Players

by Karen Swan

  Hugh shrugged her off.

  ‘Do you really think I feel like having a cosy night in with you after you accuse me of fucking another woman?’

  And before she could reply, he’d stalked down the hall and slammed the front door. Tor winced and stared after him, chewing her lip.

  Carrying the bottle of wine into the sitting room, she steadily emptied it, watching the telly without seeing anything, before finally going up to bed wondering where he’d gone (he never ran with money in his pockets) and when he’d be back.

  He eventually returned after 1 a.m., by which time the oil was as cold as the salad, and the steak had long been returned to the fridge. Tor hadn’t bothered to eat hers. That pasta could count as supper after all.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning, feeling hungover to hell, she left Hugh sleeping, and got up with the children. While their bottles of milk warmed, she went for a wee, took off her watch and rings and stepped on to the scales. She just couldn’t understand the people who weighed themselves in the chemist’s, wearing jeans, coats and shoes. Most of the time she had to resist the urge to trim her nails first too.

  She exhaled and looked down. She’d lost two pounds! She felt elated. She tried to give a punch of glee, but her hangover intruded.

  Cress’s party for Harry Hunter was being held tonight. It was guaranteed to be the social highlight of her year – everyone they knew was married now, so there were no weddings to go to any more – and because no one in Nappy Valley ever seemed to get divorced (clearly all the baby-making kept them blissfully happy), there weren’t even any second marriages to look forward to. The fortieths were still a good few years away, so it was all just christenings and children’s birthday parties now and they weren’t any fun because you couldn’t get tipsy and flirt with the dads.

  Millie and Oscar began bellowing for their milk and Tor moved back to the kitchen. As she handed it over to her sucky calves, the phone rang and she ran into the study to pick it up before it woke Hugh – penance of sorts, she figured.

  It was Cress.

  ‘Cress, only you could ring at seven thirty a.m.’

  ‘Well, let’s face it, hon, I knew you’d be up.’

  ‘All ready for tonight?’

  ‘Fuck no. The caterers are threatening to bail out because they’ve double-booked with a Saudi wedding and say we didn’t confirm in time. Mark missed his flight from New York so he’s still over there, Orlando’s got chickenpox, and I still don’t know what to wear.’ She drew breath.

  Tor laughed. She knew what was coming.

  ‘Anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Well, since you ask – can I come over and raid your wardrobe? I’ve been too busy dealing with Harry’s contracts to go shopping,’ she chortled. ‘And you’ve always got such gorgeous stuff and I never see you in half of it. I’d be doing you a service actually.’

  She was over within the hour. Tor had jumped into the shower and climbed into her favourite pair of battered Sevens, which were as soft as her winceyette pyjamas.

  ‘You look gopping,’ Cress said, glancing over at Tor – who was pale and black-eyed from last night’s bottle of wine – as she rifled through her confection of rainbow-coloured chiffons and slinky slipper satins. Tor had put on a DVD of Angelina Ballerina for the children and collapsed on to the bed. (Hugh had got up and gone for the run he didn’t go on last night – which begged the question, what exactly did he do then?)

  ‘God, Cress, I’m having a shocker. I just cannot handle my drink any more.’ Or my marriage, she wanted to add, but didn’t.

  ‘Hmm,’ Cress said, eyeing Tor closely. ‘We may have to slip you in through a side door.’

  Tor snorted in derision.

  Cress pulled out a sumptuous Dolce & Gabbana satin shift sprinkled with deep red poppies. ‘Ooh, très kitsch.’

  ‘That one’s fabulous. You’ve got to have no hips at all, but, see the bra inside? Makes your boobs looks wonderful.’

  ‘Hon, nothing could make my boobs look wonderful. Mark says I have tribeswoman tits.’

  Tor burst out laughing. ‘I’m sorry, what the hell are tribeswoman tits?’

  ‘Oh you know – empty, longer than elephant ears.’

  Tor tried to stop laughing. ‘Cress, you cannot say that.’

  But Cress continued: ‘You want to know what’s so awful? He won’t let me have an itty bitty bit of Botox for my brow cleavage’ – she pointed to a microscopic wrinkle between her brows – ‘but when I jokingly said I needed a boob lift, he said “OK!”’ She stood there, hands on hips, in mock outrage.

