Love-40

by Anna Cheska

  ‘When do you think you’ll be ready for the tournament?’ Rossi pulled out a black leather Filofax from the zipped pocket of his sports bag and regarded Liam cooly. The implication was clear.

  ‘Anytime you are.’ Liam groped in his tatty black briefcase on the ground at his feet for his own battered red diary.

  As they fixed a provisional date for mid-season, Liam looked up to see Tiger hit an easy volley into the net. He winced, but knew Rossi had seen it too.

  Sure enough, he raised his eyebrows. ‘Looks like you’ve got a long way to go,’ he remarked.

  ‘Maybe we’ll surprise you.’ How could she tolerate him? The guy was so bloody obvious. Liam realised he was grinding his teeth again. He took a deep breath, looked towards Gazza who was … ‘Put that bloody fag out!’ he yelled.

  Nick laughed. ‘Let’s wait and see. C’mon boys…’

  Boys? More like androids, Liam thought, with their identical white joggers and cream, zipped fleeces.

  ‘Hugh and Barnaby up the other end. James and Oliver, this end. May as well warm up a bit…’ Nick pulled off his sweatshirt, slung it casually over one shoulder and smoothed his layered blond hair back into place.

  Hugh and Barnaby? Liam smirked, tried not to watch them, but did anyway, his glance drifting over to the far court and then pulling back again, his ear attuned to their banter. They were showing off for his group’s benefit, he could see that much, playing long sweeping ground strokes, smashing serves into court, going for shots that were on their way out anyway, not playing the percentages and not giving a stuff. They didn’t have to, thought Liam. They were a different class. In more ways than one.

  ‘We need to practise some volleying,’ Liam told his lot, thinking of Tiger’s gaffe. He demonstrated the grip as Deirdre scuttled out of the conservatory brandishing a tape measure in one hand and a clipboard in the other. ‘C’mon, Jade – let’s show them.’ He tossed a couple of balls to her, which she volleyed, crisply and neatly with the precise punching action required.

  ‘Hammer grip,’ she told Bradley fondly as he tried to follow suit and missed the ball completely. ‘I’ll show you.’ She took hold of his hand.

  ‘You can show me too, if you like,’ came the call from one of the lads on the far court. Hugh, Barnaby, whoever, they all looked the same to Liam.

  ‘Gosh, and me!’

  ‘Bugger off,’ said Jade.

  Deirdre dropped her clipboard.

  ‘That one looks a little low…’ Erica was standing in the doorway of the conservatory, issuing instructions. ‘Check it, will you, dear?’

  Deirdre and her tape approached the net in question.

  Erica was droning on. ‘Once the re-surfacing on the top courts is done…’ she was saying.

  Liam did a double-take. Had he heard right? ‘Re-surfacing?’ he yelled back at Erica. ‘What re-surfacing?’ He strode towards the conservatory.

  Erica bared her teeth. ‘On the top courts,’ she said, arms akimbo, polyester blouse crackling.

  It took Liam a moment to absorb her meaning. ‘The courts used exclusively by the tennis club?’ He was at the door now, close enough to count the red veins on Erica’s horsy face.

  ‘Precisely. Green and purple as per Wimbledon seems to be the consensus.’ She went to shut the door, but Liam got there first.

  ‘What about the courts used by the youth club?’ he demanded, his voice dangerously low. She had gone too far this time. Who the hell did she think she was? ‘And whose consensus is green and purple?’

  Erica sighed one of her gusty sighs. ‘We’ve taken advice, Liam,’ she said. ‘It’s that or blue, because of visibility, you know. And we can’t be blue.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ Blue sounded just fine to Liam. The kids would like blue, for a start. It would be different, something un-fusty, bright and that bit Continental, to attract them on to the courts.

  ‘Chestnut Grove has always been green.’ Erica was looking dangerously close to explosion point.

  ‘So?’

  ‘And although we have some private sponsorship, there’s not enough, I fear, to re-surface all the courts.’

  ‘Private sponsorship? Where the fuck did that come from?’ Liam too was wound up now, good and proper.

  Erica winced. ‘An anonymous sponsor has decided to remain so for a reason. I can’t say more at present.’ She tapped her nose.

