by Robyn Sisman
“Hi, this is Nick Bianco. We met this afternoon. A new club just opened downtown, and I wondered if you wanted to come with me on Thursday and check it out. If you’re free, I’ll pick you up around ten. Ciao.”
Screaming like a banshee, Suze dropped her handbag and ran dizzily around the room. Of course she was free! Oh, God, what was she going to wear?
Chapter Eleven
“When we beat them for the first time, you see, in eighteen-something, the Poms thought it was the death of English cricket. So when they next came out to us for a series, some of our sheilas decided to burn a stump and present the ashes to them in a funny little urn. Ever since then, this trophy’s been awarded to whichever team won the series, though it never actually left Lord’s . . . Are you with me so far?” Harry Fox swiveled round in the bench seat of the black taxi to raise an eyebrow at Lloyd.
“One little detail escapes me. What is a ‘stump’?”
Fox laughed. “You’ll see soon enough.”
They were cruising slowly down a wide avenue. The sun shone down out of a cloudless sky. Ahead of them was a red double-decker packed with people standing ready to disembark; motorcycles and bicycles sped past. On both sides of the road a stream of humanity flowed in one direction: old men in Panama hats wearing blazers and red-and-orange ties, younger men in T-shirts carrying cool-boxes, women in summer dresses and hats, children tugging their adult escorts forward. All were converging toward a long brick wall that appeared on the right, over the top of which Lloyd could see the outline of a stadium. This was Lord’s, ancestral home of the mysterious game called cricket. There was a buzz of good-natured expectation from the gathering crowd. Lloyd was surprised to feel a growing excitement himself.
Fox leaned forward and slid open a glass panel to speak to the driver. “We’ll get out here.”
Blinking in the sunlight, they joined the crush heading toward a gate in the wall. Fox produced a pair of tickets and they pushed through a creaking turnstile into an open space in front of the stadium, which was mostly grass. Some of it was fenced off with rope netting, and inside men dressed in white were hurling a red ball at other men who were trying to hit it with a club. “Those are the nets,” murmured Fox vaguely, hurrying on toward the stadium itself, where they began to circle the perimeter in search of the right entrance. As they pushed through the crowd, passing stalls selling snacks and souvenirs, Lloyd caught snatches of conversation that baffled and delighted him: “He sent down seven maidens in a row.” “It’s never been the same since dicky bird.” And, most perplexing of all, “We’re praying for rain.” A public-address system announced that blind cricketers would be giving a display in the luncheon interval.
They reached the hospitality boxes. A PR woman in a green blazer, carrying a mobile phone, led them up some steel steps and along an open walkway to a door marked “Schneider Fox.” Inside the room was a large table covered with a cloth and laid for lunch. One wall of the room was virtually all window, through which Lloyd glimpsed the ground, beautifully mown into pale and dark green stripes, except for a worn-looking square at the center, where a man in a Panama hat crouched low, as if conducting a scientific experiment. The same scene appeared in miniature on a television screen mounted in one corner of the room, and Lloyd was bemused to note that the man appeared to be sticking a key into the turf. A waiter offered Lloyd a glass of champagne, which he declined. Then Fox beckoned him out onto the balcony, where a clutch of seats looked out over the pitch. It was an uninterrupted sea of green, except for some short poles sticking vertically out of the earth somewhere near the middle. “Those are the stumps,” said Fox.
It was a spectacular setting. The stands around the ground were filling up, vibrating with color in the bright summer sunshine. To the left stood the “pavilion,” an imposing colonial-style building of brick, trimmed with fancy woodwork; to the right a futuristic building resembling the Starship Enterprise seemed to hover over the stands, tethered only by a slender steel stem. Television cameras hung poised from gantries; scoreboards displayed an array of zeros. Overhead, an airship hung almost motionless in the bright blue sky.
A voice hailed them from behind. Lloyd looked around to see a pale-faced man in a suit, clutching a tightly furled umbrella.
