40 Love

by Madeleine Wickham

  ‘Lovely!’ she said. Patrick turned and smiled at her.

  ‘Looking good, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve always said this is a fine court,’ said Don surprisingly. ‘You’ve heard about the American at Wimbledon? He asked the groundsman how to get a court into that condition. “It’s very simple,” said the groundsman. “You just roll it and water it, roll it and water it … for a hundred years.”’ Don looked around with a pleased look. ‘Nothing finer than a good English grass court. Although, of course, it’s not a surface I’m used to. Too fast, you see.’

  ‘We both usually play on all-weather courts,’ put in Valerie. ‘Grass is quite different.’

  ‘So you’ll have to excuse us while we accustomize,’ said Don cheerfully to Caroline. ‘You’ll probably wipe the floor with us to begin with.’

  ‘I expect we will,’ agreed Caroline in a bored voice. Patrick shot her a look and gave a little laugh.

  ‘I shouldn’t think that’s very likely,’ he said. ‘You sound very professional. I’m afraid we hardly ever get to play.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Don, with a knowing expression. ‘It’s always the ones who say they never play! Don’t believe a word of it, Val!’

  As he and Valerie went onto the court, and Annie and Stephen sat down on the bank to watch, Caroline beckoned to Patrick.

  ‘Out of interest,’ she said sweetly, ‘why the fuck did we invite Don?’ Patrick looked uncomfortable.

  ‘He’s not so bad really,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize he’d take it all so seriously. Besides,’ he added defensively, ‘Don’s quite a good client of mine. It doesn’t hurt to show a bit of goodwill.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! I should have known it was something like that.’ She looked sideways at Patrick. ‘I suppose that’s why you invited the Mobyns, wasn’t it? Because they’re good clients?’ Patrick shrugged and looked away. ‘This is supposed to be a party, Patrick. For our friends. Not some bloody corporate hospitality event.’ She took a furious drag on her cigarette. Patrick glared at her.

  ‘Just remember,’ he hissed, ‘that it’s people like Don who pay for all of this, for your new tennis racquet and your new hairdo and those poncey cigarettes. Not to mention the house, and the car, and the pony…’ He broke off as Don came to the side of the court.

  ‘Discussing tactics, are you?’ he said in a jovial voice. ‘Now remember, no playing on Valerie’s injured hand.’

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ muttered Caroline.

  ‘Of course we won’t,’ said Patrick loudly. He avoided Caroline’s gaze. ‘Right, come on, darling. Let’s give them hell.’ He grinned at Don who chuckled appreciatively. Caroline rolled her eyes and stubbed out her cigarette.

  As the four began to knock up, it was soon obvious that Don and Valerie were serious players. Valerie was slogging the ball determinedly at Patrick, while Don was hitting cunningly sliced shots to Caroline. She swiped wildly at each spinning ball, then stared in distaste as it swerved away beyond her reach.

  ‘These balls aren’t bouncing properly,’ she announced eventually. ‘I’m sure that’s not allowed.’

  ‘It’s called a spin shot,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s perfectly legal.’ Caroline gazed at him crossly.

  ‘Well, it’s fucking annoying.’

  ‘It’s the action of the racquet, you see,’ put in Don. ‘It’s very simple.’

  ‘Well, could you not do it, please?’ said Caroline firmly. ‘It really puts me off.’

  Don and Valerie stared at her in amazement. Patrick smiled hastily at them.

  ‘Caroline’s sense of humour on court is something else,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t take her seriously.’

  Don and Valerie won the toss and chose to serve. Patrick waited, eyes narrowed, as Don bounced the ball twice, drew back his racquet with a contorted, looped action, and hit the ball smartly over the net. Patrick lunged for it and promptly sent it out.

  ‘Bad luck, Patrick, good serve, Dad,’ hooted Valerie. She was standing right up at the net, jumping up and down, clearly ready to blast to oblivion any shots that came her way.

  ‘Patrick, that was complete crap,’ said Caroline loudly. Annie, sitting on the bank, began to giggle.

  ‘Look at Valerie’s face,’ she whispered to Stephen.

  Valerie gazed in bemused horror at Caroline as she sauntered to the back of the court. She turned to exchange looks with Don, but he hadn’t heard Caroline’s comment and was preparing to serve again. He bounced the ball twice, tossed it up, and hit it elaborately to Caroline’s forehand. Caroline drew back her racquet and slammed the ball straight at Valerie.

