by Jilly Cooper
‘I’d like to play with Kitty,’ said Lysander.
‘You what?’ said Rannaldini incredulously.
Smiling, mishearing, Georgie moved forward.
‘I said I wanted to play with Kitty,’ said Lysander firmly. Going over and putting his arm round her shoulders, he saw tears swimming behind the impossibly strong spectacles.
‘Fank you,’ she mumbled.
‘The judgement of Paris,’ murmured Bob. ‘Well done.’
Ferdie was incensed. ‘You’re supposed to be getting Guy back for Georgie,’ he hissed.
‘What nice manners Lysander has,’ said Hermione loudly. ‘Anyone who says the young haven’t got exceptionally nice manners doesn’t know what they’re talking about.’
Georgie was livid. Particularly when the vicar, who had the second longest straw, noticing her closeness to Lysander and desperate to get in there, decided to overcome his disapproval of her behaviour at the fête and chose her as his partner. She was even crosser when Guy, relieved of his duty as Ace Carer to choose Kitty, infuriated the husbands of Paradise by picking Rachel. Natasha, however, was crossest of all to be chosen by Ferdie who was getting redder and sweatier by the minute.
‘I don’t want my eyes blacked,’ giggled the Ideal Homo, ‘so I choose Flora.’
‘Nor do I,’ muttered Bob. Ignoring Hermione’s furious stare, he chose Marigold.
Larry chose Cecilia, because Hermione’d just sent him a furious letter about an advance.
‘Men are frightened of playing with really good women players,’ Hermione told the empty air as Rannaldini, who’d drawn the short straw, bore her off to Court Two.
‘Oh goodee, a cosy girls’ foursome,’ murmured Flora as she and the Ideal Homo also set off to the second court to play against Georgie and the vicar. A spitting Natasha then had to watch Kitty and Lysander drawn against Larry and Cecilia, both class players, on Court One.
‘I’m ’orribly bad,’ Kitty told Lysander miserably, clutching her ancient Prince racquet.
‘Hurrah,’ said Lysander. ‘I’ve got a dreadful hangover, so if we get knocked out early we can slope off and watch Longchamps.’
A champing Larry kicked off, unleashing a thunderbolt at poor Kitty, who missed it completely. His next serve to Lysander came hurtling back. Picking up the ball on the half-volley, Larry whacked it cross-court to Kitty, who missed once again.
Returning to serve to Kitty once more, an over-eager Larry released another thunderbolt while she was still retrieving a ball from the long grass, hitting her hard on the bottom.
‘You shouldn’t be so large,’ shouted Natasha.
‘You OK, Kitty?’ called Lysander sympathetically. ‘She wasn’t ready,’ he yelled to Mr Brimscombe who was umpiring.
‘Forty love,’ said Mr Brimscombe, who, fed up with sweeping up leaves, thought he might allow himself to be lured back to Larry.
‘Just lulling the opposition into a feeling of false security,’ said Lysander, grinning at Kitty as he easily passed Cecilia with his backhand.
‘Forty fifteen.’
But poor Kitty was nowhere near Larry’s next service.
‘Game to Mr Lockton and Mrs Rannaldini. They lead 1–0.’
Kitty hung her frizzy head. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Lysander peered through the spyhole as they changed ends. ‘I can see Arthur talking to some children. I wonder where Jack and Maggie are. They’ve been gone for ages. We’ve got sun in our eyes this end.’ He plonked his baseball cap over Kitty’s perm. ‘It can’t be much worse than Larry’s jewels.’
Lucky Cecilia to have olive skin that never goes red, thought Kitty as she cringed at the net waiting for Lysander’s serve.
‘Watch zee ball, Keety,’ called out Cecilia kindly.
‘You won’t even see this one, duckie,’ muttered Lysander. Bouncing the ball reflectively, he waited for Cecilia to get into position, then curling over like a breaking wave, he aced her.
Larry jumped from foot to foot awaiting service, blowing on his nails, twitching his orange-and-purple shirt. He had all the Wimbledon tricks. He’d show the little bastard. Another ace hurtled past his ear at 90 m.p.h.
‘Game to Mr Hawkley and Mrs Kitty,’ said Mr Brimscombe, two aces later.
Cecilia was so furious that she served a double fault to Kitty, which gave her and Lysander a vital point, Lysander only having to win his service to clinch the next game.
