40 Love

by Sophie Kinsella

  ‘It’s not really a problem for me,’ she said frankly. ‘Since I never do any cooking.’

  ‘Really? But last night…’

  ‘Caterers,’ said Caroline. ‘I thought you knew. Can you see me making seafood tartlets?’ Her eyes crinkled humorously at Cressida. ‘I’m crap at cooking. When I first invited Patrick round to my flat for dinner, I hired a caterer to do Beef Wellington. They delivered it to the back door, and I brought it up the stairs, through the kitchen and out to Patrick. He thought I’d been taking it out of the oven!’ She burst into raucous laughter, and Cressida gave a shocked giggle. ‘He still thinks I made it,’ added Caroline. ‘You’re the only person I’ve ever told. You mustn’t tell him!’

  ‘Oh, no, I won’t,’ said Cressida. She stared at Caroline, wide-eyed. ‘Did he really believe you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Caroline. ‘Men are so blind. He didn’t even notice it was on a foil caterer’s tray.’ Cressida broke into giggles again.

  ‘That’s amazing,’ she said.

  ‘Sometimes he asks for Beef Wellington again,’ said Caroline, ‘and I tell him I don’t want to make it because I want to keep the memory of that dish special.’

  ‘So you haven’t ever had it since?’

  ‘Never,’ said Caroline. She took out a cigarette, put it in her mouth and reached for her lighter. ‘The caterers went bust,’ she said. ‘And I don’t want to risk using another firm. They might do it differently.’ She caught Cressida’s eye and they both broke into laughter again. Cressida gave a few broken, almost painful giggles as she watched Caroline light her cigarette. Caroline looked up.

  ‘Would you like one?’ she asked.

  ‘A cigarette?’ Cressida paused. ‘I haven’t smoked since I was at school.’

  ‘Do you good,’ said Caroline. ‘Calm your nerves.’ She offered Cressida the pack. After a few moments, Cressida took one.

  ‘They’re menthol,’ added Caroline. ‘You may not like them.’ Cressida took a few hesitant drags.

  ‘Minty!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Nice, aren’t they?’ said Caroline. She grinned companionably at Cressida. ‘They clean your teeth as well.’

  ‘Really?’ began Cressida, then saw Caroline’s face. She laughed. ‘I always believe what people tell me.’

  ‘I’m the opposite,’ said Caroline. ‘I always disbelieve what people tell me. It’s a good habit to get into.’

  ‘But what if they’re telling the truth?’ Caroline shrugged.

  ‘Then you’ll find out soon enough,’ she said. Cressida nodded puzzledly and continued taking puffs on her cigarette. Caroline watched her, inhaling with shallow little breaths and quickly exhaling again, and suddenly felt a strong, almost maternal fondness for her.

  ‘Have you ever tried to make it?’ said Cressida suddenly.

  ‘Make what?’

  ‘Beef Wellington.’ Caroline inhaled deeply, and looked at Cressida sardonically.

  ‘Me make Beef Wellington? You’re talking to the girl who got straight Es in cookery. I told you. I’m crap at cooking.’ She blew out a satisfying cloud of smoke.

  ‘I could teach you to make it.’

  Caroline looked slowly round at Cressida, suspecting a joke.

  ‘Teach me? What do you mean?’ Her voice came out more sharply than she had intended.

  Cressida’s face fell slightly; but she carried on, in a slightly hesitant voice, ‘I could come round—or you could come round to me—and I could show you how to do it. I’ve made Beef Wellington lots of times. And I’m sure you could, too.’

  ‘Come round to your house?’

  ‘Not if it’s inconvenient, of course,’ said Cressida. ‘I could easily come here.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Caroline slowly. ‘I’m always popping into Silchester. It would be easy for me to come to you. And you really think I could learn to make Beef Wellington?’

  ‘I’m sure you could,’ said Cressida. She smiled shyly at Caroline. ‘You could cook it for Patrick. As a surprise.’

  ‘Christ, he won’t believe his eyes!’ said Caroline. She grinned at Cressida. ‘I have to warn you, I’m a bloody awful pupil. But I’ll make a special effort to listen. Are you sure you can bear it?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Cressida. ‘It’ll be fun!’ Her eyes sparkled and she looked for somewhere to stub out her cigarette.

