The Tennis Party (10 page)

His legs were beginning to feel stiff, and Stephen stood up. He would have to rejoin the party before people began wondering where he was. He began walking reluctantly back towards the house. His hair
felt rumpled and he was sure his shirt must be covered in hay.

He walked past the tennis court, avoiding the terrace, and went round to the front of the house. He would go and tidy up before facing the others. As he entered the cool house, he saw Charles disappearing out of a side door at the end of the hall. He paused, and looked at himself in the hall mirror.

‘Stephen! Didn’t hear you come in!’ Stephen turned in surprise. Patrick was standing at the door of his study.

‘Thought I’d have a quick wash and brush up,’ said Stephen. ‘I’m sure I need it.’ Patrick waved his hand dismissively.

‘Come in and have a cigar. I’m not sure I had this brand last time you were here. I’d appreciate your judgement.’

‘I’m hardly in a position to help you, since the only time I ever have a cigar is when I’m here,’ said Stephen, more harshly than he had intended. Patrick gave him a surprised look.

‘Come in anyway.’

‘Sorry,’ said Stephen, stepping into the long, dim room. ‘I guess I’ve had too much sun.’ Patrick clapped a hand on his shoulder.

‘Come on, Stephen. We’re friends. If you can’t sound off to me, who can you sound off to?’

Stephen sank on to the leather sofa. The ashtray on the table to the side of the sofa was full.

‘Have you been soliciting Charles’ advice, too?’

‘What?’ Patrick looked taken-aback as he sat down. Stephen gestured to the ashtray.

‘About your new cigars. I saw him going outside just now.’ Patrick paused.

‘Oh. Yes, I did ask him what he thought. But actually, I’m afraid to say we were talking business.’

‘The gallery again? I would have thought he was OK for money by now.’ Patrick smiled as if at a nice memory.

‘No, not the gallery. Just a bit of an opportunity I was able to put his way. He should do quite nicely out of it.’

‘Oh.’ Stephen held up his cigar to the lighter. ‘He’s become quite a capitalist, old Charles, hasn’t he? All a bit different from the Charles we used to know and love.’

Patrick shrugged. ‘It’s not really a question of being a capitalist. Anyone would take advantage of this opportunity if they knew about it. Did you see Charles’ face?’

Stephen shook his head.

‘Pity. I was wondering how wide his grin was.’

‘Why?’ said Stephen curiously. ‘What’s this fantastic opportunity?’

Patrick grimaced. ‘It’s very boring. And quite technical. You don’t really want to hear it.’

‘Why not?’ Stephen looked up, nettled. ‘How do you know I don’t have a stash of cash, just waiting to invest?’

‘I don’t. Do you?’

‘No.’

‘Well then.’ Patrick took a puff of his cigar and looked thoughtful. ‘Although, of course, that’s not quite true,’ he said. ‘You do have a stash of cash.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not an obvious one, but it’s there, if ever you need it.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Your house.’

‘What, eighteen Seymour Road?’

‘Must be worth a fair bit now.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ said Stephen. ‘But you forget, we live there. If we sold it, we’d only have to buy another one.’ He began to laugh. ‘We’re simple folk, Patrick. We don’t have spare property hanging around to sell.’

‘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 onto 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.