The Players (14 page)

“Are you in pain now?”

“Did you consider forfeiting the match?”

“Are you going to drop out of the tournament?”

Ron fought back the waves of pain and answered the questions as calmly as he could.

“It was just a twinge in the leg, fellows. No, it doesn’t hurt now. There was never a thought of forfeit, and yes, of course I’ll continue in the tournament. Now if you’ll excuse me, it was a tough match, I’m hot and sweaty and badly in need of a shower.”

He waved away their further questions with a smile, and forced himself not to limp as he walked through the frosted glass doors into the dressing room. It was traditional among the Australians that you never admit you’re hurt. While some players on the circuit would drop out of a tournament at the first sneeze, an Aussie would play as long as he could stand upright and hold a racket.

Inside the dressing room there were no questions from the other players. They tactfully kept busy with other things. They saw what happened, they knew what it meant. Ron Hopper was finished at Wimbledon. This year would see a new champion.

Tim Barrett walked up and down several times along the street where Christy Noone lived. His mind was a jumble of confused emotions. He wanted desperately to be with the buoyant blonde girl, yet somewhere a warning sounded faintly. He did not know what to think following their short conversation after his match this afternoon. One moment it would seem that Christy’s entire attention was focused on him as someone special, and the next it seemed he was no more to her than any of the other young men who followed her around.

It was possible, Tim decided, that Christy was just as confused as he was. Maybe she was still sorting out her own feelings about him. It seemed the best approach was just to let things work themselves out.

With this resolved, Tim strode into Christy’s building filled with joyous anticipation. He climbed the two nights of stairs to her flat and rang the bell.

Christy opened the door and took a step back into the room to give Tim a chance to take in the total effect. She wore a two-piece black velvet outfit that glittered with sequins. The top crisscrossed in front with only two narrow velvet bands covering her small breasts. The bottom was cut well below the navel and clung to her hips and thighs. Below the knees the pants flared out into wide bells over jeweled sandals.

After a moment Tim said, “Christy, you look absolutely terrific.”

She struck a model’s pose. “I should certainly hope so after I worked on me all afternoon.”

She turned and walked away from the door. Tim followed, unable to keep his eyes off the fluid movements of her trim little buttocks.

“Where are we going tonight?” he said.

Christy turned to face him, her hands pressed flat along her velvety flanks. “Would you mind awfully if we didn’t go out tonight?”

“Not go out?” Tim repeated.

“After all,” she said teasingly, “I did promise your fierce Mr. Goukas that I wouldn’t let you do anything that would hurt your tennis.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Tim said. “Vic gets carried away sometimes. I’m the one who decides where I go and what I do away from the tennis court.”

“Of course, if you don’t
want
to spend the evening here with me …”

“I didn’t mean that,” Tim said quickly.

“It’s true I’m not the best cook in the world, but I have a pair of frozen dinners heating in the oven for us, and there’s not much I can do wrong with them.”

“I love frozen dinners,” Tim said.

“I’m so glad. Then after dinner I have loads of records we can play, and we can dance right here just like in a night club, and then, well, see what happens.”

“That sounds great.”

“Very well then, you just sit down like the man of the house and make yourself comfortable while I make everything ready in the kitchen.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, you just stay where you are and don’t come in until I tell you.”

Christy went out through a swinging door, and Tim settled into a comfortable arm chair feeling like a small boy who’d been invited to make himself at home in a candy store.

After a few minutes Christy pushed the door open and stepped aside with a flourish. “Dinner is served.”

Tim preceded her into the kitchen. In one corner was a compact dinette set. On the small round table were two blue place mats with matching plates. Christy had transferred the frozen dinners from their aluminum trays to the plates where the potatoes gleamed snowy white, the peas emerald green, and the meat a shiny chocolate brown. A pair of slim candles in the center of the table provided a soft circle of light.

“Well?” Christy said.

“Beautiful.”

“Do you mean it? I don’t often entertain here, and I did so want everything to be nice.”

“I love it.”

“Well then, let’s eat, shall we?”

They sat down and Christy watched expectantly while Tim took his first bite. It tasted bland and overcooked like every frozen dinner in the world.

“Delicious,” he said.

“Really? I didn’t get it too done or anything?”

“No, it’s really good.”

Christy smiled happily. “I’m so glad you like it.” Suddenly she jumped up from the table and hurried across to the refrigerator. “I almost forgot,” she said, pulling out a long-necked green bottle, “I had some wine cooling in the fridge for us. I don’t have any proper glasses, so I borrowed a couple from Paula downstairs.” She placed a tulip glass before each of them and poured pale rosé wine into them.

Tim hesitated. He never drank anything with alcohol in it, but if he refused now Christy would think him unsophisticated. He brought the glass to his lips and took a tiny sip. The wine didn’t taste at all the way he had expected it to. He didn’t like it especially, but at least it didn’t make him gag.

