The Summer Without You (33 page)

She looked around her, wanting to get off this stage. She didn’t want Greg to see her up here and realize she’d discovered his secret. But before she could make her excuses, everyone
erupted into applause again and she felt a hot, sticky hand close around hers once more. She looked across to find her co-host watching her inquisitively. Everyone was beginning to disperse,
shuffling through the marquee and out the other side towards the tennis court lying behind it.

‘Come,’ Wes smiled, shaking her hand playfully so that her arm waggled limply. ‘As the emperors were wont to say, let the games begin.’

Ro shifted position again, trying to keep her eye on the ball as it was volleyed across court like a bullet, but she was too aware of Wes Turner’s left thigh inching into
her peripheral vision again.

‘Another drink?’ he asked solicitously, leaning over with the Pimm’s and, she knew, trying to glimpse down her cleavage.

Ro shook her head and crossed her legs, angling them away from him. ‘No, thanks. I’m on court next.’

Her line of sight was angled 110 degrees away from him, but she could still feel his eyes on her.

‘Do you play regularly?’

‘Yeah . . . every ten years or so,’ she replied, keeping her eyes dead ahead.

He gave a low laugh. ‘What’s your shot? Your killer blow.’

‘A knee to the nuts usually,’ she said with a too-sweet warning smile, her eyes on the players. At least, she told herself, she was safe from the crowd here. From their thrones
– actual gold-sprayed thrones set apart from the rest of the grandstand seating on the opposite side of the court – she could easily see everyone.

‘And in tennis?’ She heard the amused smile in his voice and it made her skin creep as she realized he thought she was playing hard to get.

‘My backhand, I s’pose.’ She looked at him properly. He was dressed in beige shorts and a red polo shirt. No whites. ‘Why aren’t you playing?’

‘It’s not my game.’ He leaned forward, so close that she could feel his breath on her neck, and whispered a secret. ‘Between you and me, I can’t stand the
sport.’

‘Why do you host this, then?’ she asked scathingly.

‘Just doing my bit for the charity,’ he replied, trying to lock his eyes on hers.

Ro looked away, revolted by him and disgusted that her seat beside him seemed like some sort of proclamation of intent. More than once she’d caught some of the younger girls staring over
at her with openly hostile faces.

She stared ahead again – it was safer – shielding her eyes from the glare coming from the court lines.

‘Why are the lines in gold?’ she asked finally, determined to force his eyes off her chest.

‘The gold leaf?’ he asserted. ‘The guests appreciate a little decadence. It’s just a bit of fun, although quite literally at my expense – every touch from the ball
costs me four hundred dollars.’ He pulled an ‘ouch’ face and gave a laugh that was more like a whimper.

She looked at him in bafflement. ‘So you thought you’d have a tennis
tournament
?’

He shrugged, enjoying the largesse he believed her shock imbued him. ‘People enjoy the extravagance.’ His eyes roamed her face, looking for signs that she was turned on by this
reckless display of wealth.

‘You’re mad.’

‘And you are sexy.’

She shot him a tight, unamused smile. ‘Well, my boyfriend thinks so.’

There was a half-beat as she looked back into the crowd and she sensed the tempo between them had shifted gear now that he’d played his card. ‘Is he here?’

‘No.’

‘Well then . . .’

Ro arched an unimpressed eyebrow, instantly shooting down his implied suggestion.

She felt the weight of his stare again.

‘Do you love him?’

‘Very much.’

‘Does
he
have a gilded tennis court?’

‘No. He has taste.’

Wes laughed at that, a loud, obnoxious sound that drew the attention of everyone nearby, prompting them to look at her and wonder what she had said that was so very amusing.

‘You have a cruel wit, Rowena. Usually when girls raise their hands to co-host with me, they’re a little more friendly.’

‘I was waving to my friend, not you.’ She looked back at him, sensing an escape. ‘Perhaps I should just leave and you can find someone who’s better at this than
me.’ She put her hand on the armrest, rising to leave, just as the crowd erupted into applause at the conclusion of the match on court.

‘I wouldn’t hear of it,’ he said quickly, his hand slapping down firmly upon her forearms and blanching her fresh, still too-pink skin, so that she winced with pain.
‘I’m enjoying your company. It’s fun to have a sparring partner.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Besides, everyone saw you walk up to the terrace of your own volition and accept
your role today. We wouldn’t want them to talk, now would we? From what I gather, you’ve had more than enough headlines recently.’