  ‘. . . So I can’t have a small painless injection which will make me happier every time I look in the mirror, but I can undergo major cosmetic surgery just to return his happy sacks to him,’ Cress grumbled. Though she whined and whinged and made Mark out to be just awful, the reality was the Pellings enjoyed a blissful marriage. Tor was sure Cress made up the stories just to make everyone feel better. It was accident, rather than design, that they had four children. They just couldn’t keep their hands off each other – tribeswoman tits or not.

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  Tor sighed. Even the prospect of socializing with Harry Hunter hadn’t galvanized her into shopping action. Try as she might, Jinty’s words remained resolutely rattling around in her head. ‘No idea.’

  Cress spun round, her eyes narrowed. ‘Not like you. Whassup?’

  Tor shrugged lightly. ‘Nothing. Just been . . . busy, you know.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Cress turned back to the wardrobe, unconvinced. ‘What about that cream dress you wore to Kate’s the other week? She said you looked bloody sensational. Said all the men were dribbling over you. And one in particular.’ Cress cocked an eyebrow. ‘James White?’

  Tor looked up in shock. ‘He was not! You know how polite he is. Kate’s just being a minx. I assume they’re still going tonight, by the way?’

  ‘Yup. I get the feeling she could really do with letting her hair down, actually. She’s just finished that case, so she’s barely seen daylight for weeks.’ Cress paused. ‘And you know the latest round of IVF didn’t take?’

  Tor shook her head. ‘Oh no. That’s their second, isn’t it? How many more are they allowed?’

  ‘Just one I think, next month. But who can tell? That might be it for a while.’ She lowered her voice to a ridiculous stage whisper that the children could have heard from the playroom, had they wanted to. ‘Just between us, I think the strain’s beginning to tell.’

  Tor shook her head. ‘Honestly, it’s just so unfair. I mean, they’re childhood sweethearts. Who else is going to blaze the trail for living happily ever after?’

  ‘Tch, you are such an innocent, Victoria Summershill.’

  Suddenly, Cress shrieked. ‘Oooh, oooh, what’s this?’

  She pulled out a scarlet strapless dress with a mini bow at the waist and a pleated chiffon skirt.

  ‘Oh, that’s Chanel. A corset that’ll kill you but you’ll die looking gorgeous,’ Tor said.

  ‘Can I try it on? Pleeease?’

  Tor shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  Cress whipped off her pale blue cashmere tracksuit, revealing a soft tan and hard muscles, and wriggled into the Chanel. ‘Do me up.’

  Tor gave a little tug of the zip and in an instant Cress’s wiry athletic size eight shape was transformed into a modern-day Jessica Rabbit – all curves and dips and undulations. The two women stood staring into the mirror, agog. Tor was first to speak.

  ‘God, who knew a dress could do that?’ She shook her head in amazement. ‘You look better than you did on your wedding day.’

  ‘I do, don’t I?’ Cress admired herself in the mirror. ‘Whatever you paid, worth every penny. I’d have paid double.’

  ‘That’s because you can,’ Tor sighed. ‘Well, that’s you sorted. Now if someone could just arrange for me to be abducted by aliens and replaced by my better-looking self, we might just have a party on our hands.’

 
Cress smiled. ‘Only if your replacement can dance better as well!’

  Chapter Seven

  When he came back from his run, Hugh took the children swimming and out for lunch, leaving Tor time to get her hair and nails done, and legs waxed. He was maintaining a hurt silence and spoke only to communicate his whereabouts with the kids. Her tentative caresses, attempts at apology and inquiring looks were shrugged away with disgust.

  Tor sat in the kitchen, nursing a strong coffee and wondering what to do with herself. She wasn’t used to having free time. It was only 1.30 p.m., and with all her appointments out of the way, the afternoon yawned ahead of her. She still couldn’t think of a single thing in her wardrobe that she wanted to wear tonight. And she knew the only thing for it was to hurt the credit card. She grabbed her pea jacket, bag and keys, and jumped into the car.

  Traffic was the usual boggy nightmare trying to get over Albert Bridge, but as soon as she swung off Embankment, on to Royal Hospital Road, it was surprisingly light and she was in Walton Street fifteen minutes after leaving home. She rarely came here – the boutiques were seriously high-end, proffering bespoke scents, Italian shoes, bedlinens with thread counts in the high hundreds, and vintners which sold Cristal in the quantities most offies shifted lightly oaked Chardonnay.

