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Players Page 12

by Karen Swan


  She sat through Coronation Street and EastEnders, and was just finishing the bottle when there was a knock at the door. Puzzled – and hoping to God it wasn’t Cress fresh off the M11 – she answered it.

  A dazzling woman in her late sixties was standing there, with short champagne blonde hair (a colour that curiously looks cheap before sixty, and chic after it) and swathed in asymmetric linen knits. She had huge lustrous pearl globes at her ears and a languid black Labrador sitting politely at the end of a red rope lead.

  ‘Hello.’ She smiled. Her eyes twinkled kindly.

  ‘Hello.’ Tor smiled back, mortified to be standing in her pyjamas at such a respectable time of day. It was barely 8 p.m.

  ‘I’m Henrietta Colesbrook. Are you Victoria Summershill?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I heard you were staying for a while. I just wanted to show my face in case you need anything. I live just up the lane, in the Old Rectory.’

  ‘Gosh, that’s so kind of you. Would you like to come in?’ Tor motioned through to the hallway, aware that the wine bottle she was holding was conspicuously empty.

  ‘I won’t, thank you. Diggory, here’ – she nodded down to the lab – ‘will moult all over the carpets. Rangy mutt.’ Tor thought that could only be an improvement on them. ‘But here is my number – do ring, if you’d like some company or a helping hand,’ she added.

  Tor wondered what Kate had told her but she took the notepaper gratefully.

  ‘There’s a market in the village tomorrow – from eight a.m. till eleven. I’m on the cake stall. Do come and say hallo, won’t you? You look like you could do with some feeding up and I can introduce you to some friendly locals.’ She started walking down the drive. ‘Tomorrow then,’ she waved.

  ‘Tomorrow. Thank you,’ Tor called after her. She pushed the door shut and shrugged happily. Looking up, she caught sight of her reflection in the hallway mirror, and though she was momentarily startled to see how thin she looked, she flashed herself a winning smile.

  Horrors! She gasped and clamped her hand over her mouth. The wine had stained her teeth. She looked like a bloody pirate. Oh God, what on earth must Henrietta Colesbrook have thought? Her shoulders sagged back down. How sodding typical is that, she muttered to herself.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They all slept late the next morning, and as Tor padded, blinking, into the sunlit kitchen, she felt a flicker of optimism waking up with her. Looking out at the pale, tendril-swept sky, she began planning adventures on the beach. A picnic, naturally. There didn’t seem to be enough wind for kites, but cricket and crabbing maybe?

  Filling the kettle with water and putting it on the boiling plate, she switched on the Aga and scrabbled around in the larder for the oats and honey. A big pot of porridge was just the thing to greet the children when they woke up.

  Fifteen minutes later, when the children scrambled downstairs, she was rather less serene. The Aga was broken and wouldn’t come on. She couldn’t even make a cup of tea – which counted as one of the first signs of the Apocalypse in the Summershill household. There was nothing for it but to eat out.

  The market was already doing business when they got there – the children wearing jumpers and wellies with their pyjamas – as the locals rushed to nab the best asparagus and lobster before the throngs came up from Fulham for the holidays. Tor and the children dived into the bakery and bought some warm croissants and a large carton of orange juice, before perching on a bench to tuck in.

  ‘Victoria.’

  ‘Mrs Colesbrook,’ she cried, hurriedly wiping the orange moustache away from her top lip. ‘Please, call me Tor.’

  ‘And you must call me Hen,’ she smiled. ‘I thought it was you. James said it was. And these must be your children. Goodness, aren’t they sweet?’

  ‘Oh, yes. This is Marney, Millie and Oscar.’ She patted them each on the head, in turn, and they all smiled, on their best behaviour. They liked the look of her. She looked kind.

  ‘You said – James – saw us?’

  ‘Yes, my son – he’s over there.’ She nodded towards the crowd. ‘Oh, where’s he gone now? Always gallivanting off somewhere.’ She tipped her head in bemusement.

  Tor felt sure she didn’t know a James Colesbrook. Was he a friend of Hugh’s?

  ‘How was your first night?’ Hen asked, smiling.

  Tor rolled her eyes and indicated the children’s attire.

