One Christmas Morning & One Summer's Afternoon (20 page)

Two sloping fields adjoining the cricket pitch and green and providing an excellent view of both – both owned by Rory Flint-Hamilton – now sported a variety of marquees, including two beer tents and a makeshift hospitality centre serving sandwiches, ice creams, homemade cakes and the like, as well as a long row of portaloos. Fittlescombe Village Council had vehemently opposed any sort of corporate sponsorship, but Brockhurst, keen to keep the money flowing, had ‘partnered’ unofficially with a number of London companies, whose names and logos could be seen on everything from mugs to paper plates to the bottom of the strawberry punnets supplied by an enterprising Brockhurst farmer.

‘Anyone would think it was the Cartier bloody Polo,’ grumbled Gabe Baxter. Many ordinary villagers, from Brockhurst as well as Fittlescombe, agreed with him. The country had taken this ancient village match to its heart because it was exactly that – a village match, a treasured remnant of a way of life that was all but dead in modern England. No one, least of all the locals, wanted it to lose that old-world charm. But with each passing year, especially as more and more glamorous media types moved to the valley, it was getting harder – as Seb Harwich and his friends would have put it – to ‘keep it real’. There was no doubt that Santiago de la Cruz’s inclusion in this year’s line-up, combined with the Brockhurst captain’s mercenary tendencies, had made it even harder.

Even some of the press were complaining. Graham Yates, the local BBC Radio Sussex cricket commentator, and as mild-mannered a man as one could hope to meet in broadcasting, had had to fight off two ITV crews and a deeply irritating woman from
Hello!
magazine in order to secure his usual pitch beside the pavilion. Broadcasting from the back of a sound van, Graham did his best to convey the heady buzz of the pre-match atmosphere.

‘Of course, the name on everybody’s lips this morning in the glorious surroundings of this South Downs village is that of Sussex star Santiago de la Cruz.’ Yates’s deep, mellow tones rang out live over the airways. ‘Players from both villages are milling around the dressing rooms here, mingling with the local crowds. But there’s been no sign so far of de la Cruz. It could be that he’s keeping his distance. No doubt he’s well aware of some of the bad feeling his selection has caused locally. Plenty of people here, especially in Fittlescombe, feel that professional players shouldn’t be allowed at an amateur match like this one. Of course, Brockhurst have argued that the match rules go back for well over a century and make no such stipulation. Players have to be local, and de la Cruz
is
local. But talking to locals I— Oh, here he is! Santiago de la Cruz is making his way to the pavilion.’

A vision in perfectly crisp cricket whites, which made his smooth olive skin look even darker, and accentuated the perfect, arrogant, predatory lines of his face, Santiago strode across the pitch like a god. Without exception, every female eye turned to gaze at him, with varying degrees of longing. Despite herself, Emma Harwich felt a lurch in the pit of her stomach. She wished she didn’t want him so much, but how could one not?

‘And there’s de la Cruz, shaking hands with George Blythe,’ Graham Yates continued. ‘Blythe is of course the captain of the Fittlescombe team this year … And it looks like … yes, they’re about to have the toss.’

Slumped in a fold-out chair at the bottom of one of the fields, just a few feet from the boundary behind the scoreboards, Emma Harwich listened grumpily to Yates’s commentary on her mother’s Roberts radio. Penny had secured a brilliant spot from which to watch Sebby, and support Piers, who was now confirmed as the giver of the cup. She’d been too tired to make a picnic last night, so the wicker basket wedged between Emma’s chair and her own was stuffed with ready-made Waitrose pies and sandwiches, plus a few plums from the garden and what was left of the Victoria sponge Penny had made last weekend to celebrate Emma’s homecoming. At the last minute she’d thought to grab a screw-top bottle of white wine out of the fridge, along with a clutch of plastic glasses. These were intended for lunch, but she was alarmed to see that Emma had already poured herself a large glass. Play hadn’t even started yet. Emma’s bad mood of yesterday seemed to have intensified this morning into a full-scale sulk. Penny had half expected her to stay at home and boycott the match, perhaps to ‘punish’ Santiago for cancelling on her last night. But at the last minute she’d wafted downstairs looking utterly ravishing in a diaphanous, pale-green Stella McCartney tea dress, the look spoiled only by the ugly scowl she wore etched on her perfectly made-up face.