  ‘Cressida! You’re not smoking?’ It was Charles’ stentorian voice. The light in Cressida’s eyes dimmed; her eyes darted about distractedly. Even her skin seemed suddenly lifeless.

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ called Caroline loudly. ‘Bloody nerve,’ she muttered under her breath. Charles approached the court briskly.

  ‘I didn’t think you smoked, Cressida,’ he said. ‘It’s an expensive habit, you know.’ Cressida was silent. He stared at her expectantly, his eyes cold; his face hard.

  ‘I just thought I’d try one,’ she said eventually, in a voice that trembled slightly. Caroline drew breath, and looked with a sudden fierce hatred at Charles. He met her gaze challengingly—then, with a sound of impatience, turned away.

  ‘Hello!’ The cheery voice of Annie reached them. ‘Everyone’s coming,’ she called. ‘Patrick was held up by a phone call.’ She was carrying a number of bottles and a plastic ice bucket. ‘I thought I’d bring a few supplies,’ she added. ‘Does anybody want a drink? I’ve got lemonade, and orange juice.’

  ‘We should have some water on the court,’ said Caroline. ‘I’ll go and get some.’

  As she left, Cressida suddenly felt exposed, as though an insulating barrier between her and Charles had been removed. She looked surreptitiously at Charles’ face. It was still harsh, with taut lines and shadows that actually made him better looking. He looked … she groped in her mind for the word … moody. Mean and moody. Of course. The sort of looks one was supposed to fall desperately in love with. But Cressida had never been attracted to that sort of man. She had fallen in love with Charles because of his easy good nature; his wide smile; his even temper. She had felt safe with him; protected and secure. And now she was, in spite of herself, frightened. She didn’t want to be alone with him again; she didn’t want to listen to his shouts and threats; she didn’t want to experience again that tense, miserable silence.

  ‘Aha! Our worthy finalists!’ It was Don, striding briskly towards the court, with a straw hat on his head and a clipboard in his hand. He walked over to the green umpire’s chair and deposited his clipboard. Then he produced a tape measure, went to the centre of the court and ceremoniously measured the net.

  ‘It’s a bit low,’ he called. ‘Annie, would you mind adjusting it?’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Annie, getting up obligingly. ‘This is all getting a bit serious.’

  Cressida stared straight ahead, avoiding Charles’ eye, as Annie wound the handle back and forwards. Stephen seemed a cheerful, straightforward man, she thought to herself. Lucky Annie …

  ‘A bit higher,’ called Don. ‘No, a bit lower … slow down … up a bit more, yes that’s right, stop, stop!’ He beamed at Charles and Cressida. ‘Might as well get it right before we start.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Charles, in a taut voice.

  Caroline and Patrick were coming down the path towards the tennis court.

  ‘Listen,’ said Caroline. ‘We’ve got to beat that little shit.’ Patrick looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Who, Charles?’

  ‘Yes, of course Charles. He’s a complete bastard.’ Patrick’s eye fell on Charles, on his blond hair and insolent tanned face, and he scowled.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Caroline, ‘don’t play your usual crap.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve!’ said Patrick indignantly. ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘I thought you quite liked Charles.’

  ‘He’s a complete two-timing bastard.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Patrick. ‘I thought he might be. How did you find that out?’

  ‘Ella told me,’ said Caroline over her sho
ulder. ‘They did it last night. In a field.’

  ‘In our field?’

  ‘I know. Taking liberties a bit, I thought.’

  Charles and Cressida had gone onto the court.

  ‘Hello,’ said Caroline briskly. ‘Just going to limber up.’ She took up a position by the court and attempted a few rather flashy stretching exercises. ‘My hamstrings are out of condition,’ she complained loudly, catching Patrick’s eye. She flashed a look at Charles. He was standing, scowling at the ground. Miserable sod, she thought. Can’t even enjoy adultery.

  Charles was wondering whether he could bear playing this match at all. All the others seemed so fucking cheerful, while his mind was clouded over with bleak misery. The only other person who looked as downcast as him was Cressida. And she was beginning to annoy him beyond measure, with her fluttering eyelids, and her pale face, and that stupid outburst of weeping. Everyone obviously blamed him. Christ. That was bloody ironic.

