Players

by Karen Swan

  The pièce de résistance, however, had to be the cake – a magnificent three-foot castle, complete with working drawbridge (made from a waffle), a moat and turrets in each corner. A Barbie had been positioned in one of the towers, but was a bit too perky and smiley to look like a damsel in distress.

  The occasion in question was her god-daughter Lucy Pelling’s eighth birthday, and not a penny or person had been spared (Monty had muttered that voluntary conscription numbers were up). Cress had been a nightmare, delegating, shouting and throwing orders around imperiously, as though bossiness would make up for the fact she wasn’t actually doing any of it herself.

  A red and white striped big-top tent had been set up on the lawn, with a go-kart track laid down in the children’s play area. The workmen had had to move two tonnes of woodchips before they could even get started (which Cress had failed to mention when she made the reservation), so tempers were frayed and goodwill all but gone.

  Kate had arrived early, on the pretext of helping out, but her limp mood meant she was mainly a hindrance. The doorbell rang, and she shrank down in an armchair, eager to keep out of the way. The first guests had arrived but Greta wasn’t back yet with the kids, which was sending Cress into apoplexy.

  ‘God Almighty, do I have to do everything myself?’ Cress shouted as she marched up the garden towards the orangery, leaving three gruff workmen trembling in her wake. ‘I don’t know why I bother, I really don’t!’

  She stomped past without seeing Kate, fluffing up her hair as she went to the door.

  ‘Helloooo,’ she trilled politely, as though she’d been calmly deadheading the begonias all morning, as five children barged past, heading straight for the garden.

  ‘Oh cool!’

  ‘Thass wicked man!’

  Putting the door on the latch, Cress finally caught sight of Kate and, for the first time that day, really saw her. ‘Well, I’m glad we’ve passed muster,’ she smiled, coming over and sitting down next to her. She put a hand on Kate’s arm. ‘You look like shit,’ she said warmly, taking in her friend’s pallor. ‘What’s up?’

  Kate smiled, grateful that her friend had noticed. Usually Tor would have been her proverbial shoulder, but clearly she shouldn’t be burdened now. Besides, she was in Norfolk for the summer. And this wasn’t something that could be discussed on the phone.

  ‘It’s . . .’

  But the door burst open and Lucy ran in, eager to get to the fire-breather and go-karts. Cress instantly sprang up as Greta – who had taken the children to the Harbour Club to keep them out of the way during preparations – sashayed back in.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Pelling. I thought it was a two p.m. start,’ she said, smiling sweetly, knowing full well it had been 1.30 p.m.

  Cress sighed – unwilling to sour Lucy’s big day – and waved one hand dismissively. ‘Well, you’re here now. Go and supervise the magician. I didn’t check his references – check he’s keeping the bunny in the hat – you know what I mean . . .’

  Greta sloped off, knowing Cress was watching her. She was wearing a white playsuit that buttoned down the front and had sweet rolled-up shorts that made her legs look endless. Battered plimsolls and a scruffy ponytail kept the look easy and effortless – she knew how important it was not to look as if she was trying to be sexy in front of the mums.

  Cress watched her go. She’d thought her outfit screamed ‘chic’ when she was getting dressed, but now she felt the narrow beige Armani pants and crisp cream shell top looked dowdy and prim by comparison.

  Greta was halfway to the striped tent when they both heard a cry. Cress saw her first. Felicity had tripped on a tree root in the orchard and was clutching her knee. She started running down the lawn to her baby, but just as she got past the big top, stopped suddenly, like a frozen statue.

  ‘Greta!’ Felicity wailed, the tears falling piteously. ‘Greta!’

  Mark was standing thirty feet away, talking to the other dads, in navy shorts and a pale pink polo shirt. He had seen both women react, but Greta had got there first, full of concern and smothering the little girl with kisses and cuddles.

  He looked back to Cress, who had turned on her heel and was heading back towards the house. He felt a stab of pity for his wife, who always seemed to be there at the wrong time, or that little bit too late.

  Mark walked towards his daughter, who had calmed down and was now just enjoying the cuddles. Greta was crouched down, with Felicity sitting on her lap, her arms wrapped tightly around Greta’s neck.

