Love-40 (7 page)

She locked the door behind her. First things first. There were things she had to do.

Chapter 5

Liam got changed into his tennis kit and heaved himself into one of the wicker chairs in the clubhouse conservatory. As always, you felt you were sinking into a swamp to begin with, until the cushions moulded around you and you ended up so comfortable you weren't sure you'd ever be able to get up again.

He savoured the view; one he'd been enjoying for as long as he could remember, one he wanted to remain available for everyone – money and class notwithstanding. Took in, as he always did, the motley collection of building-tops – from the Gothic-style Victorian houses, like the one he himself lived in, to the Edwardian grandeur of the old Bull Hotel, to the red roofs of the new housing estates. And then there was Pride Square, the bridge and disused water mill by The Bull, and underneath, the river, swimming its way to Pride Harbour and the sea.

He could make out some of this vista, knew the rest of it by heart. It was, he supposed, in his blood.

It was a club afternoon, so any member could turn up to play – partnerships were random, gender immaterial. If life were like that, Liam reflected, it would be simpler to manage.

But for now the clubhouse was deserted, so after lingering guiltily for a moment in the tranquillity of the place, Liam dug some paper out of his bag, found his battered copy of
Romeo and Juliet
and began scribbling some notes.

If a few key scenes could be condensed, he reasoned, and maybe a couple of song and dance routines added to the whole thing … (Kenneth Branagh had done it, hadn't he?) Shakespeare might become more accessible, rather than just men in tights making long, incomprehensible speeches before killing each other and then themselves.

Shakespeare 4 kidz.
He could see it now. Liam grinned. He might even start a middle school trend.

‘Are you here to play tennis?' A soft purr to his left stopped him mid-sentence. ‘Or are you creating a lesson plan to die for?'

Liam grinned up at Amanda. The girl was drop dead gorgeous, and though he'd always believed man would grow bored with a pretty face, he wasn't sure of this with Amanda Lake. Class and perfection were a heady mix. ‘I'm re-writing the Bard,' he told her, explaining about the school play, perhaps, he admitted privately, making it sound more important than it really was.

While he was talking, she'd taken the rickety chair next to his, drawn it closer and sat down. She smelled of expensive perfume along with what could have been a whiff of pot. He was faintly surprised at this. Amanda was a rich girl. If she was into drugs, he'd expect it to be the occasional line of coke or pills.

‘Gosh.' She looked very impressed. ‘Can anyone come along?'

‘Oh, it's only a school thing.' Liam backtracked. He couldn't quite see Amanda seated on a hard wooden chair in the school hall with all the parents.

‘But I'd love to come,' she breathed. ‘Could you get me a ticket?'

Liam fidgeted. Thought of Tony Andrews licking his lips,
And who might this be?
Thought also of Estelle – how would she react to Amanda in the audience? It didn't bear thinking about. But … ‘Maybe,' he compromised. ‘I'll let you know nearer the time.'

She got to her feet. She was wearing a turquoise and white designer label tennis dress under a thin white fleece; white socks, flashy tennis shoes. Her blonde hair was arranged in a chignon, the golden nape of her neck bare but for a few delicate platinum strands. Jesus … Liam wondered if he had the strength for this.

At CG's, most of the younger players didn't bother with tennis whites, since they had been voted optional a few years ago – much to the disgust of Erica and the blazers, as Liam referred to the Old School of the club. It didn't encourage young blood, had been the argument; kids hated to be told what to wear, the days of tennis whites and wooden rackets were over. And if kids – of all backgrounds, Liam always stressed – weren't encouraged into the game, how much longer would English tennis fans have to wait for a British winner at Wimbledon?

No, getting down to grass roots didn't include tennis whites as far as Liam was concerned. And Nick could look a bit of a prat since he always chose to wear them. But in Liam's opinion, Amanda Lake always looked good – she couldn't not.

‘Do you fancy a game?' he asked her.

Amanda glanced at her tiny gold watch. She frowned. ‘Why not? That's what we're here for.'

