‘MY GOD, Charles, what on earth are you wearing?’ Frances stood aghast at the door of her flat.
‘It is possible for me to look smart, you know, Frances.’
‘Smart? Is that smart? Have you got a part in Godfather IV or what?’
‘I am just dressed as the young executive dresses these days.’
‘Since when have you been a young executive? I’ve heard of mutton-dressed-as-lamb, but . . . My God, Charles, what’s that smell? It’s not mint sauce, is it?’
‘It’s after-shave,’ he confessed sheepishly (or mutton-dressed-as-lambishly). Will had tipped him the wink that some kind of ‘man’s fragrance’ really was required to complete the executive image.
‘Good heavens.’
‘Come on. The car’s waiting.’
Ken Colebourne had done them proud. Car to pick up Charles in Bayswater, on to Highgate to collect Frances, and then down through the traffic to Wimbledon.
‘This is very exciting,’ Frances said. ‘Haven’t actually been to Wimbledon for about ten years. Always used to queue up and go in my teens, but in later life being in charge of school parties rather took the gilt off the experience. Spent all the time watching my charges rather than the tennis, seeing they weren’t being picked up by randy young men or rubbed up by dirty old men. No, this really is wonderful.’
She looked terrific that morning. With age, Frances had managed to stay elegantly thin rather than turning stringy. She was neatly dressed in a generously-skirted navy suit and cream blouse with a big collar, an ensemble Charles hadn’t seen before.
It was still a shock that he no longer knew his wife’s wardrobe inside out, but that was one of the many rights he had given up by walking out on her all those years ago. Unreasonable though he knew the desire was, some part of Charles still felt she should consult him about the clothes she bought.
Though he wanted the freedom to vanish off her landscape for months on end, he couldn’t quite reconcile himself to the idea of Frances leading a life of her own. Though he knew he was being a dog in the manger, a jealous arrogance kept telling him he really was the love of her life and, so long as he was alive, she’d never be truly independent.
Increasingly, though, the evidence was turning against him. Charles was hoist with his own petard. He had left Frances in the hope of attaining his own independence, but over the years she had proved much more adept at making a life of her own than he had.
He liked to think the mutual ties remained so strong, that, in spite of detours and diversions, the relationship was still central to both of them. And even that one day they’d get back together again.
But he was decreasingly convinced that Frances felt the same. The coolness that she had at first affected as a defence against him now seemed more instinctive.
‘Juliet was so jealous when I told her where we were going. She still loves her tennis.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Charles had always intended to do more things, like play tennis, with his daughter while she was growing up, but he had been away a lot, and then of course he’d moved out, and suddenly she had been grown up and married and a mother three times over, and he had realised that his chance was gone and that Frances had been responsible for every aspect of Juliet’s upbringing.
‘I must get in touch with her,’ he said contritely.
‘Yes, you must,’ Frances agreed with some asperity.
He looked sideways at her as the car negotiated the heavy traffic of Wimbledon High Street, and felt an ache of longing. He really must make a proper effort to get her back. Frances was too good to lose.
He knew he had had such intentions many times before, but they had always been diluted by lethargy or diverted by skirmishes with other women. When he was actually with Frances, it seemed inconceivable that he could ever fancy anyone else. But he recognised the volatility of the masculine character, that resurgent and shameful inability to meet any woman without thoughts of sex intruding; and he knew that, given the right circumstances, with Frances off the scene and someone else attractive to him on it, the whole process would start all over again.
But this time he really must put all irrelevant thoughts to one side, and work to regain Frances’s affection. He felt a sudden stab of lust as he looked at her.
Greatly daring, Charles Paris put his hand on his wife’s knee.
She didn’t remove it. She looked straight into his eyes and smiled a warm smile of complicity.
That had to be a good sign.
It was rather a good feeling to be whisked past the endless, patient lines of tennis fans to one of the main gates. Their driver sorted out a time and pick-up point for the end of the day’s play, and gave them a phone number to call if any change was required to these arrangements. Their tickets were checked at the gate and, following the map in the neat information pack which Ken Colebourne had sent Charles, they made their way to the Delmoleen marquee.
As they walked through the crowds, Frances commented on how the atmosphere had changed since she’d last been there. ‘There weren’t all these booths and shops. There wasn’t nearly so much for sale, I’m sure.’
Charles stopped by a display of clothes, indicating a green and purple track suit with ‘The Championships – Wimbledon’ logo. ‘Like me to buy you one of these?’
‘Not quite my style, Charles. But don’t let me stop you getting one for yourself.’
‘Don’t think it’s quite my style either.’
‘I don’t know, love. Now I’ve seen that suit, nothing you wear’s going to surprise me.’
She put her arm in his. And she had called him ‘love’. It was nice having a wife.
He felt this even more when they reached the Delmoleen marquee. Following the map, they had turned into an alley of corporate entertainment. There were rows of marquees on either side, fronted by neatly fenced-off areas with white chairs and round tables shaded by beach umbrellas. Men in suits and smartly dressed ladies stood sipping champagne in the various pens.
From the small signs on the entrances Charles recognised among the corporate entertainers a major bank, an insurance company and the BBC. On the forecourt of the BBC marquee stood various well-known television faces, pretending they weren’t aware that everyone recognised them.
The Delmoleen marquee’s number was clearly marked on the map and its entrance discreetly signposted by the company logo. Charles was glad he had Frances with him. Much easier to make an entrance into a crowd of strangers as a couple. There really was a lot to be said for marriage. Good system.
As it turned out, there were some faces he recognised. Brian and Brenda Tressider were there, so was Ken Colebourne, but he looked in vain for Robin Pritchard. Charles had rather hoped to see the Product Manager again and follow up on their last, incomplete conversation. However, it looked as though the murder investigation would have to remain on hold.