  ‘Hush, baby,’ she soothed. ‘Is OK. Greta make it all better. Let me see.’

  She saw Mark approach and started to look up, but with Felicity on her lap too she lost balance and toppled over – rather dramatically – gangly arms and legs akimbo. She wasn’t wearing any knickers.

  There was a brief pause before he spoke.

  ‘Are you OK, darling?’ He picked up Felicity as Greta scrambled her long legs back together and stood up. ‘Who’s my brave girl then?’

  ‘Daddy!’ Felicity cried, thrilled to have her father’s undivided attention.

  ‘I think she’ll be OK,’ Greta said, smiling and demure again. Vixen to virgin in the bat of an eye.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Greta,’ Mark said, without making eye contact. And he turned and left with his daughter in his arms.

  Greta stared after him, as Mark walked over to Monty. He put Felicity down affectionately and she scampered off to play, right as rain.

  ‘I think you might be in there, Pelling,’ Monty ribbed, having seen Greta’s forlorn face as Mark left.

  ‘Mmm, because she’s going to be interested in an old duffer like me,’ Mark deflected, self-deprecatingly. He knew he was a good catch – looking better with age, and with a high net worth. But he had Cress. She was all he’d ever wanted. He’d never looked at anyone since meeting her – though there had been plenty of opportunity – and he’d be damned if he was going to start now. Even if there was a knickerless nanny in his house, dammit.

  ‘D’you see the match on Wednesday?’

  Harry Hunter had arrived – Cress’s invitation had been not so much a request as an order – and was standing on the other side of the not-so-big-top, listening. He was feeling ridiculous sneaking a fag against the striped canopy. Cress didn’t want the children seeing him smoke: ‘You’re a role model, Harry’; ‘They’ll think it’s cool’, yada, yada . . . He might be an international player in the jet-set, but Cress had a particular knack of making him feel like a naughty schoolboy who’d been caught out. Which, let’s face it, he had.

  Of course, everyone bought the charade. The chummy phone calls, the dear little gifts here, or another party there as sales broke yet more barriers. In fact, he was convinced even Cress bought it. Blackmail wasn’t her bag; she was much more of a Chanel girl. She’d simply been given an opportunity, and grabbed it. He couldn’t really blame her. He’d have done the same. Correction – had done the same.

  But however sweet she was to him, it didn’t take away the fact that he was her puppet, and she had him well and truly dancing to her tune. She’d even made him pay his own advance to come over to Sapphire, for Chrissakes. She couldn’t afford anywhere near the going rate to bring Harry on board, and if they were going to get it past Harry’s agent, his accountants and the industry rags, he needed to cover his tracks. She’d shown an admirable lack of mercy that he almost respected. She didn’t just want to sign him and his future work, including his film work; she wanted his entire back catalogue as well. After all, she’d purred, it was Scion that had brought about their partnership. All in all, he’d had to pay her £3m to make the move look legitimate, and there hadn’t been a moment since when it hadn’t pissed him off to hell.

  He sucked on the cigarette viciously, before beating it to death on the ground. There had to be a way out of this bloody awful mess. She was tough, yes, but he’d faced down badder boys than her.

  He just needed to get hold of the whole picture, and it certainly wasn�
�t with Cress. A couple of weeks after signing with her, he’d received a copy of Scion with the heading page scrawled: ‘These words hereafter thy tormentors be.’

  It was Richard II, but he doubted Cress knew that. Nobody who loved Shakespeare built a career publishing sex blogs. Besides, she had him under her thumb now, had done ever since she’d stopped him getting on that plane to New York. There was no need for her to threaten him further. It had to have come from someone else, the person who’d given her the information about Brendan Hillier in the first place. They were the real threat.

  So he was biding his time. Waiting, watching, getting to know her world, her fault lines. Everybody had a fatal weakness, and thanks to her bullying tactics getting him here today, she had just revealed hers. If he hadn’t been hiding behind the tent like a sniper, he’d never have seen how her child called for the nanny and not her. Nor would he have seen how the nanny – stunning on any day of the week – had opened her legs for Cress’s husband. Mark had walked away for now. But for how long could any man resist a woman like her?

