The Tennis Party (6 page)

‘You against Charles and Cressida,’ said Patrick. ‘When they arrive.’

‘Tell you what,’ said Annie to Stephen, ‘let’s go and get some practice in.’

She led Stephen down to the court and they began to knock up. The others watched for a few shots.
Annie clearly played competent schoolgirl tennis – but Stephen could barely get the ball over the net.

‘Sorry,’ he kept saying. ‘Damn. Sorry, could you get that?’

Caroline watched as Don’s face relaxed at the sight. Nothing to worry about there, he was clearly thinking; he and Valerie would soon have that two off the court. Suddenly, Caroline detested him intensely.

‘Darling, I’m going to go up to the house,’ said Patrick softly, coming over to her. ‘I’ve got a bit of business to look at – and I’ll be there if the Mobyns arrive. All right?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Caroline, morosely lighting a cigarette. She couldn’t think why she had looked forward to this fucking party.

‘You played really well,’ said Patrick, even more quietly.

‘Tell that to your friend Don,’ said Caroline, blowing smoke into Patrick’s face. Patrick shrugged resignedly.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to tell me.’

Caroline watched his stumpy form disappear up the path with a mixture of dislike and resignation. She then turned her gaze to the tennis court. Stephen was preparing to serve. He threw the ball far too high, took back his old wooden racquet in an inexpert swing, and whacked it over the hedge.

‘Blast,’ he said. ‘I’d better go and get that.’

Caroline closed her eyes. What a crew of men. Bloody Patrick, odious Don, and Stephen, who, with his old shorts and stringy legs, was clearly a complete incompetent. She’d always thought he was a bit odd – and now, look at him, couldn’t even play a decent game of tennis, let alone earn enough to buy his wife some proper clothes. She couldn’t think how Annie managed to stay so happy, with that wimp around her the whole time. Then a picture of Patrick came into her mind – and she couldn’t think how she stayed so fucking cheerful herself.

Patrick was in his study when the Mobyns’ Bentley pulled into the drive. He glanced out of the window when he heard the low, discreet hum of the engine, and gazed at the distinguished curves of the car with a mixture of envy, resentment and a thudding excitement. He saw the car pause, and glimpsed a blond head looking about as if uncertain of where to park. The natural reaction would have been for him to bang on the study window, shout a greeting and then hurry outside to welcome the family. But Patrick sat where he was. He wasn’t ready yet to see Charles.

Caroline appeared around the corner of the house, carrying a tray of drinks. She shouted something to Charles, who promptly stopped the engine. The car door opened, and he got out, stretching his legs and looking about him appraisingly. Then the nanny, a dumpy girl of about nineteen, got out of the back. She heaved a large, squashy hold-all out onto the
ground, and delved back inside the car for the twins – identical blond toddlers, who began walking off in different directions as soon as she put them down. Last to appear was Cressida. Long legs, immaculately clad in beige trousers; smooth, bobbed, pale-blond hair; a calm, unlined face. She greeted Caroline with a blank smile and kissed her dispassionately on each cheek.

Patrick couldn’t help comparing the two women as they stood together talking. Both blue-eyed blondes, both in good shape, both wearing expensive clothes. But Caroline was just a bit browner than Cressida; her hair was a bit brighter, her make-up a bit stronger, her voice quite a lot louder. Next to Cressida’s understated elegance, her blue eyeliner and gold bracelets seemed a bit much. She suddenly burst into loud laughter, and Patrick saw Cressida smile politely at her, a look of slight incomprehension on her face. Charles was looking up at her in amusement. What on earth had Caroline been saying? Suddenly Patrick felt a wave of fierce affection for his wife. They were made of the same stuff as each other – something stronger, coarser, more highly flavoured than the Cressidas of this world.

He looked down at the papers on his desk. His year’s performance figures stared back up at him. He had done well by any standards. For Christ’s
sake, he had sold those bloody investment plans to practically anything that moved. His total was twenty per cent higher than last year. But, of course, that wasn’t good enough for the bastards. He’d hit all his targets last year – so this year they’d moved the targets up. He pulled out the firm’s bonus chart. The highest bonus figure – one hundred thousand pounds – glowed enticingly at the top of the sheet. But to get that he still had to do a lot of business. His year ended in a week’s time and he was still eighty thousand pounds short. It was almost worth putting the eighty thousand into a plan himself, to make sure he reached his hundred thousand bonus. Except that he didn’t have that kind of capital. And he would never buy any of the investment plans he sold.

