The Tennis Party (22 page)

What had he been thinking of? It was laughable to think he could ever be like the rest of them: rich, worldly, fashionable. He should have known he was on dangerous territory as soon as he entered Patrick’s sumptuous study. He saw it clearly now. Patrick was the sort of person who would do something like take out a huge mortgage and invest it – and would probably make his money twice over. He would pick the right investments, time his manoeuvres well, use his hunches to good advantage. But Stephen was the type for whom such an enterprise was bound to go disastrously wrong, no matter who was advising him, who was carrying out his investments. Stephen saw, with fatalistic clarity, scenes of stockmarket crashes,
company failures, panicked decisions. It was no good. If he had been the sort of person who was going to make a lot of money in life, he suspected he would have made it before now. And if he wasn’t, then it was probably better not to try. Better just to carry on as they were.

‘You’re looking very serious,’ said Annie, smiling at him. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Oh yes,’ Stephen said, effecting a cheery voice.
Please God, don’t let her find out what I’ve done; how stupid I’ve been. Please let me somehow sort it out on my own
. He took a sip of heartening coffee and looked up, smiling gaily, distractingly at her. ‘Yes, everything’s fine,’ he said. ‘We were just admiring the view from here.’ She turned her head to look, as he had intended, out of the window, and exclaimed with pleasure. It was so easy to deflect her, Stephen thought, watching the back of her head. She was utterly unsuspicious; she would be the easiest person in the world to deceive. But far from reassuring him, this realization suddenly made him feel like weeping.

Charles woke to blinding pain and a weight of misery around his chest. A pulse in his temple throbbed; with each throb the brightness from outside seemed to pierce his eyelids more strongly. He didn’t dare open his eyes, but lay motionless, gradually locating
other areas of pain in his body and wishing he could fall back asleep.

He remembered everything. It was almost as though he had never fallen asleep; as though he and Cressida were, in his mind, still in the middle of their conversation. Or rather, their fight. Now, he realized – from the weight on the mattress; the taut line of the duvet; the light sound of her breathing – she was in bed beside him. She must have stayed closeted in the bathroom for a good hour. He had sat up for a while, waiting for her to reappear, then unwillingly crawled into bed.

He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to see her. An unbearable combination of guilt and anger was creeping through his body. He had screwed Ella. Oh God. He had wanted to screw her again. He still did. Cressida had a right to hate him for that. But then – she didn’t know about it. And it was
her
financial arrangements that were going to ruin them. Ruin them completely.

A vision of the future stretched ahead in Charles’ mind; a dark, black road of debts and demands; of uncertainty. Unlimited liability; unlimited uncertainty. If Mr Stanlake’s letter had stated the worst, if it had mentioned a definite total sum to be paid, then they would have had something to latch onto. They would have despaired for a while – and then set about
tackling the situation. But the letter had mentioned only possible figures. Probable figures. Estimated figures. For how long would they wonder? How long before the next demand? The next set of estimated figures? The next smoothly ambiguous sentence, assuring them that the final demands might not be as large as expected – although, of course, they might be larger . . .

It was the uncertainty that would be the debilitating, wearing, endlessly nagging factor in all of this. It was the not knowing; the continual threat; the knowledge that the sword was hanging over them – but might never fall. It was the hope. Perhaps worst of all was the hope. The tiny, insidious flicker of hope that it would all turn out much better than they had expected; that this time next year they would be laughing about it all. He could feel it now, unwanted, unlooked for: a flame of hope that he couldn’t get rid of; that would stay alive inside him, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it.

Cressida gave a little sigh in her sleep, and Charles’ thoughts immediately changed track. A painful wave of resentment ran through him. This was his wife’s problem, he thought, as though realizing it for the first time. Hers. Not his. It was she who had received the letter. Dear Mrs Mobyn, it had begun. His own fucking name. His own fucking stupid wife.

He lay perfectly still, trying to think rationally about it all. But nothing could stop the increasing surges of anger which filled his body with silent, furious, pumping adrenalin, driving reasonable thought from his mind. She was a Lloyd’s Name and she hadn’t told him. She’d allowed him to marry her, buy a house, behave as if nothing was wrong – while all the time, this disaster had been just waiting to happen. Everything they’d done in the last three years; all the money they’d spent; that holiday to Antigua . . . Charles could hardly bear to think about it. He’d been so confident, so sure of the future. If he’d only known. If he’d only fucking known. The stupid bitch.

