The Players (20 page)

Jack and Fran Barrett did not speak for a long while after Tim had left their room at the Regency House. While his wife bustled aimlessly about the room, Jack slumped into a chair and wondered why the hell he couldn’t talk to his son.

Why was it, he asked himself, that he always came off like a pompous jackass when he talked to Tim? He knew what he felt and what he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come out right. He never had that trouble with anyone else, only with his son. Among his business associates and his friends at the club, Jack Barrett was known as a friendly, articulate man. He envied other fathers who could sit down and talk freely with their sons, even joke with them.

Fran Barrett was busy at the little table, stacking the dinner dishes.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jack said, more sharply than he intended. “Just pick up the phone and call room service.”

“I know,” Fran said. “It’s just habit.” She went on straightening up the table.

Several more minutes passed during which neither of them spoke. Finally Jack said, “Do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“What do you mean, Jack?”

“All that clattering around with the plates.”

“I suppose I’m just disappointed about the way the evening went. I was looking forward to the three of us having a nice dinner together.”

“I’m disappointed too. It’s not my fault that Tim got upset and walked out.”

“I’ve never seen you two clash like that before.”

“I don’t know what I could have done to prevent it.”

“You might have picked a subject to talk about that was less touchy.”

“Less touchy than tennis?”

“There
are
other things.”

“Not during Wimbledon, there aren’t. Fran, our son has a chance to win the biggest tournament of them all. As his father, don’t I have a responsibility to keep him from throwing it away?”

“Is that what he’s doing?”

“That’s the way it looks to me.”

“You can’t play the matches for him, Jack. Tim is an experienced player. I’m sure he knows how important Wimbledon is.”

“I wonder.”

They dropped the subject then, leaving many things unsaid as they always did. After a while they went to bed.

Jack Barrett lay for a long time with his hands clasped behind his head, staring up at the ceiling in the dark bedroom. It was true, as Fran said, that he could not play the matches for his son, but there must be some way he could help. Talking to the boy was not going to do any good; he would have to take some kind of action. Abruptly, Jack made his decision. Tomorrow he would go to see the girl who was the cause of Tim’s problems. Now that he had a plan of sorts, he could relax.

Jack reached out tentatively toward his wife. He laid his hand on the curve of her hip. Fran stirred as though in her sleep, but did not respond. He withdrew his hand. Most of the time Fran Barrett was a compliant, easy-going woman, but sometimes when they had a near-quarrel like tonight’s she would withdraw from him for a day or so. In the early years of their marriage this had been a cause of considerable irritation to Jack. However, he had come to accept it as a small flaw in an otherwise superior wife and companion. He rolled over on his side and went to sleep.

• • •

Saturday morning Jack was up early. At home in California it was his habit to rise with the sun and jog two miles every day before breakfast, and he found it impossible, no matter where he was, to sleep late.

Fran eyed him sleepily from the comfort of the bed. “What are you doing up already, Jack? Are you getting dressed?”

“I’m going out for a walk. I don’t feel like I’ve been getting enough exercise this week. You go ahead and sleep in. We’ll have a late breakfast when I get back, then go on out to Wimbledon.”

Fran rolled over and made muffled sounds of assent into the pillow. Jack leaned down and kissed the back of her neck. He pulled on a suede jacket over a brown turtleneck and left the hotel.

The morning air was fresh and damp, and there were few people on the streets yet. Jack walked down the Strand until he found a tobacconist whose shop was open. There he consulted the London directory at a public telephone. He found Christy Noone’s listing and checked her address on a pocket-size street map of the city. He saw that the street she lived on in Chelsea was too far away to walk, so he went back outside and hailed a taxi.

On the drive through London Jack felt a growing tingle of excitement. It was, he told himself, a natural reaction to the fact that he was at last doing something, taking positive action.