Liam got to his feet. ‘Singles?' He wasn't bothered about playing a woman, though it would be bloody difficult to keep his eye on the ball. For a start he knew how good she was – she'd probably wipe the floor with him.

‘Singles,' she confirmed. ‘Though I must say, Liam darling, I'd be happy to play mixed doubles with you any time.'

*   *   *

They strolled through the door that led out of the conservatory and on to the small patio outside. Erica had christened it the Barbecue Patio, some money had been allocated for decorative cast iron chairs and circular tables and the building of a barbecue from fire-bricks. So when weather permitted, it was equally pleasant to sit outside the conservatory. Surprising almost, Liam thought, that anyone actually played tennis.

‘Grass?' Amanda enquired.

For a moment, Liam recalled the fragrance of pot and thought she was offering him something quite different. Then he realised his mistake.

‘It's dry enough,' she added.

‘Why not?' There were certain rules to be adhered to when playing on grass – like the courts shouldn't be used before 10 am, that they must be checked by the groundsman or a committee member before play. But it was mild again today and it looked as if the light cloud might break at any time and surprise them with some sunshine.

Liam bent down to check. The court was dry and the grass springy. He flexed his muscles. He was feeling good.

‘So you teach English?' Amanda murmured, touching his arm.

He felt himself grow taller. ‘In middle schools you teach the lot.' As they piled their gear on to the wooden bench court-side, and sorted out rackets and balls, Liam found himself explaining some of the rudiments of the educational system to a captive audience. Estelle always looked bored when he sounded off about his job, but Amanda seemed riveted. Her baby-blue eyes hardly left his face and the questions she asked showed she'd been listening. But, what had she meant about the mixed doubles, he wondered.

‘I didn't realise it was so complicated,' she murmured, as she spun her racket. ‘Rough or smooth?'

‘Rough,' Liam said, suddenly not caring about the game. He'd much rather sit down with her and go on talking. Though come to think of it, maybe they could do a bit of that after this blasted committee meeting tonight. Erica Raddle always chose the time to suit Erica Raddle; seven o'clock on a Saturday evening was hardly ideal for Liam, but on the other hand a friendly drink with Amanda afterwards could make it worthwhile. Not in any sexual way, of course. He had Estelle – in theory at least. He was in love with Estelle, and he would get her back. He had no worries on that score; it was only a matter of time. Amanda wasn't his type, but she was so … obliging. And sexy. She made a guy feel good, and right now Liam wanted to feel good.

‘Rough,' she confirmed. ‘You'll serve, I take it?'

They had a warm-up first, then launched into the first game. It was a perfect playing day – not too hot and with no breeze to speak of. Liam served a couple of aces and took the game easily. He began to feel better still.

‘What's your favourite subject to teach?' Amanda asked him at the end change. Her perfume mingled with the scent of the grass. Decadent and delicious.

‘Poetry.' And Liam couldn't help himself – off he went with the verbals again. An end change was supposed to be a break of three minutes max but there was so much to say – especially about contemporary poetry, which was his particular bag – that it was almost ten minutes before they restarted.

But, hell, Amanda didn't seem to mind. She nodded and smiled, head to one side, eyes fixed on his face. ‘So driven,' she said. ‘So dedicated.' Smoothly, she collected the balls and prepared to serve.

If Estelle had said that, Liam reflected, trying not to swagger as he moved into the receiving court and flexed his playing arm again, he would think she was taking the piss. She
would
have been taking the piss …

He flinched at the thought, but re-directed himself by watching Amanda's graceful service action as she stood in her virginal whites, framed by the grass courts; in the background, the honey-coloured stone and glass of Chestnut Grove's clubhouse. What a picture she presented. And, God, that woman could toss a ball.

Unfortunately, it caught the net tape and didn't drop over. She served the next one wide.

‘Bad luck!' Liam called, moving over to the other court. She hadn't got into her stride yet, that much was obvious. And where Estelle was cynical, Liam found himself thinking, Amanda Lake was clearly as sincere as they came. Bit of a surprise that, and it just showed that you couldn't make assumptions about people – even the rich kind.

