hand, Natasha deliberately let hers touch his.
‘Lucky in love, you choose first,’ she said as he drew the longest straw.
Lysander glanced round at the charming expectant faces: Flora looking sulkily sexy; Natasha smouldering with promise; Hermione radiating certainty — of course he’ll choose me; Rachel trying to appear indifferent, but her eyes telling a different story; Marigold smiling at Larry who was ringing Japan on his mobile; Cecilia letting her pink slit-skirt fall open: ‘I will excite you more than any of the others,’ said her hot, lingering glance; and Georgie, fondly indulgent — Lysander’s dear love, and to him even lovelier because she looked tired and not her best. Then at the back, her fat legs as brick-red as the squashed dahlias she was clutching, her face topped by that frightful frizzy perm and shiny from racing around all day, cringed Kitty. Her very white aertex shirt and her pleated shorts strained over her large breasts and bottom. Dying of humiliation, she gazed down at her racquet knowing she would be the last to be chosen. Georgie, whom he longed to please, had begged him to look after her.
‘I’d like to play with Kitty,’ said Lysander.
‘You what?’ said Rannaldini incredulously.
Smiling, mishearing, Georgie moved forward.
‘I said I wanted to play with Kitty,’ said Lysander firmly. Going over and putting his arm round her shoulders, he saw tears swimming behind the impossibly strong spectacles.
‘Fank you,’ she mumbled.
‘The judgement of Paris,’ murmured Bob. ‘Well done.’
Ferdie was incensed. ‘You’re supposed to be getting Guy back for Georgie,’ he hissed.
‘What nice manners Lysander has,’ said Hermione loudly. ‘Anyone who says the young haven’t got exceptionally nice manners doesn’t know what they’re talking about.’
Georgie was livid. Particularly when the vicar, who had the second longest straw, noticing her closeness to Lysander and desperate to get in there, decided to overcome his disapproval of her behaviour at the fete and chose her as his partner. She was even crosser when Guy, relieved of his duty as Ace Carer to choose Kitty, infuriated the husbands of Paradise by picking Rachel. Natasha, however, was crossest of all to be chosen by Ferdie who was getting redder and sweatier by the minute.
‘I don’t want my eyes blacked,’ giggled the Ideal Homo, ‘so I choose Flora.’
‘Nor do I,’ muttered Bob. Ignoring Hermione’s furious stare, he chose Marigold.
Larry chose Cecilia, because Hermione’d just sent him a furious letter about an advance.
‘Men are frightened of playing with really good women players,’ Hermione told the empty air as Rannaldini, who’d drawn the short straw, bore her off to Court Two.
‘Oh goodee, a cosy girls’ foursome,’ murmured Flora as she and the Ideal Homo also set off to the second court to play against Georgie and the vicar. A spitting Natasha then had to watch Kitty and Lysander drawn against Larry and Cecilia, both class players, on Court One.
‘I’m ’orribly bad,’ Kitty told Lysander miserably, clutching her ancient Prince racquet.
‘Hurrah,’ said Lysander. ‘I’ve got a dreadful hangover, so if we get knocked out early we can slope off and watch Longchamps.’
A champing Larry kicked off, unleashing a thunderbolt at poor Kitty, who missed it completely. His next serve to Lysander came hurtling back. Picking up the ball on the half-volley, Larry whacked it cross-court to Kitty, who missed once again.
Returning to serve to Kitty once more, an over-eager Larry released another thunderbolt while she was still retrieving a ball from the long grass, hitting her hard on the bottom.
‘You shouldn’t be so large,’ shouted Natasha.
‘You OK, Kitty?’ called Lysander sympathetically. ‘She wasn’t ready,’ he yelled to Mr Brimscombe who was umpiring.
‘Forty love,’ said Mr Brimscombe, who, fed up with sweeping up leaves, thought he might allow himself to be lured back to Larry.
