‘Come in here,’ she muttered, going towards the drawing-room. Nicky stepped forward to open the door for her, reaching the handle the same time as she did, letting his hand linger on hers far longer than necessary.
‘Would you like a glass of sherry?’ she said. ‘It’s quite dry.’
‘I’d prefer beer, if you’ve got some. I’m supposed to be in training.’
‘I’ll go and get it. Won’t be a second.’
‘Don’t be, I’ll miss you,’ said Nicky, picking up the paper and turning to the sports page.
Imogen rushed into the kitchen. Fortunately there were six Long Life in the fridge.
‘How’s it going?’ said Juliet, dropping broccoli spears into boiling water.
‘I don’t know,’ said Imogen rushing out, nearly falling over Homer. ‘Promise you won’t leave me alone with him too long.’
‘What I like about this house is its relaxed atmosphere,’ said Juliet.
‘Nastase won at Hamburg,’ said Nicky, putting down the paper and taking the can and a glass from Imogen.
‘Do you know him?’
‘Yes, he’s a great mate of mine.’
He walked over to the french windows.
‘This is a lovely house.’
‘It’s a bit scruffy,’ said Imogen, acutely aware of the worn carpets, the cat-shredded armchairs and the faded red cutains, which had shrunk in the wash and hung three inches above the window ledge.
Nicky, however, used to the impersonality of hotel bedrooms, only noticed the booklined walls, the friendly dog, the fat tabby cat asleep on the piles of music on top of the piano, the Church Times scrumpled up under the logs in the fireplace, waiting to be lit on a cold night, and the apple trees snowed under with blossom at the end of the garden.
‘It’s a family house,’ he said. ‘My father was in the army so I spent my childhood being humped from one married quarter to another. I always longed for a real home.’
He glanced across at Imogen, gazing at him with such compassion. He had also seen how deeply moved and delighted she’d been when he arrived. He was touched. He liked this solemn little girl with the huge eyes.
‘You smell marvellous,’ he said, moving towards her.
‘It’s not me, it’s the carpet,’ confessed Imogen.
There was a pause. What could she say next? If only she had the badinage and ready-made phrases like Juliet or Gloria.
‘Lunch won’t be long,’ she stammered, as Nicky sat down on the sofa. ‘Would you like some peanuts?’
‘No thank you,’ said Nicky softly, ‘I want five minutes alone with you. Come and sit beside me.’ He patted the sofa.
Imogen sat down. There was another pause. She stared at her hands, aware that he was watching her. Then they both jumped out of their skin as the large tabby cat leapt off the Beethoven Sonatas on to the treble keys of the piano, and proceeded to plink plonk his way down to the bass clef, and walk with dignity out of the french windows.
They both burst out laughing. It broke the ice.
‘Was it a nice party, last night?’ asked Imogen.
‘How could it be? You weren’t there,’ said Nicky. ‘I drank too much cheap wine, and nearly came and broke up your whist drive.’
‘I wish you had,’ said Imogen wistfully. ‘When d’you go to Rome?’
‘Tonight. I’m driving straight to Heathrow from here. Might reach the quarter finals this year. I’ve got an easy draw.’
And a friend of Nastase’s too, thought Imogen.
‘Doesn’t it frighten you, so much success so early?’ she asked.
Nicky laughed softly with pleasure. She’d fed him the right cue.
‘I don’t frighten easily,’ he said, taking her hand and spreading the fingers out on his thigh.
She heard a step outside and, terrified it might be her father, snatched her hand away, but it was only her mother in a crumpled flowered dress, smelling faintly of mothballs, which she’d obviously just got out of the drawer. There was also too much powder on one side of her nose.
‘Mr Beresford, how nice to see you,’ she said, teetering forward on uncomfortable and unfamiliar high heels. ‘Has Imogen given you a drink? She’s awfully forgetful.’
Oh God, thought Imogen, I do hope she’s not going to be too embarrassing.
‘She’s looked after me beautifully,’ said Nicky, as Mrs Brocklehurst helped herself to a glass of sherry, ‘and I love your house.’
She was followed by Juliet, who sat on the piano stool, patting Homer and grinning at Nicky.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘That’s a nice dog,’ said Nicky. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Homer,’ said Juliet. ‘Short for Homersexual. He’s always mounting male dogs.’
‘Really darling, that’s not true,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst mildly.
‘Who plays the piano?’ asked Nicky.
‘I do,’ said Juliet. ‘I’m thinking of taking up the cello as my second instrument.’ And next moment she was bombarding Nicky with questions about tennis stars. Was Nastase as difficult as everyone made out, and Stan Smith as dead-pan as he looked, and did Borg have lots of girls?
To have a better look at Nicky, Mrs Brocklehurst removed her spectacles, leaving a red mark on the bridge of her nose. Goodness, she thought, he really is a very good looking young man, and he seems nice too.
‘What’s Connors like?’ said Juliet.
‘Darling, poor Nicky,’ remonstrated her mother. ‘Give him a chance and go and mash the potatoes. Daddy’ll be in in a minute. When did you first decide to become a tennis player?’ she said to Nicky.
‘When I was a child I used to go down to the courts at seven o’clock in the morning, hanging around hoping for a chance to play. Every time I seemed to get a rapport with a coach my father was posted somewhere else. I used to spend hours playing imaginary matches with myself hitting a ball against the garage door.’
‘How splendid! I suppose if one wants to do anything badly enough in life, one usually does.’
‘I like to think so,’ said Nicky, shooting an unashamedly undressing glance in Imogen’s direction, and rubbing his foot against hers behind the safety of an occasional table.
The vicar came in, rubbing his hands and looking quite benevolent, spectacles on his nose.
‘Ah, good morning Nicholas. Lunch not ready yet? Preaching’s thirsty work, you know.’
‘It won’t be a minute,’ said his wife soothingly. ‘Juliet’s just doing the potatoes.’
‘Is there time for a quick look round the garden?’ asked Nicky.
‘Of course,’ said the vicar with alacrity. ‘Bring your drink out.’
‘What a nice young man,’ said her mother.
‘Unbelievable,’ sighed Imogen.
There was an embarrassing moment before lunch.
‘I expect you’d like a wash,’ said the vicar, pointing to the door of the downstairs lavatory. He always liked male visitors in particular to go in there so they could admire his old England and Harlequin rugger groups hanging on the wall.
‘I’m not sure there’s any loo paper,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst.
‘There wasn’t,’ said Juliet, crossing the hall with the macaroni cheese, ‘so I tore some pages out of the parish mag.’
Lunch, however, was a success. Nicky had two helpings of macaroni cheese which pleased Mrs Brocklehurst, talked at length to the vicar about the British Lions and regaled them with gossip about tennis players and the various celebrities he’d bumped into on the circuit.
‘I’m afraid I’m talking too much,’ he said.
‘No, no,’ said Mrs Brocklehurst eagerly. ‘We lead such sheltered lives in Pikely. Fancy Virginia Wade reading Henry James between matches!’