  She sauntered along slowly, eyeing up the expensively clad – mainly European – women who sauntered out of the formerly ubiquitous Daphne’s, hell-bent on spending several hundred on lingerie before making it up to their men with a couple of hours of – what did the French call it? – ‘cinq à sept’? The men seemed happy with the drill. They were all lean, tanned and wearing calfskin moccasins with blazers that were impeccably cut in pastel linens.

  Tor slipped on her oversized eBay-bought Chloë frames and looked back to the windows. She felt pale and plain again, and very much like a housewife on a day trip. She hoped no one would notice her. She walked more quickly, eager to get to the boutique.

  It was at the end of the road on the right, just before the parade of Georgian townhouses. It looked forbiddingly smart, but she hadn’t come all this way just to end up in Hobbs. She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

  She was instantly greeted by a manicured French voice. ‘Good afternoon, madam.’

  ‘Hello.’ It was so quiet in here, so polished – even her breathing sounded clumsy. Tor smiled and scanned the shop, looking for a colour or print that would tempt her and take her away from the overt attentions of the assistant.

  She spotted a rack of floaty dresses, and made her way over to it. Most of them were shorter than her nighties – the ones she never wore except to seduce Hugh in – and she flicked through them idly, but there were some hopefuls. She picked up a shell pink number with a pretty plunging back, a heavy cream satin babydoll with square neckline, and one which particularly caught her eye – a sensational viridian chiffon, overlaid on sea-green silk, with a scooped front and criss-cross back. The skirt was bias cut, clinging the hips and just kicking out at the knee.

  She smiled in anticipation – she always knew what would work on her – and looking for the changing room, tiptoed over the marble floor. The changing room reminded her of the one at her wedding dress fittings, sumptuously wide to allow for all those hoop skirts, heavy curtains spilling dramatically into pools on the floor.

  She quickly undressed and put on the pink. Yeuch, no. Too pale. She looked like a prawn. She got it off quickly before anyone saw her. She had a horror of being made to walk out into the shop, modelling the creation for all the other customers.

  She took off the hanger the cream babydoll, which now looked alarmingly short, as the bell above the door jingled and a couple of Europeans walked in. They were speaking in French, and Tor noticed that the assistant’s voice had lost its froideur. Tor heard the man speak – in beautiful English – to the assistant. Could he possibly have a cup of tea? Tor suppressed a laugh. He obviously did this kind of thing a lot. Hugh would have to be sedated to come into a shop like this, not least because of the price tags.

  Tor checked out the price of the babydoll – £489 – Holy Cow! It had better make her look sixteen again. She slipped it over her head and began doing up the exquisite little buttons up the side. The fabric felt gorgeous and the mini puff sleeves sat at the perfect point, showing off the dip at the top of her arm, just below her shoulder. It made her feel delicate and waif-like, like a 1960s redux of a Jane Austen heroine. She wasn’t sure she could still do quite so short – it stopped a good three inches above the knee – but perhaps with the right shoes? She absent-mindedly twisted her hair up, revealing her slender neck. Certainly one to consider.

  She began unbuttoning again, just as some Morcheeba started up and the tinkle of tea cups sounded on the glass table. She heard the brass rings of the curtain next to her being pulled along the rail. She couldn’t wait to try on the viridian dress. Quickly she stepped into it and pulled it up, juggling her breasts into position in the little scoop and smoothing it over the hips. Looking down, it seemed a little tight. She frowned and checked the size. Size ten. She felt instantly depressed. So much for those lost pounds.

  ‘Do you require any ‘elp, madam?’ The manicured voice enquired loudly – and frostily – again.

  ‘Oh no, no, I think I’m OK, thank y––’ But before she’d finished, the curtain was pulled back with a flourish and she found herself in the middle of the shop.

  ‘Mmm. Would you like to try the next size up?’

  Tor froze. It was like one of those nightmares when you dream you’re naked in the middle of Bluewater. There she was, still in her black ankle socks, primrose yellow bra straps on show, standing in a dress that was one size too small. And sitting on the white leather Barcelona chair right in front of her, almost as though he was waiting for her, was James White.

