The Tennis Party Page 10

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she said after a few moments. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with Cressida?’

  The four on court had begun to knock up. Don was sending a series of swift, low balls to Cressida, who seemed barely able to return them.

  ‘Sorry,’ she kept saying, as another went into the net.

  ‘Saving it till the match,’ quipped Don. ‘I know that trick!’ He beamed at Cressida, who returned a weak smile. They tossed for sides; Don and Valerie won. As they walked to the back of the court, Don began to mutter to Valerie an audible series of instructions and warnings about Cressida’s and Charles’ play.

  ‘Guard the net; she’s got a nasty sliced forehand, might take you on the hop; don’t try to lob him unless it’s over the backhand. Is he steady at the net?’ he suddenly demanded.

  ‘Well, quite steady,’ stammered Valerie.

  ‘Mmm. Well, don’t play to either of them at the net. Off you go, now. It’s me to serve, remember?’

  Valerie scuttled to the net and Don prepared to serve to Cressida. She stood, apathetically watching his mannered action, and lunged dispiritedly when the ball came spinning into her service box.

  ‘Bad luck, darling,’ said Charles. Don shook his head and clicked his tongue.

  ‘You had that one,’ he said to Cressida. ‘Don’t know what happened there.’

  Charles returned the next serve straight to Valerie, who put it away with a vicious volley.

  ‘Good girl,’ said Don. ‘Nice approach, that was, well away from the body.’ He prepared to serve to Cressida again. The first serve went out, and he stood stock still for a minute or two, as though meditating on the horror of such a mistake. Then, shaking his head slowly, he took a second ball from his pocket and served again. His second serve was a looped shot which landed just the other side of the net and bounced surprisingly high. Cressida, who had begun to run forward, was taken unawares, and hit the ball wide. It veered towards Valerie, who made an exaggerated jump aside to avoid it, and landed well outside the tramlines.

  ‘Forty-love,’ called Valerie.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Cressida to Charles. ‘I can’t think what’s wrong with me.’

  ‘Watch the ball,’ piped up Don. ‘That’s always the answer. If things are going badly, don’t think about anything but the ball.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cressida shortly. Don served again, Charles returned the ball to him, and he sent an easy shot to Cressida. She volleyed it straight into the net.

  ‘You’re just not watching the ball,’ said Don complacently. ‘That’s all it is. Isn’t that right, Valerie?’

  ‘Well,’ said Valerie uncertainly. She looked at Cressida’s face, drawn and tense. ‘Maybe.’

  Cressida’s misery seemed to be getting deeper and deeper. Sitting quietly by the side of the tennis court, watching Charles clowning with the children, it had abated slightly, and she had, for a few blissful minutes, forgotten about the letter. But now she could think of nothing else. And everyone seemed to be watching her. Don, with his comments; Valerie, with her cow eyes; even Charles, thinking he was encouraging her by turning round and making faces behind Don’s back. Caroline and Annie, too, were probably staring at her, wondering why she was playing so poorly.

  She stared blindly at the tennis net, trying to rationalize her feelings. The letter could be a mistake – was probably a mistake. Charles would soon sort it out. He would sort it out. She repeated it to herself, trying to soothe herself into a state of calm. But a pounding background worry would not let her spirits rest. What if it wasn’t a mistake? What if they had to pay? Where would they find the money? Cressida had successfully managed to close her ears to most of the financial information that had passed her way during the last ten or so years since her mother had died. She had only a hazy idea of her fortune; an even hazier one of where it had been invested. But she knew that most of it had dwindled away since her marriage. Was there still enough there? She screwed up her mind, trying to remember what her last account from the portfolio managers had said.

  ‘Darling?’ Charles was looking quizzically at her. ‘We’re changing ends.’

  Cressida flushed and her head jerked up. Everyone was staring at her. Of course. They had lost the first game. Charles was already on the other side of the court; Don and Valerie were hovering at the net, looking at her in polite surprise. They were all waiting for her. Any minute now, someone would ask her if she was feeling all right. Caroline was so insensitive, she would probably shout out something awful, like, was it Cressida’s period and did she want some Feminax. Or they might guess that something was wrong, and show a horrible, over-familiar sympathy.

