The Tennis Party (14 page)

‘It wasn’t Don. What made you think it was him?’

‘Well who the fuck was it then?’ Patrick smiled at her.

‘Stephen, of course.’

Annie was trying to make conversation with Mrs Finch in the kitchen. The children, including a resentful Martina, were assembled round the table, munching fish cakes, cheesy baked potatoes and salad. Georgina had insisted on grinding piles of fresh black pepper on to everyone’s potato, with the result that Toby had found his too hot to eat and had had to have the topping scraped off. Annie suspected that Nicola was finding hers a bit too hot as well, but was valiantly refusing to say anything in front of Georgina. She was breathing rather heavily as she put each forkful in her mouth, and was gulping lots of
water. The Mobyn twins, meanwhile, had each been given a mound of grated cheese, which was now all over the table, the floor, their hair and stuck between their fingers. Martina gave each of them a perfunctory wipe every so often, but otherwise seemed content to leave them to their own devices and stare moodily into space.

Mrs Finch was sitting on a kitchen stool, smoking a cigarette. Having discovered that Annie was willing to give a hand with administering the children’s supper, she had relinquished all responsibility, and was now comfortably regaling Annie with the failings of the village shop.

‘Went in there the other day, when I’d forgotten to get a sweet for our evening meal. There wasn’t nothing I could buy! I just had to walk straight out again.’

‘What were you looking for?’ said Annie absently, as she poured out glasses of Ribena.

‘Well . . . I don’t know,’ said Mrs Finch consideringly. ‘A nice chocolate mousse, maybe. Or creme caramel. Those ones that come in little glass pots, they’re nice, now. Or a frozen gateau. But you have to go to Safeway for those.’

‘Are we having chocolate mousse?’ said Georgina suddenly.

‘You’re having ice-cream,’ said Mrs Finch. ‘Raspberry ripple.’

‘Yummy!’ said Nicola. Mrs Finch regarded her fondly.

‘Poor little pet,’ she said. ‘It’s a shame.’

‘We were thinking of taking the children to church tomorrow,’ said Annie hurriedly. ‘Do you know what time the service is?’ Mrs Finch wrinkled her nose.

‘Can’t say I do. I see them walking up there sometimes on a Sunday, you know, but I can’t say I’ve ever noticed what time it was.’

‘So the congregation isn’t very big?’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that. It’s a pretty church; people come to it from other villages. I’d say they get a fair crowd. I was married in that church, you know,’ she added surprisingly.

‘How lovely,’ said Annie enthusiastically. Mrs Finch stubbed out her lipstick-stained cigarette end and nodded.

‘Fifteen years ago, that was. Reception at the Horse and Groom in Moreton St Mary. We went on a package to Ibiza for the honeymoon. First time I’d been abroad. You wouldn’t believe it now, would you?’

‘Well, no,’ said Annie.

‘We’ve been abroad every year since then. Spain, Portugal, the Canaries, you name it. This year, we went to the Gambia. Took the kids, you know, proper family holiday. They loved it, of course. Lee, that’s our eldest, learnt how to water-ski. He’s got a
real knack. We’re thinking about Florida next year. Disneyworld.’

‘Gosh,’ said Annie.

‘You fond of holidays abroad?’

‘Well,’ said Annie honestly, ‘I do love going abroad, but we haven’t been away for a while. It’s a bit difficult.’ Mrs Finch nodded wisely.

‘I suppose what with the kiddy and all . . .’ Her eyes fell on Nicola, awkwardly spreading butter onto a piece of bread.

‘It’s not that,’ said Annie hastily. ‘More the money, really.’ She laughed.

‘Finished!’ announced Georgina. ‘Shall I get the ice-cream?’ Mrs Finch nodded, and lit another cigarette. Georgina disappeared out of the kitchen and Annie put her dirty plate in the dishwasher. Mrs Finch didn’t move.

‘Can’t decide between Florida and California,’ she said musingly, as Annie returned to her seat. She took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘Maybe we should do both.’

Patrick couldn’t understand why Caroline was so angry.

‘Oh very funny,’ she had said, lifting up a foamy leg to admire it. ‘Come on, who? It’s Charles, isn’t it?’

‘No it’s not. I told you. Stephen.’

‘Oh right, yes, Stephen’s really got that kind of money.’ Her tone was confidently sarcastic, and Patrick, who usually glossed over the details of his business transactions when he talked to Caroline, felt nettled.

‘He has if he takes a mortgage out on his house.’ He gave her a triumphant look. ‘Which he has done, more or less.’

