The Tennis Party

by Sophie Kinsella

  Eventually she let him go.

  ‘I think they’re waiting,’ she said. ‘We’d better go to our places.’ Charles watched her sauntering off to join Patrick; her pony-tail bouncing, her tasteless gold bracelets glinting in the sun. What did she know of the troubles he was in? he thought viciously. She and Patrick hadn’t a money trouble between them; they had the easy, lazy sybaritic life while he had nothing but worries. He walked to the back of the court and scooped up a couple of balls.

  ‘I’ll serve,’ he said shortly to Cressida.

  ‘The final of The White House tournament,’ intoned Don, ‘between Caroline and Patrick Chance and Charles and Cressida Mobyn. Linesmen ready.’ He turned to the audience. ‘Any volunteers?’

  ‘That’s your job,’ said Stephen lazily, his arm around Annie. ‘We’re here to applaud. Anyway, you’re the expert.’

  ‘I suppose I am,’ said Don, in a pleased voice. He adjusted his hat and sat back in his chair. ‘Players ready.’ He glanced from side to side. ‘Play.’

  Cressida stood at the net, staring at the grass in front of her. She felt completely detached from the game, detached almost from real life. She stood in the correct position, holding her racquet ready, listening vaguely to Charles grunting behind her as he served each ball. The sound made her flinch; it sounded so angry and brutal. And when the ball came thundering into the net beside her, she physically started. The sound of racquets against balls was growing louder and louder in her ears; the shots seemed to be whizzing past her faster and faster. It was quite a threatening game, tennis, she thought unhappily. Quite violent, in its own way.

  ‘Double fault,’ announced Don resonantly. ‘Thirty-all.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ whispered Cressida. But Charles hadn’t heard her. He was swiping angrily at the air with his racquet.

  His next serve went in, but it was weak. Patrick took a swing at it, and sent it to Cressida, standing stationary at the net, staring miserably at the ground. Too late, she stuck her racquet out with an instinctive, schooled action. The ball went sailing past her and landed just inside the baseline.

  ‘What were you saying about my usual crap?’ said Patrick to Caroline. Charles glared at Cressida.

  ‘You could have got that, darling,’ he said, putting a jovial veneer on his voice.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, in a voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘Thirty-forty,’ intoned Don. Charles scowled, and threw the ball up high. He came down on it with all his weight, and hammered the ball into the service court. Caroline valiantly hit at the ball as it came thundering towards her, and sent it sky-high. Cressida began to prepare automatically for an overhead, but from behind her came Charles’ voice.

  ‘Leave it! It’s mine!’ He ran forward, brought his racquet back and smashed it down wildly.

  ‘Out!’ Patrick looked up and gave Charles a smug grin. That would take the smooth bastard down a bit. ‘Long by about a foot,’ he elaborated. ‘Bad luck. I think that’s our game.’

  Charles glowered silently at Cressida as they changed ends. Now she couldn’t even play a decent game of tennis. For Christ’s sake. That was about the only thing she was supposed to be good at.

  A sudden memory came to him of a long-forgotten tennis game, which must have happened sometime before they were married. He had sat and watched Cressida, playing in the dappled shade of a cedar tree. Where had that been? He couldn’t remember anything about it except the way she’d looked, wearing an old-fashioned-looking tennis dress, with a dropped waistband, like a Twenties flapper. And the way she’d played. Neat, deft, confident without being aggressive. Afterwards, when she’d played her final winning shot, she’d caught his eye and smiled shyly, twisting the pearls she always wore around her fingers. He’d really loved her then. Or he’d thought he did. Perhaps it amounted to the same thing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As the games progressed, Cressida’s confidence was in shards. She couldn’t keep her mind on the ball; her racquet shook in her hand; her shots were lame and tentative; her reflexes seemed numbed and slow. As she prepared to serve, she felt, to her horror, warm tears rising up in her eyes. She brushed them away with the sleeve of her tennis shirt, then, to stop the others from noticing, quickly threw up the tennis ball and hit it blindly.

  ‘Fault,’ said Don. Cressida tried to compose herself for her second serve. But the sight of Charles at the net, with his taut, angry legs and unforgiving neck, completely unnerved her. She threw the ball too low and hit it weakly into the net.