Rowena stared at him, feeling the cold chill that had accompanied his casual words. Everyone was talking, pointing . . .

Her name was called on the speaker system, but neither one of them moved.

‘Looks like you’re up,’ he smiled, pleased with his verbal counter drop-shot. ‘I’ll be rooting for you all the way.’

Ro picked up her racquet and slowly walked towards the court, only vaguely aware of the wolf-whistles in the crowd as she and her opponent shook hands at the net. She watched dispassionately as
the coin was tossed and she won – choosing to serve first – her mind filled with the frozen image of the assailant’s twisted face, Florence’s frightened tears in the
kitchen, the horror of the event reduced to mere gossip by this toad of a man.

Everyone had fallen quiet. She stood at the baseline, bouncing the ball slowly, nine, ten, eleven times, trying to slow down her breathing and quell her anger. She caught the ball in her hand
and put it to her racquet. She looked across the court at her opponent and then fractionally right, tossing the ball high in the air, her arm thrown back and ready for the drop.

When it did, she smashed it hard and fast over the net, where it landed, to her immense satisfaction, smack bang in the middle of the service line.

‘Right, now you have to focus,’ Bobbi ordered, her face only inches from Ro’s. ‘Don’t get tight.’

‘I feel perfectly floppy,’ Ro countered, pulling back and trying to reclaim some personal space even though they were sitting in a bathroom so large a tennis court and all the guests
could have been fitted in there too. Certainly, there was enough gold-leaf trimming already.

‘Yeah, but she slices like a bitch. Have you seen the angles she’s getting?’

‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

‘I just want you to know what you’re up against. She obviously plays, like,
all
the time. And you said you’ve barely played since school.’

‘Yes, but I
was
in the team. And besides, I’m in the final, aren’t I? It doesn’t matter what I have or haven’t done for the past ten years; today, I’m
playing well.’ She shrugged, bending down to retie her laces.

‘You’ve just got to beat her. And not just beat her,
thrash
her.’

Ro looked up at Bobbi, bemused. ‘Competitive much?’

‘Just win. That’s all I’m sayin’.’

Ro nodded. ‘I shall do my best. Now can I go to the loo, please? In private?’

‘Oh yeah. Right. Sure.’ Bobbi pushed herself away from the marble basin and checked her appearance in the mirror again. She walked to the door. ‘But just make sure you win. I
don’t care what it takes.’

‘Yes, Tiger Mum,’ Ro nodded, shaking her head the second the door was closed.

She locked it and ran cold water over her pulse points, trying to cool down. The truth was, her heart was clattering like a tin pot, and she felt anything but floppy. Anger had fuelled her to
this point – Wes Turner’s lackadaisical bile precisely the trigger she had needed to find her game after a decade’s dormancy. By her estimates, she alone had cost him well over
$10,000 in repairs. Hitting the lines was her target, not outgunning her opponents, and it had taken her mind off the spectators, who were supposedly gossiping about her or waiting for her to fall
out of her dress. Almost without meaning to, she had blitzed her two qualifying matches and both quarter- and semi-final matches. But now here she was, hiding out in the loos, and all out of anger.
She had rotated Wes Turner, her attacker and Matt – she was appalled to admit – on the ball, smacking her racquet hard against them for their wrongs against her. (Matt wouldn’t
see his abandonment of her like that, of course.) But after over two hours on court (each match was best of seven games), she had run out of fire and the thought of all those people watching was
beginning to get to her again. Everybody
knew
.

She washed her face, trying to bring down her high colour. At least her almost continuous play had meant she’d been able to dodge Wes Turner’s attentions ever since their
‘spar’ and she hadn’t been forced to return to sitting ostentatiously with him in the throne.

She checked her reflection in the mirror, turning her head interestedly as she noticed her hair – still sharply styled by the good cut – was steadily lightening into a golden blonde,
like an autumn leaf. Her legs were brown now too, for the first time in her life, and it helped her feel a little more covered up than she really was. She stared at her arms for a moment, the one
part of her that didn’t conform to the Hamptons aesthetic. There wouldn’t be any scars left, thankfully, but that also meant there’d be nothing for Matt to see, when he got back,
of what she’d been through, and that thought alone angered her.

