The Tennis Party (26 page)

And he had actually thought last night that he was going to be part of those pleasures. Watching her, it came to him that she didn’t really care whether he visited her in Italy or not. She hadn’t brought up the subject again, she hadn’t given him any conspiratorial glances or expressive looks. She was just going to go off, to her idyllic Italian ménage and leave him
behind, with a wife, two children and possible ruin. Selfish bitch, he thought furiously.

As if aware of his thoughts, Ella directed her gaze towards him and took off her sunglasses to see better. Charles hastily turned his head away, and met the amused glance of Caroline, who was approaching the net.

‘You’re looking rather tired today, Charles,’ she said. ‘I hope you slept well.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Charles hastily.

‘Perhaps it was just the late night then,’ said Caroline, following Cressida, who was walking round on the other side of the court, with her gaze. ‘Ella tells me you made quite a night of it.’ She brought her blue eyes round to meet his; her face was full of contempt. A jolt ran through Charles. She knows what happened last night, he thought. That fucking bitch Ella told her. Why? Why tell Caroline?

She was still staring fixedly at him, and he couldn’t move his eyes away from hers. He felt pinioned, like a rabbit mesmerized by a snake. She had power over him, and she knew it. If she wanted to, she would have no hesitation in telling Cressida; perhaps even telling the whole assembled company. She was that kind of insensitive, vulgar, indiscreet woman. No wonder Cressida couldn’t bear her. He should have listened to his wife; they should have refused the invitation to come here.

Eventually she let him go.

‘I think they’re waiting,’ she said. ‘We’d better go to our places.’ Charles watched her sauntering off to join Patrick; her pony-tail bouncing, her tasteless gold bracelets glinting in the sun. What did she know of the troubles he was in? he thought viciously. She and Patrick hadn’t a money trouble between them; they had the easy, lazy sybaritic life while he had nothing but worries. He walked to the back of the court and scooped up a couple of balls.

‘I’ll serve,’ he said shortly to Cressida.

‘The final of The White House tournament,’ intoned Don, ‘between Caroline and Patrick Chance and Charles and Cressida Mobyn. Linesmen ready.’ He turned to the audience. ‘Any volunteers?’

‘That’s your job,’ said Stephen lazily, his arm around Annie. ‘We’re here to applaud. Anyway, you’re the expert.’

‘I suppose I am,’ said Don, in a pleased voice. He adjusted his hat and sat back in his chair. ‘Players ready.’ He glanced from side to side. ‘Play.’

Cressida stood at the net, staring at the grass in front of her. She felt completely detached from the game, detached almost from real life. She stood in the correct position, holding her racquet ready, listening vaguely to Charles grunting behind her as he served each ball. The sound made her flinch; it sounded so angry and
brutal. And when the ball came thundering into the net beside her, she physically started. The sound of racquets against balls was growing louder and louder in her ears; the shots seemed to be whizzing past her faster and faster. It was quite a threatening game, tennis, she thought unhappily. Quite violent, in its own way.

‘Double fault,’ announced Don resonantly. ‘Thirty-all.’

‘Bad luck,’ whispered Cressida. But Charles hadn’t heard her. He was swiping angrily at the air with his racquet.

His next serve went in, but it was weak. Patrick took a swing at it, and sent it to Cressida, standing stationary at the net, staring miserably at the ground. Too late, she stuck her racquet out with an instinctive, schooled action. The ball went sailing past her and landed just inside the baseline.

‘What were you saying about my usual crap?’ said Patrick to Caroline. Charles glared at Cressida.

‘You could have got that, darling,’ he said, putting a jovial veneer on his voice.

‘Sorry,’ she said, in a voice barely above a whisper.

‘Thirty-forty,’ intoned Don. Charles scowled, and threw the ball up high. He came down on it with all his weight, and hammered the ball into the service court. Caroline valiantly hit at the ball as it came thundering towards her, and sent it sky-high. Cressida
began to prepare automatically for an overhead, but from behind her came Charles’ voice.

‘Leave it! It’s mine!’ He ran forward, brought his racquet back and smashed it down wildly.

‘Out!’ Patrick looked up and gave Charles a smug grin. That would take the smooth bastard down a bit. ‘Long by about a foot,’ he elaborated. ‘Bad luck. I think that’s our game.’

Charles glowered silently at Cressida as they changed ends. Now she couldn’t even play a decent game of tennis. For Christ’s sake. That was about the only thing she was supposed to be good at.