Most of the talking during the meal was done by Christy. She chattered happily away about nothing very important, and Tim watched her talk and felt himself growing steadily more relaxed. He enjoyed looking at the little blonde girl across the table. In the gentle light of the candles she was painfully desirable.

Halfway through the dinner Tim was surprised to see that he had emptied his wine glass. Christy quickly refilled it.

“I don’t know if I should drink any more,” he said. “I’m supposed to be in training, you know.”

“One more glass surely couldn’t do any harm,” Christy said. “I’ll promise not to tell your Mr. Goukas about it if you don’t.”

“You can bet I’m not going to tell him,” Tim laughed.

“Besides, how on earth am I going to seduce you tonight if I don’t get some wine into you. That’s the accepted technique, I understand.”

Tim laughed again. He thought now he was beginning to understand this girl. For all her flippant talk and flirtatious manner, underneath she was a quiet girl who enjoyed spending an evening at home, and wanted to be complimented on her cooking. Possibly the other side of Christy was just a pose to cover the fact that underneath she was as shy as he was.

After dinner they walked together back into the sitting room, leaving the dishes stacked in the sink. Tim found that the tensions he felt earlier in the evening had drained away. The two glasses of wine might have had something to do with it, but Tim thought it was more the sense of closeness he could feel growing between himself and Christy.

“Let’s dance,” she said. “Do you want to?”

“Fine.”

Christy put a stack of records on the turntable and turned the volume way down so the music was just a murmur accented by the throbbing rhythm section. She kicked off her shoes and moved to the center of the carpeted floor. She held out her arms to Tim, beckoning him toward her.

Feeling a little giddy, Tim pulled off his own shoes and stood up to face her.

“Come closer,” she said. “This is called touch dancing. It’s the latest thing.”

Tim stepped forward and took the girl in his arms. Christy immediately molded her lithe body against his. He felt himself instantly aroused and was embarrassed for a moment.

“You do like me, don’t you, Tim?”

“I like you a lot, Christy.”

She sighed and wrapped her arms around him, sliding her hands along the firm muscles of his back. Their bodies swayed together. They paid no attention to the quiet music.

After a little while Christy pulled her head back and looked up at him. Tim leaned down to kiss her. Her hand glided up along his spine to the back of his neck. Her fingers wrapped themselves in his hair and she pulled his head down fiercely, smashing his mouth against hers.

When at last they broke apart, both were breathing heavily.

Tim said, “Christy, I …”

“Yes, Tim?” she whispered.

“I want to make love to you.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, her breath hot against his neck. “Yes, please.”

She led him into the bedroom and quickly removed the two pieces of her velvet pants suit, revealing nothing underneath but smooth pale flesh. Tim fumbled with his own clothes while Christy lay back amid a profusion of cushions on the bed and watched him with glowing eyes. As Tim came toward her she held out her arms and ran her tongue slowly around her lips in a way that Tim found unbearably sensual.

Christy looked so slim and vulnerable lying there on the pale sheets that Tim was concerned about hurting her. He eased himself down as gently as he could. However, no sooner had he made contact than Christy gripped him with her arms and with her legs and drew him violently into her.

“Give it to me, Timmy,” she said low next to his ear. “Give it all to me. Come on, Timmy. Give … it … to … me!”

Tim forgot all about being gentle. He forgot about Vic Goukas. He forgot about tennis and Wimbledon. He forgot about everything except the moaning, writhing girl beneath him who held him tight inside her.

His first conscious sensation was a cool softness against his body. His brain went to work sluggishly, sifting through touch memories. Sheets. A bed. Then there was a smell. A faintly sweetish odor with unpleasant associations. Medicine. Sheets, bed, medicine … hospital. That was it, he was in hospital.

Cautiously he opened his eyes. Narrow slits at first, then wider. The light in the room was dim, filtered through the draperies drawn across the large window opposite the bed. Something was wrong about the room. It did not fit his picture. The furnishings, the pictures, the carpet … they were too rich. They did not belong in the bland, functional hospital room he was prepared for.

He closed his eyes again and tried to remember. Everything was in fragments, like reflections in a shattered mirror. He clearly remembered the start of the race in the little village outside Milan. Then there was the familiar exhilaration of speed and power as the red and white Lotus-Ford snarled through the Italian countryside. He was running well, perfectly, in good position to finish second, or even win. Then, as he steered high preparing to go into a deep curve, something in the front suspension gave way with a metallic bang. Where a second before he and the car and the road had been as one, now he was imprisoned in a wild, murderous piece of machinery.

Up and over the embankment he went, and the Lotus broke free of the earth. Blue sky and green grass and brown dirt whirled before his eyes into a single muddy color. Then, just before he hit, everything seemed to freeze for a second as when the projector stops at the cinema. The last impression he had was an upside-down signboard advertising Cinzano vermouth. He remembered nothing of the impact that followed.

