by Anna Cheska
And when all was said and done, Estelle agreed with most of the customers who were complaining – they were being overcharged by a bureaucratic, autocratic monopoly of a company. And they still got lousy water when they turned on their taps. The River Pride still flooded and there was always a hosepipe ban come August, even when it had rained all through July. So who could blame them for complaining?
What a relief then, to leave it all behind. To be, with Suzi, her own boss. And to be living next door to the fairest dealers in town.
Fairest dealers in town? Estelle folded the paper with a sigh. They’d be the only dealers in town at this rate. It was her turn to do the Saturday stint today and how many customers had she had all morning? Three – only one had bought anything, and that was an old Bunty annual priced at three quid that Suzi had paid £2.50 for at a car boot sale six months ago. So she hadn’t felt a moment’s guilt about shutting for lunch and coming up here instead. At least she could use her time constructively instead of staring into space and thinking about Liam. Liam – too much and not enough, that just about summed it up.
Someone, she realised, was banging on the door downstairs, shouting, ‘Shop!’
Reluctantly she dragged herself to her feet. She should show willing, she supposed. She’d never forgive herself if it turned out to be the customer she’d been waiting for – the one who was desperate to take that disgusting Victorian mahogany tallboy off her hands, and who wouldn’t say no to the inlaid writing desk while he was at it.
It wasn’t, though – it was Stan from next door.
‘Yes?’ Estelle glared at him. His navy blazer was shiny at the cuffs and there was a brown stain just below the waistband of the fawn slacks – peculiar to men over sixty, Estelle thought. He looked seedy. He did not look like one half of the fairest dealers in town.
Stan grinned his ratty grin – a million miles away from Wind In The Willows, Estelle thought – revealing nicotine-coated teeth and receding gums. ‘This isn’t the way to run a business, now is it?’ he said, tapping the ‘closed’ sign with the stained forefinger of his right hand. ‘We won’t make any money by keeping the punters on the pavement, will we, eh?’
‘I can’t see it has anything to do with you,’ Estelle snapped. ‘What do you want anyway?’ She ground her teeth and thought calming thoughts. Like how therapeutic it would be to dip this man’s head in the River Pride on a winter’s day. Like how surprising it was that outside the antique shop, there was life, people, colour and sunshine. ‘Well?’ She kept her voice level but drew the line at a smile.
‘Any chance of a cuppa tea?’
He had to be joking. ‘I’m busy,’ she informed him tartly. ‘So if you could get to the point?’
‘The point…’ He leaned on the doorway and Estelle reminded herself to give it a wipe down afterwards, ‘… is that me and Terry, we couldn’t help noticing that you and your lady partner don’t do a lot of trade.’
Estelle waited. She was damned if she was going to give him the satisfaction of a response.
‘And Terry thought we should apologise, like.’
‘What for?’ Estelle shifted her weight to the other foot and glanced pointedly at her watch and then outside. Her green Mini Mayfair was sitting by the roadside – luckily, restricted parking hadn’t yet hit Pridehaven.
‘For muscling in. Though a spot of healthy competition might do you some good, love.’ Stan waved at a customer coming out of the shop next door. ‘That’s what the punters want,’ he said. ‘A bit of a bargain. Good quality furniture at rock bottom prices.’
The last thing Estelle wanted to do right now was listen to the sales pitch of a man she despised. ‘We’re appealing to a different market,’ she said, wishing she believed it.
‘Not really a game for a woman though, is it?’ Stan looked her up and down with his heavy-lidded gaze, not in any kind of sexual way, she decided, but as if he were assessing how many wardrobes she could hump down two flights of stairs at certain times of the month. What should she tell him? That with wings anything was possible?
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Oh, no hard feelings.’ Stan grinned.
Bastard, she thought. She’d like to give him hard feelings of the painful variety, right where it hurt the most. ‘None taken,’ she assured him.
‘But if you ever want to pack it in…’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We always wanted bigger premises, you see.’ Stan peered over her shoulder, a look of the mental tape measure in his eyes.