“Roger, welcome!” Fox raised a hand. “I don’t think you’ve met Lloyd Rockwell, our American hotshot. Lloyd, this is Roger Fotherington, our finance director.” They shook hands. “Why don’t you two get to know each other while I scout around for the rest of our party?”
He left the hospitality box and there was an awkward pause while Roger gave Lloyd a diffident smile, then stared thoughtfully at his polished brogues. “Don’t suppose you see a lot of cricket in the States,” he offered at length.
“Not a lot,” Lloyd agreed, smiling.
“Pity. Good game. Client beano, you understand. Tax loss. Everybody happy.”
Lloyd nodded. One day he was going to master this mysterious language known as English. “So, what are the rules?” he asked.
On the subject of cricket, Roger proved surprisingly fluent. The object of the game seemed to be to hit the ball and score as many “runs” as possible, though it turned out that the running was largely theoretical: if a hitter—or “batsman”—propelled the ball far enough, it was assumed that he could have run a certain distance, had he so wished. This struck Lloyd as very British. Much of the skill, according to Roger, lay in the way the ball was thrown—or “bowled”: there were “googlies,” “Yorkers,” “chinamen” and a puzzling and somehow unsporting introduction called “the bodyline.” The names for the field positions were sublimely ridiculous: “silly mid-off,” “deep square leg,” “short third man.”
“And who are the stiffs over there?” Lloyd pointed at a row of middle-age to elderly men sitting in the front section of the pavilion, uniformly blazered and stern. “They look like some kind of jury.”
Roger frowned. “Those are the MCC members,” he corrected. “You see, Lord’s is officially the Marylebone Cricket Club ground, though it’s shared with Middlesex County Cricket Club—not that we’re actually in Middlesex, you understand.”
“Ah.” Lloyd nodded. He noticed that there were no female members, but dared not ask Roger whether this was by choice or regulation. “So who’s going to win?” he said instead.
“We are.” Roger reached out and touched the wooden balustrade.
Lloyd was relieved when the rest of the party arrived, cutting short Roger’s detailed history of the English team’s appalling bad luck in recent matches against Australia. Harry made the introductions, and Lloyd found himself talking to Passion’s marketing man, a lanky, handsome fellow called Piers. His manner was noncommittal. He seemed to know all about what Lloyd had done in the States and asked some searching questions about the forthcoming campaign to publicize the new routes. Lloyd realized that he was being grilled. He answered as honestly as he could, explaining which ideas were not yet fully developed and which were under review. After a while the atmosphere relaxed: Lloyd seemed to have passed the test.
Various announcements over the loudspeaker had gone unheard, but now applause made itself obvious. “OK, everybody, enough yakking,” called Fox. “Let’s watch the bloody cricket.” From somewhere he had produced an ancient straw hat, which he pulled rakishly low over his eyes.
Lloyd followed him out on to the balcony. “Who’s going to win?” he asked.
“We are.”
For the next couple of hours Lloyd was deliriously happy. This was England as he had imagined it. The game was unbelievably slow; the crowd applauded politely; the mood in the box was one of gentle banter. Every now and then one of the players would utter a guttural exclamation and turn to stare inquiringly at an individual dressed in a white coat standing behind the “stumps,” who sometimes put one finger in the air like a reproving nanny. As the players warmed up they handed him their sweaters, which he tied one on top of another around his waist. A succession of men made their
way out from the pavilion to the middle and then back again a little while later. After what seemed like no time at all, play was interrupted as a cart was wheeled ceremonially onto the pitch.
“What happened? Is someone injured?” Lloyd asked anxiously.
“Good God, no. That’s the drinks trolley.”
Piers turned to his boss and pointed along the terrace. “Have you noticed that the opposition’s here?” Lloyd looked to see where he was pointing. A few boxes away, an angry-looking red-faced man in his sixties was gesturing to somebody whose back was turned.
“That’s Sir John Rex,” Piers explained to Lloyd, “chairman of Stateside. He loathes us—thinks we’re upstarts. He’ll do anything he can to stop us encroaching on what he regards as his business. But here at Lord’s we just ignore each other.”