  Harry looked round at the delightful scene of children skipping, chasing and shrieking with laughter, parents relaxing, old friends catching up. This might be Battersea at its apotheosis, but it was his idea of hell. Thirty-plus eight-year-olds stuffing themselves with E numbers until they were so high the only thing that would bring them back down was Ritalin. He couldn’t believe he’d left Emily naked in bed and wanting more, for this.

  Cress had gathered everyone around and was leading them in singing ‘Happy Birthday’ out of key. The fire-breather was standing next to the cake, poised to blow a dramatic flame over the top of it – which worked well until Barbie’s hair caught fire. Harry creased up, half expecting Ken to pitch up in a dinky-car fire engine.

  And then he saw something that wiped the smile clean off his face. Kate was standing in a corner, talking to that bloke who’d teased Mark – her husband, he assumed. Harry looked at him. He looked familiar somehow, a face from the past. He wasn’t that tall – maybe five foot ten – stocky build, sandy hair. But as the man moved his head, Hunter caught sight of a small but distinctive scar running down his neck, below his left ear. Maybe they’d met at the party in Kensington? Whatever. It would come to him.

  He looked back at Kate. She was wearing capri jeans cut off at the knee and a white knitted top which was cut away at the shoulders to reveal enviably toned arms. Her hair was freshly washed, but unstyled, and she was free of her usual trophy jewels. Harry had never seen her off-duty before. He had grown used to her big bags and sharp suits and ball-busting rocks. Looking at her now, so soft and unaggressive, it was hard to believe she made her living squaring up for battles with the Sun or the News of the World or OK! magazine.

  He watched them talk. Their body language was brittle. Kate had her arms across her stomach, her head down. Monty was half turned away from her, a closed look on his face as he shook his head. They spoke like that for a couple of minutes, before Monty put his drink on the wall and walked off.

  Harry watched Kate move into the house. Quickly, he glanced round the garden – Cress was flapping about, terrified the vision of perfection she’d conjured for her eldest child was going to be burned to the ground. The no-knickers nanny was looking more wholesome than muesli, with the three-year-old on her shoulders, plaiting her hair. Monty had joined the dads, who had resumed their positions around the drinks table and were getting quietly pissed on lager and Pimm’s. For once, no one was watching.

  He moved stealthily into the house. It’s cool, shaded quietness contrasted with the glaring noise in the garden, and as his eyes adjusted to the dim, he quickly darted in and out of rooms – the kitchen, drawing room, dining room, cinema room, loo, utility. Nothing. His hand rested on the curved rail of the staircase and he looked up the elegant flight. She must be up there.

  Not bothering to take his ever-so-slightly muddy shoes off, he felt a childish satisfaction at the grubby imprints he left behind him. As he got to the top, he saw that the landing was impressive, an extravagant waste of space that could have comfortably accommodated at least five ‘London doubles’. An eighteenth-century daybed, upholstered in a thick coral and white stripe silk, sat regally beneath a large round window at one end of the landing, and opposite a pair of densely patterned six-foot Chinese urns at the other.

  All the doors were closed, except for one set of double doors. He walked towards it and looked in. The room was vast – the size of the landing at least – double aspect, with a Chesney stone fireplace against one wall. The walls had been covered with an elegant pale blue Nina Campbell wallpaper, and a button-backed cream chaise sat in front of the window. The bed was an emperor-sized four-poster festooned with monogrammed pillows, and a huge antique walnut blanket box ran along its base.

  So this was where his gaoler slept.

  Kate had kicked off her ballet pumps and was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her face obscured behind a sheet of glossy hair.

  ‘Are you stalking me?’ he inquired, his eyes laughing. ‘Because you know I’ve got one bitch of a lawyer who’ll slap you down if you . . . Hey, hey, hey . . . What’s the matter?’

  She was in floods of tears, her eyes so puffy even her eyebrows had gone red. He crossed the room and sat down next to her, giving her his pristine handkerchief. ‘No. Really.’ She shrugged and blew her nose noisily.