  Liam leaned closer. ‘And what I’d like to say – just in case you’ve forgotten – is that all decisions are supposed to be made at Committee.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Erica folded her arms. ‘And in the meantime, Simon is continuing his research into the green and purple issue.’

  ‘And when,’ growled Liam, ‘is the next meeting?’ He’d give her green and purple issue.

  Deirdre – who had completed her net-checking and was now standing a safe distance from Liam, ready to leap to Erica’s defence if necessary – consulted her clipboard. ‘The 2nd of next month,’ she announced.

  That date rang a bell and it only took Liam a moment to remember why. ‘I’ve got a parents’ evening,’ he said, slapping his forehead with the ball of his hand. ‘Can’t you re-schedule?’ But he knew even as he said this, that Erica would be thrilled he couldn’t make it. Why should she change the date when her main objector wouldn’t be there to stop her getting her own way?

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t set a precedent,’ Erica confirmed, baring her teeth once again, turning away from him and taking a step inside.

  ‘A precedent,’ Deirdre confirmed.

  Damn and double damn. Liam glared at Deirdre, knowing that this was unfair, that mousy Deirdre had no voice in the matter and probably no opinions either. If Erica told her to lie down and wave her legs in the air, she’d probably bark with delight and bake a batch of fruit scones while she was doing it.

  He returned to the court, unsurprised that his lot had all stopped playing, and were now standing around smoking, chewing gum and drinking coke. On the night of the parents’ evening he’d have to get Suzi down here to find out what was going on. Or God knows what they’d decide in his absence. Green and purple?

  ‘Let’s wind it up then,’ he said, since they’d clearly decided to do just that and anyway there was a huge dark cloud squatting threateningly above them. On the far court, Rossi’s lot had warmed up and were now playing a game of doubles. As he watched, a near-perfect serve was somehow returned, but too high and punished by a smash worthy of Tim Henman.

  Liam groaned. Nick Rossi and Erica Raddle – the enemy. They held all the cards and weren’t even playing by the rules.

  Was he fighting a losing battle? For the first time Liam allowed himself to consider this possibility. He ground his teeth once more. Well, if he was, he was bloody determined to give it all he had. No one would be able to say he hadn’t gone down fighting.

  Chapter 17

  ‘I thought that diamond choker was special.’ Nick Rossi was glowering at his mother.

  Estelle shifted awkwardly on Shelagh Rossi’s flowery chintz sofa. She was trying to stay focused, but undeniably, she’d had a shock. The note was folded, tucked into the zipped compartment of her multi-coloured rucksack. She could read it at any time. But not yet, not now.

  Shelagh had invited her here to provide a valuation for some more jewellery and a couple of pieces of furniture. But Nick, clearly, wasn’t happy.

  ‘All my jewellery is special.’ Shelagh eyed her son calmly. ‘But one has to prioritise.’

  ‘Prioritise?’ Nick folded both arms and face as he turned away to stare out of the elegant French windows. It was a view that deserved a little more appreciation, Estelle couldn’t help thinking. A stretch of parkland beyond the patio with its statues of two regal lions. A path that led down the green slope to some stone steps and an ornamental pond with fountain, full, she knew, of slim, swift, iridescent carp, weaving their way through the lily pads. She knew this, because Shelagh had shown Estelle round her precious garden on Estelle’s last visit t
o the gothic house on the hill, her pride evident at every step, every border, every plant.

  ‘What happens?’ Nick went on, ‘when we get down to the clothes on our backs? What’s your priority then, Mother?’

  ‘Silly…’ Shelagh poured tea into the dainty cups on the table beside her, but Estelle couldn’t help noticing that her hand was trembling slightly. ‘We have so many things we don’t really need.’

  Nick took the few strides necessary across the thick white pile of the carpet, to reach his mother’s wing-back chair. ‘You may not need your diamond choker, Mother,’ he said, standing in front of her, demanding her attention. ‘But you’ve always enjoyed wearing it, getting it out of your jewellery box, touching it, admiring it, hmmm?’

  He was confronting his mother, yes, but Estelle noted the gentleness in his voice as he spoke, the affection evident in his eyes as he looked at her. But Shelagh, Estelle observed, would not look back at him.

  ‘True,’ she conceded at last. ‘But a diamond choker around a scraggy old neck isn’t quite the thing.’ She smiled at Estelle. ‘Wouldn’t you say so, my dear?’