Play resumed its gentle, civilized course until lunchtime, when the cricketers walked off and the Schneider Fox party left the balcony for the greater comfort of the hospitality box. Lunch was cold chicken, lettuce and potato salad, washed down with white wine. While they ate, Piers talked more about Stateside. “They’re determined to squeeze us out of the market. They’ve even been stopping our passengers at Heathrow and offering them upgrades if they’ll switch airlines. We only found out about it when the car-hire company that takes our premium passengers to the airport tipped us off.”
“Is that legal?” asked Lloyd. He noticed that Harry was listening to their conversation.
“Unfortunately, yes. But it’s not a major problem. We’re more worried about what they might try next.”
“Any leads on that?” asked Fox.
“At the moment, no.” Piers paused. “Though a rumor has reached us from the New York office that Schneider Fox is preparing a pitch for Stateside.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” Lloyd cut in. “I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt that we would never contemplate such a thing. It would be a clear case of client conflict.”
“Quite,” Piers agreed. He looked at Fox and lifted his chin in the direction of the Stateside box. “To us they are the Enemy—are they your enemy too?”
Renewed applause signaled the resumption of play. They drifted back to the balcony; Lloyd was amused to see that, along the terrace, many of the neighboring balconies remained empty. He settled down to watch the cricket once more. Now that he had begun to understand the rules, he could sense the changing fortunes of the game. There was, he noticed, a certain bantering rivalry between Harry and the Englishmen in their party, reflecting the contest on the field of play. It seemed clear that both took pleasure in the other team’s misfortune. This was not wholly unlike the feeling the English showed toward him as a representative American. Lloyd wondered how much being an Australian had influenced Harry’s career in England.
Once more the players were leaving the field, to restrained applause. “Is that the end?” said Lloyd, looking at his watch. It was just after three thirty.
“Of course not,” replied Roger. “This is only the tea interval.”
Lloyd began to laugh. “The tea interval? The game stops for tea?”
“I don’t see what’s so funny about that,” said Roger huffily.
Piers shot Lloyd an amused glance. “Why don’t we stretch our legs?” he suggested. “I’ll show you around the ground, if you like.”
The two of them descended the steps from the hospitality boxes to ground level. There were plenty of other people circulating in both directions. Lloyd and Piers sauntered, the Englishman pointing out anything of interest as they passed. Suddenly a voice greeted them: “Oi, Piers, skiving again?”
Lloyd turned to see a man grinning at them from behind a pair of Ray-Bans. He leered at Lloyd as Piers introduced them. “Lloyd, this is Julian Jewel, of whom I expect you’ve heard.”
“We’ve talked on the blower,” said Jewel, sliding his sunglasses on to his forehead. His handshake was firm and friendly. “Hi, Lloyd. Glad to see my jumping ship didn’t put a stop to your English jaunt.”
Lloyd studied Jewel as he chatted to Piers. He was a short man, about Lloyd’s own age, with a trendy haircut and a lime-green jacket. Everything he had heard about Jewel made Lloyd prepared to dislike him, but perversely, now that he stood there before him, Lloyd found himself warming to his energy and the mischievous gleam in his eye. When Piers suddenly remembered that he had to buy a souvenir for his godson, Lloyd was left alone with him.
“So, how are you getting on with the Passion people?” Jewel asked.
“Fine.”
“And Harry? Clever bastard, isn’t he? Though not too keen on me, of course.”
“I like him.”
“Well said.” Jewel clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re not worried about being away from the New York office for so long, then?”
Lloyd wondered if he was hinting at something. “Everything’s under control,” he answered blandly.
They chatted for a while about the latest lunacies in the industry; then Jewel looked at his watch. “I’d better get back to my lot.” He rolled his eyes. “They’re a load of bog-paper manufacturers from the Midlands. So dull they make even the cricket seem interesting. Give me Passion any day.” He grinned cheekily. “They’re a good client. Enjoy them while you can.” And he disappeared into the crowd.
