Love-40 (30 page)

‘Yes?'

‘Perhaps you could you tell me now – what happened about the re-surfacing decision?'

‘Re-surfacing decision?'

‘Of the courts.
Certain
courts.' He wasn't fooled for a moment by Erica's pretence of ignorance. She knew exactly what she was doing, and if he needed confirmation, he only had to look at the flush staining poor Deirdre's cheeks. Maybe, without Erica's domination, Deirdre might have an opinion of her own, Liam reflected. Maybe, just maybe, she too, wanted CG's to be a tennis club open to all.

‘The benefactor increased the gift,' Erica said shortly.

‘Increased the gift.' Deirdre looked like one of those nodding dogs people put in their cars.

Erica frowned at her. ‘So we decided to have all the hard courts re-surfaced.' She spoke quickly, as if the decision were an unpleasant smell that could be erased if one were quick enough with the fresh-air spray.

‘All the courts re-surfaced,' Deirdre confirmed. ‘Blue.'

‘Excellent.' Liam had hardly dared hope, but he couldn't believe it had been that easy – without Suzi, without Amanda, and without himself of course, to sway the voting. ‘Er, so what happened about the purple and green?' he couldn't resist asking.

Erica said nothing.

‘It was a close-run thing,' Deirdre began, ‘but I believe blue was considered more modern – by some of the committee at least. And by our sponsor too. Excellent under floodlights, I hear.'

‘Floodlights?' But they didn't have floodlights. Yet. Liam was beginning to get the picture. ‘And all the courts are going to be done?'

‘All the courts,' Deirdre said again, looking down at her notes. ‘On the understanding that –'

‘Quite.' Erica shot her a warning look.

‘Yes?' Liam waited.

‘Oh, tell him,' Erica said.

‘On the understanding that Chestnut Grove Tennis Club remains loyal to its original principles,' Deirdre said, reading from her file.

Bloody hell. Liam was stunned. ‘Who is this mysterious benefactor?' he asked.

‘Obviously a Socialist,' Erica hissed.

‘And the name of the club?' Liam was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Are we losing the Chestnut?'

‘No, no.' Deirdre answered for Erica this time. Maybe, Liam thought, the first time ever. ‘It was decided – because of our lovely old horse-chestnut trees on the drive – to keep the name as it is.' She glanced at Erica. ‘As well as its principles.'

‘Can we get on?' Erica was turning purple. All she needed was the green, thought Liam, and she would blend in just perfectly at Wimbledon.

‘Most certainly.' Liam was grinning as he left the common room. So he had an ally – an anonymous ally, but more importantly, a rich ally. Perhaps Chestnut Grove Tennis and Youth Club would survive after all.

*   *   *

In the end, it was the male doubles that decided the competition. The clones had walked away with the four boys' singles, though Tiger Rogers had put up a great show and only lost on a tight tie-break that had had Liam pacing up and down the edge of the court, wondering if just maybe …

Jade had walked her singles, doubles and the mixed, while the other girls' singles match had also gone to Liam's team on default, since of the two girls who had turned up for the other side, one left early and the other was the girlfriend of one of the clones (Sebastian) rather than a tennis player in her own right. She had giggled a lot, shrieked, ‘help me, Seb!' every time Jade smashed a volley or forehand drive past her, and failed to return most of Jade's first serves.

All in all, a bit of a farce, Liam thought, though he wasn't averse to taking the points. More fool Rossi.

The boys' doubles – Tiger and Gazza versus Sebastian and Oliver, looked as if it was going to be a walkover, until Tiger started getting his serve on target, at which point there was a turnaround in fortunes. Seb and Olly had strolled the first set 6–1, but Tiger and Gazza scraped the second on a flukey tie-break that included no less than two net cords. And now, somehow, they were 5–4 up in the final set, having broken Oliver's serve (thanks to two double faults) and with Gazza to serve.

His first serve was weak and punished by a hot backhand down the line by Sebastian, his second was an ace, and the third led to a breathtaking rally, won with an awkward volley (off the handle of the racket, Liam suspected) from Tiger. Thirty fifteen. Tiger intercepted Olly's forehand return on the next shot and it was forty fifteen.

Nick Rossi put his hand over his eyes.