  ‘Ready,’ announced Caroline. ‘Let’s knock up.’

  Charles scooped up a couple of tennis balls and began slamming forehands angrily at Caroline, trying to relieve his frustration.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ shrieked Caroline, as another ball went straight into the back netting. ‘I’m not Steffi Graf, you know. Here, Cressida, you haven’t hit a single shot.’ She deliberately aimed the ball at Cressida, but it went in the net.

  ‘Oh fucking hell,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Ahem, excuse me,’ said Don, waving to attract her attention. ‘I’ll have to warn you against bad language. It’s against the LTA rule book.’

  ‘What?’ Caroline gazed at him in amazement. ‘You must be fucking joking.’

  ‘As well as being unpleasant for players and audience alike,’ explained Don.

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Caroline. She turned to the audience. ‘Is anyone offended by my language?’ she asked loudly. There was silence.

  ‘Actually, Mummy,’ said Georgina politely, ‘I am.’

  ‘You don’t count,’ said Caroline. ‘Anyway, I thought you were going to be ballboy.’

  ‘We’re not going to stay for long,’ said Georgina. ‘Nicola wants to have a go on Arabia before she goes home.’

  ‘Well, come and be ballboy until then,’ said Caroline impatiently.

  ‘Actually,’ said Georgina, ‘we’ll probably go straight away. We’ll come back and see how you’re doing a bit later on,’ she added kindly. ‘Come on, Nick,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ said Caroline, as Georgina marched off with Nicola and Toby. ‘She was dead keen to be ballboy last week.’

  ‘She’s probably realized it’s actually quite hard work,’ said Annie, laughing. ‘She’s not stupid, your daughter.’

  ‘Let’s get cracking,’ said Patrick impatiently. ‘Who’s got rough or smooth?’

  ‘I’ll toss,’ said Don officiously. ‘Heads or tails?’

  ‘Tails.’

  ‘No, heads. That means Charles and Cressida are to serve.’

  ‘So we choose an end,’ said Caroline. ‘I’ll let you decide.’ Patrick stared at her crossly. He had never been able to understand the mentality that went behind choosing an end in tennis. What did it matter? It wasn’t as if you were stuck there for the whole match. He gazed up at the sun, temporarily covered over with light, gauzy cloud, and looked back down at the court, none the wiser. What was it they always said? Let’s have one in the sun. But which end was the sun? He looked around. Everyone was waiting for him to decide.

  ‘Let’s have that end,’ he said perversely, pointing to the opposite end. If he couldn’t decide on any reasonable grounds, he could at least make that bastard Charles walk the length of the court unnecessarily.

  As Charles passed the net, he saw the figure of Ella, unmistakable in her blue dress, coming down the bank in bare feet. She sat down beside Martina and began talking to one of the twins. A cold fury went through him at the sight of her, unencumbered, free, with no responsibilities. She had the air of someone who is only pausing on the way to somewhere far more exciting; who has dropped in, considerately, to say a quick hello, but who is already anticipating leaving for much greater pleasures elsewhere.

  And he had actually thought last night that he was going to be part of those pleasures. Watching her, it came to him that she didn’t really care whether he visited her in Italy or not. She hadn’t brought up the subject again, she hadn’t given him any conspiratorial glances or expressive looks. She was just going to go off, to her idyllic Italian ménage, and leave him behind, with a wife, two children and possible ruin. Selfish bitch, he thought furiously.

  As if aware of his thoughts, Ella directed her gaze towards him and took off her sunglasses to see better. Charles hastily turned his head away, and met the amused glance of Caroline, who was approaching the net.

  ‘You’re looking rather tired today, Charles,’ she said. ‘I hope you slept well.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Charles hastily.

  ‘Perhaps it was just the late night then,’ said Caroline, following Cressida, who was walking round on the other side of the court, with her gaze. ‘Ella tells me you made quite a night of it.’ She brought her blue eyes round to meet his; her face was full of contempt. A jolt ran through Charles. She knows what happened last night, he thought. That fucking bitch Ella told her. Why? Why tell Caroline?