‘Then perhaps…’ Estelle moved sideways to block his view. ‘You should move on elsewhere.’
‘We’ve only just got here.’ Stan laughed at this, emitting a stench of tobacco and musty old rope.
Estelle recoiled. She wished, she really wished she’d never made that chocolate sponge. ‘Sorry,’ she snapped. ‘Nothing doing.’
‘Ah well, only asking.’ Stan flicked back his cuff to reveal … yes, she could have guessed, a particularly ostentatious Rolex watch. Probably a fake, Estelle thought; it looked like one of those awful market jobs. ‘Gotta go, gotta whole lot of jewellery to buy,’ he added, rubbing his hands together.
‘Jewellery?’ Estelle’s look around the bargain basement had revealed plenty of furniture, but no jewellery.
‘We’re branching out.’ She could tell he was enjoying himself. She’d love to slam the door in his face, but she didn’t want him to see he’d got her rattled.
‘I’m buying a load from old ma Barnaby.’ He grinned again, and Estelle just knew that Hilda Barnaby had told him that, yes, she’d already spoken to the ladies from Secrets In The Attic, before telling him exactly what price they had offered for the Victorian brooch, pearl ear-rings, necklace and amethyst ring that Mrs Barnaby wanted to sell. What was worse was that Estelle had spent hours listening to Hilda Barnaby’s family history. And she had offered her a fair price, damn it. She had even felt sorry for the woman – having to sell what had been in the family for generations.
‘We couldn’t offer as much for the jewellery,’ Stan confided now, watching her face intently. ‘You went a bit over the top there, love, if you don’t mind me saying – I mean we’ve all got to make a profit, right?’
If she stayed absolutely still, Estelle thought, she wouldn’t scream and she wouldn’t thump him one. Don’t get angry, get even. The trouble was, anger was so cathartic, so cleansing, it gave you so much more satisfaction in the end.
‘But I offered to clear some other stuff out for her, might sell it, might not, you know the sort of gear. Offered to take it off her hands, like.’
Estelle did know the sort of gear. It must be the furniture Hilda Barnaby kept in her spare room, the furniture Estelle had been shown but had not valued because Estelle hadn’t known she wanted to sell it – the furniture that was worth at least a grand of anyone’s money.
And in that moment Estelle realised something about Stan and Terry, the fairest dealers in town. They weren’t just rivals, a couple of blokes trying to make a living. They were con men – the kind of low life who would rip off an old lady as soon as look at her.
‘Heavy game for women,’ Stan said. ‘In more ways than one. Think about it, love.’
Estelle tensed. ‘Is that a threat?’
‘Nah.’ Stan turned to go. ‘Just a piece of advice.’
* * *
After he’d gone, Estelle didn’t open up the shop as perhaps she should have. Neither did she go round to Suzi’s as she was tempted to – Liam would be there, she just knew it, and the last person she wanted to see was Liam.
Instead, she thought for a moment, looked up a number in the phone book and made a call. Then she grabbed some money from petty cash, picked up her bag and headed for the door. Outside, to her right, Pridehaven’s Saturday market was in full swing, stalls selling everything from cheese and chutneys to brightly printed sarongs like the one Estelle was wearing. In Pridehaven, women didn’t restrict their wearing of sarongs to
the beach. They wore them all through spring and summer – so long as there was a touch of sunshine. And today, the sky was clear, the sea breeze was fresh and Estelle had made up her mind. There were plenty of people around but the shop would have to stay closed.
She locked the door behind her. First things first. There were things she had to do.
Chapter 5
Liam got changed into his tennis kit and heaved himself into one of the wicker chairs in the clubhouse conservatory. As always, you felt you were sinking into a swamp to begin with, until the cushions moulded around you and you ended up so comfortable you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to get up again.
He savoured the view; one he’d been enjoying for as long as he could remember, one he wanted to remain available for everyone – money and class notwithstanding. Took in, as he always did, the motley collection of building-tops – from the Gothic-style Victorian houses, like the one he himself lived in, to the Edwardian grandeur of the old Bull Hotel, to the red roofs of the new housing estates. And then there was Pride Square, the bridge and disused water mill by The Bull, and underneath, the river, swimming its way to Pride Harbour and the sea.