  The thought of exposing herself – her vulnerabilities – to these awful people, stiffened Cressida’s resolve. She simply had to pull herself together. She gave a chilly smile, and quickly walked round to the other side of the court.

  ‘Sorry,’ she murmured to Charles. ‘I was miles away.’ She narrowed her eyes. She would just have to concentrate. Turning towards the net, she focused her attention on a particular corner of netting. ‘Concentrate,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Concentrate.’ She tried to blank everything else out of her mind.

  ‘One-love down,’ said Charles cheerfully. ‘Looks like I’m going to have to pull something pretty special out of the bag. Eh, Cress?’ He served to Don; a straightforward unpretentious shot. Don returned the ball straight to Cressida, obviously expecting her to miss. But she stuck her racquet out, almost in a reflex action, and whipped the ball away.

  ‘Great shot!’ shouted Charles in delight.

  ‘Well played,’ said Don tetchily.

  ‘Wow!’ said Annie. ‘That’s more like it.’

  The next game passed quickly. Cressida’s mind, black with misery, had blocked out everything but returning the ball. She was unaware of the score; unaware of the looks of amazement as she sent one after another top-spin forehand rocketing into the far corner of the court.

  ‘Cressida, darling, your serve.’ She looked up, startled, to see Charles smiling affectionately at her. ‘You’re playing incredibly.’

  Cressida felt as though she might burst into uncontrollable sobs. Instead, she picked up two balls and prepared to serve. She threw the first ball high, far too high, and hit a serve which ballooned right out of the court.

  ‘Mummy!’

  Cressida ignored Georgina’s high-pitched cry and threw the ball up again. It went behind her.

  ‘Have another,’ said Charles.

  ‘Mummy, look who’s here!’

  This time Georgina’s excited shriek was too compelling to ignore. Cressida, Charles, Caroline, everyone, looked round.

  Standing next to Georgina, barely taller than her, was a smiling girl with a glowing, tanned face. She was dressed in an Indian-cotton dress of bright turquoise, and her golden-brown hair was tied up in a scarf of the same colour. The dress, sleeveless and low cut, showed off a pair of full breasts, tanned as far as the eye could see to the same colour as her face, and the rest of her body was similarly voluptuous – rounded shoulders, dimpled arms, a slightly curved belly visible through the thin cotton of her dress. A gold chain round her neck glinted in the afternoon sunlight; her feet were shod in brown leather sandals and she carried a large leather bag. Her deep-brown eyes quickly surveyed the scene, and she murmured something to Georgina, who laughed slightly and then looked nervously at her mother. The entire party stood looking at the girl for a minute or two in silence. Then Stephen spoke.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘It’s Ella.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ said Ella. She and Caroline had gone inside and were walking up the stairs. ‘I just assumed Georgina was, well, you know . . .’

  ‘Telling the truth?’ supplied Caroline. ‘Fair enough, why shouldn’t you?’

  ‘She was very convincing,’ said Ella. ‘I really thought she’d asked you. I mean, otherwise I’d never have come. Maybe she’d forgotten about the party?’ she added sud
denly.

  ‘No chance,’ said Caroline. ‘She’s known about it for weeks. When did you say you phoned?’

  ‘Oh, four or five weeks ago,’ said Ella. ‘I was still in Italy. I asked her if it was OK to come over, and she said she’d go and ask you. She was away from the phone for a few minutes, then she came back and said you were in the bath but you’d said it was fine. I mean, I didn’t see any reason not to believe her. I suppose I should have called again, to check it was still all right to come, but you know what it’s like . . .’ She grinned guiltily. ‘Have I ruined the delicate balance of your gathering?’

  ‘I’d say you’ve ruined Charles’ delicate balance all right,’ said Caroline, smirking. ‘Not to mention his charming wife’s. Did you see her face?’ Ella shook her head.

  ‘I have to say, I avoided looking at either of them.’ Caroline glanced swiftly at her.

  ‘Are you OK about it? I mean, seeing them?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Ella said slowly. ‘I’m fine. It’s been long enough now, and there have been others since Charles. I don’t want him back or anything. But even so . . . I look at her, and I think . . .’