  ‘Fault,’ said Don. ‘Love-fifteen.’ Cressida quickly turned away to pick up the balls for the next point. She really had to pull herself together. She was playing so badly; they were already four-two down; Charles was furious with her.

  Normally, she would somehow have managed to block everything out and keep hold of herself. But at the end of the last game, as they both approached the net to pick up balls, Caroline had put a warm hand on hers and winked at Cressida encouragingly. ‘Bloody men,’ she had said. ‘They’re all the same. Don’t let them get you down.’ Cressida had smiled tentatively back; forcing herself to keep her face composed. ‘And tell that husband of yours’, Caroline had added in a louder voice, ‘that if he shouts at you one more time, I’ll kick him in the nuts.’

  Caroline’s warm, coarse friendliness overwhelmed Cressida like a wave of sea water. It revived her temporarily – but left her shivering and tearful; unable to return to her dry, controlled composure. She slowly picked up two balls and took a deep breath. It wouldn’t last much longer. The set was nearly over. At least – it would be unless she and Charles started winning a few games. She walked back to the baseline and bounced one of the balls up and down a few times, staring at it in miserable puzzlement. Was it wrong to want to lose this set as quickly as possible? She couldn’t remember if they were playing just one or the best of three. Maybe they would lose this set and that would be it. Over. Suddenly she was overcome by a fierce longing. She wanted to get home, to safety and familiarity.

  Patrick watched Cressida’s anxious face as she stood, bouncing the ball up and down before serving. Even if he hadn’t had his own grudge against Charles, he thought, the sight of that poor miserable woman was enough to stir any decent man’s heart. So what if her tennis was a bit off today? At least she knew how to behave on the court. She was unfailingly polite and courteous; she added a real note of elegance to the game.

  Eventually Cressida served to him, a poor, pathetic serve. Patrick considered putting the ball deliberately into the net, as a token gesture. But the sight of Charles’ smug face was too much to resist. Approaching the ball ponderously, he whacked it at Charles as hard as he could. Charles quickly jumped aside – but not, Patrick noted with satisfaction, before a fleeting look of terror had crossed his face. So he wasn’t as cool as all that. They both watched the ball skim down the line.

  ‘Out!’ said Charles triumphantly. ‘Just outside.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Don’s voice came querulously across the court. ‘It looked in to me.’

  ‘It was out,’ said Charles, a note of steel creeping into his voice. ‘Wasn’t it, Cressida?’

  ‘Well,’ said Cressida, ‘I’m afraid I didn’t really see it.’

  ‘You must have done! Was it in, or was it out?’ Patrick flinched at the hectoring tone.

  ‘All right!’ he said hurriedly. ‘It was out! OK, Don? Fifteen-all.’ As he passed Caroline, he muttered, ‘Let’s give them a few points.’

  ‘Give that bastard a few points? You must be joking.’

  ‘Not him . . .’ said Patrick impatiently.

  ‘Ahem,’ interrupted Don. ‘Mrs Mobyn is waiting to serve.’

  Cressida’s first serve went in the net. Her second was long and deep.

  ‘Good serve!’ exclaimed Caroline, glancing at Patrick. She shot a bright smile at Cressida.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Don in slight reproof. ‘But that really was out. By quite a long way.’

  ‘N
o it wasn’t!’ said Caroline.

  ‘I’m afraid it was.’

  ‘It bloody wasn’t!’

  ‘It was!’ piped up Valerie, who was sitting on the bank near to the court. ‘It was well out. Sorry,’ she added to Cressida. ‘But I did see it.’

  ‘Stupid cow,’ muttered Caroline. ‘All right,’ she said aloud. ‘Our point.’

  ‘Fifteen-thirty,’ said Don reproachfully. ‘Mrs Mobyn to serve.’

  Cressida sensed the atmosphere had changed. Patrick and Caroline were looking conspiratorially at each other; they kept hitting the ball out and exclaiming too loudly. Suddenly she had won her service game.

  ‘Well served, Cressida,’ said Caroline as they changed ends. Charles looked at her suspiciously.