Very carefully now he moved his limbs. Feet and legs first. They seemed to be all right. Then his hands, finally his arms. Incredibly, nothing seemed to be broken. Or even sore. He felt all over his body. He was wearing pajamas, not a hospital gown. And there were no bandages anywhere. It was not possible that he could have survived the crash with no injuries. Yet the only thing he could find wrong was a dull ache in his head.

He made an effort to focus his mind. Time and space swirled into changing shapes like paints stirred together. The Lotus racing machine grew into a relatively sedate Jaguar sedan. But that was impossible. He had not bought the Jaguar yet.

And there was a woman. A beautiful young woman with auburn hair that shone with red-gold highlights. Paula. But that could not be. He hadn’t even met Paula at the time of the race. He clutched his aching head with both hands and groaned aloud.

“Ah, Mr. Eric, I see you’re awake.”

He rolled his head on the pillow and saw a gray-haired woman, built square and strong. She wore a crisp white uniform.

“Who are you?” he said, and at the instant he said it the woman’s name popped into his head.

“I’m Miss Bellamy,” she said.

“Yes, yes, I know who you are,” he said impatiently. “What I mean to say is … er … what day is this?”

“Why, it’s Tuesday, Mr. Eric. Tuesday morning.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Stupid woman. “Is my wife here?”

“I’ll ask your mother and father to come in.”

Miss Bellamy withdrew from the room and Eric Teal looked around at the familiar furnishings. It was his own room in his parents’ home. How had they gotten him here from Italy? No, that was wrong. The race, the accident, they happened a long time ago. Years. Where was Paula? She should be here when her husband was hurt.

Sir Oliver Teal and Lady Ann came into the room together. He was tall and erect with bristling gray eyebrows. She was thin and looked worried.

“Well, son, how are you feeling?” said Sir Oliver. The heartiness in his voice rang false as lead.

“How should I be feeling?” Eric asked.

His mother placed a cool hand on his brow. “You seem a bit feverish, dear.”

“Where is Paula?”

His father and mother exchanged a look, and all at once Eric knew that Paula was not there. Paula had left him. What was the matter with his mind that he could not get events into their proper chronological order?

“I suppose you’re hungry,” his father said. “You’ve eaten nothing for the better part of two days.”

“Two days?” Eric repeated.

“Er, yes. You came home Sunday about noon feeling quite ill. It was your head bothering you again. We had Dr. Ruick out, and he prescribed a sedative. Evidently you had some rather violent dreams, but I’m glad to see you’re yourself again.”

Dreams? How much was dreams and how much was real? Where was the dividing line?

“Dr. Ruick wanted to take you back to the hospital,” his mother said, “but we thought—”

“No!” Eric snapped. “I’m never going back to that hospital. They kept me locked up like some kind of an animal. They put things in my food.”

“Don’t worry, son,” his father soothed. “You won’t have to go back to any hospital. With Miss Bellamy to help we can take care of you right here.”

“What do you mean, take care of me? I’m perfectly all right.”

“Quite so, my boy, I can see that. However, when you came home Sunday we found you just sitting in your car and, well, frankly you were acting just a bit out of it.”

Car? Sitting in his car? Eric closed his eyes and again saw the whirling earth and sky and the upside-down Cinzano sign. But was the car a Lotus or was it a Jaguar? And what was that little white Ford doing on the race course? That was very dangerous. Someone could be killed.

“You really shouldn’t go off like that without telling us, dear,” his mother said. “We do worry about you.”

Worry? Why should they worry? He was a grown man. He could take care of himself.

His father smiled down at Eric reassuringly. “Perhaps in a few days, when you’re feeling up to it, a trip to the Continent might not be a bad idea. Austria, or Switzerland if you like. I wouldn’t mind a spot of mountaineering. Do us all good.”

Go away? No, that was impossible. There was something he had to do. Something important.

He said, “I can’t go, Father.”

“Well, I didn’t mean right this minute, but when you feel well enough to travel.”

“I feel perfectly well, damn it. Why do you all insist on treating me like an invalid? I simply don’t want to go to Switzerland, that’s all. There is something here I must attend to. Something …” Eric’s voice trailed off as new pictures formed and dissolved in his mind without ever really taking a firm shape.

Sir Oliver cleared his throat uneasily. “We’ll talk about it later. Is there anything you’d like just now?”

“Nothing, Father.”

“You’re feeling better, then?”

“Except for a slight headache.”

“Miss Bellamy?”

The stout nurse crossed to Eric’s bedside with a tumbler of water and a red-jacketed capsule. “Take this, Mr. Eric,” she said.

“What is it?”

“Something to ease your headache.”

Eric swallowed the pill and looked up into the worried faces of his parents.

His father said, “I’ll have luncheon brought up to you, son. Is there anything in particular you’d care for?”

“Anything. It doesn’t matter.”

“Perhaps you’d like the television turned on,” said his mother.

“I don’t care.”

“Wimbledon will be on shortly.”

“Wimbledon?” The name carried some terrible significance for him. Whatever he had to do was somehow connected with Wimbledon. He must try to remember what it was.