‘Just lulling the opposition into a feeling of false security,’ said Lysander, grinning at Kitty as he easily passed Cecilia with his backhand.
‘Forty fifteen.’
But poor Kitty was nowhere near Larry’s next service.
‘Game to Mr Lockton and Mrs Rannaldini. They lead 1–0.’
Kitty hung her frizzy head. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Lysander peered through the spyhole as they changed ends. ‘I can see Arthur talking to some children. I wonder where Jack and Maggie are. They’ve been gone for ages. We’ve got sun in our eyes this end.’ He plonked his baseball cap over Kitty’s perm. ‘It can’t be much worse than Larry’s jewels.’
Lucky Cecilia to have olive skin that never goes red, thought Kitty as she cringed at the net waiting for Lysander’s serve.
‘Watch zee ball, Keety,’ called out Cecilia kindly.
‘You won’t even see this one, duckie,’ muttered Lysander. Bouncing the ball reflectively, he waited for Cecilia to get into position, then curling over like a breaking wave, he aced her.
Larry jumped from foot to foot awaiting service, blowing on his nails, twitching his orange-and-purple shirt. He had all the Wimbledon tricks. He’d show the little bastard. Another ace hurtled past his ear at 90 m.p.h.
‘Game to Mr Hawkley and Mrs Kitty,’ said Mr Brimscombe, two aces later.
Cecilia was so furious that she served a double fault to Kitty, which gave her and Lysander a vital point, Lysander only having to win his service to clinch the next game.
Aware of everyone watching her and, she thought, laughing, Kitty’s hand was so sweaty that she promptly served two double faults. On the second Lysander reached out and caught the shocking pink ball as it veered off into the woods, tossed it into the right court. He then turned and gave Kitty a smile of such reassuring sweetness that she served the next ball in. Cecilia pounded it straight to Lysander, who whipped it between her and Larry. From then on Kitty’s dolly-drops went in and Lysander killed the return.
He was such a dazzlingly natural player, and his encouragement and kindness if she missed a shot gave Kitty such confidence that, having beaten the outraged Larry and Cecilia, they went on to thrash Natasha and Ferdie.
Flora and Meredith fooled about so much they lost all their three matches, which suited them both. Meredith wanted to drink lemon barley water and drool over Lysander. Flora was desperate for a word with Rannaldini, who, with Hermione, had slaughtered her and Meredith without the loss of a point or the flicker of a smile.
Now as he stood alone watching the needle match that had just started on Court One — Rachel and Guy v. Kitty and Lysander — to see which pair went into the final, Flora sidled up. Detesting herself, she slid a hand into his, whispering, ‘Can’t we slope off into the wood?’
‘Too many people around,’ said Rannaldini coldly, removing his hand.
‘Never put you off in the past.’
‘I weesh to watch. Hermione and I play the winner ’ere in final.’
Flora slunk off, despairing as a rescued dog returned to Battersea, and missed Rannaldini’s quick smile. He had been recently glued to the serial about Vita Sackville-West and Violet Trefusis on television, repeatedly replaying the love scenes between the two women, which made him all the more eager for sexual variation. He was aware how crazy Flora was about him. If he made her desperate enough by freezing her out, she would agree to anything, even going to bed with Cecilia who loved to go both ways, or Hermione (that would humble the spoilt bitch), or Rachel (ditto). He glanced at Flora kicking the grass, puffing furiously on her cigarette. God knows, he wanted her, but he’d have to punish her a great deal more before he reduced her to an adequate level of submission.
Georgie wasn’t enjoying the afternoon any more than Flora. Unlike Lysander, the vicar had been very shirty about double faults. He was enraged they hadn’t made the final. How impressed his congregation would have been if that had been the reason for him to miss Evensong.
And although Georgie thought it sweet of Lysander to be so nice to Kitty, it had encouraged Guy to be even nicer to Rachel. Georgie experienced an excruciating feeling of