  He looked as shocked as she felt, though he recovered first. Probably because he’s not the one dressed like the tooth fairy, Tor thought bitterly.

  ‘Tor! How marvellous to see you,’ he said, jumping up to greet her.

  ‘James! What on earth are you doing here?’

  She needn’t have asked. The curtain next to her whisked back and there, an image of perfection in size eight viridian chiffon, stood Coralie Pedeaux.

  ‘Darling, you remember Tor, don’t you? Tor and her husband were at the Marfleets’ dinner.’

  ‘Mais bien sur. ’Ow are you?’ Coralie nodded her head graciously, though Tor could see she didn’t remember her.

  ‘Very well, thank you. Gosh, it’s just lovely to see you both again.’ She wanted to get the hell out of this dress as quickly as possible. Coralie looked sensational – the colour made her eyes flash. She looks like a mermaid, Tor thought.

  ‘So that’s how it should look,’ she tried to laugh, and indicated Coralie’s outfit. ‘I knew I was doing it wrong.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ James argued. ‘You look super. It’s a great colour for you.’

  ‘Ah, well, you’re very kind, James. And quite the most polite man I’ve ever met.’ He smiled, Coralie didn’t. ‘Well, I’m just going to slip into something more flattering,’ she said and she stepped back behind the curtain, pulling it tightly round and leaning against the mirror. She closed her eyes, smarting against the humiliation.

  She pulled on her jeans and jacket, and quickly applied some blusher and lip balm. ‘I’ll take this one, please,’ she smiled to the shop assistant, holding up the cream babydoll. Sod the cost, she just wanted to get out of there.

  ‘Wearing it anywhere special?’ James came and stood next to her. Oh, thank God, she’d grabbed the joint credit card. It really would have been too awful to have her card refused in front of him.

  ‘Oh well, yes, actually. A friend’s having a party tonight. Rather glamorous – by my domestic standards anyway. She’s a publisher and . . . Oh you know her, of course. Cressida Pelling? Well, she’s just signed Harry Hunter, so it’s like an inaugural welcome tonight. I expect we’ll all embarrass ourselves and g
awp like teenagers. How about you – I mean for Coralie’s dress? Must require something suitably fabulous. Cannes, perhaps?’

  He chuckled. ‘Um, well, not really. I mean – work’s gone crazy and I’ve been working all hours, again – so I said I’d treat her.’

  ‘Wow, lucky girl,’ Tor smiled. ‘Hugh will leave me when this bill comes through next month.’ She paused. ‘That’s if he doesn’t go before.’

  Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh God, I can’t believe I just said that! Why did I say that?’ She made a twirl in the air with her finger and waggled her head like a crazy woman.

  James was looking at her. He put a hand on her arm. ‘Is everything OK, Tor?’

  She looked up at him. It would be just so lovely to tell someone, to tell him. But the curtain was pulled back again and Coralie, dressed in red linen micro shorts with matching safari jacket, sauntered over, brandishing her dress with intent. ‘I think this one, don’t you?’ she said, snaking her arm around James’s hips and pushing her curves against him, like a pocket Venus.

  ‘Of course, darling. It looked very nice.’ He looked at Tor, who had fixed a benign smile on her face. The assistant handed her the bag.

  ‘Well,’ Tor shrugged. ‘So lovely to see you both. I really must get back to the wastelands of SW11. My parole officer will be looking for me.’ Coralie looked at her, perplexed. The irony was clearly lost in translation.

  ‘Joke? I meant my husband.’ Tor felt awkward and kept her gaze away from James. She was backing towards the door. ‘See you both again soon, hopefully.’

  She had no idea.

  Chapter Eight

  Two consecutive courses of Pilates and tennis lessons had paid off and her legs looked lithe, lean and tan. Worn with some flat thong sandals embellished with coral embroidery, she looked more ingénue than Baby Jane. Good going for thirty-two. She admired her reflection in the antique mirror propped against the wall. Goodness, the difference twelve hours and a £500 dress could make.

  Hugh came in and sat down on the bed, towelling his hair. He’d just had his shower and smelled of limes, his signature scent. He was naked bar the towel around his waist and Tor admired his physique – buff and athletic, not too muscly or macho; the kind that came from twenty years of daily runs, rather than pumping iron. His hair was still conker brown, and if there was any grey, it was hiding.