  Estelle wasn’t sure she wanted to get involved in this moment of discord. She could advise on value, but hardly whether or not it was beneficial to sell the family treasures. And as for scraggy, though Shelagh was in her late sixties, she remained an elegant woman. She was slim and held herself upright, her hair was white but still luxuriant and cut in a flattering, modern style, and her eyes were almost as blue as her son’s.

  ‘It is beautiful,’ Estelle said, turning the choker to catch the light. ‘And I can see Nick’s point. If you’re fond of the piece, it does seem a shame to sell it.’

  Shelagh shot her a sharp glance. ‘Are you saying you don’t wish to dispose of it for me, my dear? Because I could always –’

  ‘Of course I’m not.’ She shouldn’t let her emotions interfere with the professional requirements of the job, Estelle reminded herself. She could earn a hefty commission from this sale, and the reasons behind the selling should not be her concern. ‘I’m more than happy to help,’ she said. ‘If you’re sure.’

  Nick took a step towards her and rested a hand briefly on her shoulder. ‘Rather you than anyone else,’ he said. ‘But it’s the white elephant we should be selling.’

  Ignoring him, Shelagh added milk from a tiny jug and passed Estelle her tea.

  Estelle took it. ‘White elephant?’

  ‘He means the house.’

  Of course, Nick had already told her that the house was eating up all the money his father had left them, most of what Nick earned and now apparently, the proceeds of the sale of his mother’s jewellery too. But … Estelle’s gaze drifted up to the ornate, corniced ceiling. The creamy plasterwork was chipped, but the ceiling, adorned with cherubs, trumpets and bunches of grapes, was still impressive in its grandeur. Yes, she could see why Shelagh didn’t want to sell up. It was quite something.

  ‘He should have more respect for his father’s memory,’ Shelagh went on conversationally. ‘This place is all we have left of him, you know.’

  ‘I do have respect.’ The dainty cup looked ridiculous in Nick’s large brown hand. He could crush it so easily, Estelle thought. And come to that, he could force his mother to sell up if he wanted to. Without his help, surely she would never be able to stay here. The guy had loyalty then, too. He must have, to stand by and watch his earnings being swallowed up by something he didn’t even want.

  Estelle had to admit that since meeting his mother, her opinion of Nick Rossi had changed. He wasn’t just your typical arrogant, athletic, tennis club hunk. Far from it. He was a caring and generous man. As well as being drop dead gorgeous, of course.

  ‘And I shall stay put for as long as I’m able,’ Shelagh said.

  Subject closed. Estelle wondered how many times in the past they’d had the same discussion. Each time, Shelagh would probably dig her heels in deeper and each time, Nick would become more frustrated. And how long would it be before she gave in? When the last piece of jewellery had been sold to provide an amp or two more of electricity to seep its heat through draughty windows and doors, another gardener to keep borders weeded, hedges clipped, trees pruned? Estelle felt sorry for them both. But Shelagh Rossi, she knew, would have to give in eventually.

  GIVE IN TO THE INEVITABLE – that’s what the note had said. Estelle could still picture the words, had to stop herself from pulling the note from her rucksack. Black capitals scrawled on a sheet of pink notepaper. Pink, for heaven’s sake … LEAVE BEFORE YOU HAVE TO.

  Estelle had stared at the words for some moments before taking in their meaning. At first she’d thought it was some bizarre flyer – addressed to The Occupier, from an estate agent or sales team, perhaps. Give in to the inevitable – buy a MUST HAVE 100% secure burglar alarm for your shop.

  But it wasn’t that, of course, because it was handwritten not typed and though the envelope was blank, Estelle knew it was intended for Secrets In The Attic, for her. And it was a threat. Another threat? The anger had surged through her. LEAVE BEFORE YOU HAVE TO. And it surged through her now, just thinking about it.

  She hadn’t told Suzi yet. She hadn’t even told her about the puncture, or the ‘For Sale’ notice on her car – just a prank perhaps, kids having a laugh. She was still telling herself that, not thinking of Stan and Terry and their not-so-veiled threats. The phone number of the shop was easy enough to find and her phone in the flat merely an extension.

