Love-40

by Anna Cheska

  ‘Yours, darling!’ Amanda called to Liam.

  Darling ran, but didn’t make it. He began to sweat even more. Love fifteen.

  Estelle smiled as Liam growled, ‘shot’, followed by ‘fuck it’, followed by the banging of his racket on the net tape. There was nothing like a good loser. And Liam was nothing like one either, she thought.

  As Liam served to Nick, Estelle found her mind wandering from the game. If Nick still cared about Amanda, then where did that leave Liam? Did he care for her too? She scrutinised him as he tossed the ball too high and too far forward and had to catch it again. She couldn’t tell. He just looked bad-tempered, sweaty and sweet.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said again as he smashed the serve into the net. Sweet? Who was she kidding?

  As the game went on, and Liam became more and more uptight, so Estelle was able to relax and enjoy herself, playing with the strongest guy on the circuit. What she liked about Nick was that he didn’t spend too much time congratulating her on a shot well played or apologising for his own mistakes. Not that there were too many of those. He didn’t encroach on her side of the net either, basically just got on with it. She felt better too about the shop, now that she was free of Stan and Terry. Somehow, she thought, driving the winning backhand down the line to leave Amanda stranded, somehow, even without Liam, she would move on.

  ‘Played.’ Estelle couldn’t help noticing how forcefully Amanda shook hands with them both, how they all avoided eye contact. She sensed Liam lingering behind as Amanda strode over to collect her bag and decided to linger too.

  But Nick had other ideas. ‘What a fabulous partner!’ He grabbed her and kissed her on both cheeks and then, much to her surprise, firmly on the mouth.

  Estelle was so taken aback that it was a moment before she reacted. She pushed him off with a laugh and a ‘hey!’

  But by that time, both Amanda and Liam were walking off the court and towards the honey-coloured clubhouse. Thanks, Nick, Estelle thought. If he imagined that the way to get Amanda Lake back into his life was to go around snogging other women, the poor deluded man should think again. A change of tactics was called for.

  * * *

  Liam joined the players and spectators for the prize-giving ceremony held on the patio. It was late afternoon, very warm and hazy. Chairs and tables had been moved aside, while certificates, a silver-plated rose bowl, two bottles of champagne and two bouquets of flowers laid out on a white cloth on one of the clubhouse tables, were presided over by Erica Raddle. Erica Raddle – self-important and yet still making some concession to sportiness in her white suit with navy trim. Beside her was a microphone on a stand.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen…’ Her bosom swelled. ‘The American tournament has been a tremendous success. Thank you, everyone, for making it so.’ There followed a round of polite, disinterested applause.

  Automatically, Liam looked amongst the small crowd for Estelle. She wasn’t with Rossi. She was standing, alone, towards the back. There were a lot of people between them, but he had a clear view of her pale face, surrounded by the halo of auburn hair, free now of the bandanna that had been holding it in place. As he watched her, she half-turned and caught his glance. Liam didn’t look away. For about ten seconds they seemed to absorb one another’s gaze. Ten seconds could be an awfully long time …

  And then someone spoke to her – a woman standing nearby, and Estelle’s attention was distracted, she blinked, looked away, replied to the woman.

  Liam re-focused his attention on Erica, who was still sounding off.

  ‘But I mustn’t waffle on…’ She paused, but no one disputed this. ‘You’ll all be wanting to go home or into the changing rooms to get ready for tonight’s dance.’ She rubbed her hands together with glee. ‘Our big night. I know you’ll all be offering your support.’ At this, her brow furrowed and her gaze scanned the players and spectators in front of her. Yes, Liam thought, she was old-fashioned teacher material. She reminded Liam of his old nightmare, Miss Dithercott. She would stride the corridors in her black and dusty flowing gown like a vampire bat on the prowl. And when she found a transgressor, she would fix him or her with a steely grey eye behind round metal-framed spectacles, and pounce … with a detention.

  ‘And I’m proud to announce…’ Erica turned a little pink. ‘That one of our special benefactors will be here to grace the occasion. Henry Lake himself.’ She beamed at Amanda, who was standing near the front, arms folded, looking bored. At Erica’s words, she unfolded her arms, smiled briefly and insincerely and then resumed her pose.