Liam smiled. He knew how much defeat would hurt Rossi's pride. ‘C'mon, lads,' he yelled. The breeze coming in from the sea was picking up – and that had to be to their advantage.

But he had not reckoned on the pride of Sebastian and Oliver. Sebastian took it to forty thirty with a sweeping backhand that took Tiger completely by surprise, and Oliver made it deuce with a whamdinger of a shot that punished a weak serve and that went zinging past Tiger before he'd even got into position.

Once again, Seb and Olly sprinted the entire length of the court in order to touch hands encouragingly in a moment of bonding. Jesus wept … Liam had no patience for it. Various bonding sessions had been going on between Nick's players all afternoon. It might signify team spirit, but Liam tended to agree with his lot that it was all a bit too naff for words.

At this point, however, Gazza lost his nerve and double faulted, to make it advantage to the Rossi camp, and Oliver whisked a delicate drop shot over the net that Tiger had no chance of reaching. Game, set and match. And more bonding, of course.

Liam went up to congratulate his team. He was almost glad it had ended that way – he'd hate to have won on default – and at least they'd put up a decent fight.

‘Hard luck,' Nick said, holding out his hand. ‘Pretty close thing.'

‘Winning by default wouldn't feel like winning.' But Liam accepted the handshake.

Nick shrugged. ‘Commitment's part of winning,' he said, eyeing Liam's team. ‘Dedication, bothering to turn up.'

‘Maybe.' And Liam had to admit he was pleased with all of his players. At least they'd all been willing to have a go. And with a bit more practice … Who could tell?

‘You've proved your point.' Nick, Liam thought, seemed determined to be friendly – now that he'd won.

‘My point?' He wasn't sure he'd made one.

‘Ordinary kids should be given the chance to play the game.' Nick took off his baseball cap and flicked back his hair in a manner which reminded Liam uncannily of Bradley Jacobs. ‘Yeah, why the hell not? What does background have to do with it?'

Hallelujah, Liam thought. But he was surprised. ‘I didn't know you felt that way.' He frowned. ‘So why did you vote with Erica Raddle at the spring committee meeting?'

‘I was being childish.'

Liam would never have imagined seeing Nick Rossi looking shamefaced. He wished he had a camera on him so he could capture it on film.

‘I saw you getting it together with Amanda and I saw red.'

‘Ah.' Liam considered this. ‘But I'm not.'

‘Not what?'

‘Not getting it together with Amanda. Never was.' It wasn't just a matter of a certain woman he couldn't get out of his head. He liked Amanda, but he'd hate to have to live up to her expectations all the time. Not to mention parties with Fenella, Saffron and the like. God, no.

‘Right.' Nick seemed to be subjecting him to a re-appraisal. ‘None of my business anyway,' he said at last. ‘Amanda's the past now.'

Liam thought of Estelle. ‘On to pastures new?' He tried to sound casual, but his voice caught.

Nick, however, didn't seem to notice. ‘Yeah. Pastures new.' He clapped Liam on the shoulder. ‘See you, then.'

‘See you.' He wasn't such a bad bloke, Liam realised, as Nick strolled off to talk to Sebastian, Oliver and the rest of his team. Maybe he'd read him wrong. Maybe he'd even been instrumental in the most recent bout of committee decision-making.

But somehow this thought didn't make Liam feel very much better. Because there was still Estelle. Rossi had snatched her away from under Liam's nose. And so, by God, he still wanted to clock him one.

Chapter 23

When Suzi glanced out of the window of Secrets In The Attic, to see a familiar, battered, white van freckled with rust pulling up outside, she ducked out of sight.

‘What's up?' Estelle, wearing a turquoise sarong and matching bandanna around her auburn hair, looked over and then towards the doorway. ‘Oh, hi, Josh.' Her gaze travelled back towards Suzi, before drifting heavenwards in despair.

Hell's bells, Suzi thought. But to be fair, how was Estelle supposed to know he was the enemy, since Suzi hadn't actually told her?

He stood in the doorway. Clearly, he had seen her. Suzi came out of squatting position, rubbed her stiff knees, dusted down her jeans, and emerged, cloth in hand, pretending to be engrossed in the lower panels of the grandfather clock. Her heart was thumping so loud in rhythm with the pendulum, she almost expected it to chime spontaneously.