Aware of everyone watching her and, she thought, laughing, Kitty’s hand was so sweaty that she promptly served two double faults. On the second Lysander reached out and caught the shocking pink ball as it veered off into the woods, tossed it into the right court. He then turned and gave Kitty a smile of such reassuring sweetness that she served the next ball in. Cecilia pounded it straight to Lysander, who whipped it between her and Larry. From then on Kitty’s dolly-drops went in and Lysander killed the return.
He was such a dazzlingly natural player, and his encouragement and kindness if she missed a shot gave Kitty such confidence that, having beaten the outraged Larry and Cecilia, they went on to thrash Natasha and Ferdie.
Flora and Meredith fooled about so much they lost all their three matches, which suited them both. Meredith wanted to drink lemon barley water and drool over Lysander. Flora was desperate for a word with Rannaldini, who, with Hermione, had slaughtered her and Meredith without the loss of a point or the flicker of a smile.
Now as he stood alone watching the needle match that had just started on Court One — Rachel and Guy v. Kitty and Lysander — to see which pair went into the final, Flora sidled up. Detesting herself, she slid a hand into his, whispering, ‘Can’t we slope off into the wood?’
‘Too many people around,’ said Rannaldini coldly, removing his hand.
‘Never put you off in the past.’
‘I weesh to watch. Hermione and I play the winner ’ere in final.’
Flora slunk off, despairing as a rescued dog returned to Battersea, and missed Rannaldini’s quick smile. He had been recently glued to the serial about Vita Sackville-West and Violet Trefusis on television, repeatedly replaying the love scenes between the two women, which made him all the more eager for sexual variation. He was aware how crazy Flora was about him. If he made her desperate enough by freezing her out, she would agree to anything, even going to bed with Cecilia who loved to go both ways, or Hermione (that would humble the spoilt bitch), or Rachel (ditto). He glanced at Flora kicking the grass, puffing furiously on her cigarette. God knows, he wanted her, but he’d have to punish her a great deal more before he reduced her to an adequate level of submission.
Georgie wasn’t enjoying the afternoon any more than Flora. Unlike Lysander, the vicar had been very shirty about double faults. He was enraged they hadn’t made the final. How impressed his congregation would have been if that had been the reason for him to miss Evensong.
And although Georgie thought it sweet of Lysander to be so nice to Kitty, it had encouraged Guy to be even nicer to Rachel. Georgie experienced an excruciating feeling of déjà vu as Guy whisked about finding balls when Rachel was serving, putting strong brown hands on her slender back when she played well, gently guiding her in front of him as they changed ends, and shouting, ‘Yours’ commendably often if a ball were hit between them.
What a poppet, thought Guy, as Rachel bent down at the net to retrieve a ball. She had delightful legs. It was so hot he’d remove his shirt for the finals and ask her to rub in some Ambre Solaire to show his awareness of the ultra-violet rays. And as all the matches had ended on Court Two they now had an admiring audience to watch them thrash Brickie and that little pipsqueak who’d been fawning over Georgie. He was gratified Rannaldini was watching. Guy arranged his sweat band as Rachel waited for service. In deference to a woman, Lysander tempered his thunderbolt.
‘Oh well hit, Rachie,’ shouted Guy as she clouted it back to Kitty. So lost was he in admiration, he mishit Kitty’s gentle lob. A split second later Lysand
er had murdered it.
From then on he had both Guy and Rachel racing all over the court. Rachel, upset at how aware she was of Rannaldini’s smiling scrutiny, started hitting wildly. Lysander, who had an uncanny ability to guess when a ball was going out, took every advantage.
‘Mr Hawkley and Mrs Kitty lead, 5–0,’ announced Mr Brimscombe.
‘In a place where nothing seems real, I have found you,’ sang Lysander happily to himself as they changed ends.
‘Miss Saigon,’ said Kitty longingly.
‘I’ve got the tape at home if you want to borrow it,’ said Lysander. ‘I’d stand further back for this game. The sun’s tricky and Guy’s going to step up the pace.’
He was right; but when even Guy forgot his Ace-Caring role so much that he served and hit really hard balls to Kitty, fired by Lysander she managed to get them back.
‘Good li-el Prince,’ she said, looking down at her ancient racquet at set point.