  ‘So, to the winners.’ Impatiently, Erica beckoned Deirdre Piston forwards. ‘Deirdre has done her sums…’

  Deirdre nodded. ‘Done my sums,’ she confirmed.

  Erica frowned. ‘And the winners are…’ she beamed once more, flashing horsy teeth to all and sundry, ‘our own dear Amanda Lake, and Nick Rossi.’

  Bloody typical, Liam thought. The guy who had everything, and who now had Estelle. He watched their body language as Nick and Amanda went to the table to collect their prizes. They stood carefully a few feet away from each other, eye contact still not an option apparently.

  ‘A few words?’ Erica suggested.

  Amanda flicked her hair from her shoulders. She held her flowers cradled in the crook of one arm with casual grace – a girl clearly used to receiving such gifts. ‘Thanks,’ she said briefly, merely leaning slightly towards the microphone. ‘And apologies to everyone I bullied when I played with them.’ She shot a special smile towards Liam, who shrugged and laughed.

  ‘And Nick?’ Erica said.

  Nick took a deep breath. He didn’t look quite so comfortable with the flowers and placed them gingerly back on the table while he spoke. ‘I’d like to say that Chestnut Grove is a great club,’ he said. ‘That’s the tennis club and the youth club.’ He too seemed to be addressing Liam, unless Liam was getting a power complex all of a sudden. ‘I know some of you aren’t too sure about the bright blue acrylic all-weather courts, but I’m confident they’ll be popular with our younger element. We may be a club steeped in tradition, but we still like to move with the times.’ He smiled. ‘After the re-surfacing, Chestnut Grove may be an even sunnier place than it is today.’

  People began to clap – Liam included. But Nick hadn’t finished yet. He held up a hand. ‘And it’s important that we keep the original ethos of Chestnut Grove in mind.’

  ‘Yes, yes, absolutely.’ Erica tried to grab the microphone from him, but he shrugged her away.

  ‘We should ensure that the tennis facilities are available for everyone,’ he said, nodding at Liam. ‘The youth club, people who can’t afford to pay costly annual fees – in fact everyone who wants to play the game of tennis. And I’m sure you’ll all have lots of fund-raising ideas, to help make it happen.’ He shook the bottle of champagne and opened it with a flourish. ‘Here’s to taking the snobbery out of the game,’ he said as the liquid shot out in a spray.

  ‘Hear hear!’ Despite everything, despite that kiss, Liam had to admire the bloke for speaking his mind, for defying Erica. And he had to admit that a few words from someone like Nick Rossi – who, some might argue, belonged to the privileged classes – had a lot more clout than what Liam – avowed Socialist – might have to say.

  Erica didn’t look quite so happy. ‘You’ll have to share the cup,’ she told Nick and Amanda. ‘We only have one. Or –?’

  If she had been about to make some coy assumption about whether Nick and Amanda might be sharing the same trophy cabinet at some time in the foreseeable future, she didn’t get the chance. Amanda shoved the cup towards Nick with a hissed, ‘You can have it for the first six months, lover-boy.’

  At which point Erica made frantic signs to Deirdre to switch off the microphone, Nick merely looked hurt, and Amanda stalked off, flowers in one hand, champagne held loosely by the neck of the bottle in the other. She brushed past Liam.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said.

  She raised her eyebrows. �
��You’d think they could have run to a magnum,’ she said.

  It was some time before the rest of the people started drifting away, and by the time Liam escaped from Amanda and got to where Estelle had been standing, she had gone.

  So he was left in the same quandary as before. To go or not to go, that was the question.

  Chapter 25

  Estelle was propping up the bar of Chestnut Grove clubhouse, waiting for Suzi to get the drinks. The band, a throwback to the 60s or 70s – they didn’t seem to have made up their minds – hadn’t yet begun to play, though they’d got to the stage of plugging in, tuning instruments, and all the hoo hah that preceded sound. But Chestnut Grove’s clubhouse and conservatory were already full and fit to bursting.

  The place had been festooned with silver banners and balloons, and by the doorway floated an enormous silver helium butterfly, whose purpose Estelle couldn’t begin to imagine. The tables had been cleared to the sides of the clubhouse to create a dance floor, and were decorated with lacy cloths and white daisies in tiny glass vases. The conservatory looked much as it always did – a haven.