  In the next game, Caroline’s serve became surprisingly weak each time she served to Cressida. And with each shot she hit over the net, Cressida felt her confidence return. After a few successful forehands, she felt positive enough to come forward to the net and smack a volley across court, past Patrick and into the corner.

  ‘Game to Mr and Mrs Mobyn,’ announced Don. ‘Four games all.’ Charles looked from Caroline to Patrick and back again.

  ‘You’re giving points away,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘No we’re not,’ said Caroline briskly. ‘Charles, it’s your serve.’ But Charles didn’t move.

  ‘You’re trying to give us this game,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter? Do you think we can’t play tennis?’

  ‘Charles,’ said Cressida hesitantly.

  ‘You’re talking nonsense, Charles,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Like hell I am! I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking poor old Cressida’s playing utter shit, let’s give them a few points.’

  ‘You bastard!’ exclaimed Caroline. ‘How dare you say that?’

  ‘It’s fucking well true, though, isn’t it? You and Patrick have decided to be charitable to us. Well, thanks very much, but no thanks. I think I can probably do without charity from the Chances.’ He spoke the name scathingly, and a sneer came to his lips.

  ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ Caroline suddenly challenged him, feet planted wide apart on the tennis court, hands on her hips.

  ‘I’ll leave you to work it out.’ The two stared at each other in sudden fury.

  ‘Now, calm down,’ said Patrick quickly. He glanced towards the bank. Everyone was sitting completely still, staring agog at Charles and Caroline. ‘Come on, Charles,’ he said, trying to adopt a jovial tone. ‘Play the game, and all that.’

  ‘What would someone like you know about playing the game?’ Charles retorted.

  ‘Charles, really . . .’

  ‘Charles, I don’t think . . .’

  ‘Take it easy . . .’

  Charles ignored them all.

  ‘What the fuck would someone like you know about playing the game?’ he shouted. ‘You fucking pleb nouveau, inviting us all here because you think we’re smart, you think we’ve got money, you think we might buy one of your sodding, stinking little investment plans.’

  He stopped to draw breath. But a frenzied, furious voice stopped him. It was Caroline.

  ‘You shut the fuck up!’ Her voice echoed around the tennis court and there was a pause, in which everyone tacitly re-evaluated the situation. Stephen, who had been about to stand up, decided to stay put. Don, who had been about to utter a few calming words, closed his mouth and looked down at his clipboard. The others watched silently as Caroline walked slowly up to Charles. ‘You fucking well shut the fuck up.’ The words issued from her mouth in a slow, deliberate sequence. ‘You think you’re superior to us? You think you’re a better person than Patrick? Well, at least he didn’t marry me for my fucking money! And at least he has better manners than to go to someone’s house, as a guest, and spend the night screwing around with some tart in a field!’ Her voice rose to a shriek. ‘Just because you went to some fucking public school, doesn’t make you a better fucking person! Patrick’s worth a million of you!’ She turned to face Cressida.

  ‘If I were you, I’d leave him,’ she began. But Cressida was staring at her, white and physically shaking.

  ‘What are you talking about? What field?’ she whispered. Caroline gazed at her uncomprehendingly.

  ‘You know – Ella,’ she said without thinking. Too late she realized, as Cressida’s face crumpled. ‘Oh fuck! I thought you knew. Shit. I’m really sorry. I thought that’s why you were looking so ill.’

  Cressida felt as though she was in a nightmare. It was all happening. Their private life was being discussed on a tennis court. In front of an audience. She barely took in Caroline’s renewed apologies. Her humiliation was complete.

  Annie and Stephen, sitting on the bank, glanced at each other worriedly.

  ‘Say something!’ whispered Annie. ‘This is awful!’

  ‘I can’t!’ hissed Stephen. ‘What am I supposed to say? Don should say something. He’s umpire.’ They both glanced at Don, who was studiedly looking down at his clipboard.

  ‘Cressida, let’s go,’ Charles suddenly barked in a stentorian voice. ‘We’ve had enough here.’ Cressida didn’t move. She didn’t even seem to hear him.

  ‘Cressida!’ Charles was starting to sound rattled.