He could make out some of this vista, knew the rest of it by heart. It was, he supposed, in his blood.
It was a club afternoon, so any member could turn up to play – partnerships were random, gender immaterial. If life were like that, Liam reflected, it would be simpler to manage.
But for now the clubhouse was deserted, so after lingering guiltily for a moment in the tranquillity of the place, Liam dug some paper out of his bag, found his battered copy of Romeo and Juliet and began scribbling some notes.
If a few key scenes could be condensed, he reasoned, and maybe a couple of song and dance routines added to the whole thing … (Kenneth Branagh had done it, hadn’t he?) Shakespeare might become more accessible, rather than just men in tights making long, incomprehensible speeches before killing each other and then themselves.
Shakespeare 4 kidz. He could see it now. Liam grinned. He might even start a middle school trend.
‘Are you here to play tennis?’ A soft purr to his left stopped him mid-sentence. ‘Or are you creating a lesson plan to die for?’
Liam grinned up at Amanda. The girl was drop dead gorgeous, and though he’d always believed man would grow bored with a pretty face, he wasn’t sure of this with Amanda Lake. Class and perfection were a heady mix. ‘I’m re-writing the Bard,’ he told her, explaining about the school play, perhaps, he admitted privately, making it sound more important than it really was.
While he was talking, she’d taken the rickety chair next to his, drawn it closer and sat down. She smelled of expensive perfume along with what could have been a whiff of pot. He was faintly surprised at this. Amanda was a rich girl. If she was into drugs, he’d expect it to be the occasional line of coke or pills.
‘Gosh.’ She looked very impressed. ‘Can anyone come along?’
‘Oh, it’s only a school thing.’ Liam backtracked. He couldn’t quite see Amanda seated on a hard wooden chair in the school hall with all the parents.
‘But I’d love to come,’ she breathed. ‘Could you get me a ticket?’
Liam fidgeted. Thought of Tony Andrews licking his lips, And who might this be? Thought also of Estelle – how would she react to Amanda in the audience? It didn’t bear thinking about. But … ‘Maybe,’ he compromised. ‘I’ll let you know nearer the time.’
She got to her feet. She was wearing a turquoise and white designer label tennis dress under a thin white fleece; white socks, flashy tennis shoes. Her blonde hair was arranged in a chignon, the golden nape of her neck bare but for a few delicate platinum strands. Jesus … Liam wondered if he had the strength for this.
At CG’s, most of the younger players didn’t bother with tennis whites, since they had been voted optional a few years ago – much to the disgust of Erica and the blazers, as Liam referred to the Old School of the club. It didn’t encourage young blood, had been the argument; kids hated to be told what to wear, the days of tennis whites and wooden rackets were over. And if kids – of all backgrounds, Liam always stressed – weren’t encouraged into the game, how much longer would English tennis fans have to wait for a British winner at Wimbledon?
No, getting down to grass roots didn’t include tennis whites as far as Liam was concerned. And Nick could look a bit of a prat since he always chose to wear them. But in Liam’s opinion, Amanda Lake always looked good – she couldn’t not.
‘Do you fancy a game?’ he asked her.
Amanda glanced at her tiny gold watch. She frowned. ‘Why not? That’s what we’re here for.’
Liam got to his feet. ‘Singles?’ He wasn’t bothered about playing a woman, though it would be bloody difficult to keep his eye on the ball. For a start he knew how good she was – she’d probably wipe the floor with him.
‘Singles,’ she confirmed. ‘Though I must say, Liam darling, I’d be happy to play mixed doubles with you any time.’
* * *
They strolled through the door that led out of the conservatory and on to the small patio outside. Erica had christened it the Barbecue Patio, some money had been allocated for decorative cast iron chairs and circular tables and the building of a barbecue from fire-bricks. So when weather permitted, it was equally pleasant to sit outside the conservatory. Surprising almost, Liam thought, that anyone actually played tennis.
‘Grass?’ Amanda enquired.
