The Tennis Party by Sophie Kinsella, Madeleine Wickham Read Free Book Online Page B

marrying Cressida, he had become accustomed to thinking of himself as the one who had made good; the one who was to be envied – and he had consciously avoided parading his luck in front of his old friends.
    If he had ever given any thought to Patrick and his career, it was to marvel that he, Charles Mobyn, actually numbered a financial salesman among his friends; friends that now included the most accomplished, prominent and socially important people in the county. He knew Patrick made a lot of money – of course he did – but he never thought of this, this salesman’s money as ever being transformed into anything that he, Charles, might covet. And yet, taking in the obvious comfort of Patrick’s and Caroline’s life here, Charles couldn’t resist making a brief, disloyal comparison with the house in the Cathedral Close – Georgian and listed, undoubtedly, but also rather gloomy, drafty and expensive to keep up.
    The principal guest bedroom suite was a symphony of pink, from the headboard of the bed – shaped like a shell – to the tissues on the dressing table.
    ‘I hope you’ve got everything you need,’ said Caroline. ‘If you want a Jacuzzi, just press the controls on the wall.’
    ‘Very kind,’ murmured Cressida chillingly.
    ‘Right,’ said Caroline. ‘Well, see you downstairs.’ The door closed, and Charles and Cressida looked at each other. Cressida touched the bedcover gingerly.
    ‘Satin,’ she said. She felt underneath. ‘Satin sheets, too. Ghastly. I shan’t be able to sleep.’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Charles. ‘Satin sheets might be rather fun. And a Jacuzzi!’
    Cressida sighed and dropped her bag on the floor with an air of forbearance. ‘I’d better check that the children are all right.’
    ‘I’m sure they’re fine,’ began Charles, but she disappeared out of the room. He dumped his bag on the bed and began to change swiftly into his tennis clothes.
    By the time Cressida returned he was ready.
    ‘They’ve got cotton sheets, thank God,’ she said. ‘Decorated with My Little Pony, needless to say.’
    ‘Priceless!’ said Charles. ‘I must go and have a look. Is Martina all right?’
    ‘She thinks it’s all lovely,’ said Cressida. ‘She’s got a blue, shiny quilt edged with polyester lace.’ Charles grinned. Martina, their nanny, had spent her childhood in a cosy little box outside Bonn, and had not taken well to life in the Mobyns’ house. She had trailed around miserably all winter clad in leg warmers and fingerless gloves, and there had been a memorablescene once when she had got unsuspectingly into a bath full of icy cold water. It had transpired that in Germany – or at least Martina’s Germany – the plumbing never went wrong.
    ‘Oh yes,’ Cressida added, brandishing a sheaf of letters at Charles. ‘She picked up the post on the way out and forgot to give it to us.’ Charles grimaced.
    ‘I thought the idea of going away for the weekend was to get away from all of that.’
    ‘This is hardly “away for the weekend”,’ said Cressida crushingly. ‘It’s not exactly like going down to the Blakes’, is it?’
    The Blakes lived in a mansion in Devon and were having a house party that weekend. Cressida had tried to persuade Charles to agree to chucking the tennis party and going to Devon instead, but he had proved immovable. They had almost had a serious row about it. Now he looked at her wearily.
    ‘For God’s sake, Cressida, we’ve been to the Blakes’ house a million times. But we’ve never come here. These are my friends, you know.’
    ‘I know they are,’ said Cressida.
    ‘It would be nice’, continued Charles, ‘if I could feel they were your friends too.’
    ‘Well, I don’t think that’s very likely somehow,’ said Cressida. He looked at her furiously.
    ‘Why not? Why can’t you at least try?’
    ‘Oh Charles, honestly! What on earth have we got in common?’
    ‘You’ve got me in common,’ said Charles. ‘Shouldn’t