Guy was hurtling towards her, smiting a great shocking pink cannon ball in her direction. Shutting her eyes, Kitty stuck out her Prince and prayed. Next moment she heard cheers and clapping.
‘Game, set and match to Mrs Kitty and Mr Hawkley,’ said a delighted Mr Brimscombe.
Neither Rachel nor Guy could crack a smile as they all shook hands.
39
‘Pile up on the motorway,’ Lysander said to Kitty, as Bob, Guy and Larry all converged on Rachel two minutes later with cups of black tea and lemon.
Not that she was very grateful, and when they started to compete in telling the most grisly recession story, she stalked off to bend the vicar’s ear about PVC coffin liners giving off noxious fumes. The vicar pretended to listen but was much more interested in eavesdropping on the frightful row Georgie was clearly having with Lysander.
‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ she hissed. ‘You’re paid a bomb to rattle my husband and he’s been crawling over that ghastly vegan all afternoon. How the hell did he know she didn’t have milk in her tea?’
‘I’m sorry, Georgie.’ Lysander was flabbergasted. ‘I was so sorry for Kitty. I thought that was what you wanted. I wish we hadn’t got into the finals. When’s Guy going back to London? I miss you.’ He tried to take her hand, but Georgie snatched it away.
‘For God’s sake, everyone’ll see us.’
Flouncing off, Georgie found herself in a gaggle of women.
‘How’s Ant and Cleo going?’ asked Hermione, radiant with smugness at being in the final.
‘Fine,’ said Georgie shortly.
‘I just wonder if the musical is quite the right vehicle for Shakespeare.’
‘Kees me Kate grossed a few million,’ interrupted Cecilia. ‘Brush up your Shakespeare,’ she sang softly. ‘Start quoting him now. When you ’ave a score for Ant and Cleo, I like to see eet, Georgie.’
‘Oh — you’d be a wonderful Cleo.’
‘I would enjoy eet. Kiri ’as been Eliza Doolittle.’
‘The Verdi Requiem was fantastic, both you and Boris,’ said Georgie in wonder.
Hermione was furious.
‘It’s amazing how you manage to inject sex into everything, Cecilia.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Your “Libera Me” was more like Come and Get Me. You’re not doing too much, are you? Your voice sounded tired in Rannaldini’s rushes yesterday.’
This was a body blow. One only saw rushes in Rannaldini’s tower.
‘Don’t talk crap,’ said Flora rudely. ‘Mrs Rannaldini sang wonderfully. She lifted the Verdi every time she opened her mouth. And at least she doesn’t duck out at the last moment because of a lovers’ tiff.’
‘Why zank you, Carissima,’ said Cecilia in amazement.
Abandoned by the vicar, who had beetled off on seeing Lysander looking miserable and standing by himself, Rachel was screwing up courage to ask Cecilia how Boris was, but, hearing arguing voices, didn’t think this was a good moment. Putting her cup down on the table, she idly fingered a yellow snapdragon, squeezing its mouth open as she had when she was a child. Like a cloud over the sun, Rannaldini glided up.
‘Enjoying yourself, Meesis Levitsky?’
‘Not particularly.’
His smile was mocking, his thighs as hard and thick as the magnums of champagne that Mr Brimscombe was now opening for those who had finished playing. She’d never met a man who upset her more.
‘This place is a disgrace,’ she fumed. ‘We’re in the middle of a drought. Your garden is an oasis.’
‘I know how to look after my own,’ said Rannaldini softly. ‘I thought you like things green.’
‘Not at other people’s expense. Don’t be fatuous.’
Rannaldini noticed the slight down on her upper lip and the underarm hair inside her sleeve as she scratched a midge bite in her hair.
Smiling slightly, he edged a finger into the snapdragon’s gaping, furry mouth. Instantly Rachel let go, and the mouth shut, gripping him.
‘One day, amore, a more exciting part of you will greep me, and you will love every minute of it,’ he said softly.
‘Don’t be disgusting.’
‘In fact, you will beg for eet.’
‘Your host not looking after you?’ said Guy arriving with a magnum and two glasses. ‘Presumably you want to keep your eye in until after the final, Rannaldini?’
‘Won’t make any difference. ’Ermione,’ he called out, ‘we’ll start in five minutes.’