He had not yet decided exactly what he would say to Christy when he got there. All he had was a vague notion about persuading the girl to go easy on Tim’s emotions during the tournament. Last night when the idea had come to him, it had seemed simple and logical. Now he was beginning to have doubts. He certainly didn’t want to come off like some heavy-handed parent. It was best, he decided, not to plan his approach in advance. He would wait and see how the encounter with the girl went, then play it by ear.

The taxi pulled up in front of an apartment block in Chelsea, and Jack paid the driver and got out. For a moment he stood on the sidewalk, settling himself into a calm, dignified mood. He was surprised to see that his palms were sweating. He wiped them on a clean handkerchief and walked into the building.

He found Christy’s name on the directory and climbed the two flights of stairs to her flat. He gave the door a businesslike three knocks and waited. There was no response. No sounds of movement from within.

Jack felt a disappointment that was all out of proportion to the situation. He explained this to himself as a natural frustration over being unable to put his plan to work. He knocked once more before starting back down the stairs.

“Just a minute!” a girl’s voice called from inside. “I’m coming.”

It was nearer three minutes, but at last Christy Noone opened the door. She wore a pair of nylon pajamas that were cut off at the legs and arms. Her hair was disarrayed from the bed, but her eyes were wide awake. She seemed unaware that the top three buttons of the pajama top were open.

“Why, Mr. Barrett, hello,” she said.

Jack Barrett’s calm, dignified pose evaporated like mist before the sun. He had not prepared himself for a girl in cutoff nylon pajamas who didn’t even act surprised to see him.

He said, “I, uh, seem to have gotten you out of bed. Maybe I should come back another time.”

“As long as I’m up now, why don’t you come in?”

Christy stepped to one side and Jack walked into the flat.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Barrett?” she said. A spark of mischief glowed in her eyes.

Jack gazed around the sitting room. Magazines, articles of clothing, and various bits of feminine paraphernalia lay everywhere in disorder. Still, there was something appealing in the very untidiness of the room.

“I thought you and I should have a talk,” he said.

Christy sat down on the sofa and curled her legs under her. She made no move to close the pajama top.

“What did you want to talk about?” she said.

Jack removed a fashion magazine from the seat of a straight-backed chair and sat down gingerly.

“It’s about Tim,” he said, and found he had to clear his throat.

“Tim’s an awfully nice lad.” Christy smiled brightly and waited for him to go on.

Jack Barrett drew a deep breath and pondered how he should begin. He decided to plunge right in. “I wonder if you know how important the Wimbledon tournament is to Tim?”

“He’s awfully keen on it, I know that much.”

“Yes, he is. He also has a chance to win it. The trouble is that the way he’s playing now, he won’t make it as far as the quarter finals.”

“Why ever not? Tim’s won every time so far, hasn’t he?”

“So far, but the way that he’s won his early matches is not encouraging. The boy’s not concentrating the way he has to in order to play winning tennis.”

“I think I see,” Christy said. “You’re afraid that Tim’s mind is on me rather than his tennis playing. Is that it?”

“In a nutshell, yes, that’s about it.”

“I see. Tell me, just what is it that you propose I do?”

“This sounds a little foolish, but I’m not sure exactly what you
can
do. When I came up here the whole thing seemed like a good idea, but now I’m embarrassed to find I really have nothing to say.”

“Perhaps I can help. Were you by any chance going to ask me not to see Tim again?”

“No. I may be out of the square generation, but I know better than that. I think what I had in mind was something like asking that you and Tim not get too, well, involved until after Wimbledon.”

“Have you talked to Tim about it?”

“I tried, but frankly it didn’t go very well. He walked out on me.”

Christy leaned forward ever so slightly. “Mr. Barrett, if when you say
involved
, you mean what I think you do, there’s something you ought to know. We already have.”

“You’re not engaged or anything?”

“Certainly not. What’s between Tim and me is strictly fun and games. At least, that’s the way it is as far as I’m concerned.”

“I have a feeling Tim might think that it’s something more serious.”

“I’m sorry if he does, but that’s his problem.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

Jack caught himself staring at the open buttons on the girl’s pajamas. He clapped his hands on his knees, stood up, and made a move toward the door.