They had a couple of good rallys, then Amanda hit a forehand wide, and before Liam had quite grasped the fact, he'd taken the game and was about to serve again. It was easier to serve when you were seven foot tall. Once again, he managed two aces (he was sure one of them was long but Amanda said not and like the good sport she was, declined to re-take the point) and there he was, leading three love. Wowee – he hadn't realised he was so good.

‘It's ages since we played together,' Amanda said archly at the next end change. ‘You've really improved.' The sun had come out and Liam was really warming up. Amanda slipped off the fleece. The tennis dress had narrow shoulder straps that crossed over at the back.

‘Do you think so?' Liam tried not to look either too pleased or at her breasts. She was sweating ever so slightly – only on Amanda it was more of a delicate glow – and her nipples were clearly outlined under the white fabric. He glanced away. Over at the clubhouse he thought he glimpsed a tall figure standing just inside the glass conservatory watching them, and then it was gone, moving back into the shadows beyond.

‘Absolutely,' said Amanda, smoothing back her hair and throwing him an intimate smile.

Another four had come on to the adjacent grass court to play doubles, and a couple of guys were on their way over from the clubhouse. Liam squinted towards the conservatory, but whoever it was had not re-appeared. Just someone watching the action, he told himself.

Things had been going so well that he was disappointed when Amanda took her next service game, though she did say, ‘God, darling, I thought you were going to give me a whitewash there,' which was quite sweet.

But he kept his serve again to lead 4–1 when they changed.

‘I thought about teaching once,' Amanda confided, sipping her barley water.

Liam was gob-smacked. ‘But you were a model.' Maybe it was a dumb thing to say, but he couldn't see Amanda at teacher's training college to save his life. The women there were lovely – often dedicated, usually full of enthusiasm and sometimes good-looking too. But there weren't many Amandas.

She shrugged, an elegant movement of the slim brown shoulders. ‘That was then.' She eyed Liam with what seemed like admiration. ‘I'm looking for a new career path.'

‘Yeah?'

She laughed. ‘Oh, I know what you're thinking…' the golden brown hand rested on his arm again.

God, the woman couldn't stop touching him. Liam wondered how old she was – late twenties maybe? Well, they said that younger women couldn't resist the older, more powerful man. Liam wasn't sure he was more powerful, but he was certainly older, and at forty, men had a certain panache, he'd heard. As Estelle had once said, complaining about the unfairness of it, a bit of grey around the temples made a woman look old, a man more distinguished.

The blue eyes gazed into his. ‘You're thinking I'm just some blonde bimbo with more money than sense.'

‘Of course not,' said Liam, who had been thinking precisely that. He tried in vain to think of a career path compatible with Amanda and failed miserably. He could imagine her shopping, having breakfast or lunch with friends called Sorrell and Saffron, even partying all night. But a career path…?

Amanda's eyes became almost steely as she took the next game, and Liam really struggled with his following service. All of a sudden Amanda seemed to be finding his serve relatively easy to cope with; the returns came back fast, fluid and with maximum topspin, making him race panting from one side of the grass court to the other. As if she were playing with him … And he wasn't talking tennis. But at deuce, she flashed him a radiant smile and hit the return into the net. Liam put everything into the next serve, it flashed past her, and it was 5–2.

At the end change, Liam became aware of Nick Rossi, standing on the patio, outside the clubhouse, arms folded, watching them. It had been him watching before, Liam was certain. Hardly a surprise since he and Amanda often played together – two of a kind, he supposed. ‘Rossi doesn't look too happy,' he remarked, since she didn't seem to have noticed him.

She towelled her face and neck and didn't look round. ‘That's his problem.'

‘Had the two of you arranged a game?' Liam didn't much like Rossi (he worked, but was too social-strata-A for Liam's taste) but he had no wish to tread on anyone's toes.

‘Mentioned but not confirmed.' Once again, Amanda put her hand on his arm. ‘You don't have to worry, Liam. Nick and I aren't an item.' She smiled, leaned closer. ‘It's just a game.'

And it was only when Amanda hit a double fault, allowing Liam to take that game and the set, that Liam began to wonder what on earth she might mean.