  Women of all ages – sometimes hard to recognise out of tennis gear, it had to be said – were dressed in all their finery and men were in dinner jackets and dress shirts, sporting wing collars and bright bow ties. She saw a lot of people she recognised. But there was no Liam.

  Estelle shifted her weight and smiled at Nick, over on the other side of the room. He was looking, she had to admit, very debonair in his black baggy dress suit, waistcoat and black bow tie. Very debonair, but still not Liam.

  At this point Suzi returned with their white wine. And Suzi had really made an effort. Estelle felt ridiculously proud of her. For once, she had thrown aside her usual blue jeans, and was wearing instead a jade green chiffony creation that matched her eyes and whose soft lines certainly gave her a new femininity. Or at least, Estelle assumed it was the dress …

  ‘Where the bloody hell is Liam?’ Suzi handed Estelle her glass.

  OK, Estelle amended, a new and fierce femininity. ‘Maybe he won’t bother to come,’ she said, looking around vaguely as though she’d only just realised he wasn’t there.

  ‘He’d better,’ Suzi ground out. ‘I’ve got something I need to tell him.’ And from the look of her, that wasn’t the only item on her agenda.

  Estelle shrugged. ‘Where’d you get that dress, Suze?’ She admired the drape of the sleeves, the slashed neckline that … hang on, she bent closer, that didn’t quite look as if it had been slashed all its life.

  ‘C.S.’ Suzi joined in the applause as the band struck up the first notes. ‘About time,’ she added.

  ‘C.S?’

  ‘Charity shop.’ Suzi hissed. ‘And why not? I’ll never wear it again, for heaven’s sake.’

  Estelle suppressed a giggle. Talk about living up to the ethos of CG’s.

  Suzi grabbed her arm. ‘Estelle, I’ve got something I really need to talk to you about –’

  ‘And to take us away into the first dance…’ The lead singer – who was wearing 60s flares, a 70s collar and had a pudding-basin haircut – smiled encouragingly at Nick, who remained where he was, lounging on the far side of the clubhouse. ‘May I ask our two glamorous winners…’ he tried again, ‘to take to the floor?’ There was an expectant hush. Neither Nick nor Amanda moved a muscle.

  ‘Please?’ the lead singer added valiantly.

  Nick put down his drink and advanced towards Amanda, a tightness to his mouth and a certain menace in his eyes.

  Wicked. What now? Surely they’d have to look at one another at some point? ‘Tell me later,’ Estelle whispered to Suzi. She wanted to watch this.

  Nick reached Amanda, who was standing near the bar, and held out an ironic hand to her. Estelle wasn’t sure how a hand could be ironic, but Nick seemed to manage it. ‘Shall we?’ he muttered.

  ‘If we must.’ Amanda smiled sweetly and placed her hand in his.

  There was no denying that she looked fabulous, Estelle thought. She was wearing a silver, black and gold beaded creation which had a high cut-away neckline, three narrow back-shoulder straps on each side and a scooped low line at the back. No bra, Estelle thought dismally, admiring the fact that Amanda could get away with it.

  The band began in earnest and predictably, with ‘Congratulations’, which neither Nick nor Amanda seemed to have any idea how to dance to. Amanda sashayed gracefully from side to side, arms akimbo, but Nick was having none of that. His footwork wasn’t bad and as his confidence increased, he took her hand and led Amanda into a twirl and then a spin. It was impressive, though obvious to Estelle that Amanda didn’t want to go there. Maybe it was the length of her dress. It was full at the back where it fell to the floor and rustled provocatively as she moved, but it might not have the give required for this kind of dancing, Estelle guessed.

  Nick seemed to have no idea of any of this. He spun her again, pulled her back into a semi-lift, plainly enjoying himself now.

  Amanda struggled to get her balance, dragged herself upright, adjusted the dress, glared at him.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Estelle grinned at Suzi.

  ‘What a lovely couple they make.’ Erica’s tones boomed even over the big band sound. She was standing on the other side of Estelle and addressing Amanda’s father, Henry Lake.

