The Tennis Party (16 page)

As Valerie made off to the bar, Cressida struggled to
her feet. Her dress was, as she had thought, rucked up at the back, and the linen had become rather creased. Not only that, but a spare button or something inside the dress seemed to have been caught on her tights. She fiddled uncomfortably at the spot. The only solution was to go to the bathroom and see what was wrong. She put her drink down and made for the door. But it opened before she could get there. A husky, coppery voice cried, ‘Sorry I’m so late!’ and Ella made her entrance.

She was wearing a dress made from layers of floating chiffon in palest yellow, cinnamon and burnt orange. Around her neck was a long string of amber beads, on which was strung a large, ornate silver cross. Her cheeks were radiantly glowing and her hair tied up in a silk, coffee-coloured scarf. Her deep-brown eyes surveyed the room, and she smiled first of all at Patrick, who was dispensing champagne to Stephen.

‘I’m terrible,’ she said apologetically. ‘Once I get into a hot bath I just can’t get out. Am I shockingly late?’

‘No, no, don’t be silly,’ said Patrick. ‘Come in and have a drink.’ He led Ella in, until she was suddenly directly in front of Cressida. Cressida hastily stood up straight, stopped fiddling with her frock, and flashed her bright smile.

‘Hello,’ said Ella. ‘We didn’t really get a chance to meet this afternoon. I’m Ella Harte.’

‘Yes, how do you do,’ said Cressida in a colourless voice. She felt like a shadow beside this voluptuous, glowing figure. ‘I am Cressida Mobyn.’ She saw Ella flinch very slightly before taking her outstretched hand.

‘It’s funny,’ said Ella, looking round at Charles and Stephen, who were watching in uncomfortable fascination. ‘I somehow hadn’t taken in the fact that you’d be called Mobyn. I associate the name Mobyn, you see, with Charles.’

Her hand was warm, and as she moved closer, Cressida was aware of a pulsing, foreign scent. There was a split second of silence before Cressida spoke.

‘Well,’ she said brightly. ‘It was strange for me just after we were married. Having a different name. But I’m quite used to it now. I sign cheques without thinking.’ She smiled again. Ella looked at her for a few moments without speaking, and then smiled slowly herself.

‘I should think you do,’ she said. ‘Cressida Mobyn.’ She rolled her tongue round the name. ‘Well, I’m glad we’ve met.’ Cressida tried not to look surprised.

‘Oh, so am I,’ she lied, in complete incomprehension.

Caroline, roused at last to hostess-like behaviour, had hurried over to where Ella and Cressida were standing. Now she chipped in.

‘Come and get a drink, Ella,’ she said, leading her away from Cressida.

Cressida watched them go with an unfamiliar feeling of resentment. Ella was plainly a member of the favoured group. She wondered whether to go to the bathroom and straighten her dress. It might look as though she was offended by Ella being there. Which naturally, she thought briskly to herself, she wasn’t.

‘Hello, darling,’ said Charles, coming up to her with a rather unnatural smile. ‘I see you’ve been talking to Ella. I’m glad you two have met at last.’ Cressida stared at Charles in renewed incomprehension. Why would anyone be glad that she’d met Ella? She couldn’t see any benefit in it at all.

As Stephen went into dinner, he felt agreeably content. He was relaxed and glowing after the day’s tennis; his appetite was sharpened by the sight of the plates of delicately arranged smoked salmon on the table, and he still had a lingering sense of exhilaration at the deal he’d done with Patrick. He glanced at the others, following him in to the dining-room. They all looked sophisticated and cosmopolitan – even Annie. An image of their usual homely family suppers flashed through his mind. Annie always looked pretty, he thought loyally, even when she was hot and bothered over the stove, or coping with Nicola in a frustrated
mood. But tonight her face was alive and excited, and she seemed to be laughing a lot. That was Caroline’s influence, of course. He’d forgotten quite how determined that woman was to have a good time.

‘Hello.’ A voice at his elbow caused him to turn round. It was Ella, her dimpled face creased in a smile. ‘I haven’t said hello to you properly yet,’ she continued. Stephen bent to kiss her cheek, which was smooth, glowing and smelling faintly of coconut.

‘You’re looking very well,’ he said, aware that he was dealing in clichés. But how else was he to talk? ‘Travelling certainly agrees with you . . .’

‘. . . or something,’ she finished, laughing. Her brown eyes searched his face. ‘And you? Are you happy?’ Stephen shrugged casually. He remembered now that Ella had always stood just a little closer than other people; asked slightly more penetrating questions; had always pursued a difficult line of enquiry where others would meekly have said ‘oh, I see’ and changed the subject.