  ‘It’s all right. You keep it,’ he smiled when she went to hand it back. ‘I only use them once and throw them away anyway.’

  He didn’t put his arm round her, but his weight on the soft mattress meant she dipped towards him anyway, and their legs pressed together.

  He waited for her breathing to become regular again.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Don’t blame you,’ he said, nodding. ‘I’m pretty crap with . . . this kind of thing.’ There was another little silence.

  ‘Awful, in fact. People have, in the past, paid me to keep my counsel.’ He tailed off.

  He inhaled, as though ready to say something, then blew out his cheeks. ‘Was it wrong to take their money, d’you think? Bear in mind, I was on a teacher’s salary back then. Could hardly buy a bottle of Dom for what I used to bring home in a week.’ He shook his head. ‘Shocking.’

  She started to laugh, then began crying harder.

  ‘Bugger. I’m ballsing up. The thing is – you’re distracting me. Making me nervous. I can only really cope with you when you’re laughing at me or shouting, or being witheringly sarcastic,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I’m not used to you being all . . . well . . . womanly.’ He put a hand on her knee and she jumped. He immediately withdrew.

  ‘Hey, no! No. I’m not trying anything on. Really. I’m just trying to be a friend. You always do so much for me. I’m trying to return the favour.’

  ‘You pay me a lot of money to do so much for you,’ Kate said wryly. ‘Don’t think it’s out of the goodness of my heart.’

  He smiled. She was back.

  ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he said.

  She gave a big sigh, a bigger sniff, and her shoulders dropped heavily.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, smiling ruefully.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he mirrored back.

  They looked at each other.

  ‘I thought you had the perfect life,’ he said. ‘The big job, the loving husband, ME! Game, set and match. What could be wrong in that set-up?’ He couldn’t resist pushing back a strand of hair which had clung to her wet cheek.

  ‘No baby.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sat quietly for a moment, digesting this revelation. He’d never guessed she was the maternal type. She did the killer-lawyer thing so well.

  ‘Husband doesn’t want any, then?’

  ‘If only it were that easy. We uh – can’t. There’s no medical reason why. Everything works. But we’ve been trying for four years and . . . nothing.’

  ‘What about IVF?’

  ‘Been there, do
ne that. We’ve just finished our third round, but it failed.’ Her voice wobbled.

  ‘Shit. Sorry to hear that.’ She looked up at him, fleetingly, acknowledging his effort to have an ‘emotional’ conversation. Harry swallowed hard. All the tears had left her eyes red-rimmed, but it made her irises blaze like emeralds. She had absolutely no idea, but she had probably never looked more beautiful in her life. He was mesmerized.

  ‘So, uh, what are you going to do now?’

  Kate looked back at her hands. ‘I want to try again. To keep going. But Monty––’ she shook her head. ‘He thinks we should leave it there. Says it’s getting too hard. We always agreed we’d stop if it didn’t happen after three rounds. But now that we’re here, I can’t give up. I just can’t.’ Her voice broke and the tears began flowing again.

  This time Harry did put his arm around her and she dropped her head against him – relieved to have found her shoulder at last.

  ‘That’s my Kate,’ he said, the bass of his voice rumbling next to her ear. ‘Ever the fighter.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Diggory lay curled around the plinth of the Aga, trying to outgloss the enamel with his sleek coat, and occasionally twitching his nose for signs of supper. He had learned over the course of the last month that this was the plum spot for rich pickings. Though the children didn’t engage in food fights as such, they may as well have done, given the amount of food that ended up on the floor. And so lying prone, and keeping one eye firmly on the floor beneath the children’s chairs, the old dog had mastered a new trick.

  Every afternoon, at 4.30, he faithfully trotted down the lane from the Old Rectory to The Twittens. The children left the back door open for him and he would bound in, tail wagging, eyes bright, ready for their excitable welcome. You would never guess they were London kids now. A month previously they’d cowered in his presence as though he were a wolf; now they hung off his neck and ruffled his tummy like farmers’ children.