The Tennis Party (20 page)

He opened the door cautiously and was surprised to see the light still on. Then he looked over at the bed. Cressida was in bed, asleep, but propped up against the pillows, as though she had been reading and fallen asleep over her book. Except there was no book to be seen. Charles went nearer and saw that a piece of paper had fallen out of her fingers onto the bed cover. Had she been writing letters at that time of night? He wouldn’t have been surprised. Cressida corresponded with an incredibly large number of people, from old school friends to distant aunts.

He picked up the sheet of paper and began to skim it casually, kicking off his shoes as he did so.
Dear Mrs Mobyn
. It was from Cressida’s portfolio manager, Mr Stanlake. He always refused to call either of them by their first names. Charles grinned to himself. Dry old stick.
You may recall that a while ago I wrote to you, explaining again the meaning of the term ‘unlimited liability’
. Charles yawned. Some technical matter. He read the first paragraph without giving it his full attention; his thoughts were still outside, with Ella.

But suddenly, as his eyes moved down the page, he let out a cry.

‘What the fuck . . . ?’ The noise awoke Cressida, who opened her eyes in a fluttering motion. She focused her gaze on Charles, and then took in the letter with a little cry of alarm.

‘Charles,’ she said weakly. ‘I got that letter today. I’ve been trying to show it to you . . .’

‘Have you read it? Have you seen what it says?’

‘Well, yes . . .’ said Cressida hesitantly. She gazed at him hopelessly. His eyes met hers for a second, then fell back on the page again. He read the letter urgently from beginning to end, desperate for another meaning, for a conclusion other than the one he’d drawn.

When he’d finished, he looked up, with unseeing eyes. A hot, pounding blackness seemed to be rising up in his head. Stanlake’s dry, well-chosen phrases ran relentlessly through his mind.
Next demand . . . one hundred thousand . . . future uncertain . . . particular syndicate . . . one million pounds . . . possibly more . . . staggered payments
. . .
commitment unlimited . . . will understand . . . thought it fair to warn you . . . unlimited liability . . . unlimited liability . . . unlimited liability
. . .

His hands could barely hold the paper still. He felt sick and shaken. A million pounds. The guy had to be joking. He looked down at the page again.
Your next demand will be, I am told, in the region of one hundred thousand pounds
. Charles’ mind distractedly flicked over Cressida’s portfolio. They could probably manage that. If that was all it was. But his eyes drew him on.
As I explained at our original meeting regarding this matter, your commitment is unlimited
.

Charles was not usually given to panic. But he could
feel his breath coming more quickly; could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead. Cressida was a Lloyd’s Name. Christ. Jesus Christ; he’d had no idea. Why the fuck hadn’t he known? Why the fuck hadn’t she told him?
Unlimited liability
. Unlimited. What, until they didn’t have anything left? Until they’d sold the house? Got rid of the car? His eyes fell again on the sentence in the middle of the page.
I am informed that the sum total could be as much as one million pounds, possibly more
. But they weren’t millionaires. OK, maybe on paper – but it was the house and the Print Centre that accounted for most of that.
One million pounds, possibly more
. More than that? More? The phrase
bottomless pit
sprang into his mind; he had a sudden vision of a fiery hell; of suitcases, full of money, being thrown down to burn in the flames.

He couldn’t think where to place his thoughts; how to anchor his panic. For a moment he just stood, swaying slightly in the silent night, feeling almost heady with terror. Then gradually he became aware that there was something ominously niggling at his thoughts. His eyes focused again on the letter.
At our original meeting regarding this matter
. What meeting? What fucking meeting?

Suddenly he felt Cressida’s eyes on him. Her pale face looked tired and anxious. Had she known about this for a long time? Had she known but not told him?

‘How long have you known about this?’ he snapped.

‘Only today,’ stammered Cressida. She felt cold inside the bed. Charles had read the letter but he hadn’t laughed at it; he hadn’t shaken his head and pointed out the foolish mistake made by some clerical member of staff; he hadn’t tossed it aside carelessly to deal with tomorrow.

‘Well, what meeting is he talking about?’

‘I don’t know.’ Cressida felt a sudden wave of panic, as though she’d forgotten to do a vital piece of homework. Was this something she was supposed to know about? Had she had a meeting with Mr Stanlake? She screwed up her pale face and desperately tried to remember. But all her encounters with Mr Stanlake seemed to have merged into one hazy picture in her brain.

