brands.
His devotion as a family man was also stressed. Any photo opportunity that could include his wife and two children was seized upon. It was because of Iain Holland’s respect for ‘old-fashioned family values’ that he had naturally gravitated towards the Conservative Party. He had ‘been lucky’ in his own business career, and it was now his ambition to ‘iron out the inequalities in our society and improve the lot of those to whom life had been less generous.’
There was no doubt that the personality of Iain Holland combined the best qualities of Jesus Christ, Mother Theresa and Margaret Thatcher.
Of his first marriage there was no mention. Susan and Marina had been completely airbrushed out of Iain Holland’s history.
Carole Seddon was thoughtful. There was certainly not going to be a problem contacting her quarry. His website seemed to be crying out for everyone in the world to get in touch with his saintly figure. They had only to do that for their problems to be at an end. . assuming, that is, that their problems concerned his particular ward in Brighton. But the implication in all his self-aggrandizing self-advertisement was that local politics for Iain Holland would only be a stepping stone to greater things. He was on the right committees within the Conservative national organization. He was a coming man. It appeared to be only a matter of time before he would be standing for some constituency as a prospective MP.
This information — or rather implied information — prompted two thoughts in Carole. One, that Iain Holland had a lot to lose if anything were to come out that might tarnish his squeaky-clean image. And two, that he would be aware of that and would guard himself against indiscretions, being careful about whom he had contact with. If she was going to take the obvious next step in her investigation, she was going to have to be very circumspect.
Her approach to Iain Holland needed a lot of thought. Gulliver was delighted to get the bonus of another walk on Fethering while his mistress worked through her problem.
Jude felt a little nervous when Piers dropped her from the E-Type at Lockleigh House tennis court on the Wednesday morning. Not about their relationship. They’d done a lot of talking on the Tuesday when they’d had a Fethering day, walking on the beach, having lunch at the Crown and Anchor, dinner at the local Chinese. It felt more like being a couple and, if anything, their rift over the weekend and subsequent making up had strengthened the feelings they shared.
Piers had even talked about how he made his money, which was chiefly by investing in small companies in Britain and the rest of Europe (hence his trip to Paris). His early career had been in PR. He’d built up his own agency and sold it, clearly for a great deal of money, some five years previously.
He talked about Jonquil’s financial affairs too. She had inherited a substantial amount when her parents died, which was why the half-share she’d get from the sale of the Goffham house wasn’t of great importance to her.
So when Piers had airily told Jude that on the Wednesday he had to go up to London for ‘various meetings, boring money stuff, wouldn’t interest you’, she was unsuspicious and didn’t feel the need to ask for any more detail. They were beginning to recognize the areas of their lives that would overlap and the ones that wouldn’t.
But Piers was keen that real tennis should be one of the things that they shared. Which was why he’d set up the lesson with George Hazlitt for Jude that Wednesday morning.
And it was the prospect of that that was making her feel nervous.
Piers had booked the ten fifteen court for her lesson and because of the timing of his London meetings had left her at the court with about half an hour to spare. He had lent her one of his rackets, which lay across her kit and towel in the African straw basket. As she let herself in through the small door to Lockleigh House, Jude looked up at the main building. Above the portico was a window that she reckoned must belong to Cecil Wardock’s room. She imagined the old man sitting in there, rereading all the books to which he had devoted his working life.
As Jude entered the court and walked past the pros’ office, George Hazlitt looked up from sewing yet another tennis ball to greet her. He glanced at his watch. ‘Morning. In good time.’
‘Want to get myself in the right frame of mind,’ said Jude.
‘Good idea.’ He grinned. ‘You know where the changing rooms are?’
‘Sure.’
‘And do you know about the etiquette of when you can walk down there?’
‘Wait until the players on court change ends.’
‘Very good.’
‘Piers gave me very specific instructions on that.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Though he still hasn’t managed to explain satisfactorily to me
‘Don’t worry. All will be clear by the end of your lesson.’
Jude went through the door into the court and waited in the proper manner at the end of the walkway that ran along the length of it. She recognized the player at the other end as Ned Jackson, the junior professional, but the wall prevented her from seeing his opponent. What she didn’t recognize was the game they were playing. Her experience of watching the Sec’s Cup and the Old Boys’ doubles had not prepared her for the speed and power of a high-class singles match. Ned seemed to anticipate every return, taking a few small steps to position himself, plucking the ball out of the air with his racket and redirecting it with incredible accuracy. One of his balls came rocketing straight towards her and she was glad of the netting that stopped its progress. As the shot hit home, a hanging bell rang and Jude congratulated herself on remembering that the ball had found the winning gallery.
‘Forty-thirty,’ said Ned Jackson. ‘Chase better than two.’
Still for no reason that made any sense to Jude, this was apparently the signal for the two players to change ends. While they did so, she made her way towards the club room. She could now see Ned’s opponent, whom she didn’t recognize but he, like the junior professional, looked supremely fit, without a spare ounce of fat on him anywhere.
When she was changed into her over-tight shorts, white cheesecloth shirt, socks and trainers, she sat in the dedans, clutching the racket Piers had lent her, and watched more of the young men’s game. She was again impressed, not only by their athleticism, but by their retrieval skills. From anywhere in the court, even the lowest and tightest corners, they seemed able to pick the ball out and return it with interest. She came to realize that real tennis was a serious sport, not just a leisure activity for old fogies. Also the vowels of Ned Jackson’s opponent suggested that it wasn’t just a game for toffs either.
During one of her marriages Jude had played quite a lot of lawn tennis. Not at a very competitive level, it had been purely social, but she wondered how much of it would come back to her when she stepped out on to the court. She also wondered, the longer she watched the young men play, how much use anything she remembered from her old skills might be. Real tennis really was a very different game from ‘lawners’.
It was ten past ten. Ned and his opponent had got to five-all in what appeared to be the deciding set, so Jude was reckoning either she’d have to wait for her lesson or the young men wouldn’t finish their game. From her experience of lawn tennis, she knew that the winner of a set had to be two games clear. But then at forty-thirty ahead, Ned Jackson sent another shot zinging into the winning gallery and his opponent capitulated. He slumped forward and shouted, ‘Lovely shot!’
‘Thanks!’
‘Should help get your handicap down.’
‘That’s the aim of the exercise.’
The two young men clasped hands across the net. ‘You’re on fire today, Ned,’ said the vanquished one. ‘Is that because you’re going to see Tonya tonight? Another of your “love-all” assignations?’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ the junior professional replied enigmatically.
‘You dirty dog,’ said his opponent and they both roared with laughter.
Just as Carole Seddon would not in a million years have gone near LinkedIn, Facebook or Twitter, she was also very circumspect about her email address. Her name did not appear in it; instead she used her house ‘High Tor’ with a combination of numbers that had featured in her staff ID when she worked for the Home Office. This precaution might have seemed excessive, given that most of her email communication was with Stephen and Gaby, but, when it came to approaching Iain Holland, Carole was glad of her anonymity.
She had run through a lot of ideas on Fethering Beach the previous day, but it was not until the Wednesday