  ‘Rather better than our first morning. The Aga’s broken. It was fine last night when I switched it off, but when I came down for breakfast this morning – dead as a dodo.’ She shrugged.

  Hen looked at her.

  ‘You switched it off?’

  Tor nodded, grabbing Millie by the collar as she made a break for freedom to the cake stall.

  ‘Oh, you are such a dear!’ Hen cried. ‘Truly that is the funniest thing.’ She held her arm over her stomach and belly-laughed before catching sight of Tor’s face.

  ‘Oh, I say.’ Hen stopped laughing immediately. ‘Oh, I am so sorry. I wasn’t laughing at . . . I thought you were joking.’

  She put a hand on Tor’s forearm. ‘It stays on all the time. Day and night. If you’ve turned it off, it’ll take a day or so to reheat.’

  ‘Oh.’ Tor felt this would be a good time for an earthquake to instantly strike the north Norfolk coast. ‘Well, that explains it. How silly of me.’ She tried not to show her mortification, but how could she not? Black teeth last night. A tramp’s breakfast this morning and now the Aga disaster. Thankfully, the children were tugging on Tor’s dress for her attention. Her cue to make a swift exit.

  ‘Well, it’s really so lovely to see you again,’ she said, backing away. ‘I expect I’ll run into you, no doubt, over the next few days.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure,’ said Hen, appalled at having embarrassed Tor so dreadfully. The poor girl had gone scarlet. ‘Actually, shall we see you at the tennis?’

  ‘The tennis?’

  ‘At Hunstanton. It’s the big tournament. It’s on all week and finishes at the weekend.’

  ‘Oh, uh . . .’

  ‘Look, I’ve got some spare tickets. Why don’t I pop them through your door? The children would love it, I’m sure.’

  ‘Well, that’s terrifically kind. Thank you very much,’ Tor said, as Millie began pulling her away like a tugboat. ‘I’ll see you there, then.’

  Hen was true to her word and a week’s worth of member tickets were posted through the letterbox before Tor got back from the beach. They’d had a fantastic time, building sand Cinderella carriages and collecting mussels, spelling the alphabet with huge slimy strands of seaweed, and running away from the waves. Tor even managed to get the children to eat tubs of cockles and prawns for an impromptu supper, followed by ice cream cornets – with flakes! – for pudding.

  They did the same the next day and the day after that, taking advantage of the fine weather, but now packing blankets, picnics and windbreaks so that they could all have lunchtime sleeps in the shade and stay out all day. The formula of non-stop play on the beach was proving highly effective at keeping the children’s tears at bay, and so long as they all kept moving, Hugh’s absence only really asserted itself at bedtime.

  It was at bathtime on Friday that they heard the Carrera S crunch up the gravel drive. Cress had come anyway. The prospect of inhabiting a confined space with her family had clearly been too terrible to contemplate.

  Tor felt herself sag. She just wanted some space, some isolation, some peace. To be some place where nobody knew her. Where she didn’t have to play at being perfect or brave.

  ‘Honey! I’m home,’ Cress trilled ironically.

  ‘We’re up here,’ Tor replied unenthusiastically.

  Cress popped her head round the door.

  ‘Anybody miss me?’ she beamed.

  ‘Yes. Your family probably,’ Tor said flatly, passing her a sponge. ‘Here, you do bathtime then. I’ll get Oscar’s bottle ready and start preparing supper.’
/>   She walked past without stopping to give her a kiss in greeting. Cress realized – too late – that she’d overstepped the mark.

  Tor started chopping tomatoes viciously. It had only been a week but she had escaped. She hadn’t understood how liberating it would feel to be lost, to be starting afresh where nobody knew them. Already she couldn’t visualize her London life and she didn’t want to. The narrow streets, the traffic, the queues, the adulterous dead husband – it all seemed so far away, as if it had happened to someone else. But seeing Cress was a wake-up call. Her Londonicity – was that a word? she wondered. It should be – the way she spoke faster, louder, the very fact that she’d been Tor’s bridesmaid, had Tor stressed to the roof rafters.

  They ate in the garden – crayfish bought that afternoon from the wet fish stall down by the Staithe, with salad and new potatoes in dill. Tension hung in the air as heavily as the scent of the honeysuckle, but Cress tried to ignore it.