Charles sat down heavily on an armchair and began to read the letter through again from beginning to end. Cressida gazed at him silently, not daring to rub her sleepy eyes or push her fingers through her rumpled hair. Her gaze wandered uncertainly through the room, landing indiscriminately on corners of wallpaper, pieces of furniture, on the top of Charles’ head and away again. She wondered what time it was. Far away was the sound of a clock ticking; otherwise there were no sounds in the house. Everyone must have gone to bed.

‘Unlimited liability,’ Charles suddenly said, in a voice which trembled with suppressed emotion. ‘Do you know what that means?’ Mutely, Cressida shook her head. She thought she did, but she wouldn’t risk saying anything. ‘It means they can keep asking you for money for ever. For ever!’ Charles’ voice rose. ‘Do you appreciate what that means? For us? For the twins?’ Shakily, Cressida got out of bed, went over to the chair and knelt at his feet. She was shivering, and would have liked a dressing-gown. But if she went to put one on, Charles might react badly.

‘Perhaps they’ve made a mistake,’ she said, in a wobbly voice. ‘They’ve never done anything like this before.’

‘I don’t know.’ Charles threw the paper onto the ground exasperatedly. ‘Fuck knows. Jesus Christ, Cressida, why didn’t you tell me you were a Lloyd’s Name?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Cressida confusedly. ‘I didn’t think it was important. And anyway . . .’

She pulled up short and gasped. A sudden recollection suffused her cheeks with pink.

‘What? What?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, flinching from his gaze. ‘But I did have a meeting with Mr Stanlake a few years ago. I’ve just remembered.’

‘And?’

‘And I think it might have been about being a Lloyd’s Name.’

‘What? When? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘It was just after we got engaged. It was only a very quick meeting.’ Cressida paused, and tried desperately to remember. ‘I was up in town to look at wedding dresses.’

‘Get to the point.’ Charles’ voice was hard.

‘Well,’ Cressida swallowed, ‘Mr Stanlake said something about paying some extra bills or something out of a separate bit of my money. Another special bank account or something. I can’t remember exactly.’

‘Extra bills? What extra bills?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You never fucking know anything. Christ almighty. Was he talking about Lloyd’s losses?’ Cressida’s cheeks turned pinker.

‘I’m not sure. I think so,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Something like that.’

‘What? Why are you looking like that?’ Charles stared at Cressida’s blushing face and blinked as it loomed in and out of his weary vision. ‘What aren’t you telling me? Why do you think it was Lloyd’s?’

Cressida stared back at him miserably. She could hardly bear to tell him what she had just remembered. But the idea of lying to him didn’t even
enter her thoughts. ‘Well,’ she began hesitantly, ‘I’ve remembered something else Mr Stanlake said.’

‘What? For Christ’s sake, what?’

‘I’d just told him I was engaged, and shown him the ring.’ Automatically, she looked down at her engagement ring. ‘And he was saying how nice it was,’ she continued. Charles stared at her with incredulity.

‘What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Well, it was the thing he said next,’ stammered Cressida. ‘He asked about you, and about the wedding and everything, and then he said, “You know, I wouldn’t advertise the fact that you’re a Lloyd’s Name if I were you.”’

There was a short silence. Charles felt a very slow, frighteningly powerful surge of fury rise through him. For a few moments he couldn’t quite think what to do with himself.

‘You mean,’ he said eventually, in an over-controlled voice that was barely above a whisper, ‘you mean that you deliberately kept the fact of your being a Name secret from me?’

‘No!’ Cressida’s face was aghast. ‘I mean, I didn’t know it meant anything then. I went off to have lunch with Sukey and go to Liberty’s . . .’ Her voice tailed away.

‘And then?’ prompted Charles, his face menacingly polite. Cressida swallowed.

‘And then I forgot all about it.’

‘You forgot all about it? You
forgot
you were a Lloyd’s Name?’

‘Yes. No. I mean, I sort of knew, but I didn’t think it was important . . .’ Her voice tailed away again.

For a moment, Charles’ astonishment almost abated his anger.

‘How could you not think it was important? Haven’t you heard about Lloyd’s?’

