`Careful, Bob, he's just had a feed.'
`You wouldn't barf on your dad, would you, son? Any more than your sister did in her time.'
All the same, he handed Jazz carefully back to his mother, smiling.
`You know, my love, you've never looked more beautiful than you do now standing there, son on hip, all eyes, lips and suntan. Christ, if I wasn't going to golf.'
She grinned back at him. 'Yeah, too bad. I'll tell you something, copper, just between the three of us. I'm happier now than I've ever been in my life, happier in fact than I've ever imagined being. Going back to work'll be a lot tougher than I'd thought.'
`Then don't,' he said at once. 'Tell the University you've had second thoughts about the job. A lot of women need to work to sustain a lifestyle. You don't. We own all our properties, and I've got extra income from my legacy investments. And, you're right, we don't need both this house and the Edinburgh place. We want Jazz to go to school here anyway, don't we?
`So tell the University "Sorry, I made a mistake." Stay at home and enjoy being a full-time mother, for a few years at least!'
His sudden vehemence astonished her. 'Hey honey, is this Pre-match tension or something?
What brought all this on?'
He shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't know. I suppose I've been going along with the University thing because I know that a Chair at your age is an honour, but most of all because I thought it was what you really wanted.
`Now, if you say it isn't, then there's no question. Let it go, and stay here with Jazz. Nothing would make me happier.'
She took his hand and looked him in the eye. 'Slow down, big Bob, and listen to what I said.
Going back to work is going to be tougher than I thought, especially in the first few months, but it's still what I want to do. I'm your wife and Jazz's mother, but I'm more than that. I'm me as well.
It was me you fell in love with, not Jazz's mom. You're right, I don't have to go back to work. But it's part of being me, and if I throw it away, a big part of me will go with it. I'll change, I'll become someone else, someone different from the woman you fell in love with.
OK, you might love her too, but maybe not as much… or maybe not at all. I ain't going to take that chance.
`Mellow motherhood may have its hooks in me for now, but they'd loosen sooner than you think.'
He stared at her, with a strange, almost pleading expression that she had never seen before.
'OK I hear that, but surely a year wouldn't hurt. Defer the job till next session. Do that at least for me, and for him!'
She smiled gently. 'Darling, it's for both of you that I'm going back to work.
The decision's made, I've given my word, and the students are enrolling. Now, put all this out of your mind. Get down to Witches' Hill and knock that first tee-shot way past Norton Wales!'
Twenty-nine
‘Does the name Richard Andrews mean anything to you, Darren?' Skinner asked as he finished tying the laces of his brown golf shoes.
Atkinson looked at him in surprise. 'Mr Nice? Oh yes, I know him well enough.'
`Why d'you call him that?'
`That's what everyone calls him. You might say that he's the unacceptable face of Mike Morton… if you can handle that as a concept! He's been around Morton for as long as I've known him, and if you thought that Mike behaved like a shit with Masur yesterday, you should see Andrews in action. I've heard him talk to world-class golfers like I wouldn't talk to a dog. And the amazing thing is that they take it. I mean, these guys are effectively his employers, his and Morton's, yet they're told where to play, where to live, what deals to sign.
They just surrender themselves to SSC, completely.'
`Did SSC ever try to recruit you?'
The golfer nodded. 'Sure, just over ten years ago, just before I won my first tournament on the US tour, I had a call from Morton. He made me an offer, said that if I signed with him, I'd get access to invitation events that would be closed to me otherwise, that I'd make a guaranteed million dollars a year in endorsements.
I told him I was earning that much already, and that didn't have a problem filling my schedule. Next day I had a visit from Mr Nice, in my hotel room. He said to me that if I didn't sign with SSC then maybe I would start to have schedule problems. I said to him that I was very happy with the way that my brother Rick was managing my affairs, and that I wasn't about to change things.
`Then Mr Nice said… and I'll never forget the way he said it
… "Yeah, but anyone can have an accident. Suppose something was to happen to your brother?" He came straight out with it.' Atkinson pulled on his sweater, and headed towards the changing-room door.
`So how did you react?' said Skinner, following.
I told him that if Rick as much as caught a cold I'd go straight to the FBI. Then I threw him out.'
Was there any follow-up?'
Atkinson opened the door at the end of the corridor and stepped out into the daylight. He shook his head. 'Not from them. It got me steamed up though. I went out and won the tournament that week. Paul Wyman was SSC's top dog then, and I beat him in a play-off. A few weeks later I won my first Masters, and all of a sudden I was big news, and even bigger box-office. Whether they liked it or not, SSC needed me at their events. So Morton and I reached an agreement, that I'd give their tournaments preference and they'd pay me appearance money.'
Skinner glanced at him, as they strolled towards the first tee. And he didn't give you trouble when you set up your own company? No more visits from Mr Nice?'
`No. I told Mike from the start that I was mainly interested in guys who base themselves on the European tour. He said that he didn't have a problem with that.
'How come you're asking about Andrews all of a sudden, Bob?'
The policeman shrugged his shoulders. 'Oh, the name was mentioned, that's all. And I'm just a nosey bastard by nature.' Atkinson grinned. 'Yeah, and I'm the next Pope!'
Norton Wales and Hideo Murano were waiting on the tee as they approached. Bravo stood, with two wizened, weather-beaten caddies and their heavy burdens, beside a tall signboard bearing the legend, 'The Murano Million. Hole № 1. 465 yards.' Skinner wandered across and looked at the champion's bag. 'You play Shark's Fin clubs, Darren?'
'Yes, they're the best. I'm paid well to use them, but that's secondary for me. I've known pros who've changed clubs just for the money they've been offered to make the switch, and who've lost their game as a result. You want to be the best, you have to use the clubs that are best for you.'
'D'you carry a standard set?'
'No. I have three wedges, one for fairway play, a sand-iron and a thin-soled job for short play around the greens. I find that I can do without a nine-iron. Actually, in any given round I tend not to use any more than ten out of the fourteen. If I could be sure in advance which ones they were going to be, I could take some weight off Bravo's shoulders!'
He clapped his hands. 'OK guys,' he called. 'Ready for action?' He looked around. 'Where's your caddy, Bob?'
‘lady Kinture? She said she was going to change her shoes, that's all.' He looked round. 'Here she comes now.'
The others followed his gaze and saw the immaculate figure of Susan Kinture sweeping elegantly towards them. She was dressed in a peach-coloured trouser suit, with a white shirt and golf shoes, and was pulling a wide-wheeled caddy-car, on which Skinner's clubs were loaded. 'Hello, chaps,' she called as she approached. 'Ready for action?' She smiled warmly enough at Skinner, Wales and Murano, but when she looked at Darren Atkinson, the light of hero worship seemed to shine in her eyes. 'Hello, Lady Kinture,' the golfer said, formally, and with the briefest and most courtly of bows. Skinner thought that he saw the faintest flash of disappointment cross her face.