her. ‘Beresford’s just walked in,’ she hissed.
Imogen choked over her tea. Everyone was hailing him from all corners.
‘He’s seen you,’ whispered Juliet. ‘He’s working his way in this direction.’
‘Hullo Nicky,’ said the Club Secretary. ‘Whatever happened to you?’
Beresford laughed, showing very white teeth. ‘I saw something I fancied on the other side of the netting,’ he said, looking at Imogen.
‘You ought to play in blinkers,’ said the Club Secretary. ‘Come and join us. Have you met our vicar, Mr Brocklehurst, and his daughters, Imogen and Juliet?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Beresford, shaking hands and holding Imogen’s hand far longer than necessary before he sat down between her and the vicar.
‘Brocklehurst,’ he said, reflectively, as he dropped four lumps of sugar into his tea. ‘Brocklehurst? Weren’t you capped for England just after the war?’
Mr Brocklehurst melted like butter in a heatwave.
‘Yes indeed. Clever of you to remember that.’
After talking to the vicar about rugger for five minutes, and having wangled himself an invitation to lunch next day, Beresford turned his attention to Imogen.
‘Well, you certainly threw me,’ he said softly. ‘It’s a good thing there weren’t any Davis Cup selectors about.’
‘I’m so pleased you won,’ stammered Imogen.
‘And I’m pleased,’ he looked straight into her eyes, ‘that you’re even more beautiful close up.’
So was he, thought Imogen. Far more beautiful, with dark smudges under his eyes, and damp tendrils curling round his forehead. His voice was low and confiding as though she were the only person in the world he wanted to talk to.
And although he asked the usual questions — What did she do for a living? Did she enjoy it? Did she ever come to London? — his smoky voice, and the way his eyes wandered over her body and her face, made even those familiar phrases sound significant.
A pale youth with long mousy hair, wearing a v-necked sweater with reindeers round the border, came up and cleared his throat. Nicky looked up without enthusiasm.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m from Yorkshire Television,’ said the youth. ‘I wonder if we could have a few words with you?’
‘When?’ said Nicky.
‘Well now?’
‘I’m busy.’
‘It won’t take long.’
‘I’ll talk to you after the doubles. Now beat it,’ said Nicky curtly, and turned back to Imogen.
She gazed at him, bewildered by such perfection. Perhaps it was the black rim round the iris or the thickness of the lashes that gave his blue eyes their intensity. His suntan was so even, it looked painted on. And he’d actually called her beautiful. Later that night she would bring out the remark like an iced cake saved from tea murmuring it over and over to herself, trying to remember exactly the husky smouldering overtones of his voice.
‘Where d’you play next?’ she asked. The thought of him going away was already unbearable.
Nicky grinned. ‘Rome on Monday, Paris the week after, then Edinburgh, Wimbledon, Gstaad, Kitzbuhel, and then the North American circuit, Washington, Indianapolis, Toronto, finally Forest Hills, if I don’t die of exhaustion.’
Imogen gasped. Scotland was the most abroad she’d ever been to.
‘Oh, how lovely,’ she said. ‘Think of the postcards one could send.’
Nicky laughed. ‘I could face it if you came with me,’ he said, lowering his voice.
Imogen blushed and gazed into her tea cup.
Nicky watched her for a second. ‘Trying to read the tea-leaves? They’re telling you that a tall, dark, tennis player has just come into your life,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ said a voice behind them. ‘I see you’ve got yourself stuck in as usual, Nicky.’
They had been so engrossed, they hadn’t noticed the arrival of a stocky, grinning young man. He was chewing gum and wearing a gold earring, a pale blue tracksuit top and a blue towelling headband to keep his blond hair from flying about.
‘I came to see the reason you dropped three games in the singles,’ he said.
‘This is it,’ said Nicky.
Once more Imogen felt herself colouring painfully.
‘Congratulations,’ said the young man, giving Imogen a comprehensive once-over and shifting his gum to the other side of his face. ‘You always had good taste, Nicky.’
‘This is Charlie Painter,’ said Nicky. ‘My doubles partner. Fancies himself as a tough guy.’
‘I don’t take anything lying down, except pretty girls,’ said Painter, winking at Juliet. ‘Look, if you can bear to tear yourself away, we’re on court in a minute.’
‘I can’t,’ said Nicky, turning his steady, knowing smile on Imogen again. ‘You don’t need me. You can thrash those two creeps with your hands behind your back.’
‘The light’s terrible. It’s going to be like playing in a coal cellar,’ said Painter, peering out of the tent.
‘Well, appeal against it,’ said Nicky. ‘You know I’m frightened of the dark and I want to go on chatting up Miss Brocklehurst.’
Imogen shot a fearful glance at her father, but happily he was still nose to nose with the Club Secretary, rhapsodising over Hancock’s try.
The loudspeaker hiccupped and announced the finals of the men’s doubles. Reluctantly Nicky got to his feet.
‘There’s a party here this evening, I wonder if you — and your sister, of course,’ he added smiling at Juliet, ‘would like to come?’
‘Oh, yes please,’ began Imogen, but the vicar promptly looked round.
‘Good of you to ask them,’ he said blandly, ‘but I’m afraid they’ve already been booked to help at the Mothers’ Union whist drive. We shall look forward to seeing you at lunch tomorrow, any time after half past twelve.’
Both Imogen and Juliet opened their mouths in protest, then shut them again. They knew their father. Just for a second Nicky’s eyes narrowed. Then he smiled.
‘I shall look forward to it too,’ he said, and followed Painter out of the tent.
‘Sod the Mothers’ Union,’ muttered Juliet.
‘I know you like them below the age of consent,’ said Painter, as they walked towards the No. 1 Court, ‘but isn’t she a bit wet behind the ears?’
‘Older than she looks, left school two years ago,’ said Nicky, pausing to sign a couple of autographs. ‘And very nice, don’t you think?’
‘Sweet,’ agreed Painter, signing them too.
‘And entirely untouched by human hand,’ said Nicky, ‘which makes a change.’
‘We were the first that ever burst into that sunless sea,’ said Painter and laughed. ‘All the same, you’ll never get your spoon into that pudding. Bet the old Rev locks them both in chastity belts every night.’
‘He’s asked me to lunch.’
‘So what? He’ll still never let you get near enough to pull her.’
‘Want to bet?’ said Nicky, taking a racket out of its press, and making a few swipes with it. ‘Bugger, my shoulder’s playing up again.’
‘A fiver,’ said Painter, taking off his blue jacket.
‘Make it a tenner,’ said Nicky, flexing his shoulder.
‘All right, you’re on.’
As he and Painter took the first set 6–0, Nicky was aware of the vicar and his daughters watching him. He was glad his first serve went in each time, and for once volleys, smashes, lobs, drop shots, everything, worked. He was getting to the ball so quickly he had time to examine it for bugs before he hit it. This was the kind of barnstorming form he’d got to maintain for the rest of the season. He flashed his teeth at Imogen and saw she was about to go.