  She carried the conversation, chatting about the apartment Harry had optioned in Beverly Hills, his book sales rising by twenty per cent following rumours of his Oscar nomination for the screenplay of Scion. But Tor wasn’t interested.

  ‘Cress,’ Tor said, quietly, deliberately, during a brief pause in the flow. ‘Why don’t you ever spend time with your family? What’s really going on?’

  Cress stopped eating, and looked at her friend.

  Tor wasn’t smiling, there wasn’t concern in her eyes. There was just detachment, scrutiny.

  ‘Odd question,’ Cress batted back, biting down on a tomato.

  ‘Why? You feel free to ask me anything you like about my life.’

  ‘Only because you’re so bloody impossible. I’ve seen clams open up more than you.’

  ‘Is Mark having an affair?’

  ‘No! What the hell is wrong with you?’

  Tor shrugged. ‘I don’t get it, that’s all. You just seem to have this desperate need not to be around them. Travelling and working all the time, and then spending what time you do have left with me.’

  ‘They just tend to have a better time without me, OK? I get in the way a bit and stress them out. I burn the food and put the bloody butter on the wrong toast and call them by the wrong names. I’m not good at down-time. Besides, you need me.’

  ‘I don’t actually. But I’m beginning to think you need me.’

  The two women looked at each other. Tor was different. She wasn’t as Cress had expected – weepy, depressed, lethargic, silent. Quite the contrary. There was no doubt the Summershill family looked transformed – each bronzed and golden from days on the beach – but there was a recklessness about Tor now, some sense of lack of boundaries.

  ‘I know what this is about,’ Cress said slowly as she glimpsed and recognized the fury in Tor’s eyes. ‘You’re punishing me. I’ve reminded you of home, haven’t I? You’re furious with me because you were starting to feel better and I’ve made you think of Hugh, all over again. It’s like I’ve brought him with me.’

  Tor bit her lip and stared at her glass. If it had been a living object, it would have died of fright, so fierce was her glare.

  ‘And that’s OK, Tor,’ Cress whispered, relieved to have got to the heart of Tor’s iciness, and away from her own emotional frigidity. ‘Grief has many stages; it takes many forms, you know. Punish me all you like. But I’m not going anywhere.’

  Tor dropped her head. ‘I’m a bitch.’

  ‘No. You’re grieving,’ Cress said, stroking her hand.

  Tor shook her head slowly. ‘No. I’m a bitch and Hugh knew it.’

  She stood up and cleared the plates, taking them into the kitchen. Cress sat in the dusk, trying to make sense of her words.

  Tor came back a few minutes later carrying a raspberry cheesecake.

  ‘What do you mean “Hugh knew”? I don’t understand.’ But the shutters had come down and Tor wouldn’t be drawn. Cress was more worried now than she had been haring up the M11, but she smiled and nodded as Tor told her all about the tennis tournament they were going to tomorrow. If she was going to be any use to her friend, Cress knew she’d better keep up.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cress scanned the crowds and figured there had to be well over a thousand in attendance. She couldn’t believe the scene here. Country Life was covering it, and it was like being in a Jack Wills catalogue. Boys from Oundle and Radley (their printed sweatshirts made this a fact, rather than a well-educated guess) kicked about with floppy hair and sailing shirts and khaki cut-offs. Holding ginger beers, they nonchalantly tried to get the attention of the stunning girls with flicky hair, who mooched about in their fathers’ cashmere jumpers and tiny shorts which hoicked up at the sides with D-rings and flashed even more thigh than Cress’s knickers. OK, that last bit wasn’t strictly true – she wore Myla G-strings. But the point was, she may as well have been Miss Havisham. The Hunstanton tennis was all about youth and flesh and warm beer. She felt ancient.

  She cast a sidelong glance at Tor. She was cradling her Pimm’s in her hands, seemingly relaxed, but Cress could tell there was underlying tension. Of course, it helped that the children weren’t here and she wasn’t constantly trying to keep hold of them in the crowds. Hen Colesbrook had proved to be a superstar and taken the children to the beach for their now customary picnic lunch. Cress was amazed at how quickly Tor had formed new habits – and new friends.