‘The grass was very “Kitty” this morning,’ announced Natasha, collapsing on the bank beside Flora to watch her fat stepmother make a fool of herself in the finals.
‘Kitty?’ asked Ferdie, squatting down beside her.
‘Stands for “wet”,’ snapped Natasha.
‘Why are you so vile to Kitty?’
For a second, real pain flared in Natasha’s face.
‘I can’t bear to think of her in my father’s bed.’
‘I shouldn’t think she is very often,’ said Flora reasonably.
‘Fancy Kitty, do you?’ Natasha taunted Ferdie. ‘If she rolled over in bed, she’d squash you flat. Although you’d probably do the same to her.’
Ferdie got to his feet.
‘Can I give you a word of advice?’ he said politely. ‘If you’re trying to pull Lysander, he’s never been attracted to bitches.’
The sun dropped into the towering Valhalla woods, the shadow of the abbey with its tall chimneys stretched towards the tennis court like a great black hand as the players took up their positions. Rannaldini had service. Trembling, Kitty waited to receive. Opposite her at the net, skipping from foot to foot in her Grecian dress like an avenging Juno, crouched Hermione.
Lysander had lost all his bounce. He wanted a stiff drink and this match to be over as quickly as possible so he could make it up with Georgie before she left. She’d already put on a cardigan and gathered up her racquets. He could see her pretending to listen to Meredith’s patter as she watched Guy plying Rachel with champagne and compliments as they discussed saving the rhino.
In a quarter of an hour Rannaldini and Hermione were leading 5–0. They had followed a deliberate policy of hitting the ball at Kitty. Like a child fending off blows, she missed everything, apologies pouring from her whitening lips. Lysander simply wasn’t trying.
‘Your little friend certainly cracks under pressure,’ Guy called out scornfully to Georgie.
As the players changed ends, Rannaldini beckoned Natasha.
‘We’ll be through in a few minutes. Run and tell Mrs Brimscombe to put the kettle on.’
Bastard, thought Georgie. Lysander and Kitty looked so cast down and Hermione so smug.
‘Horsey, horsey,’ she suddenly called out to Lysander as he slouched past her. Then as he swung round, she smiled, whispering: ‘Don’t let the old bat get away with it.’
Blissful to be forgiven, Lysander sauntered back to the base line. Next moment an ace whistled past Hermione’s pink sweat band. Changing sides, Lysander curved into a perfect bow, threw up the ball and
blasted it across the net — just out, which was lucky for Rannaldini who’d been staring at Rachel and hadn’t even seen it. The second service was even faster.
‘Out, fifteen-all,’ snapped Rannaldini as he walked back to the base line.
Lysander didn’t budge. ‘That serve was in.’
‘It was out,’ snarled Rannaldini.
‘It was in — sir. If you’re going to cheat, there’s no point in playing.’
Kitty quailed. Rannaldini’s face contorted in rage. The spectators exchanged glances of gleeful anticipation.
‘That ball was in, Rannaldini,’ agreed Bob who was umpiring the final. ‘I saw the chalk rise.’
On cue, Maggie came bounding on to the court, nose brown from digging, pink tongue lolling, frantically searching for her master. In a fury, Rannaldini picked up a ball and served it at her, only just missing, sending her fleeing in terror from the court. Instantly Lysander bounded over the net, seizing Rannaldini by the lapels of his cream polo shirt.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’
‘Vafuculo,’ swore Rannaldini. ‘You should learn to control your dogs.’
‘Not in the way you control your bitches,’ retorted Lysander so only Rannaldini and Hermione could hear. ‘You ought to be suspended for excessive use of the whip. Your partner can hardly sit down today.’
Hermione froze — speechless and open-mouthed — like a photograph of herself reaching top C.
‘Keety ’as been sneaking,’ said Rannaldini in a fury.
‘Not at all.’ Lysander scooped up a ball. ‘You should keep the windows of your indoor school shut on hot summer afternoons.’
It took all Bob’s tact to get them to play on.
To Lysander’s relief that Georgie had forgiven him was added a cold fury with Rannaldini, and his game took on a sustained brilliance as, with great leaps, he intercepted the viciously powerful bombardment Rannaldini was directing at his terrified wife. Hermione, worried how much Lysander had overheard, had been totally put off her game.