‘Oh, that’s bad luck,’ said Penny, her eyes glued to the pitch as the BBC commentator rambled on. ‘Brockhurst won the toss. They’re going to bat first.’

‘I’m not deaf,’ snapped Emma.

‘That won’t do much for poor Will’s nerves, having to wait forty overs before he faces Santiago.’

Emma’s scowl deepened. She did not want to think about ‘poor Will’, who managed to make her feel guilty just by existing, or Santiago, who’d looked preposterously handsome this morning, weaving his way through the parked Ferraris and Bentleys before strutting onto the pitch in his gleaming whites. Catching sight of Emma as he approached the pavilion, the bastard had had the temerity to smile and wave at her as if nothing were wrong. As if it were OK to leave her in the lurch for some stupid team powwow. Emma hated herself for feeling so angry and impotent, and for wanting him so much.

‘Oh, my goodness, look!’ gasped Penny, as the teams spread out over the pitch and the fielders took up their positions. ‘George has put Sebby in to bowl first.’

‘Who cares?’ Emma yawned.

This was too much for Penny. ‘I care,’ she said crossly. ‘And so should you. This is a huge deal for your brother.’

Emma rolled her eyes.

‘He’s only fourteen,’ said Penny, ignoring her. ‘The youngest ever player for Fittlescombe, and he’s going to bowl the first ball. He’s bound to get his picture in the papers after this. He might even get talent-spotted,’ she added, excitedly.

‘Whoop-de-do,’ said Emma, getting to her feet. ‘I’m going for a walk.’

The moment she stood up, half the cameras pitch-side swivelled to look at her. One of the few strokes of good luck Emma had had in recent days was the news that Tatiana Flint-Hamilton, her only real rival for top billing as ‘most photographable girl’ at today’s event had decided to swan off to Sardinia instead, leaving the limelight entirely to Emma. Ignoring the groans and catcalls of ‘sit down’ from spectators around her, she made no effort to speed up her walk as she sauntered sexily towards the hospitality tent, revelling in the attention. In all the high emotion of the past week, with Will and Santiago and her increasingly fraught relations with her mother, Emma had almost forgotten why she’d come home in the first place. If Sebby did make the papers as opening bowler, he wasn’t going to be the only member of the Harwich family to do so.

At first the pace of the match was fast. Seb Harwich, riddled with nerves, made a hash of his first two overs, allowing Brockhurst’s openers to score two fours and a six before they’d been on the pitch fifteen minutes. But, as the morning wore on, things settled down. To Fittlescombe’s unconcealed delight, Charlie Kingham, Brockhurst’s odious captain, was caught out by their harmless church organist Frank Bannister. Despite this, by the time Harry Hotham, one of the umpires, called a break for lunch, Brockhurst had racked up a creditable but by no means unbeatable 282 for 6. Two of their wickets had fallen LBW to an ecstatic Seb Harwich and another player had been caught leg-side by Will Nutley off the bowling of Tim Wright.

This being a village match, the players, spectators and press all ate lunch together in the large hospitality tent in Gabe Baxter’s field. A hand-drawn sign outside the marquee announced that neither cameras nor microphones were allowed inside, so that the players could relax and unwind. With Fittlescombe in to bat immediately after lunch, however, there could be no relaxing for Will Nutley. Thirsty after the morning’s efforts – by noon the sun was blistering down at close to ninety degrees – he drank two large pint glasses of lemon barley water, but even the thought of food made him feel nauseous.

‘You must eat something.’ Penny Harwich appeared at his shoulder by the buffet table. Her own plate was piled high with coronation chicken, potato salad and an enormous tomato stuffed with rice. Will wondered how on earth she managed to stay so rail-thin, then thought about how stressful it must have been for her when Emma and Seb’s dad pushed off, answering his own question. ‘Terrific catch, by the way. Poor old Johnny Usbourne! He looked as if he’d swallowed a wasp, walking off the field.’

‘Thanks.’ Will smiled. ‘I was lucky, though. It was a great ball from Tim.’

He’s always so self-effacing
,
thought Penny, putting two bread rolls on Will’s plate despite his protests.
He never takes credit for anything
.

As she thought it, she overheard Piers Renton-Chambers regaling Laura Tiverton with some boring parliamentary story.

‘Of course I would never say so myself, but they do say that my maiden speech in the Commons was one of the best in the last century,’ Piers boasted. Laura nodded, her eyes glazed. ‘But then perhaps that was to be expected. Being president of the Union at Oxford gave me plenty of opportunity to hone my skills as an orator. I doubt making the speech at a village cricket match will be
too
much of a challenge, ha ha ha!’