  But now she’d been sent this note, she would tell her everything, Estelle decided, placing her empty cup on the table in front of her and smiling at Shelagh Rossi. She must complete her business here and then go back to the shop. Yes, she would tell Suzi, because not only was Estelle angry, now, she was also beginning to get scared.

  * * *

  Suzi was walking along the riverbank path, wrapped in a big blue beach towel, on her way back to the cottage, when she saw Estelle coming towards her. She noted her friend’s expression of relief when she spotted her and waved, though not without a twinge of anxiety. They saw one another every day – so why had Estelle come visiting?

  ‘I thought you were out,’ Estelle said.

  ‘I was.’ The sea had been cold but bracing. Lately, Suzi had been using it as a stress reliever after work – the chill of the waves helped her forget that since coming back from Germany, Josh Willis had barely bothered to get in touch. Suzi shivered.

  The fact that he’d sent her a postcard had appeared significant at first. Though now when she looked at that card, it seemed both brief and impersonal. Apart that is, from the mention of open spaces and freedom, something they’d spoken of that day on Charmouth cliff, something that had seemed to mean a lot to him. But who could tell?

  Still, the physical exertion of swimming against the tide made her too tired to worry – about herself and Michael, about the shop, about Liam and Estelle. And about whatever Josh had or hadn’t done, damn it.

  ‘Can we talk?’ Estelle seemed even more restless than usual.

  Suzi frowned. As she’d suspected – more problems. She held the gate open for her friend ‘You can shout at me while I take a shower,’ she told her. ‘And open a bottle of wine. Now tell me what’s up.’

  By the time Estelle had explained about the puncture, the ‘For Sale’ sign, the little chats with Stan and Terry, and Suzi had seen the note Estelle carried in her rucksack – and made it wet, incidentally – they’d almost finished the bottle.

  ‘I suppose that kind of thing happens to cars when they’re parked on the main road,’ Suzi said doubtfully.

  ‘What, in Pridehaven?’

  ‘Well, why not?’ Why not, because it was a sleepy seaside town more like a village where people were friendly and didn’t vandalise one another’s cars, that’s why not. ‘We’re very close to The Seagull,’ Suzi added, trying to reassure her. The pub next door to The Bargain Basement was always full of kids who didn’t look old enough to be there, while the sound of rap
and hip hop thumped rather than drifted their way from six until late every night. The pub, Suzi reflected, thinking of her noisy flying neighbours, was aptly named.

  ‘They’re not shifting us, whoever they are,’ Estelle said, squaring her shoulders and glaring at Suzi as though she were responsible. ‘Are they, Suze?’

  And Suzi, though she wasn’t sure that she shared Estelle’s dedication to antiques, agreed with her. ‘So what should we do?’

  She towelled her hair with more aggression than was strictly necessary. It wasn’t easy, was it, to cope? To run a business and make a living, not to mention handle all this kind of stuff. ‘Go to the police?’ She almost suggested they ask Liam’s advice but one look at Estelle’s face persuaded her that this was a bad idea. Perhaps the concert at the Arts Centre might rectify that particular situation. At any rate, she thought, it was worth a try.

  ‘We can’t prove anything,’ Estelle reminded her. She looked thoughtful. ‘But the thing that bothers me the most…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is how on earth did Terry know what a financial mess we were in?’

  * * *

  He wouldn’t have, would he? The more Suzi thought about it after Estelle had gone, the more she couldn’t say for sure. Who else was a common denominator? Who else knew their problems and knew Stan and Terry?

  She thought of the one brief telephone conversation they’d had since his return. His, Hi. How’s tricks? had been perfectly light and casual, as if Suzi were merely some vague acquaintance, which of course, she reminded herself, was exactly what she was.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she’d told him. Though she didn’t feel it. She felt helpless and strangely at odds with herself these days, as though she were a spectator of her own life.

  ‘And how’s business?’ he had asked her.

  ‘That’s fine too,’ she had replied, maintaining the light tone that she hoped matched his. Only, why had he wanted to know?

  They had finalised the details for the roadshow. And that was that.

  Would he have told Terry how badly they were doing? She had no idea. One lunch, one breakfast, one walk, one car boot sale, didn’t add up to much. Oh, yes, and one postcard. The truth was – if Suzi were honest with herself – she hardly knew the man.