‘What?’ Caroline’s leg stopped moving and she turned disbelieving eyes on him.

‘It’s very easy to set up,’ said Patrick. ‘I mean, if you think about it, he’s underborrowed at the moment. Not using his potential.’

‘You’ve conned him into taking out a mortgage?’ Patrick looked uncomfortable.

‘There’s no need to put it like that.’

‘How much?’

‘Does it matter? It’s well within his means.’

‘What means? He hasn’t got a job, or had you forgotten? How much?’

‘I think he’d probably want that information to remain confidential,’ said Patrick smoothly.

‘Fucking hell, Patrick!’ Caroline got out of the bath with a great swoosh of water and stood in front of him, dripping and furious. ‘How much?’

‘Only eighty thousand, for Christ’s sake! Stop getting so worked up. His house must be worth at least three times that.’

‘He’s borrowing eighty thousand to invest?’ Caroline put her hand to her head. ‘And what’s he putting it in?’

‘Is it really relevant? You wouldn’t understand even if I told you.’

‘Like hell I wouldn’t! It’s not that Sigma fund, is it?’ Patrick started.

‘How do you know about that?’

‘I’m not completely stupid,’ she said scathingly. ‘I know what you’re up to. I know all about the fucking Sigma fund and your fucking bonuses. Jesus Christ! How could you do it?’

‘I really don’t see what the problem is.’

‘Yes you fucking do. Don’t pretend you don’t. It’s obvious. Annie and Stephen can’t possibly afford to pay that kind of mortgage. They’ll struggle for a bit and then they’ll come to you in about a year’s time and ask for their money back. And how much will you give them? Or rather, how much will you cream off in fees? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand?’

‘There won’t be any question of that,’ said Patrick huffily. ‘Annie and Stephen can well afford a small mortgage like that. And the fund should do extremely well over the long term.’

‘Patrick, they haven’t got any fucking income.’ Caroline’s eyes blazed at Patrick. ‘What good is the long term?’ Patrick looked at her for a second.

‘Calm down,’ he said irritatingly, and walked into the bedroom, out onto the balcony.

Caroline stared after him in rage for a minute or two. Then she roused herself to action. She dried herself briskly and slapped on body moisturizer, thinking furiously. Patrick really had sunk to new depths. He’d always been an unprincipled salesman – that had been something that had attracted her to him in the first place. He and his friends, in their flashy suits, with their oversmooth voices and eager darting eyes, had tickled her fancy, had made her laugh. And at the beginning, Patrick had treated her a bit like a favoured client – deferential murmurs, respectful remarks, but all the time that tacit undercurrent:
we both know what we’re here for, don’t we?
Except that she wasn’t there to buy financial services.

She gazed at herself in the mirror, remembering herself, the busty promo girl with the blond hair and the big smile. No wonder Patrick had fallen for her. In fact, he’d been incredibly cool about the whole thing, considering how desperate he was to have her – although she’d only found that out later. Half the time it had been her worrying that he’d gone off her. Incredible, really.

And what a bastard he’d turned out to be.

‘You bastard,’ she said to the mirror. She smiled. Despite her protestations, the thought of Patrick once
again as an unprincipled salesman faintly excited her.

She conjured up an image of Patrick fifteen years ago: determined, pugnacious, cocky. Young and virile; forthright and thrusting. They’d met when they were both working at a personal finance show in London. She’d been on some other firm’s stand, handing out leaflets for a champagne draw. On the fourth day, she rigged the draw so Patrick won the champagne, and they spent the afternoon getting steadily drunk. Then he’d pulled her behind the stand and kissed her. She could still remember the shock waves that had gone through her drunken mind. Was she really kissing this short, ugly person? And becoming excited by it? He’d pulled up her company promotional T-shirt, groaned at the sight of her breasts, pushed aside the lace of her bra and fastened his lips to her nipple. She’d almost cried out in ecstasy. Then he’d pulled himself away.

‘Gotta go,’ he’d said. ‘Clients out there. Gotta get them.’ And she’d stared after him with swollen, tingling lips that ached to be kissed by him again.

Caroline stared at her lips in the mirror. They were still full, still kissable. Her breasts were still firm; her skin still soft and smooth. And Patrick was still a bastard. They might both be fifteen years older now, but really they were no different from the way they’d been then. This realization cheered her. But at the
same time, she was angry with Patrick. Little as she thought of Stephen, he was still a friend, and Annie more so. Caroline was in fact, she realized, very fond of Annie. And Nicola. The idea of them falling into financial trouble, worrying over the bills, quarrelling about money, upset her. An image came into her mind, of Stephen hunched over the kitchen table, sobbing, of Annie comforting him, of Nicola appearing at the door, wide eyed and worried.