He was fairly sure – no, completely sure – she wasn’t lying when Cressida said she hadn’t realized what being a Lloyd’s Name meant. Jesus, he should know she was thick. He was continually re-amazed at how completely – unbearably it seemed now – stupid she was. Even now, he was pretty sure she didn’t realize the full enormity of the situation. But that bastard Stanlake had obviously kept things deliberately quiet. Some bloody misguided loyalty to Cressida, no doubt. Thought Charles wouldn’t marry her if he knew she was a Lloyd’s Name. That must have been it.

Charles stared straight up at the ceiling. The quiet room was driving him mad; he felt constricted
and trapped inside the bed. So Stanlake had thought he wouldn’t marry Cressida if he knew she was a Lloyd’s Name. Well, perhaps he was right. Perhaps he would have taken another look at her insipid pale looks; listened one more time to her imbecile, brainless conversation – and got out as quickly as he could. To think he’d actually found her stupidity attractive. Jesus, if he’d known all this was going to happen . . .

He felt suddenly wary, as though Cressida, slumbering next to him, could read his thoughts. He opened his eyes and swivelled them quickly towards her. But she was motionless, buried under a rounded duvet. Dust motes were dancing in the sun above her. Once upon a time he would have burrowed down underneath the duvet with her, gently waking her with little kisses and whispers, until she gave that sudden, delighted half-asleep giggle. Today he wanted her to stay asleep, away from his thoughts.

He eyed her blond hair against the pillow, immaculate even in sleep. He should have guessed she was a Lloyd’s Name. Of course she was. She was exactly the sort of person who would be. If he’d only once thought to ask her, to check, to bring the subject up. But he’d taken to filtering out difficult subjects of conversation when he spoke to Cressida, just to avoid seeing that stupid frown of utter incomprehension.

Oh God. He should have guessed; he should have known. And if he’d known, could he have done anything? Could he have prevented this thing from happening? Could he have stopped it all in time? Charles gazed at the ceiling. He didn’t, wouldn’t dare find out the answer. The discovery that, by acting then, he could have avoided this black pit of despair would be too much to bear. A million pounds. A million pounds. Charles whispered it quietly to himself. It didn’t really mean anything to him.

The duvet rustled and Charles felt Cressida turning over. She opened her eyes and looked at him, at first with her normal sleepy early-morning expression – then, as she recollected her thoughts, with sudden dismay. Her hand came up to her cheek and touched it lightly. She didn’t wince as her fingers met the skin, but her touch was tender. Of course, thought Charles suddenly. That’s where I hit her. He stared at Cressida, appalled. It was all so sordid. Her eyes scanned his face uncertainly, then she pulled back the bedclothes and slowly got out of bed. She tottered to the bathroom, a tall, willowy figure in her long, white nightdress. Charles watched her numbly. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything, call out to her or go after her. She was part of the nightmare. Until she spoke, none of it seemed real; if he ignored her, perhaps it would all go away. He turned over, buried his aching
head beneath his pillow, and stared blankly into the mattress, wishing himself into oblivion.

Caroline and Ella were having breakfast on the terrace. Caroline had made what she considered to be the supreme effort of getting up, making some coffee, heating up some croissants, and taking it all outside, only to discover that Patrick wasn’t hungry, Charles and Cressida were still in bed, Martina had fed the twins, and all the others had breakfasted early before going to church.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ she said to Ella, gesturing to the breakfast table, ‘you must tell them I did all this. I can’t believe no-one’s here to appreciate it.’ She bit crossly into a croissant. ‘These are good, aren’t they?’ she added. ‘They’re from the new pâtisserie in Silchester. You must try it out before you go.’ Ella took a thoughtful sip of coffee.

‘I probably won’t be around long enough,’ she said. ‘I’ve decided to go to Italy sooner rather than later.’

‘But you’ve only just come back to England,’ objected Caroline.

‘I know,’ agreed Ella. ‘But I think I’ve seen enough of it.’

‘Seen enough of Charles, more like,’ said Caroline bluntly. ‘He had a bit of a nerve, didn’t he? Dragging you off for moonlit walks in the middle of
the night? I would have told him where to go.’ Ella shrugged.

‘It was nice to see him. No, really,’ she added, at Caroline’s incredulous look. ‘I needed to get him out of my system.’

‘And have you?’

