The Tennis Party Read Online Free PDF

you think?’ Her bright blue eyes fixed on Nicola determinedly, and Nicola stared back with respect.
    ‘All right,’ she said. ‘That sounds brilliant.’
    Annie and Caroline, passing Georgina’s door on the way to Caroline’s bedroom, heard her issuing instructions in clear tones.
    ‘Bossy little cow,’ said Caroline, rolling her eyes. ‘Thinks she’s in some bloody Angela Brazil novel.’
    ‘It’s a shame they aren’t outside, it’s such nice weather,’ said Annie.
    ‘You’re right!’ exclaimed Caroline. ‘I never think of things like that.’ She pushed open Georgina’s door. All three children looked up.
    ‘You should all go outside,’ said Caroline. ‘You’ll never get brown in here.’
    Caroline’s walk-in wardrobe was nearly the size of the boxroom at 18 Seymour Road. Annie watched, trying unsuccessfully to remain nonchalant as Caroline tossed tennis shirts, skirts, T-shirts and shorts onto the bed in a heap of sugary pastels. Some were plain, some discreetly trimmed, others a riot of abstract pattern. She surreptitiously eyed the logos, despising her heart for beating faster as she recognized not only well-known sporting labels – Ellesse, Tacchini, Lacoste – but also the more universally coveted insignias that no-one could be unaware of these days. Gucci. Yves Saint Laurent. Chanel. Her gaze fixed on a plain white T-shirt with two interlocking Cs. How much must that have cost?
    ‘I don’t know what kind of thing you like,’ Caroline was saying. ‘Try them all on, if you like.’
    ‘I don’t know where to start,’ said Annie. ‘I didn’t know you were so keen on tennis.’ Caroline looked surprised.
    ‘I’m not, really. We go to the country club over at Henchley – and you need proper tennis stuff for that. Not only whites, thank God. I mean, you need a really good tan to be able to wear white.’
    Annie, who had been about to pick out a white sleeveless tennis top, changed her mind.
    ‘What do you think?’ she said helplessly. Caroline looked at her consideringly, and Annie involuntarily glanced down at her legs – pale and short, though not flabby. Rather like the rest of her. She had the sort of English complexion that veered from deathly white to embarrassingly pink, and she tended to leave the rest of her body to its own devices.
    ‘Apricot,’ said Caroline decisively.
    Stephen was onto his second glass of Pimm’s. He stretched out his legs in the sunshine and wondered how he would ever summon up the energy to play tennis. Patrick had appeared with a large chart labelled ‘The White House Tennis Tournament’ and was busy explaining it to Don. Valerie was awkwardly picking out pieces of fruit from her drink and popping them into her mouth. Her hazel eyes met Stephen’s and she giggled.
    ‘Ooh!’ she said. ‘I really think . . .’ She petered off, and gazed down into her drink again. There was a pause, during which Stephen gave an inwardsigh. It would be too rude to ignore her.
    ‘Do you live in the village?’ he said conversationally. Valerie started, and looked up at him. Her forehead was moist, and a few strands of her shaggy brown hair had stuck to it.
    ‘Ooh no!’ she laughed, as though he had said something preposterous. ‘No, I live in London. But Dad lives here, just along the road, and Patrick phoned him up and asked whether I’d be home this weekend.’
    ‘Lucky that you were,’ said Stephen.
    ‘Not really lucky,’ said Valerie. ‘When Dad told me about the party, I took Friday off work to come down. I did a bit of shopping, too, spending all my salary at once!’ She giggled loudly.
    ‘So you came down specially?’ Stephen was surprised.
    ‘Well, I do enjoy the tennis, and meeting new people. I play at a club in London, which is very good, and there are social events every so often, you know, discos and parties, karaoke evenings sometimes . . .’ Stephen nodded in slight bemusement. ‘But then, no-one talks very much at a disco,’ she