Cressida hung her head and his impatience with her increased. ‘Haven’t you heard what’s happened to people?’ he shouted. ‘Didn’t you realize what it meant for us? Haven’t you got a brain?’

‘I know, I know,’ exclaimed Cressida, giving a sudden sob. ‘I sort of knew, but I just didn’t think any of that would happen to us. Mr Stanlake said he thought everything would be all right.’

‘Well, fuck Mr Stanlake!’ shouted Charles. ‘And fuck you! You never bothered to listen to anything, or ask, or find out what was going on, did you?’ He suddenly brought his face close to hers. ‘You never bothered to understand your finances, you always left it up to your fucking father, or me. Well, you can sort this fucking mess out yourself. I’ve had enough of it.’

‘Charles . . .’ Cressida gazed up at him with huge, frightened eyes.

Charles felt as though he’d stumbled into some
horrible nightmare; some grotesque fantasy with no way out. Only five minutes ago he’d been so arrogantly pleased with himself; it had all seemed as though it was falling into place. He’d constructed for himself a large-scale plan of life for the future – taking for granted his wife, his income, his life as it was now – and embellishing it with even more delights; adding the little extras which would bring it to perfection. A continued affair with Ella; an acquaintance with the great Maud Vennings; a familiarity with Italy: he had imagined all these – even in the few minutes he’d had since parting from Ella – with an intense, desperate vividness. But suddenly all that seemed laughable; the stuff of schoolboy dreams. He could take nothing for granted. What was life without money? Come to that, what was his wife without her money? Could he still love her if she were not a source of riches, but a drain; a burden? Charles eyed Cressida afresh. Her limbs were lanky under her nightdress; her voice high and irritating. Her face was pale and tired. As he looked at her, a sudden vivid vision of warm, brown, coconut-scented skin appeared in his mind and he experienced a shocking, almost painful desire for Ella.

‘I’m sure it’ll all get sorted out,’ said Cressida uncertainly.

‘Are you?’ said Charles sarcastically, hating her for not being Ella. ‘Good. Well then, perhaps I’ll leave
you to it.’ She gazed at him speechlessly for a moment, then burst into tears. Charles’ stomach turned. The sound of Ella’s bubbling laugh flickered through his head; her gently mocking eyes sprang up in his mind’s eye.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ he shouted. ‘Shut up. I can’t bear that noise.’ Her sobs increased. ‘Shut
up
, I said.
Shut the fuck up!’
He raised his hand and brought it slamming down on the side of her face.

Cressida gasped, and put her hand up to her cheek. The side which Charles had hit was already bright blotchy red, but the rest was drained of colour. Charles didn’t change his expression. Then Cressida rose unsteadily to her feet and backed away into the bathroom. The door closed and Charles heard the sound of Cressida vomiting. Then the taps were turned on. She had not locked the bathroom door; perhaps she was hoping he would come in after her. The thought made Charles scowl. He slid to the floor, picked up the letter and crumpled it.

‘Fuck you,’ he said. ‘Fuck the lot of you.’

Annie was woken at seven-thirty by her electronic alarm clock. Its merry bleeping penetrated her dreams gradually; when she realized what it was, she reached out automatically to the left and was thrown into confusion when she hit Stephen’s face. Eventually she found it, sitting on an unfamiliar table to her right. She turned it off, flopped back into bed and stared puzzledly for a while at a strange lampshade hanging from a white, well-painted, uncracked ceiling before it came to her suddenly that they were staying at Caroline’s house.

And she had a peculiar feeling inside her, she realized. A bit like the ominous dread that one had on the morning of an appointment with the dentist – but this was positive rather than negative. She felt warm, cosy and encouraged. It wasn’t just the bright sunlight visible through the chink between the curtains, and it wasn’t just the knowledge that she didn’t have to cook
breakfast. She searched idly around in the recesses of her mind but whatever it was kept evading her. She looked around the room for clues, squinted at the clock and wondered why she’d set it so early.

Then suddenly it all came back to her in a rush. She’d set the clock early so she could take the children to church. The children. Nicola. School fees. Of course, Caroline and Patrick had offered to pay Nicola’s school fees. And they’d accepted. Nicola would be going to St Catherine’s. Annie sank back into her pillows pleasurably. Now that she was fully awake, she realized that she also had rather a piercing headache. But nothing could mar her happiness on Nicola’s behalf.