  ‘You think, “You rich cow”,’ said Caroline. Ella laughed.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘That’s what we all think.’

  Caroline halted in front of a door. ‘Since it was Georgina’s idea to tell you it was all right to come,’ she said, ‘I think the least she can do is donate you her room.’

  ‘Oh no,’ protested Ella. ‘I can go anywhere. I’ve got a sleeping-bag . . .’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Caroline. She opened the door. Georgina’s bedroom was large, light and spotlessly tidy. The window, the dressing-table mirror and the water dispenser all glinted in the late-afternoon sun; the books and pencils on the desk were neatly arranged; a single china horse and a lamp stood on the white bedside cabinet.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Ella. Caroline shrugged. ‘I’m sorry we can’t come up with another spare room. You would have thought this house was big enough.’

  ‘How many bedrooms has it got?’ said Ella, dumping her bag on the sheepskin rug in the middle of the floor.

  ‘Six, altogether. But they’re all taken.’ Ella was peering round the bathroom door.

  ‘Lucky Georgina. This is really nice.’ She sat on the bed. ‘Makes a change from sleeping-mats and mice running up and down my legs all night.’ Caroline gave her a horrified look.

  ‘Is that what it was like?’

  ‘Not all the time.’ Ella laughed at Caroline’s expression. ‘It was pretty sordid in India and bits of South America – but I’ve been back in Europe for the last four months. Still, nothing as luxurious as this.’ Caroline shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know how you did it,’ she said. ‘Three weeks is enough for me, however nice the place is. Didn’t you get homesick?’

  ‘A little. After the first two months I got really miserable and I thought about chucking it in and flying home. But I got through that pretty quickly. It was really basic things that were getting me down – like no hot water and the food. I got quite ill at one point. But, you know, I got used to it. And the whole experience was so wonderful . . .’ Her eyes were shining.

  ‘Mad woman,’ said Caroline. ‘Well look, welcome back.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ella. ‘And apologies again.’

  ‘It’s my bloody daughter who should be apologizing to you,’ said Caroline. ‘I honestly don’t think it ever occurred to her that you might not want to see Charles.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Ella. ‘I’m actually quite looking forward to talking to him now. He looked so completely amazed.’ She looked down at herself. ‘Is it all right if I have a bath straight away?’

  ‘Oh, sure, go ahead,’ said Caroline. She pushed open the door of the bathroom. ‘We have the water hot all the time, so use as much as you want. I’ll go and get you a towel.’

  When she returned, Ella was standing unselfconsciously naked, brushing out her honey-brown hair while hot water thundered into the bath. Her creamy-brown body was curved and dimpled, and with each stroke of the hairbrush her full breasts rose and fell.

  ‘Here you are,’ said Caroline, holding out a pair of huge white towels. ‘What a wonderful tan.’

  ‘Actually I got this on the beach in Greece,’ said Ella, who was engrossed in teasing out a knot in her hair. ‘I was with a bunch of nudists – or, at least, nude sunbathers. It was very eye-opening.’ She looked up seriously, caught Caroline’s lascivious eye, and they both dissolved into giggles.

  ‘That’s not what I meant!’ protested Ella eventually, still snorting with laughter.

  ‘Then it was a Freudian what’s-it,’ said Caroline. ‘You can’t be getting enough sex.’

  ‘Well, actually,’ said Ella mysteriously, ‘that’s where you’re wrong.’ She winked at Caroline and took the towels.

  ‘Why? Who? What’s been happening?’ demanded Caroline.

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Ella, ‘maybe.’ And she disappeared into the bathroom.

  Outside, the tennis match was nearing its conclusion. Cressida, gripping her racquet tightly, was not allowing her concentration to slip. She didn’t dare think about where she was, or with whom she was playing. Her eyes were fixed on the ball; her shots had sharpened up; and she was playing to win. The harder she concentrated on the game, the less easy it was to think about the disconcerting arrival of Ella; or about the letter waiting for Charles upstairs; or even about the grim prospect of a whole evening with these awful people. She skimmed a winning forehand past Valerie at the net, collected up the balls, and walked swiftly to the other end of the court to serve.

  Charles paused at the net to exchange a pleasantry or two with Don. But Don was looking ruffled.