  ‘Ouch!’ cried Valerie, clutching her shoulder.

  ‘Sorry, Valerie,’ drawled Caroline. ‘I was trying to pass you. Fifteen-all, I think that is.’

  Stephen caught Annie’s eye and snorted with laughter. ‘This is priceless.’ He got up, and took her empty glass. ‘I’ll get some more drinks. Tell me what happens while I’m away.’ Annie nodded, then leant back on the grass, feeling pleasurably the cool blades of grass against her bare arms; closing her eyes and listening to the irregular sound of ball against racquet. Thwack, thwack, thwack. ‘Out!’ ‘Fucking hell!’ ‘Thirty-fifteen.’ Then silence, then thwack, thwack, thwack, again.

  Annie felt calm, happy, slightly numbed from the alcohol, and almost perfectly content. She was suddenly reminded of summer afternoons at school, lying by the tennis courts, listening dreamily to the sound of the players, with nothing to worry about but prep and choir practice and what would be for supper. Although of course, she reminded herself sternly, some of those things had been far more worrying at the time than they sounded now. Double biology had blighted her week far more than any of the duties she had to carry out nowadays. But still, in retrospect, she thought, her life was easy then. It had order, proportion and a definite framework constructed by others. What would the school timetablers make of her life as it was at the moment? Inefficient, rushed and ill-proportioned? Or maybe hers didn’t count any more. As a mother, perhaps her function was simply to make sure her children’s lives were as ordered as her own had been.

  As the thought of the children passed through her head, she experienced the customary irrational stab of fear that she always had when they weren’t in front of her—that they were in danger, injured, killed, through her own irresponsible fault. But the dart of pain as her heart jumped was muffled; the sensation of fear slight. They were with Georgina, a sensible girl; Stephen was up at the house and would hear any screams of distress; she was feeling too indolent to get worked up. She felt her mind drift further and further away from consciousness. Should she make an effort to watch the game? Or should she allow herself to fall asleep?

  She was woken what seemed like a moment later by Stephen placing an ice-cube on her forehead.

  ‘Aah!’ she screamed, and opened her eyes to see his upside-down laughing face above her. ‘You rotter!’

  ‘I think Valerie should be allowed to take that serve again,’ came a voice from the court. She swivelled her head, to see Don gazing disapprovingly at her.

  ‘This is quite an important point,’ he added meaningfully.

  ‘What’s the score?’ called Stephen cheerily.

  ‘Three-all in the tie-break,’ said Don, and turned back. ‘Take two, Val.’

  ‘I told you to watch and tell me what happened,’ complained Stephen quietly as he sat down beside Annie. ‘I’ve obviously missed all the excitement.’

  ‘Well, what took you so long?’ retorted Annie.

  ‘It took me half an hour to find the kitchen,’ said Stephen. ‘And another half-hour to find the ice-cube dispenser. But I knew madam wouldn’t like her Pimm’s warm.’

  ‘You were right there,’ agreed Annie. She took several long gulps of the amber liquid.

  ‘Mmm, lovely.’

  ‘Good stuff, isn’t it?’ agreed Stephen. ‘Now, tell me how a tie-break works.’

  ‘Three-six,’ called Don.

  �
�Don and Valerie need one more point to win,’ said Annie. ‘Look, we must watch.’

  Patrick was preparing to serve. The first went slamming into the net.

  ‘Fault,’ said Don and Valerie in unison.

  Patrick threw up the second ball and sent it gently curving over the net, landing neatly in the service box.

  ‘Foot-fault,’ came Don’s voice. Valerie, who had been running for the shot, stopped in her tracks.

  ‘Was it?’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Foot-fault?’ said Caroline incredulously.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Don. ‘I saw it quite clearly. Your foot was over the line. If you’re not happy about it, we could play the point again…’ He raised his eyebrows at Valerie.

  ‘No, no,’ said Patrick, attempting a genial voice. ‘I’m sure you’re right. So that must be…’

  ‘Our set,’ said Valerie promptly. ‘And match.’

  ‘Well, what a thrilling end,’ said Caroline, in sarcastic tones. Patrick glanced at her sharply.

  ‘Was that really a foot-fault?’ Annie asked Stephen quietly. He shrugged.