Penny winced. She knew Piers only talked himself up out of nerves, but it was excruciating to listen to. With his chest puffed out and an incipient double chin wobbling with laughter above his pompous silk cravat, he somehow looked shorter, balder and altogether less attractive than ever. Catching her watching him, he looked up and gave a cheery wave. Penny returned it guiltily.
He’s a terribly nice man
,
she told herself, like a naughty child repeating a teacher’s lines.
I must try to be less shallow
.

Turning back to Will, she was surprised to find he had wandered off. She saw him making a beeline for Emma, who was standing by the Pimm’s table on the far side of the room, looking ridiculously lovely, then stopping dead when Santiago de la Cruz approached her.

Both Will and Penny were too far away to hear what was said between the two of them. But the body language, on both sides, spoke volumes. Despite herself, Emma’s face had lit up when Santiago came over. When he rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, her whole frame had arched towards him in a ballet of attraction and desire. But then something he said had offended her. Penny watched Santiago’s head fall apologetically. Like Will, she saw Emma recoil, as if stung by a bee, then turn haughtily on her heel and stalk off. Unable to stop himself, Will followed her. Penny watched him go, but her eyes kept returning to Santiago, standing where Emma had left him. Running his hands through his thick black hair, he stamped on the ground like a petulant child. He looked both frustrated and exhausted. Like Piers, Santiago sensed Penny watching and looked up suddenly. Unlike with Piers, however, there was no friendliness in his reaction. He stared at her for a moment, frowned deeply, and walked away.

‘Mum, there you are!’ Sebby came bounding over, as excited and enthusiastic as a Labrador puppy. ‘Do you want to come outside and eat with us? Gabe and Laura have picnic chairs and a sun umbrella and everything. George wants to do some last-minute strategizing for our innings, but family members are allowed to join.’

‘Of course, darling. Lead the way.’

Penny followed her son out into the sunshine.
This is Seb’s day
, she reminded herself, wishing her heart weren’t so heavy with anxiety about Emma and her tangled love life.

*****

‘Hey.’

Will caught up with Emma outside, under a sycamore tree. She was focusing intently on her phone, apparently reading text messages and typing out hurried, irritated replies.

‘Oh, hi. It’s you.’ Her face and voice both softened a little when she saw him. ‘How are you feeling? You’re first in to bat, aren’t you?’

Will nodded. ‘I feel fine,’ he lied. He wasn’t about to tell Emma how terrified he was of facing Santiago de la Cruz from the bowler’s end, or for what reasons. ‘Are you having a good day?’

Emma shrugged. ‘So-so.’ This was a lie, too, and Will knew it. For a moment he stood there just looking at her. She was only feet away from him, yet the distance between them was like a chasm.

Slightly further up the hill, Gabe Baxter and the rest of the Fittlescombe team were lunching together. Emma’s brother and mother were with them, although just at that moment Penny stood up and set off back towards the hospitality tent alone. Emma and Will watched her go.

‘You should join them, shouldn’t you?’ said Emma, looking at the others.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Go on, then.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I have a couple of calls to make, anyway. I’ll see you at tea.’ She floated past him like an angel, beautiful but utterly unobtainable – from a different world.

With a heavy heart, Will trudged back up the bank.

*****

‘Ah, good, there you are.’ Piers grabbed Penny by the elbow just as she was approaching the marquee. She’d come back down in search of Emma, just to check that everything was OK after her run-in with Santiago earlier, but Piers cornered her first. ‘Have you seen that daughter of yours? One of the BBC chappies thought it might be a nice idea if we presented the cup together.’

Penny looked blank. ‘You and Emma? Why?’

‘Well, you know, a pretty face and all that. Two celebrities better than one.’

‘
Celebrities?
’ Penny giggled. ‘You’re hardly that, are you?’

Piers didn’t appear to see the funny side. ‘Emma could hand the cup to me,’ he said stiffly. ‘Then I could make a little speech and give it to the winning captain. Anyway, have you seen her?’

‘No,’ said Penny. ‘And play’s about to restart. I’d better get back to our places. I don’t want to miss Seb, or Will.’

‘All right,’ said Piers. ‘I expect she’ll turn up at the pitch once Fittlescombe start their innings. Tell her I’m looking for her, would you?’