  ‘Why should she go with you!’ Caroline poked Charles in the chest. He staggered slightly, as though she had hit him, and glared at her. ‘Why should she go anywhere with a two-timing bastard like you? Sorry, Cressida,’ she added. ‘I didn’t mean to remind you.’ Cressida looked up. Something like a smile appeared on her face.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. Caroline grinned back at her.

  ‘You stay here tonight with us if you want to,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to go anywhere with him. You can stay all week if you want.’

  Charles gave a short laugh.

  ‘That’s rich,’ he said. ‘Stay with Caroline and Patrick. See how many investment plans they can sell you in one week. You think they’re your friends? You think Caroline’s being nice to you? They’ll be getting you to sign on the dotted line by breakfast-time tomorrow. Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Stephen!’ hissed Annie. ‘Say something. This is getting really nasty.’ But Stephen was listening, agog, as Charles turned to Caroline.

  ‘You think your precious Patrick’s so wonderful?’ he said. ‘Try telling that to all the people he’s conned out of their money.’ His eyes flickered contemptuously to Patrick. ‘Salesmen are all the same. He’d sell you like a shot, if he thought he could get a good price for you. Fucking con man.’ He suddenly rounded on Patrick. ‘Why did you ask us here? Not because you like us, or you wanted to see us. Christ no. Just so you could try to flog me your sordid little fund. Just so you could notch up a few more thousands on the bedpost. Is that how you get your kicks? Is that what turns you on?’

  ‘Is that why you asked us here too?’ Everyone looked up, startled. It was Stephen. He had stood up, and was staring, bright red in the face, at Patrick. ‘Is that why you asked me and Annie here? To sell us that investment fund?’

  There was a flabbergasted silence.

  ‘What investment fund? What are you talking about?’ Annie stared at Stephen, but he avoided her gaze. Charles slowly swivelled to face him.

  ‘Christ, he didn’t get you, did he? Stephen?’ There was a silence. Stephen looked down. Charles turned back to face Patrick.

  ‘You little shit,’ he said softly. ‘Do you really think Stephen can afford to invest in one of your fucking so-called unique investment opportunities? Do you really think he can afford to risk his money on speculation like that? Christ almighty.’ He turned to Stephen. ‘How much did he get you for?’ Stephen was silent. ‘Oh Christ,’ groaned Charles. ‘It was the whole fucking whack, wasn’t it? I can’t believe he talked you into it.’

  ‘Oh fuck off!’ burst out Patrick suddenly. ‘You’ve already done enough! I know you’ve been talking to Stephen. I know you told him he shouldn’t have signed. You needn�
�t pretend you don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Charles impatiently. ‘I haven’t spoken to Stephen.’

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ said Patrick furiously. ‘I know you said something about taking papers away overnight; not signing straight away. I know you told him not to trust me.’

  ‘I haven’t said a word to him,’ said Charles. They both turned to face Stephen.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, shamefacedly, ‘it was Don I was chatting to.’

  ‘Don?’ Patrick’s look of shock was almost comical. Everyone looked up at Don, still perched on the umpire’s chair.

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’ he said, looking up from his clipboard. ‘I was just checking the score. You know, we’ve already had eighteen double faults.’

  ‘Weren’t you listening?’ said Patrick incredulously.

  ‘I don’t like unpleasantness,’ said Don, pursing his lips, ‘either on court or off. Was there something you wanted?’

  Patrick was so taken-aback he could barely speak. ‘No, no,’ he said quickly. He looked about. ‘Shall we carry on?’

  ‘What do you mean, shall we carry on?’ Annie’s voice was clear and resolute. ‘I think a few things need explaining. What’s this investment fund?’

  ‘It’s nothing you need to worry about,’ said Patrick quickly. ‘Stephen, it’s OK. I’ll tear up the documents. Pretend it never happened. Cancel it.’

  ‘Cancel it? Are you sure?’ Stephen gazed at him in amazement. ‘But you said I couldn’t pull out.’

  ‘He told you you couldn’t pull out!’ Charles jeered in derision. ‘He forgot to tell you that you’ve got two weeks to change your mind. The cooling-off period. That’s right, isn’t it, Patrick?’

  ‘What, really?’ Stephen looked at Patrick incredulously. ‘You told me it was too late! You said it would cost me a few thousand to cancel!’