A sudden memory came to him of a long-forgotten tennis game, which must have happened sometime before they were married. He had sat and watched Cressida, playing in the dappled shade of a cedar tree. Where had that been? He couldn’t remember anything about it except the way she’d looked, wearing an old-fashioned-looking tennis dress, with a dropped waistband, like a Twenties flapper. And the way she’d played. Neat, deft, confident without being aggressive. Afterwards, when she’d played her final winning shot, she’d caught his eye and smiled shyly, twisting the pearls she always wore around her fingers. He’d really loved her then. Or he’d thought he did. Perhaps it amounted to the same thing.

Chapter Thirteen

As the games progressed, Cressida’s confidence was in shards. She couldn’t keep her mind on the ball; her racquet shook in her hand; her shots were lame and tentative; her reflexes seemed numbed and slow. As she prepared to serve, she felt, to her horror, warm tears rising up in her eyes. She brushed them away with the sleeve of her tennis shirt, then, to stop the others from noticing, quickly threw up the tennis ball and hit it blindly.

‘Fault,’ said Don. Cressida tried to compose herself for her second serve. But the sight of Charles at the net, with his taut, angry legs and unforgiving neck, completely unnerved her. She threw the ball too low and hit it weakly into the net.

‘Fault,’ said Don. ‘Love-fifteen.’ Cressida quickly turned away to pick up the balls for the next point. She really had to pull herself together. She was playing so
badly; they were already four-two down; Charles was furious with her.

Normally, she would somehow have managed to block everything out and keep hold of herself. But at the end of the last game, as they both approached the net to pick up balls, Caroline had put a warm hand on hers and winked at Cressida encouragingly. ‘Bloody men,’ she had said. ‘They’re all the same. Don’t let them get you down.’ Cressida had smiled tentatively back; forcing herself to keep her face composed. ‘And tell that husband of yours’, Caroline had added in a louder voice, ‘that if he shouts at you one more time, I’ll kick him in the nuts.’

Caroline’s warm, coarse friendliness overwhelmed Cressida like a wave of sea water. It revived her temporarily – but left her shivering and tearful; unable to return to her dry, controlled composure. She slowly picked up two balls and took a deep breath. It wouldn’t last much longer. The set was nearly over. At least – it would be unless she and Charles started winning a few games. She walked back to the baseline and bounced one of the balls up and down a few times, staring at it in miserable puzzlement. Was it wrong to want to lose this set as quickly as possible? She couldn’t remember if they were playing just one or the best of three. Maybe they would lose this set and
that would be it. Over. Suddenly she was overcome by a fierce longing. She wanted to get home, to safety and familiarity.

Patrick watched Cressida’s anxious face as she stood, bouncing the ball up and down before serving. Even if he hadn’t had his own grudge against Charles, he thought, the sight of that poor miserable woman was enough to stir any decent man’s heart. So what if her tennis was a bit off today? At least she knew how to behave on the court. She was unfailingly polite and courteous; she added a real note of elegance to the game.

Eventually Cressida served to him, a poor, pathetic serve. Patrick considered putting the ball deliberately into the net, as a token gesture. But the sight of Charles’ smug face was too much to resist. Approaching the ball ponderously, he whacked it at Charles as hard as he could. Charles quickly jumped aside – but not, Patrick noted with satisfaction, before a fleeting look of terror had crossed his face. So he wasn’t as cool as all that. They both watched the ball skim down the line.

‘Out!’ said Charles triumphantly. ‘Just outside.’

‘Are you sure?’ Don’s voice came querulously across the court. ‘It looked in to me.’

‘It was out,’ said Charles, a note of steel creeping into his voice. ‘Wasn’t it, Cressida?’

‘Well,’ said Cressida, ‘I’m afraid I didn’t really see it.’

‘You must have done! Was it in, or was it out?’ Patrick flinched at the hectoring tone.

‘All right!’ he said hurriedly. ‘It was out! OK, Don? Fifteen-all.’ As he passed Caroline, he muttered, ‘Let’s give them a few points.’

‘Give that bastard a few points? You must be joking.’

‘Not
him
. . .’ said Patrick impatiently.

‘Ahem,’ interrupted Don. ‘Mrs Mobyn is waiting to serve.’

Cressida’s first serve went in the net. Her second was long and deep.

