The Tennis Party (11 page)

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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 that 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 on to 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.