The clock on the opposite wall told her there were five minutes till play. It was time to go back out and see whether her luck could hold for one last game – she’d never won anything
before.

Unlocking the door, Ro started down the glossy corridor, heading back towards the atrium that fed front to back and would lead her out onto the terrace. The polished limestone floor shone like a
mirror, glossy, heavy walnut doors set back in deep recesses that showed off the fortress-like thickness of the walls. The house may be tacky, but it wasn’t flimsy, at least.

Ahead, waiting staff buzzed back and forth with large round trays, stacked with newly popped bottles and sparkling glasses. One waiter stopped in his tracks ahead of her.

‘Have you seen where my date’s gone?’ a man asked him in a demanding tone. He was standing just round the corner from where Ro was approaching and she froze. There was no doubt
in her mind it was Wes Turner.
Date?

The waiter glanced down the hall, taking in her shocked expression.

‘No, sir. I’m afraid not. I believe I last saw her by the order of play board five minutes ago.’

‘Goddammit! She’s a slippery one.’ He was silent for a second. ‘Where are you taking that Krug?’

‘To the service area in the marquee, sir.’

‘Take it to the Gardenia Suite. And more ice.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The waiter took a step back – as though moving out of the way – and glanced down at Ro again. She realized he was warning her and every instinct told her not
to be either alone or in a confined space with that man.

Without hesitating, she ran to the nearest door on her left and tried the handle. It was unlocked and she darted in, silently pushing the door to, just as she heard Wes’s soft-soled shoes
squeaking past a few moments later.

She pressed her ear to the door, listening out for the sound of the bathroom door closing further down the hall. But that wasn’t what she heard.

Voices.

‘. . . you going to say “yes”?’

‘What do you think? I’ve spent the past ten years getting down on my knees to make this happen.’

Pause. ‘But you don’t love him. Sometimes I think you don’t even like him.’

Ro turned. She was standing just inside a huge room with zebra-hide sofas and Perspex tables, a row of open French windows opposite looking out onto the terrace and the party below. Two women in
tennis whites were standing together by one of the windows, their backs to her as they surveyed the scene like chatelaines.

‘You are such a fantasist, Shelley.’ The woman’s voice was scornful. ‘I get all that on the side. But a Gin Lane address? That’s hard to come by.’

They lapsed into silence as the shrill sound of an announcement on the PA system rose up the steps.

Shelley shrugged. ‘Well, c’mon. You’d better get back down there. Seeing as you’re so hung up on fortunes, here’s a chance to get some more silverware.’

‘Tch, let’s face it – I scarcely need to turn up. Have you seen the girl? Dressing like a hooker, practically lap-dancing Turner courtside.’

‘And I mean, hello? Has she even heard of foundation?’

They both laughed, wandering off into the sunshine and leaving Ro shaking in the shadows on the opposite side of the room.

Five minutes later, she stared at Erin across the net as she aced her first serve, the fire back in her belly. Her father had once told her revenge was a dish best served cold, but sometimes,
there was nothing better than serving it up still smoking hot.

‘Can you reach?’ Hump asked, behind her.

Ro leaned over further, as far as she dared, her hands grasping at the seaweed covering the rocks. ‘Got. It,’ she managed, pulling it towards her like rope and throwing it quickly
into the bucket on her knees. She shuddered at the feel of it, still childishly squeamish about touching it. ‘Surely that’s enough?’ she asked, taking hold of her paddle again as
Hump pushed them away from the rocks with his.

‘Almost.’

‘But we’ve got five bucketfuls already.’

‘I told you. The joy of clam-baking is that you have to work for your meal. You appreciate it all the more afterwards.’

‘Hmph,’ Ro pouted, looking back towards the shore and seeing Bobbi lying on the beach, occasionally prodding the fire with a long stick. ‘It looks like some people got the
better end of this deal.’

‘Actually, Bobbi had already dug the pit by the time I got there, which was another fifteen minutes before you got there,’ Hump said, poking her on the shoulder. ‘Just because
you’re a famous tennis champion now, don’t start thinking you can play the diva.’