‘Hi there. How's things?' Josh strolled in (why did he always take over other people's territory as if he were asserting ownership rights, Suzi wondered) and slumped on to the counter, sitting, lounging, taking up so much more space than necessary.

He was wearing one of those crumpled linen suits that somehow managed to make him look charming, debonair and little boy lost, all at the same time. A model of confusing signals. Little boy lost? Suzi dismissed the thought. That was a joke. Josh Willis was more Big Bad Wolf.

As if to prove her point, he flashed Estelle a particularly wolfish smile and then glanced the question at Suzi.

‘Fine.' Suzi shook out the duster and continued. Her teeth were clenched so hard she'd have to be careful she didn't get lockjaw. She decided not to join in the conversation any further. Let Estelle talk to the man.

‘They're on their way out,' he said, waving a large hand in the general direction of The Bargain Basement. ‘Know where they're off to?'

‘I would have thought you'd be able to answer that,' Suzi snapped, forgetting her decision to keep quiet.

‘Oh? Why?' His lazy drawl seemed to slide all over her.

Suzi shrugged. She was hardly going to tell him she'd seen him in the pub – plotting their downfall with Stan and Terry, having a good laugh at their expense. But that was one thing. Why had he come in here to gloat?

Estelle eyed Suzi curiously. ‘Coffee, Josh?' she asked.

Suzi glared at her.

‘Yeah. Great.' He settled in further on the counter (lucky there were no sofas around or he'd be comatose within thirty seconds, Suzi thought) as Estelle disappeared out the back.

Suzi knew he was looking at her, staring at her even. Did she have a smut of dust on her nose? Cobwebs in her hair? She felt hot with embarrassment, her throat harsh as sandpaper. She could hardly ignore him and yet she couldn't for the life of her think of a topic of conversation that was safe.

‘You must be pleased,' he said to her, referring, she assumed, to Stan and Terry again.

‘S'pose so,' she croaked. Of course she was pleased – if they were really going. She just didn't understand why.

‘Though you don't look it.'

Unless it was another wind-up. Judas. Suzi squinted at him, but he met her accusing glare with such a look of innocence, that, having run out of things to dust, she turned her attention to the window display. She moved some moonstone ear-rings to one side, then back again, to the other side, then back again. She might look mad but at least it meant she didn't have to look at him.

‘So I guess you'll be pretty pleased that I won't be around either.'

This time she did turn. ‘You're going with them?' God, how low had he sunk? Or had he been down there with the scum of the earth all along?

‘Give me a break.' Josh stretched out his almost unbearably long legs and Suzi looked away again. ‘I'm getting out of antiques.'

‘Oh.' No more trips to Germany then. No more reason for Josh Willis to even come into the shop again.

‘And out of the area.'

‘Oh.' That was that then. She felt an unwilling emptiness – anti-climax maybe. And more fool her for being taken in by him. For thinking, for dreaming … Oh, hell. What was the matter with her anyway?

‘Don't you want to know where I'm going?' The grey-green eyes were searching.

Suzi took a step towards him and then two steps back.

He sighed.

Yes! she wanted to scream. ‘If you like,' she said.

He took a business card – one of
those
cards – from the inside pocket of his jacket and scribbled down an address. He left it on the counter.

Suzi hesitated. Odd, the strange magnetic force that card seemed to have, for an object so small. She moved over to pick it up – slowly, as if it might explode. His handwriting was long and loopy, like on the postcard he'd sent her from Germany.
Farm Cottage,
she read. ‘Sounds very rural.'

‘It is. I'm selling up and buying a run-down cottage and a few acres of land.'

She was close to him now – she could smell the scent of him, feel his warmth. ‘Somerset?' For some reason this word emerged with a phoney West Country accent. Where the cider apples grow, she thought, dealing herself a mental kick in the shins.

‘Not very far, really. An hour's drive.' Every word seemed charged, as if he were expecting something from her. But what could he possibly be expecting – after what he'd done?

‘I wish things were different,' Suzi blurted. She had so much to say and she didn't know where to start. Her brain and her heart were at cross purposes. She didn't know whether to accelerate or brake, to overtake or stop at the nearest junction.