‘I’m fine,’ he said easily. He smiled at her; his new, confident smile.

‘I told Caroline I wanted to sit next to you,’ said Ella. ‘I want to hear all about your thesis. I’m so thrilled that you’re doing it at last.’ She darted to the table, peering at the name places.

‘Here we are,’ she called. ‘We’re over here,’ Stephen
joined her slowly, his confident air seeming to slip away slightly with every step. He had almost forgotten about his thesis. He had cast himself, this afternoon, as a leisured, moneyed deal-maker, enjoying some tennis among friends. He had almost convinced himself that this comfortable and luxurious house, not the grubby libraries and teaching rooms of the university, was his natural environment. Was he now to be forced to go over in his mind his failed attempt at scholarship; to recall the unwieldy, uncertain mass of dubious information and half-baked arguments that haunted and mocked him in his dreams? He flinched at the memory of it. Look at Patrick over there. He seemed to be doing all right, and he’d never been near a university in his life. Let alone given up a relatively well-paid job late in life in the vain pursuit of some sort of academic recognition. Wasn’t this easy, leisured life what he really aspired to? He sank uneasily into a plushy, upholstered dining chair and smiled jovially at Valerie, who was sitting on his other side. But Ella was tugging at his sleeve.

‘Now,’ she said, shaking out her napkin, squeezing lemon over her salmon and looking seriously at him through her lashes. ‘I really want to know. How’s your research going?’

*

As Mrs Finch cleared away the plates from the first course, Charles looked over at Stephen and Ella again. What were they finding so much to talk about? Stephen was gesturing animatedly; Ella was nodding enthusiastically. She was leaning forward towards Stephen, clasping her hands, unwittingly pushing up her breasts until a full, golden-brown cleavage was on show. Or was it unwittingly? Charles looked away, and then looked back again.

‘But that’s amazing!’ Ella’s husky voice travelled across the table to him. ‘Absolutely fascinating.’ Charles could bear it no longer.

‘What’s fascinating, Ella?’ he asked in a hearty voice. The whole table stopped talking and looked at him. He ignored Cressida’s pale, questioning face, Caroline’s raised eyebrows, Patrick’s smirk, and ploughed on. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing that something was fascinating. I was just wondering what it was.’

Ella raised her eyes, slightly contemptuous, slightly amused, to his.

‘We were talking about Stephen’s thesis,’ she said. ‘It’s so interesting. But you must know all about it, I suppose. I’m hearing it all for the first time.’ Charles looked at Stephen. Everyone was waiting for an answer.

‘Of course,’ he said eventually. ‘Your thesis. Terribly interesting.’

‘Do you think so, Charles?’ said Stephen, grinning at him in mock-surprise, knowing full well that Charles couldn’t give a damn about his thesis. Charles forced himself not to glare at Stephen. He suddenly felt an irrational hatred for him, sitting next to Ella, breathing in her scent, touching her bare arms, sharing her jokes. But it was Charles that Ella was now looking at, twisting her amber beads thoughtfully round her fingers. He had to say something.

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Seventeenth-century stuff, wasn’t it?’

‘Fourteenth,’ said Ella. ‘You’re not telling me they were writing mystery plays in the seventeenth century?’

‘Mystery plays?’ said Charles in surprise. ‘Since when has your thesis been on mystery plays, Stephen?’

‘Since my original proposal was turned down,’ said Stephen, grinning. ‘Only about two years ago.’

‘I haven’t kept up,’ said Charles apologetically. To his surprise he did feel genuinely ashamed. He had a sudden flashback to cosy suppers in the Fairweathers’ basement kitchen. He remembered Stephen outlining his latest piece of research; eyes lit up with the thrill of discovery; gesticulating with a piece of garlic bread or a pasta-laden fork; pausing in his rhetoric only to swallow a mouthful of food or wine; then looking up to see Annie and Charles
giggling at him. And Ella, of course. She had always been there.

‘I think the idea of our own local mystery play is wonderful,’ said Ella. ‘The Silchester Mystery Play. We should organize for it to be put on. In the cathedral.’

‘We could do it for charity,’ said Cressida suddenly. She had been following the exchange with very little enthusiasm. She had no idea what a mystery play was and no interest in Stephen’s thesis. She did not trust Ella; she couldn’t think why Charles was insisting on talking to her, and she was longing for bed. But an instinctive desire to win back Charles’ attention, coupled with her belief that it was one’s duty to contribute to general conversation, forced her valiantly to speak. Having spoken, she sank gratefully back into her chair.