  She was still staring fixedly at him, and he couldn’t move his eyes away from hers. He felt pinioned, like a rabbit mesmerized by a snake. She had power over him, and she knew it. If she wanted to, she would have no hesitation in telling Cressida; perhaps even telling the whole assembled company. She was that kind of insensitive, vulgar, indiscreet woman. No wonder Cressida couldn’t bear her. He should have listened to his wife; they should have refused the invitation to come here.

  Eventually she let him go.

  ‘I think they’re waiting,’ she said. ‘We’d better go to our places.’ Charles watched her sauntering off to join Patrick; her pony tail bouncing, her tasteless gold bracelets glinting in the sun. What did she know of the troubles he was in, he thought viciously. She and Patrick hadn’t a money trouble between them; they had the easy, lazy sybaritic life while he had nothing but worries. He walked to the back of the court and scooped up a couple of balls.

  ‘I’ll serve,’ he said shortly to Cressida.

  ‘The final of The White House tournament,’ intoned Don, ‘between Caroline and Patrick Chance and Charles and Cressida Mobyn. Linesmen ready.’ He turned to the audience. ‘Any volunteers?’

  ‘That’s your job,’ said Stephen lazily, his arm around Annie. ‘We’re here to applaud. Anyway, you’re the expert.’

  ‘I suppose I am,’ said Don, in a pleased voice. He adjusted his hat and sat back in his chair. ‘Players ready.’ He glanced from side to side. ‘Play.’

  Cressida stood at the net, staring at the grass in front of her. She felt completely detached from the game, detached almost from real life. She stood in the correct position, holding her racquet ready, listening vaguely to Charles grunting behind her as he served each ball. The sound made her flinch; it sounded so angry and brutal. And when the ball came thundering into the net beside her, she physically started. The sound of racquets against balls was growing louder and louder in her ears; the shots seemed to be whizzing past her faster and faster. It was quite a threatening game, tennis, she thought unhappily. Quite violent, in its own way.

  ‘Double fault,’ announced Don resonantly. ‘Thirty-all.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ whispered Cressida. But Charles hadn’t heard her. He was swiping angrily at the air with his racquet.

  His next serve went in, but it was weak. Patrick took a swing at it, and sent it to Cressida, standing stationary at the net, staring miserably at the ground. Too late, she stuck her racquet out with an instinctive, schooled action. The ball went sailing past her and landed just inside the baseline.

  ‘What were you saying about my usual crap?’ said Patrick to Caroline. Charl
es glared at Cressida.

  ‘You could have got that, darling,’ he said, putting a jovial veneer on his voice.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, in a voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘Thirty-forty,’ intoned Don. Charles scowled, and threw the ball up high. He came down on it with all his weight, and hammered the ball into the service court. Caroline valiantly hit at the ball as it came thundering towards her, and sent it sky-high. Cressida began to prepare automatically for an overhead, but from behind her came Charles’ voice.

  ‘Leave it! It’s mine!’ He ran forward, brought his racquet back and smashed it down wildly.

  ‘Out!’ Patrick looked up and gave Charles a smug grin. That would take the smooth bastard down a bit. ‘Long by about a foot,’ he elaborated. ‘Bad luck. I think that’s our game.’

  Charles glowered silently at Cressida as they changed ends. Now she couldn’t even play a decent game of tennis. For Christ’s sake. That was about the only thing she was supposed to be good at.

  A sudden memory came to him of a long-forgotten tennis game, which must have happened sometime before they were married. He had sat and watched Cressida, playing in the dappled shade of a cedar tree. Where had that been? He couldn’t remember anything about it except the way she’d looked, wearing an old-fashioned-looking tennis dress, with a dropped waistband, like a Twenties flapper. And the way she’d played. Neat, deft, confident without being aggressive. Afterwards, when she’d played her final winning shot, she’d caught his eye and smiled shyly, twisting the pearls she always wore around her fingers. He’d really loved her then. Or he’d thought he did. Perhaps it amounted to the same thing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  As the games progressed, Cressida’s confidence was in shards. She couldn’t keep her mind on the ball; her racquet shook in her hand; her shots were lame and tentative; her reflexes seemed numbed and slow. As she prepared to serve, she felt, to her horror, warm tears rising up in her eyes. She brushed them away with the sleeve of her tennis shirt, then, to stop the others from noticing, quickly threw up the tennis ball and hit it blindly.