  ‘She’s playing well, your wife,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t she?’ Charles shot a puzzled glance at Cressida, who was bouncing the ball up and down and staring fixedly at the ground.

  ‘Wonderful concentration,’ said Don. ‘You see, Val,’ he addressed his daughter, ‘if you concentrated a bit harder, you wouldn’t keep making all those mistakes.’ Val looked down, and scuffed her shoe with her racquet.

  ‘Well,’ said Charles quickly. ‘I make that five-four.’

  ‘Now come on, Val,’ said Don sharply, as they walked off. ‘We really need to win this game.’

  As soon as they were in their positions, Cressida served; a long, hard, textbook-style serve. Valerie returned the ball rather hesitantly to Charles, who lunged at the ball and mishit it. It skimmed the top of the net and fell neatly into the tramlines. Valerie pounded forward, but the grass was soft and it barely bounced.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ called Charles cheerfully. ‘It could have gone either way.’

  ‘Five-love,’ called Don. Charles repressed his start of annoyance. He was becoming unreasonably irritated with Don’s familiar, clubby tennis terms. ‘Five-love’; ‘van-in’; ‘one more please’; ‘that was just away’. Why not say the ball was out?

  ‘Fifteen-love,’ he called back firmly. Not that Don would notice.

  Cressida served again, a hard, fast, spinning shot which licked across the court to Don. Don drew back his racquet in his exaggerated style, and sent the ball up high over Charles’ head.

  ‘Out,’ called Cressida shortly. ‘Thirty-love.’

  She served once more to Valerie, who sent it into the net.

  ‘Forty-love.’ Don was looking rattled as he prepared to receive Cressida’s serve. It came hard again, to his backhand. He sent a rather weak shot to Charles, who drew back his racquet and sent a thundering shot into the corner of the court. Charles threw up his racquet with a whoop of delight.

  ‘I’m afraid it was just long,’ said Don quickly.

  ‘Was it?’ Charles looked surprised. ‘OK then. Forty-fifteen.’

  ‘But it wasn’t out,’ came a stern voice from above. ‘It was in.’ Everyone looked up. There was Georgina, sitting on the
branch of a tree. ‘I saw it,’ she said. ‘It was about two inches in.’ Don looked disconcerted.

  ‘What did you think?’ he said, turning to Valerie. She turned bright red.

  ‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘I didn’t really see it. It was going too fast.’ She giggled embarrassedly.

  ‘It was in,’ insisted Georgina. ‘I’ve got a better view than you.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Don, in a belated attempt at light-heartedness. ‘I’m sure you’re right. That’s set and match, then. Congratulations.’

  Cressida smiled feebly at Valerie and tried not to wince as she shook her clammy hand.

  ‘Ooh, gosh, well done,’ said Valerie, as they all walked off. ‘I thought you’d probably beat us.’

  ‘Now, that’s a loser’s attitude,’ said Don. ‘No-one gets anywhere by thinking they’re going to lose. The first rule of winning is to believe you’re capable of winning.’

  ‘Oh, give us a break,’ muttered Charles.

  ‘What’s the second rule?’ asked Georgina.

  ‘Aha,’ said Don, twinkling at her.

  ‘I’m so glad you asked me that . . .’ whispered Stephen to Annie, who furiously bit her lip.

  ‘The second rule’, said Don, ‘is to make others believe you’re capable of winning.’ He looked meaningfully around.

  ‘But what if you’re not?’ said Georgina.

  ‘Not what?’ said Don.

  ‘Not capable of winning?’ said Georgina. ‘Like, what if I thought I was really good at . . .’ she thought for a bit, ‘. . . ice-skating. And I told everyone I was really good. But really I was rubbish.’

  ‘Georgina,’ interrupted Caroline, ‘go and get your stuff out of your room and take it to Nicola’s room. You’ll be sleeping there tonight.’

  ‘Brill!’ said Georgina, deflected from her speech. ‘In a sleeping-bag?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Caroline.

  ‘Wicked!’ said Georgina, slithering down the tree. ‘Come on, Nick.’

  ‘Don’t just go charging in,’ warned Caroline. ‘Ella’s having a bath.’

  ‘Is Ella having my room?’