' Erica confirmed, baring her teeth once again, turning away from him and taking a step inside.

‘A precedent,' Deirdre confirmed.

Damn and double damn. Liam glared at Deirdre, knowing that this was unfair, that mousy Deirdre had no voice in the matter and probably no opinions either. If Erica told her to lie down and wave her legs in the air, she'd probably bark with delight and bake a batch of fruit scones while she was doing it.

He returned to the court, unsurprised that his lot had all stopped playing, and were now standing around smoking, chewing gum and drinking coke. On the night of the parents' evening he'd have to get Suzi down here to find out what was going on. Or God knows what they'd decide in his absence. Green and purple?

‘Let's wind it up then,' he said, since they'd clearly decided to do just that and anyway there was a huge dark cloud squatting threateningly above them. On the far court, Rossi's lot had warmed up and were now playing a game of doubles. As he watched, a near-perfect serve was somehow returned, but too high and punished by a smash worthy of Tim Henman.

Liam groaned. Nick Rossi and Erica Raddle – the enemy. They held all the cards and weren't even playing by the rules.

Was he fighting a losing battle? For the first time Liam allowed himself to consider this possibility. He ground his teeth once more. Well, if he was, he was bloody determined to give it all he had. No one would be able to say he hadn't gone down fighting.

Chapter 17

‘I thought that diamond choker was special.' Nick Rossi was glowering at his mother.

Estelle shifted awkwardly on Shelagh Rossi's flowery chintz sofa. She was trying to stay focused, but undeniably, she'd had a shock. The note was folded, tucked into the zipped compartment of her multi-coloured rucksack. She could read it at any time. But not yet, not now.

Shelagh had invited her here to provide a valuation for some more jewellery and a couple of pieces of furniture. But Nick, clearly, wasn't happy.

‘All my jewellery is special.' Shelagh eyed her son calmly. ‘But one has to prioritise.'

‘Prioritise?' Nick folded both arms and face as he turned away to stare out of the elegant French windows. It was a view that deserved a little more appreciation, Estelle couldn't help thinking. A stretch of parkland beyond the patio with its statues of two regal lions. A path that led down the green slope to some stone steps and an ornamental pond with fountain, full, she knew, of slim, swift, iridescent carp, weaving their way through the lily pads. She knew this, because Shelagh had shown Estelle round her precious garden on Estelle's last visit to the gothic house on the hill, her pride evident at every step, every border, every plant.

‘What happens?' Nick went on, ‘when we get down to the clothes on our backs? What's your priority then, Mother?'

‘Silly…' Shelagh poured tea into the dainty cups on the table beside her, but Estelle couldn't help noticing that her hand was trembling slightly. ‘We have so many things we don't really need.'