But Ella had fixed her attention on Cressida.

‘What a wonderful idea,’ she said, in an intense voice. ‘Could you organize something like that?’

‘Well,’ said Cressida faintly, ‘I’m on several charity committees. In Silchester, you know.’

‘It’s perfect,’ said Ella. ‘You can stage a show in the cathedral. Get professional actors. It’ll be a marvellous occasion.’ She beamed at Stephen. ‘And wouldn’t it help your research? To see it actually performed?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Stephen. ‘I suppose it would.’

‘Of course it would,’ said Ella. ‘You must let me know when it happens. I’ll come back especially to see it.’

‘Back?’ said Charles in spite of himself. ‘Back from where?’ Ella gave him a curious look.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Didn’t I tell you? I’m starting a job. In Italy.’

‘Ooh, how lovely!’ exclaimed Valerie. ‘Imagine working in Italy!’

‘What are you going to do?’ said Annie.

‘I’m going to be assistant,’ said Ella, ‘to someone called Maud Vennings. She lives in Italy most of the time.’

There was a slightly stunned silence. Ella grinned at Caroline, who shrugged back. Ella had told Caroline about her new job earlier in the evening – but since Caroline had never heard of Maud Vennings, the announcement had not made much impact. Now Annie was the first to speak.

‘Maud Vennings? The painter?’

‘Yes, the painter,’ said Ella, delicately spearing a piece of seafood tartlet and eating it thoughtfully. The others gazed at her in awe.

‘We saw a programme about her, didn’t we, Val?’ said Don. ‘On the telly. Isn’t she a real eccentric? Lives all by herself in some huge castle?’

‘Yes, I suppose you could call her eccentric,’ said
Ella. ‘She used to live all by herself. But now I’m going to be living with her. And we won’t be on our own. We’re starting up a series of residential workshops. Painting, food, wine, walking . . . that kind of thing.’

‘A package holiday, you mean,’ said Charles, unable to keep a sneer out of his voice. He was experiencing a feeling perilously close to jealousy.

‘Not really,’ said Ella, giving a secretive smile. ‘It will only be open to painters of talent. Graduates of art colleges, that kind of thing. We might branch into music, as well. Maud knows a lot of musicians. And they’ll be guests of hers. It’s not a business. But she still needs someone to organize it all.’

There was another pause, as everyone took in the implications of this.

‘I suppose’, said Don eventually, ‘she’s absolutely loaded.’

‘Her paintings sell for hundreds of thousands of pounds, don’t they?’ said Valerie eagerly. ‘Those nude girls. I’ve a postcard of one of them on my wall at work.’

‘I’ve got a poster in the kitchen,’ said Annie.

‘I went to see an exhibition of hers in London once,’ volunteered Cressida. ‘I think it was for Save the Children.’ Charles shot her an angry look.

‘So, do tell us, Ella,’ he said, unable to contain
his incensed curiosity, ‘how on earth did this come about?’

‘Well, it was quite simple,’ said Ella. ‘I wrote to her and said I was coming to Italy and would it be possible to visit her. I thought I might try to interview her or something. I don’t really know what made me do it. But she said yes. So I went to see her, and she invited me to stay for dinner, and that was it, really.’

‘She said yes, just because you wrote her a letter?’ Charles’ outrage was transparent.

‘It was quite a long letter,’ said Ella, consideringly. ‘I told her about myself, and my life, and why I was coming to Italy . . .’ She broke off and smiled at Charles. ‘I think she thought it all sounded rather interesting. And we got on really well, right from the start. She told me the other day that as soon as she saw me, she knew she wanted me to live with her.’

Valerie’s eyes widened.

‘It said on the programme that she might be a bit of a . . . you know.’ She broke off. ‘Lesbian,’ she whispered.

‘Did it?’ said Ella. She paused, fork halfway to mouth. ‘Well, you never know,’ she said. ‘Perhaps she is.’

Coffee had been served, Don and Valerie were making signs of departure, and the others were still sitting in
the drawing-room. The doors to the terrace were still open, and the sweet smell of night air mingled with the lingering aroma of coffee. Annie dreamily swirled a cognac round in her glass. It had been such a lovely day. Her muscles ached agreeably, her skin was warm with sunburn, and her stomach replete with food. She was also, she realized, quite drunk.

‘See you tomorrow!’ Don’s grinning face interrupted her reverie.