What he needed was for somebody to make a quick lump-sum investment of eighty thousand within the next week. He glanced out of the window again. Charles was carrying one of the twins over to be kissed by Caroline. He was laughing and looked relaxed – as well he might be, thought Patrick. It was all a far cry now from the days in Seymour Road, when Charles and Ella had cooked spaghetti every night and gone backpacking round Europe when they could afford it. Then, it had been Patrick who had helped Charles out, with a loan – admittedly relatively small – when Charles’ print gallery had seemed about to fold. It had
been Charles who had teased Patrick about money; had told him to relax, chill out, come round and smoke some grass with him and Ella.

And now he was driving a Bentley and wearing a navy-blue blazer. He didn’t need anyone’s help any more, least of all Patrick’s. Cressida had paid the loan back in full as soon as she married Charles. Or perhaps it had even been before. She had clearly hated the idea of Charles being in debt to anyone. But as favours went, Patrick reckoned Charles still owed him one.

As Caroline led the way to the main guest room, Charles looked around, impressed by what he saw. Patrick had, of course, told them about his new house – but somehow Charles hadn’t imagined anything so sumptuous. The whole place reminded him of early-Seventies James Bond films. Not at all in his or Cressida’s style, of course – he could see her recoiling as they passed a fitted cocktail bar – but certainly luxurious and, he was sure, very expensive.

Although, of course, property out here was bound to be cheap compared to central Silchester, where they lived. And for a location like that of the house in which he and Cressida lived – right in the Cathedral Close, with a garden – well, anyone would have to pay a lot. Nevertheless, Charles began to feel a strange
sensation of resentment as he passed along the cool corridors, glimpsing out of the window what looked suspiciously like a stable block in the distance. Since marrying Cressida, he had become accustomed to thinking of himself as the one who had made good; the one who was to be envied – and he had consciously avoided parading his luck in front of his old friends.

If he had ever given any thought to Patrick and his career, it was to marvel that he, Charles Mobyn, actually numbered a financial salesman among his friends; friends that now included the most accomplished, prominent and socially important people in the county. He knew Patrick made a lot of money – of course he did – but he never thought of this, this
salesman’s
money as ever being transformed into anything that he, Charles, might covet. And yet, taking in the obvious comfort of Patrick’s and Caroline’s life here, Charles couldn’t resist making a brief, disloyal comparison with the house in the Cathedral Close – Georgian and listed, undoubtedly, but also rather gloomy, drafty and expensive to keep up.

The principal guest bedroom suite was a symphony of pink, from the headboard of the bed – shaped like a shell – to the tissues on the dressing table.

‘I hope you’ve got everything you need,’ said Caroline. ‘If you want a Jacuzzi, just press the controls on the wall.’

‘Very kind,’ murmured Cressida chillingly.

‘Right,’ said Caroline. ‘Well, see you downstairs.’ The door closed, and Charles and Cressida looked at each other. Cressida touched the bedcover gingerly.

‘Satin,’ she said. She felt underneath. ‘Satin sheets, too. Ghastly. I shan’t be able to sleep.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Charles. ‘Satin sheets might be rather fun. And a Jacuzzi!’

Cressida sighed and dropped her bag on the floor with an air of forbearance. ‘I’d better check that the children are all right.’

‘I’m sure they’re fine,’ began Charles, but she disappeared out of the room. He dumped his bag on the bed and began to change swiftly into his tennis clothes.

By the time Cressida returned he was ready.

‘They’ve got cotton sheets, thank God,’ she said. ‘Decorated with My Little Pony, needless to say.’

‘Priceless!’ said Charles. ‘I must go and have a look. Is Martina all right?’

‘She thinks it’s all lovely,’ said Cressida. ‘She’s got a blue, shiny quilt edged with polyester lace.’ Charles grinned. Martina, their nanny, had spent her childhood in a cosy little box outside Bonn, and had not taken well to life in the Mobyns’ house. She had trailed around miserably all winter clad in leg warmers and fingerless gloves, and there had been a memorable
scene once when she had got unsuspectingly into a bath full of icy cold water. It had transpired that in Germany – or at least Martina’s Germany – the plumbing never went wrong.

‘Oh yes,’ Cressida added, brandishing a sheaf of letters at Charles. ‘She picked up the post on the way out and forgot to give it to us.’ Charles grimaced.