Patrick came in from the balcony and caught her eye in the mirror. He looked guarded and suspicious.

‘You’re a real bastard,’ said Caroline. ‘A real heel.’ Patrick opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. ‘And poor old Annie and Stephen have no idea. They trust you completely, did you know that? They deserve to be put right.’ Patrick’s frown deepened, and he strode towards the bathroom. But Caroline got up and stood in his way. ‘They need a good friend to tell them what you’re really like,’ she said.

‘You’re not going to say anything,’ said Patrick. ‘You know which side your bread is buttered. You lose me clients, I lose money, we both end up poor.’

‘Hardly poor,’ scoffed Caroline.

‘If no-one wants to buy financial services from me, then yes, poor,’ retorted Patrick. ‘It doesn’t take much to ruin a reputation. Remember what happened to Graham Witherspoon? Excuse me.’

Caroline stared after him angrily. Half of her wanted to warn Stephen and Annie to cancel the deal, for their own sakes. But Patrick was right. One disillusioned customer – however good a friend – was enough to spread the word and lose customers. In fact, being a friend made it worse. Graham Witherspoon had been a colleague of Patrick’s. He’d been a top salesman until once he’d drunkenly told a dinner party full of friends and clients that his products were rip-offs. After that he’d barely sold a thing, and soon after that he’d been fired. Should she risk that happening to Patrick?

Frowning slightly, she walked into her wardrobe. She hadn’t yet given a thought to what she was going to wear. Absently, she pulled out cream satin knickers and bra, a buttercup linen shift dress, matching suede pumps from Italy. She put them all down on the bed and took out her jewellery box. Gold knot earrings and her diamond solitaire ring. She wasn’t going to have that cow Cressida out-jewelling her. To be on the safe side, she added a diamond bracelet. She sprayed herself all over with scent and then dressed, admiring her brown shoulders against the yellow; pointing her foot and rotating it prettily.

She looked in the mirror. Simple but chic. Too simple? She imagined the impression she would make against the cream leather sofa in the living-room,
holding a champagne glass, laughing at a joke. Her eyes landed on the gold earrings. Too dull. She ripped them out and searched for her diamond studs. They sparkled in her ears, and she smiled at her reflection. One could never have too many diamonds. Was that a famous saying? Or had she made it up?

She pondered on it as she walked down to the living-room, admiring herself in every shiny surface that she passed. She surveyed the empty living-room with satisfaction, poured herself a glass of champagne and sat down on the sofa. The plight of the Fairweathers had, for the moment, quite vanished from her mind.

Chapter Eight

Cressida shifted uncomfortably, took another sip of champagne and gazed out of the window at the sun setting over the glowing fields. She felt marooned and rather miserable. The leather sofa she was sitting on was soft and very squashy, and having sunk into it, she didn’t think she would be able to get out of it without an effort. Charles, who had been sitting next to her, had sprung up to examine an antique cricket bat which Patrick was showing to Stephen, and so far no-one had taken his place. Caroline and Annie were giggling at the far side of the drawing-room, lingering at the built-in bar while Caroline poured out a glass of champagne.

Caroline’s raucous laugh rang out through the room, and Cressida flinched. She couldn’t bear Caroline’s rowdy spirits at the best of times; least of all now, with the worry of that letter still in her mind, and still unshared. She hadn’t been able to find a suitable
moment to take it out and show it to Charles; first of all she’d felt too nervous to bring the subject up, and then Martina had appeared with the twins, wanting to know if they could use the Jacuzzi in their bathroom. Charles had suggested this, it transpired, and he spent the rest of the time before dinner romping in the bathroom with the twins, covering the floor in bubbles, and thoroughly over-exciting them.

In the end, Cressida had retreated to a bathroom that she’d found at the end of the corridor, which no-one else seemed to be using. She’d gone through her usual routine mechanically, using the same make-up that she’d been taught to apply at the Lucie Clayton grooming school fifteen years ago and had never digressed from since. She had brushed out her hair, sprayed on scent and smiled bravely at herself in the mirror. But now she felt cold inside her dress, and her smile stopped at her lips. Hadn’t she once read somewhere that babies learnt to smile as a defence mechanism? That was all her smile was tonight – a defence, to stop people looking too closely, or saying ‘Cheer up’, in that dreadfully hearty way.