On his way back to the hospitality box, Lloyd realized he had taken the long way to circumnavigate the ground. He was debating with himself whether it might be quicker to turn back when he caught a glimpse of Harry Fox deep in conversation with someone in a doorway. As Lloyd approached, he recognized the other man: it was Sir John Rex. Lloyd was puzzled. What was Fox doing? He hesitated for a moment, then turned back the way he had come. He did not mention what he had seen when he returned to the box, nor did Fox say anything when he too returned a few minutes later. Lloyd felt vaguely disturbed by this, and wondered why. It was none of his business who Harry Fox talked to. Yet he was embarrassed about sharing in the deceit: it was like knowing that a friend was cheating on his wife. It made him uncomfortable.
He was still feeling unsettled by his chance discovery when he inserted the key into the lock of Susannah Wilding’s apartment later that evening . . .
Chapter Twelve
As Lloyd mounted the stairs to the flat he could hear Betsy cursing. She appeared on the landing above him, uncharacteristically disheveled. There were cobwebs in her hair and a black greasemark on her nose. She was holding a hammer in that cute, limp-wristed way women did. Lloyd couldn’t help smiling.
“It is not funny,” Betsy enunciated grimly. “Something’s happened to that tank thing.” She pointed upward to the roof space. “Water’s pouring out. I can’t stop it. I’ve used every towel and newspaper in the place. My shoes are ruined. Where were you?”
“Meeting with clients,” Lloyd answered, feeling that “watching cricket” might not go down well. Gently he pried the hammer from her grasp. “You should have called a repair man.”
Betsy gave herself a pantomime smack on the forehead. “Now why didn’t I think of that?” She glared at him. “Either they didn’t answer the telephone, or they promised they’d come by first thing tomorrow.” Betsy’s face crumpled. “What kind of country is this? First there was that awful cat. Now a flood. It’ll be a plague of toads next.”
Lloyd put his hands soothingly on her shoulders. This was not the calm, competent Betsy he knew. “You go lie down, and take it easy. Here’s my jacket. I’ll see what the problem is. If I can’t fix it, we’ll go to a hotel.” He rubbed her cheek with his knuckles. “Now scoot.”
In the hallway a pull-down ladder was resting in a sea of wet newspaper. On the bottom rung was a small flashlight, part of Betsy’s essential traveling equipment. Lloyd picked it up and ascended the ladder to the attic. There was the tank, with water spilling over the edge. Lloyd stepped carefully across the joists and shone his torch into the tank. Water was pouring in; the ball valve, which was supposed to close when the tank was full, had sunk below the surfa
ce. Lloyd rolled up his shirt-sleeve and reached in to pull it up again. Immediately the flow of water stopped. He fished around in his pockets and found a rubber band. Feeling pleased with himself, he secured the valve in place. He would have to get a new part tomorrow, but his makeshift repair would do for now.
Lloyd gathered up the filthy, sodden towels, descended the ladder and folded it back up into the attic hatchway. Poor Betsy. England seemed to make her tense. She had visited hardly any of the sights, saying that it was no fun to go alone. He assumed she spent the days working on her thesis, but so far he hadn’t dared ask about her progress. The most animated he had seen her was when she told him about taking the intruder cat to the veterinarian to be destroyed. Lloyd had never set eyes on the animal. He had even wondered if it was a weird hallucination, expressive of Betsy’s alienated state of mind.
Determined to find a way of making it up to her, Lloyd cleaned up the mess, stuffed the dirty towels into a rubbish bag and went to find Betsy. She was lying on the couch in the living room with a blanket over her legs, watching television.
Lloyd raised his arms in a he-man gesture. “I fixed it.” He grinned.
“Thank goodness.”
“Come on, let’s go out and eat.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t go out like this. Besides, my favorite program’s coming up.”
Lloyd tried again. “OK, I’ll go to that Indian take-out place. We can eat in here, relax, watch TV together.”
The curry was not a success. Lloyd over-ordered wildly and had to eat most of the food himself, while Betsy nibbled the poppadoms and exclaimed at the shocking level of sexual explicitness on British television. Eventually Lloyd wiped his lips and said, “I guess I’d better call Susannah Wilding to tell her about the leak.”
