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 e
lephant 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!’
It was an unexpectedly moving sight. Georgina’s hair streamed behind her in the sunlight as she jogged round the paddock; meanwhile, Nicola bounced up and down with a mixture of delight and terror on her face. Charles stole a look at the faces of the twins. They were both staring enraptured at the scene.
Eventually Georgina led Arabia back up to the fence.
‘Do you want a go, Toby? You can’t go on your own, but you could sit in front of me,’ she said. Toby giggled and shook his head.
‘I suppose these two are too small,’ said Charles, gesturing to the twins.
‘Yes, they are a bit,’ said Georgina. ‘They probably couldn’t even sit on a pony without falling off.’
‘I’d love them to learn to ride,’ said Charles. ‘Perhaps when they’re a bit older.’
‘You wouldn’t need to buy two ponies,’ said Georgina. ‘If they stay the same size they could always share one.’
‘Maybe,’ said Charles. ‘Ponies are very expensive creatures.’
‘So what?’ said Georgina disconcertingly. ‘You must be able to afford it now you’re so rich.’
As Cressida unpacked her clothes, carefully shaking out the creases as she had been taught at school, a frown furrowed her brow. Charles was angry with her for being rude about his friends – and perhaps she had been a bit blunt – but what was she supposed to say? Surely he could see that she could never become friendly with that jumped-up salesman and his tarty wife?
It did not occur to Cressida that her own father had been, in his own way, a salesman himself. Owners of large factories were not, in her mind, at all the same thing as vulgar men like Patrick, who, she noticed, hadn’t even bothered to come and greet his guests. Besides, it was her mother, the aristocratic Antonia Astley, with whom Cressida identified most strongly. Her mother had always avoided becoming friendly with the wives of her husband’s colleagues. ‘Think of yourself as a precious present,’ she had once said to Cressida, ‘not to be squandered on whoever happens across you first.’ She had, of course, been talking about sex, Cressida now realized – but it was actually a useful principle for friendships in general.
The trouble was, people like the Chances had no idea of graduating slowly towards friendship – they seemed to treat every chance acquaintance as familiarly as they did each other. Cressida shrank from the kisses, jokes, references and banter which surrounded this kind of event. Caroline, in particular, was the kind of woman who would soon assume an intimacy that Cressida was far from sharing; who would quiz her on intimate subjects and then perhaps even refer to them in front of strangers. It was safer, Cressida thought, to keep one’s distance right from the start, before things got out of hand.
She recalled a woman whom she’d met once on holiday, staying in a friend’s apartment at Menton. The woman had been amiable enough as a beach companion; they had lent each other sun cream, magazines and books. But her conversation had gradually turned to areas which Cressida rarely discussed with anybody, let alone a stranger. She had become more and more persistent, first laughing at Cressida, then becoming offended, and calling Cressida a stuck-up cow. It had been even worse when it transpired that the woman was quite a friend of George Wallace, whose apartment Cressida was staying in.
She frowned uncomfortably at the memory and began to change into her tennis dress. She felt upset by Charles’ determined affection for the Chances, and not just because they were not her sort of people. It was also because the Chances – together with just about everyone else here, probably – belonged to that time of Charles’ life that Cressida preferred not to think about; the period before he had met her, when he had been living in Seymour Road with that woman (Cressida never articulated Ella’s name, even in her thoughts). Of course, everyone could see now that she would have been all wrong for him. But Cressida still felt sometimes that the Seymour Road crowd thought it a shame that he’d left her. There had certainly been a bad atmosphere among them at the wedding.
They’d managed to avoid seeing any of them since then, apart from the odd chance meeting in Silchester – and Cressida had thought that would be the end of it. But then, after months of silence, the invitation had appeared from Patrick and Caroline, warmly pressing them to come and play tennis.
She finished buttoning up her tennis dress, carefully brushed her hair with her Mason Pearson brush and looked in the mirror. Her legs were carefully waxed, her hair well cut and her face discreetly made up. But it did not occur to Cressida to stare at herself gloatingly or try to imagine the appearance she would make on the court. She turned round briefly to check that her dress was straight at the back. Then she turned her attention to the letters still lying on the bed. Perhaps she should go through them. That would please Charles. He always complained that she never opened a letter unless she recognized the handwriting on the envelope.
But a shout from outside distracted her. She went to the window and saw Charles looking up. He was grinning broadly and looked as though he’d been running.
‘Come on, Cress!’ he shouted. ‘It’s lovely out here!’ Cressida smiled in slight relief. He wasn’t angry any more.
‘All right!’ she called. ‘I’m coming!’ And without giving the letters another thought, she hurried out of the room.
When they arrived at the tennis court, they found Annie and Stephen knocking up. Caroline was lying in a deck-chair, smoking a cigarette and applauding; Patrick was nowhere to be seen.
‘We’re a bit out of condition, I’m afraid,’ said Stephen.
‘Speak for yourself,’ retorted Annie as they came off court. She kissed Charles. ‘It’s super to see you!’ she said.
‘Hello, Cressida,’ said Stephen. ‘How are you?’
‘What a lovely name!
’ piped up Valerie. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard that one before. Is it from a book?’ Cressida gave her a look of astonishment.
‘Charles, Cressida,’ said Stephen, hiding a smile, ‘meet Don and Valerie Roper.’
‘How do you do?’ said Cressida.
‘Don lives in our village,’ called Caroline from the deck-chair, her voice husky with cigarette smoke. The thought seemed to tickle her, and she started laughing rather drunkenly.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Don, nodding at Charles.
‘Don and Valerie have just thrashed us,’ said Caroline. ‘It was a thrilling match, ending on a foot-fault.’
‘Ooh!’ said Valerie, then blushed as everyone looked at her.
Caroline had swivelled round in her chair to look at Cressida.
‘I love your dress,’ she announced. ‘Where did you get it?’ Cressida forced herself to smile at Caroline.
‘I had it made for me,’ she said.
‘I might have known,’ said Caroline, in slightly mocking tones. ‘There you are, Annie, you think I’ve got a good wardrobe, but I’ve never had anything made for me. I bet that cost a packet, didn’t it?’ Cressida’s hand tightened round her racquet, and she laughed lightly.
‘Go on, how much? Two hundred? Three hundred?’
‘Really?’ said Annie. ‘Would it be that much?’
‘Might be more,’ said Caroline. ‘Or might be less. Depends if a designer makes it or your granny makes it!’ she cackled with laughter again. ‘Actually,’ she added, ‘I don’t think I’d like to have my things made for me. I mean, the whole point of buying clothes is going and trying them on in the shop.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘When I was young,’ she said, ‘I used to spend my entire Saturday going round Biba and Mary Quant, trying on clothes. It was great. You just stripped off what you were wearing and tried everything on in the shop. Once I walked right out of Biba wearing a brand-new outfit!’
The Tennis Party Page 5