‘Well,’ said Ella, ‘I’m not sure he was still in it. But if he was, he isn’t any more.’

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Caroline. ‘As long as he didn’t sweet-talk you back into liking him.’ Ella’s mouth curved in amusement.

‘Perhaps he thought he did. He was very ardent.’

‘Ardent?’ Caroline stared at Ella for a few seconds. ‘Ardent as in . . . ardent?’

‘It was the middle of the night,’ pointed out Ella. With a deft movement she brought her legs up beneath her cross-legged on her chair, and shook back her hair. Caroline clapped her hand over her mouth and gazed at Ella with sparkling eyes.

‘I’m not even going to
ask
you my next question,’ she said in an excited voice, ‘because I don’t want to know the answer.’ She paused. ‘Except I do,’ she added hopefully.

‘It’s not important,’ said Ella.

‘How can you say that?’ demanded Caroline. ‘He’s married now.’

‘That’s not my fault.’

‘It’s not his wife’s fault, either,’ pointed out Caroline. She took a gulp of coffee and lit a cigarette. ‘Christ, I’d go barmy if Patrick did that to me.’

‘You don’t know what Charles did,’ said Ella.

‘No, but I can guess.’ Caroline gave a wicked cackle.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Ella, spreading her hands deprecatingly. ‘Over.’ She poured herself a glass of orange juice. ‘Poor Charles,’ she added.

‘Over?’ said Caroline suspiciously.

‘Maybe over,’ conceded Ella. ‘Maybe not. It’s funny, I’d half-forgotten what he was like. I had a different image of him in my mind. Perhaps I’d created it on purpose. But now I feel I don’t know him as well as I thought I did. And I would quite like to know him again. Know him as a person, rather than as a lover.’ She gave a little smile.

‘But what about his wife?’ insisted Caroline.

‘What about me? Where’s the symmetry in all this? I might have a husband, or a partner that no-one knows about. Charles might be the other man as much as I am the other woman.’

‘Have you got a husband?’ asked Caroline curiously. ‘You can’t have. You don’t look married.’

‘No, not a husband,’ said Ella, smiling down into her orange juice.

‘But someone. There is someone.’

‘There is someone,’ agreed Ella.

‘And don’t you feel bad, betraying them like that?’

‘Betraying? I’m not betraying anyone. A quick fuck isn’t the same as betrayal.’

‘Ah!’ said Caroline triumphantly. ‘So you did sleep with him.’

‘I didn’t sleep with him,’ said Ella. ‘I fucked him. Something else altogether. His wife slept with him. Or so I imagine.’ Caroline looked at her slightly puzzledly for a moment, then leant forward.

‘And what’s going to happen now?’ she said, lowering her voice unnecessarily to a confiding, gossipy tone.

‘Now?’ Ella’s voice rang like a bell through the garden. ‘I’m going to have some more coffee.’ She smiled at Caroline and reached for the cafetière. Caroline took a deep drag of her cigarette and looked around the garden. Ella obviously wasn’t going to settle down to a good girly chat. She frowned in slight annoyance, and stretched out a tanned leg from under her dressing-gown, admiring the smooth, brown skin against the white satin.

‘Oh I don’t know,’ she said suddenly, heaving a great sigh. ‘What’s it all about, anyway?’

‘It?’ Ella looked at her quizzically.

‘Life. You know.’ Caroline waved her cigarette vaguely in the air. ‘Where are we all aiming?’

‘Well, that really depends on your point of view,’ began Ella.

‘I mean, take Patrick,’ interrupted Caroline. ‘All he wants to do is earn money.’

‘And all you want to do is spend it,’ suggested Ella.

‘Well, yes,’ said Caroline, in slight surprise. She caught Ella’s eye and gave a sudden cackle. ‘But what do I want to spend it on?’ she added. ‘That’s the difference.’

‘You’re not having a mid-life crisis, are you?’ said Ella, her eyes twinkling.

‘Christ, no,’ said Caroline. She took a deep drag. ‘The thing is, Patrick and I had a bit of a scene last night. About us paying Nicola’s school fees. It just made me think.’

‘What sort of scene?’

‘He was furious with me for landing him in it. Which I suppose is fair enough.’

‘Hadn’t you talked about it already?’ said Ella in surprise.

‘Oh no. It was completely spur of the moment. Anyway, if I’d asked him beforehand, he would never have agreed. Patrick’s basically a stingy bastard.’