For a moment, Liam recalled the fragrance of pot and thought she was offering him something quite different. Then he realised his mistake.
‘It’s dry enough,’ she added.
‘Why not?’ There were certain rules to be adhered to when playing on grass – like the courts shouldn’t be used before 10 am, that they must be checked by the groundsman or a committee member before play. But it was mild again today and it looked as if the light cloud might break at any time and surprise them with some sunshine.
Liam bent down to check. The court was dry and the grass springy. He flexed his muscles. He was feeling good.
‘So you teach English?’ Amanda murmured, touching his arm.
He felt himself grow taller. ‘In middle schools you teach the lot.’ As they piled their gear on to the wooden bench court-side, and sorted out rackets and balls, Liam found himself explaining some of the rudiments of the educational system to a captive audience. Estelle always looked bored when he sounded off about his job, but Amanda seemed riveted. Her baby-blue eyes hardly left his face and the questions she asked showed she’d been listening. But, what had she meant about the mixed doubles, he wondered.
‘I didn’t realise it was so complicated,’ she murmured, as she spun her racket. ‘Rough or smooth?’
‘Rough,’ Liam said, suddenly not caring about the game. He’d much rather sit down with her and go on talking. Though come to think of it, maybe they could do a bit of that after this blasted committee meeting tonight. Erica Raddle always chose the time to suit Erica Raddle; seven o’clock on a Saturday evening was hardly ideal for Liam, but on the other hand a friendly drink with Amanda afterwards could make it worthwhile. Not in any sexual way, of course. He had Estelle – in theory at least. He was in love with Estelle, and he would get her back. He had no worries on that score; it was only a matter of time. Amanda wasn’t his type, but she was so … obliging. And sexy. She made a guy feel good, and right now Liam wanted to feel good.
‘Rough,’ she confirmed. ‘You’ll serve, I take it?’
They had a warm-up first, then launched into the first game. It was a perfect playing day – not too hot and with no breeze to speak of. Liam served a couple of aces and took the game easily. He began to feel better still.
‘What’s your favourite subject to teach?’ Amanda asked him at the end change. Her perfume mingled with the scent of the grass. Decadent and delicious.
‘Poetry.’ And Liam couldn’t help himself – off he went with the verbals again. An end change was
supposed to be a break of three minutes max but there was so much to say – especially about contemporary poetry, which was his particular bag – that it was almost ten minutes before they restarted.
But, hell, Amanda didn’t seem to mind. She nodded and smiled, head to one side, eyes fixed on his face. ‘So driven,’ she said. ‘So dedicated.’ Smoothly, she collected the balls and prepared to serve.
If Estelle had said that, Liam reflected, trying not to swagger as he moved into the receiving court and flexed his playing arm again, he would think she was taking the piss. She would have been taking the piss …
He flinched at the thought, but re-directed himself by watching Amanda’s graceful service action as she stood in her virginal whites, framed by the grass courts; in the background, the honey-coloured stone and glass of Chestnut Grove’s clubhouse. What a picture she presented. And, God, that woman could toss a ball.
Unfortunately, it caught the net tape and didn’t drop over. She served the next one wide.
‘Bad luck!’ Liam called, moving over to the other court. She hadn’t got into her stride yet, that much was obvious. And where Estelle was cynical, Liam found himself thinking, Amanda Lake was clearly as sincere as they came. Bit of a surprise that, and it just showed that you couldn’t make assumptions about people – even the rich kind.
They had a couple of good rallys, then Amanda hit a forehand wide, and before Liam had quite grasped the fact, he’d taken the game and was about to serve again. It was easier to serve when you were seven foot tall. Once again, he managed two aces (he was sure one of them was long but Amanda said not and like the good sport she was, declined to re-take the point) and there he was, leading three love. Wowee – he hadn’t realised he was so good.
‘It’s ages since we played together,’ Amanda said archly at the next end change. ‘You’ve really improved.’ The sun had come out and Liam was really warming up. Amanda slipped off the fleece. The tennis dress had narrow shoulder straps that crossed over at the back.