“I’d better be going,” he said.

Christy rose from the sofa and walked over to stand in front of him, placing herself between him and the door.

She said, “Mr. Barrett, I promise I won’t do anything that will harm Tim’s chances at Wimbledon if I can possibly help it. Not seeing him is out of the question, though, as I do enjoy his company, and I’ve already promised to be at his match this afternoon.”

Jack shifted uncomfortably. He was acutely aware of the girl’s firm young body, covered only by the thin material of her pajamas.

“Thank you, Christy,” he said. “I appreciate your help. I hope you won’t tell Tim I was up here.”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t think he’d understand. On second thought, maybe he
would
understand. Either way it would cause more problems.”

“I won’t tell him.”

“I’ll be going then.”

Christy made no move to get out of his way. “Mr. Barrett, you aren’t going to leave without telling me the real reason you came?”

“Real reason?”

“I saw the way you looked at me the other day out at Hurlingham. You liked me.”

“Well, sure, but …”

“More than liked me. A woman can tell when a man’s thinking
those
thoughts. I don’t mind saying I was thinking the same thing about you. You’re a very good-looking man.”

Jack Barrett stood with his mouth open, but he couldn’t think what to say. He was in turn shocked, flattered, amused, and tempted. However, he was too flustered to identify any of these feelings.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Christy said. “This is a perfectly natural, healthy way for a man and woman to feel about each other.”

“Who said I’m feeling
any
way?”

“Aren’t you?”

“I must be dreaming this conversation,” Jack said, turning away to break the eye contact.

Christy moved around behind the sofa and stood with her hands resting on its back. “Why?” she said. “Is it because I’m skipping all the silly prattle people go through before they finally get around to what they really want?”

“Which is …?”

“Sex, of course. People waste so much time playing word games. Like do we say, ‘Let’s make love,’ or ‘Let’s go to bed,’ or simply ‘Let’s fuck’?”

In spite of his intention to be stern, Jack felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He heard himself say, “Which one do you like?”

“It depends on who I’m with. Usually, I’m a ‘fuck’ person, but some fellows get all sick and nervous when you use the word. They have trouble with parts of the body too. For some reason they blush like crazy if you talk about their ‘cock’ or ‘prick.’ I don’t know what else in the world you’d call it. I’ve never been able to say ‘penis’ without feeling terribly clinical.”

“I have to ask,” Jack said, interested in spite of himself, “why it’s necessary to call it anything at all?”

“One could simply point at it, I suppose,” Christy said, “but that wouldn’t do in the dark, would it?”

Jack relaxed now and laughed aloud. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it. My generation didn’t do much talking. At least not during.”

“A lot of fellows are still like that. Regular clams. Others chatter away the whole time. Give you sort of a running description of what they’re doing. It can be rather exciting.”

“Do you really get around that much, Christy?” Jack asked more seriously.

“Not really. I’m a lot of bluff, you know. Oh, I do my share of the old slap and tickle, but I have a habit of exaggerating.”

“I kind of thought so.”

“So are we going to?”

“Going to what?”

“Make love. Go to bed. Fuck.”

“Good God, you mean it, don’t you!”

“Of course I do.”

“Christy, I’m—”

“I hope you’re not going to tell me you’re old enough to be my father.”

“As a matter of fact, I was.”

“What difference does that make? As long as you’re not too old to—”

“Hold it!” Jack interrupted, raising his hands in a
Stop
gesture. “Before this goes any further I want you to know I’m very flattered by your suggestion and, yes, tempted to take you up on it. But it’s not going to happen.”

“Why not, for heaven’s sake?”

“There are other people involved.”

“Nonsense, there’s just you and me. Who else?”

“There’s Tim, for one.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right about that,” Christy admitted reluctantly.

“And there’s my wife, whom I happen to love very much. And who
does
understand me.”

“Would she mind awfully?” Christy said.

“Mind?!
You bet she’d mind. She’s not
that
understanding.”