  ‘Christ knows. I can’t see from here.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think Don can see very clearly, either,’ she said, catching his eye meaningfully. They both turned and looked at Don, shaking hands with a beaming face. He looked utterly satisfied with himself.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Stephen. ‘If it’s that important to him…’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Annie. ‘But it doesn’t seem fair, somehow. You shouldn’t just get things because they’re important to you.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you?’ said Stephen. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  Annie thought for a moment, and opened her mouth to reply, but was stopped by the approach of Don and Patrick, striding up the grass bank.

  ‘Well done,’ she said in a hearty voice. ‘What a close match.’

  ‘Wasn’t it just,’ said Don. ‘There were some good rallies there.’

  ‘Especially the last one,’ came Caroline’s voice from behind. ‘That was a corker.’

  Annie looked down, and tried not to giggle.

  ‘Who’s on next?’ she said hurriedly. ‘Is it us?’

  ‘You against Charles and Cressida,’ said Patrick. ‘When they arrive.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Annie to Stephen, ‘let’s go and get some practice in.’

  She led Stephen down to the court and they began to knock up. The others watched for a few shots. Annie clearly played competent schoolgirl tennis—but Stephen could barely get the ball over the net.

  ‘Sorry,’ he kept saying. ‘Damn. Sorry, could you get that?’

  Caroline watched as Don’s face relaxed at the sight. Nothing to worry about there, he was clearly thinking; he and Valerie would soon have that two off the court. Suddenly, Caroline detested him intensely.

  ‘Darling, I’m going to go up to the house,’ said Patrick softly, coming over to her. ‘I’ve got a bit of business to look at—and I’ll be there if the Mobyns arrive. All right?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Caroline, morosely lighting a cigarette. She couldn’t think why she had looked forward to this fucking party.

  ‘You played really well,’ said Patrick, even more quietly.

  ‘Tell that to your friend Don,’ said Caroline, blowing smoke into Patrick’s face. Patrick shrugged resignedly.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to tell me.’

  Caroline watched his stumpy form disappear up the path with a mixture of dislike and resignation. She then turned her gaze to the tennis court. Stephen was preparing to serve. He threw the ball far too high, took back his old wooden racquet in an inexpert swing, and whacked it over the hedge.

  ‘Blast,’ he said. ‘I’d better go and get that.’

  Caroline closed her eyes. What a crew of men. Bloody Patrick, odious Don, and Stephen, who, with his old shorts and stringy legs, was clearly a complete incompetent. She’d always thought he was a bit odd—and now, look at him, couldn’t even play a decent game of tennis, let alone earn enough to buy his wife some proper clothes. She couldn’t think how Annie managed to stay so happy, with that wimp around her the whole time. Then a picture of Patrick came into her mind—and she couldn’t think how she stayed so fucking cheerful herself.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Patrick was in his study when the Mobyns’ Bentley pulled into the drive. He glanced out of the window when he heard the low, discreet hum of the engine, and gazed at the distinguished curves of the car with a mixture of envy, resentment and a thudding excitement. He saw the car pause, and glimpsed a blond head looking about as if uncertain of where to park. The natural reaction would have been for him to bang on the study window, shout a greeting and then hurry outside to welcome the family. But Patrick sat where he was. He wasn’t ready yet to see Charles.

  Caroline appeared around the corner of the house, carrying a tray of drinks. She shouted something to Charles, who promptly stopped the engine. The car door opened, and he got out, stretching his legs and looking about him appraisingly. Then the nanny, a dumpy girl of about nineteen, got out of the back. She heaved a large, squashy hold-all out onto the ground, and delved back inside the car for the twins—identical blond toddlers, who began walking off in different directions as soon as she put them down. Last to appear was Cressida. Long legs, immaculately clad in beige trousers; smooth, bobbed, pale-blond hair; a calm, unlined face. She greeted Caroline with a blank smile and kissed her dispassionately on each cheek.

  Patrick couldn’t help comparing the two women as they stood together talking. Both blue-eyed blondes, both in good shape, both wearing expensive clothes. But Caroline was just a bit browner than Cressida; her hair was a bit brighter, her make-up a bit stronger, her voice quite a lot louder. Next to Cressida’s understated elegance, her blue eyeliner and gold bracelets seemed a bit much. She suddenly burst into loud laughter, and Patrick saw Cressida smile politely at her, a look of slight incomprehension on her face. Charles was looking up at her in amusement. What on earth had Caroline been saying? Suddenly Patrick felt a wave of fierce affection for his wife. They were made of the same stuff as each other—something stronger, coarser, more highly flavoured than the Cressidas of this world.

  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.