  ‘Charming.’ But Estelle could see that Henry was distracted, more interested in who was coming through the door by the silver butterfly than in Erica or his daughter and her dancing partner. Who was he waiting for? She was intrigued.

  Erica turned to her husband. ‘Pull in your stomach, William,’ she whispered loudly. ‘Don’t breathe.’

  Estelle and Suzi exchanged a glance, Suzi got a fit of the giggles and at that point Nick steered Amanda purposefully towards the doorway and the silver floating butterfly.

  He turned her into another lift (this time supported on his knee); there was the ominous sound of tearing fabric; wide-eyed the two dancing partners stared into one another’s faces, and everyone – or so it seemed to Estelle – held their collective breath.

  * * *

  Michael grinned at his audience. They were listening, really listening, and some of them – like that guy in the denim jacket over there in the corner, for example – had been here last month. Maybe they’d come back specially to see him, Michael. Bloody great.

  He ripped open his shirt so that the buttons flew in all directions, laughed at himself, strutted a bit (eat your heart out, Rod Stewart) grabbed the mic, stuck it in the bent wire coathanger and put that round his neck so he could move around more freely, encouraged the audience to laugh too.

  His act had changed a lot in the past weeks. It had evolved, by accident mostly, and now included all sorts of touches – like that wire coathanger he’d bent to create a mic-holder, like chucking his guitar to the landlord waiting by the bar, so he could do an impromptu somersault or two. That worked well (though not the time he’d tried to chuck it while inadvertently standing on the lead). He’d even incorporated a short impression of Dylan – thanks to Blondie and ‘Lay Lady Lay’ – of Elvis, and a jokey version of ‘House Of The Rising Sun’.

  Yeah, he was enjoying himself tonight – there was a kind of freedom in singing and playing when Suzi wasn’t here to watch him. No hassles. No worrying what she was thinking about the new part of his act – the strutting, the semi-strip, the falling off the stage stuff. No looking over at her every ten seconds, trying to read every expression on her face.

  He tripped over the wire, whispered, ‘fuck it’, soulfully into the mic like it was a sweet nothing and grinned himself into their good books. Michael had come to a decision. He was going to the dance tonight – after the gig – and he was going to tell Suzi the score. Things weren’t standing still. He was moving on. He’d got a room here above the pub which would do him until he found something better. And in return he was going to help out in the bar a couple of nights a week. Sorted.

  He felt even more cheerful as
he dropped into ‘My Girl’ without thinking of Suzi and more cheerful still when the blonde (he’d almost started thinking of her as his blonde) waltzed through the door, wearing her usual black mini skirt with a skimpy, clingy, violet-coloured top. Sexy. She smiled at him, clocked his bare chest, pouted, waved, but, ah shit, she had a guy with her. First time ever.

  What the hell. Michael played on. ‘Last one before the break,’ he murmured into the microphone. ‘Dedicated to an ex of mine.’ And he launched into ‘Someone else not you’.

  Just before he closed his eyes, he caught the look that Blondie shot him, the ironic lift of the eyebrows, the sexy full-lipped smile. The kind of girl he’d always dreamed of having. And it’s never too late, he thought.

  * * *

  ‘Idiot,’ Amanda hissed, just as the band stopped playing. ‘How could you be so bloody careless?’

  Estelle – and quite a few of the other guests – peered closer, trying to see which part of Amanda’s dress had finally given in to the pressure. But with the unquestionable grace of one born to be admired at all times – including times of adversity, no doubt – Amanda merely swept the torn skirt over one arm – thus creating a look not only dramatic, but revealing in the leg department – and made for the door.

  ‘It was an accident,’ Nick protested, following her.

  ‘I don’t care.’ She turned on her heels, probably not realising he was so close behind her.

  Estelle gave her the benefit of the doubt. Because Nick tripped over the silver-sandalled foot, and went down with a crash.

  He landed awkwardly on his right arm and shoulder. Several people moved forwards to help. But Amanda was there first.

  ‘Darling, darling, I’m so sorry.’ She knelt down beside him, all contrition. ‘Are you hurt, my darling?’

  Nick’s face was white. ‘My bad arm,’ he muttered. And then, ‘Hang on a sec. Did you just call me your darling?’