‘Good serve!’ exclaimed Caroline, glancing at Patrick. She shot a bright smile at Cressida.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Don in slight reproof. ‘But that really was out. By quite a long way.’

‘No it wasn’t!’ said Caroline.

‘I’m afraid it was.’

‘It bloody wasn’t!’

‘It was!’ piped up Valerie, who was sitting on the bank near to the court. ‘It was well out. Sorry,’ she added to Cressida. ‘But I did see it.’

‘Stupid cow,’ muttered Caroline. ‘All right,’ she said aloud. ‘Our point.’

‘Fifteen-thirty,’ said Don reproachfully. ‘Mrs Mobyn to serve.’

Cressida sensed the atmosphere had changed. Patrick
and Caroline were looking conspiratorially at each other; they kept hitting the ball out and exclaiming too loudly. Suddenly she had won her service game.

‘Well served, Cressida,’ said Caroline as they changed ends. Charles looked at her suspiciously.

In the next game, Caroline’s serve became surprisingly weak each time she served to Cressida. And with each shot she hit over the net, Cressida felt her confidence return. After a few successful forehands, she felt positive enough to come forward to the net and smack a volley across court, past Patrick and into the corner.

‘Game to Mr and Mrs Mobyn,’ announced Don. ‘Four games all.’ Charles looked from Caroline to Patrick and back again.

‘You’re giving points away,’ he said suddenly.

‘No we’re not,’ said Caroline briskly. ‘Charles, it’s your serve.’ But Charles didn’t move.

‘You’re trying to give us this game,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter? Do you think we can’t play tennis?’

‘Charles,’ said Cressida hesitantly.

‘You’re talking nonsense, Charles,’ said Patrick.

‘Like hell I am! I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking poor old Cressida’s playing utter shit, let’s give them a few points.’

‘You bastard!’ exclaimed Caroline. ‘How dare you say that?’

‘It’s fucking well true, though, isn’t it? You and Patrick have decided to be charitable to us. Well, thanks very much, but no thanks. I think I can probably do without charity from the Chances.’ He spoke the name scathingly, and a sneer came to his lips.

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ Caroline suddenly challenged him, feet planted wide apart on the tennis court, hands on her hips.

‘I’ll leave you to work it out.’ The two stared at each other in sudden fury.

‘Now, calm down,’ said Patrick quickly. He glanced towards the bank. Everyone was sitting completely still, staring agog at Charles and Caroline. ‘Come on, Charles,’ he said, trying to adopt a jovial tone. ‘Play the game, and all that.’

‘What would someone like you know about playing the game?’ Charles retorted.

‘Charles, really . . .’

‘Charles, I don’t think . . .’

‘Take it easy . . .’

Charles ignored them all.

‘What the fuck would someone like you know about playing the game?’ he shouted. ‘You fucking pleb
nouveau
, inviting us all here because you think we’re smart, you think we’ve got money, you think we might buy one of your sodding, stinking little investment plans.’

He stopped to draw breath. But a frenzied, furious voice stopped him. It was Caroline.

‘You shut the fuck up!’ Her voice echoed around the tennis court and there was a pause, in which everyone tacitly re-evaluated the situation. Stephen, who had been about to stand up, decided to stay put. Don, who had been about to utter a few calming words, closed his mouth and looked down at his clipboard. The others watched silently as Caroline walked slowly up to Charles. ‘You fucking well shut the fuck up.’ The words issued from her mouth in a slow, deliberate sequence. ‘You think you’re superior to us? You think you’re a better person than Patrick? Well, at least he didn’t marry me for my fucking
money
! And at least he has better manners than to go to someone’s house, as a guest, and spend the night screwing around with some tart in a field!’ Her voice rose to a shriek. ‘Just because you went to some fucking public school, doesn’t make you a better fucking person! Patrick’s worth a million of you!’ She turned to face Cressida.

‘If I were you, I’d leave him,’ she began. But Cressida was staring at her, white and physically shaking.

‘What are you talking about? What field?’ she whispered. Caroline gazed at her uncomprehendingly.

‘You know – Ella,’ she said without thinking. Too late she realized, as Cressida’s face crumpled. ‘Oh
fuck! I thought you knew. Shit. I’m really sorry. I thought that’s why you were looking so ill.’

Cressida felt as though she was in a nightmare. It was all happening. Their private life was being discussed on a tennis court. In front of an audience. She barely took in Caroline’s renewed apologies. Her humiliation was complete.