‘I thought the idea of going away for the weekend was to get away from all of that.’

‘This is hardly “away for the weekend”,’ said Cressida crushingly. ‘It’s not exactly like going down to the Blakes’, is it?’

The Blakes lived in a mansion in Devon and were having a house party that weekend. Cressida had tried to persuade Charles to agree to chucking the tennis party and going to Devon instead, but he had proved immovable. They had almost had a serious row about it. Now he looked at her wearily.

‘For God’s sake, Cressida, we’ve been to the Blakes’ house a million times. But we’ve never come here. These are my friends, you know.’

‘I know they are,’ said Cressida.

‘It would be nice’, continued Charles, ‘if I could feel they were your friends too.’

‘Well, I don’t think that’s very likely somehow,’ said Cressida. He looked at her furiously.

‘Why not? Why can’t you at least try?’

‘Oh Charles, honestly! What on earth have we got in common?’

‘You’ve got me in common,’ said Charles. ‘Shouldn’t that be enough?’ He picked up his racquet. ‘I’m going outside. It’s too hot in here.’

Outside, in the corridor, he saw Martina and the twins emerging from their bedroom.

‘Hello there!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Everything is fine,’ said Martina. ‘This is a very nice house. So big, so beautiful . . .’ She gestured admiringly.

‘Well, yes, I suppose it is in its own way,’ said Charles. ‘All right, boys?’ He looked down at the twins. ‘Oh no!’ They had sidled over to an alcove by the window. Ben was about to put a glass elephant in his mouth and James was tugging at a pale curtain with chocolate-covered fingers.

‘Mrs Chance, she gave the boys chocolate biscuits,’ said Martina apologetically, pulling James’ hands away and wiping them with a tissue. ‘I tried to tell her that Mrs Mobyn did not like it, but she wouldn’t listen.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Charles, removing the elephant from Ben’s grasp. Ben’s face crumpled, and he held his hands up entreatingly to his father. ‘No, Ben. It’s dangerous. Let’s get these horrors outside.’

‘Mrs Chance said we should go and look at the horse,’ said Martina doubtfully.

‘Grand idea,’ said Charles. ‘Do you want to see a horse, Ben?’ Ben made a grab for the elephant again.

‘See the horsey?’ said Charles encouragingly, putting the elephant carefully back on its display table and carrying Ben off down the corridor. ‘See the horsey?’

‘Horsey,’ echoed Martina, picking up James. ‘We go to see the horsey.’

‘She’s not a horsey,’ said Georgina cuttingly. ‘She’s a pony.’

‘Of course she is,’ agreed Charles hurriedly. They had arrived at the paddock to find Georgina leading Arabia round the perimeter while Nicola sat astride, clutching the reins awkwardly and beaming with pleasure. Toby sat peacefully on the fence watching, a placid little boy with a sunny smile. When she saw them, Georgina turned round and brought Arabia up to the fence.

‘Isn’t she gorgeous!’ she said proudly. She buried her face in the pony’s mane. ‘You’re so beautiful!’ she murmured.

‘Georgina’s teaching me to ride,’ said Nicola. ‘I can walk.’

‘Very good!’ applauded Charles. He held Ben up to see.

‘Look, Ben! Look at the lovely hor . . . er pony!’

Martina was cowering behind, staring distrustfully at Arabia.

‘Bring James nearer so he can see,’ said Charles. He turned round. ‘What’s wrong, Martina? Don’t you like horses?’ Martina stepped forward nervously a pace or two, then retreated as Arabia threw up her head and whinnied. Ben looked up at Charles, his eyes huge with astonishment.

‘Come on,’ said Georgina impatiently. ‘Let’s go round again, and trot this time. You’d better put a hat on.’

Charles watched compassionately as Nicola fumbled with the chin strap of the hard hat. Her poor right hand struggled to keep up with the left, and she grunted several times in frustration as the webbing slipped out of its buckle. Georgina watched without expression, neither hurrying Nicola nor offering assistance. Martina gave an initial exclamation as she saw Nicola’s jerky hand moving uncertainly up to her chin – but, after a look from Charles, kept quiet.

‘Right,’ said Georgina, when Nicola had eventually succeeded. ‘Let’s go.’ She pulled gently on Arabia’s reins, turned round, and began to walk around the paddock, gradually increasing her pace to a run.

‘Hold on!’ she shouted at Nicola. ‘Go up and down when she starts trotting!’