  Cress liked Hen. She could see she was looking out for Tor and the two of them had insisted Tor leave the children for the day. Tor had been reluctant to let them out of her sight, but Hen quashed her concerns, and the two women had whizzed over to Hunstanton in Cress’s sportster. It had been wonderful letting the wind muss their hair into bird’s nests as they whizzed around the coastal road, and they’d even sung ‘Boys of Summer’ five times straight. For a few moments, they’d felt seventeen again – at least until they’d arrived and stood among the real teenagers.

  Both women were in slim white jeans today, but Cress had teamed hers with camel driving shoes and a pale blue striped shirt; Tor was in red ballet flats and a diaphanous white blouse with splodgy red flowers on. Both were sporting huge square shades.

  It was finals day and they’d missed most of the morning’s match. By the time they’d found somewhere to park, there was standing room only at the back, so they’d retired to the bar, drinking weak Pimm’s and looking out to sea through the telescope. After an early lunch of quiche, salad and strawberries and ice cream – what else? – the women had scored third row seats at the net for the afternoon’s play. The bleachers were painted sky blue and the regulars had wisely brought cushions with them. After only ten minutes of sitting down, Cress’s bony bottom ached, and she kept muttering to Tor that she wished she had one too.

  Tor ignored her. She felt haunted today, anxious, as if Hugh’s ghost was her shadow. She should have known this was a bad idea. It was too idle. She needed to keep moving. Keep doing stuff. The children couldn’t afford to sit still, and neither could she.

  Cress lifted Tor’s wrist and checked her watch. The championship final was a couple of minutes off starting now. The umpire was in his seat and the bleachers were filling up quickly, the number of people fanning themselves with their orders of play spreading like a Mexican wave.

  Cress leaned over to Tor.

  ‘Have you got any suntan lotion in your bag?’

  ‘Here.’ Tor rummaged around her capacious Topshop-does-Balenciaga bag before handing her a tube of cream.

  Cress applied the cream to her face and neck, still scanning the crowd, before her gaze came to rest on an exquisite woman sitting almost directly opposite in the second row. She was dressed in a coral and peach striped silk jersey polo dress that skimmed over a flawless figure, exposing tanned legs and shapely ankles. Her luxuriant nut brown hair gleamed as it absorbed the sun and her shades were – more glamorously – bigger than Cress’s. They briefly made plastic eye contact before the stranger inclined her head to listen to the young boy sitt
ing next to her.

  ‘D’you want some water?’ Tor inquired.

  Cress didn’t hear her. She was checking out the woman on the little boy’s other side. She was less Mediterranean-looking than her companion, with a mid-brown bob and paler skin, but she had wonderful berry-red lips which rested in a natural pout, and judging by the way she had to cross her legs off-centre, she looked willowy tall.

  All of a sudden, Cress got the giggles and started jabbing Tor in the side with her elbow.

  Next to the pouty woman, a man in a natty ice-cream stripe linen shirt was talking animatedly to the people behind, and inadvertently sloshing his Perrier over the straw hat of the stout lady sitting next to him, who was stoically reading this week’s issue of the Field and pretending it wasn’t happening.

  ‘Hmmm?’ Tor leaned in to Cress. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Look. Over there,’ she panted with laughter.

  Tor looked over the net, to the bank of people on the other side.

  ‘What? Who? What am I looking . . . Oh!’ She caught sight of the comedy of manners. The rim of the woman’s hat was beginning to bow down from the weight of the water, causing fat drips to splash on the magazine. Tor couldn’t help but giggle too.

  Just then, the players came on to court to start knocking up, and the crowd cheered. Everyone took their seats and the ice-cream shirted man turned to sit down.

  It was James. Cress saw him at the same moment as Tor and gave a little wave.

  James didn’t see either of them. Seeing his bottle was empty, he had realized instantly his mistake and began solicitously brushing water off the lady’s hat, which had given up the fight and sagged miserably.

  Cress thought she was going to die laughing. Tor thought she was just going to die. Breathing suddenly felt difficult.

  The umpire shifted in his chair. ‘Quiet, please.’

  Tor looked up and down the bleachers, searching for the quickest way out. She couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t be twenty yards away from the man who’d ruined her life with a single drunken pass. But it was impossible to get out. The bleachers were full and there was a strict ‘no movement’ policy when play had begun. She’d have to wait until the end of the set.

 

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