The other guests were smartly anonymous, presumably substantial customers or suppliers having their relationships with Delmoleen cemented and massaged by a corporate freebie. Charles had been a little worried than Brian Tressider might question his right to be there, wondering what possible benefit could accrue to the company from scratching the back of an unemployed actor – even one supposed to have some ill-defined connection with the Parton Parcel production company. But of course the Managing Director, whatever his true feelings on the matter, was far too urbane to let them show.
Well-rehearsed on the guest-list, he effusively welcomed Charles and Frances, telling her that her husband had done excellent work on the video they were making.
Brenda Tressider was equally punctilious, and her social filing system did not let her down. ‘Yes, of course, Charles Paris, how delightful to see you again. You entertained us so much in that splendid Stanislas Braid series. It must be really strange seeing your husband on the television screen so often, Mrs Paris.’
‘Well, it’s not that often,’ said Frances – rather traitorously, to Charles’s mind.
‘Oh, but much more than the average wife. I mean, I’ve seen Brian interviewed once or twice on business programmes and it always gives me a very odd feeling. But I suppose, like most things, you get used to it.’ A uniformed waitress with a tray of champagne materialised at her elbow. ‘Now do help yourself to a drink, and let me introduce you to some people . . .’
They were impeccably introduced to everyone and Charles found, as he usually did on these occasions, that the names went straight in one ear and out the other. So did all the useful background detail that Brenda Tressider supplied for her guests. She was doing her job wonderfully, presenting innumerable prompts to conversation; it wasn’t her fault that Charles Paris seemed incapable of retaining the information.
Frances was much better at this sort of thing than he was. She plunged instantly into conversation with one of the women about the latest American infant tennis sensation, and was quickly whirled away, leaving her husband stranded.
Charles stood grinning fatuously round a group of three couples, whose names and companies he had instantly forgotten. He sipped at his champagne, then took a longer swig. The waitress manifested herself once again beside him. He put down his empty glass and picked up a full one.
‘What a lovely day for the tennis,’ he said, opting to keep his remarks uncontroversial.
The three couples agreed it was a lovely day for the tennis.
‘Yes, lovely day for the tennis,’ Charles confirmed.
He had a sense of déjà vu. For a moment he couldn’t place it, then recalled that he had spoken exactly that dialogue in one of those fifties french-window comedies about a publisher. (They had all been about publishers; to the dramatists of the time, publishing represented a lucrative profession whose demands were in no danger of impinging on anyone’s private life.) Now what had the play been called . . .? Oh yes, Service Not Included, he remembered it now.
He also, unfortunately, remembered the review the Halifax Evening Courier had given his performance. ‘Charles Paris wanders dementedly through the play, like Van Gogh trying to decide which ear to cut off.’
He saw Ken Colebourne grinning and waving, and excused himself from further reaffirmation with the three couples of how good a day it was for tennis.
‘All the arrangements went all right, did they?’
‘Fine, Ken. Yes, very grateful to you for setting the whole thing up. My wife’s absolutely delighted to be here. I must introduce you.’
‘Well, first let me introduce you to my wife. Patricia dear, this is Charles Paris.’
The sight of Patricia Colebourne was quite a shock. He had hardly noticed her, lost in the shadows under one of the umbrellas. She was agonisingly thin; the beige linen dress hung slackly from the angularity of her shoulders; and her skin had a waxy pallor. Two sticks were hooked from the lip of the table.
She was clearly a very sick woman, and yet the formalities of introduction do not traditionally include a medical bulletin, so Charles could only shake the hand that felt like a bunch of dry twigs and say, ‘Pleasure to meet you.’
‘Patricia’s a great lover of the tennis,’ said her husband. ‘Been watching it all day this week, haven’t you, love?’
His manner towards her combined embarrassment with a kind of defensive pride.
‘Yes. And I hope to see that young Yugoslav playing this afternoon. She’s amazing. Supposed to be on court at two, I think.’ She looked at the watch that dangled loosely from a skeletal wrist. ‘Probably better start walking over there now. I’m afraid I move very slowly these days, Mr Paris.’
She was joking, but the mention of her disability served to clear the atmosphere.
‘Oh, you’re not that bad, love. Anyway, we’ve got lunch to eat first. I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.’
As if on cue, Brian Tressider raised his hands, gesturing towards the interior of the marquee. ‘Going through for a spot of lunch now – set us up for the excitements of the afternoon, eh?’
There were three round tables each seating six inside the marquee (a structure, incidentally, of greater permanence than the word usually implies). Frances, who was proving a great hit with her new friends, was whisked away to sit with them. ‘Unless you’d rather sit with your husband . . .?’
‘Good heavens, no,’ she replied with a sweet grin to Charles. ‘We see quite enough of each other.’
He didn’t quite know how to take this. Inside a normal, cohabiting marriage, such a remark would be a sign of strength, of a couple so secure in their mutual affection that they didn’t need to spend every minute in each other’s pockets. Given the unusual circumstances of Charles and Frances’s marriage, though, the interpretation was potentially different. Did Frances really mean that their three or four meetings during the last year had been quite sufficient? Or was she just making a joke at his expense?
Charles inclined to the second view, though not with that total confidence which would make him feel secure. Frances was definitely playing games with him, but he couldn’t be certain how serious those games were. She had been hurt too many times to allow the progress towards any possible reconciliation to be easy for him.
So there was Frances’s table, which she seemed effortlessly to dominate; and the table towards which Brian Tressider had firmly ushered his preselected guests; and there was the third table, which was definitely lowest in the hierarchy. Charles Paris sat at the third table.
On one side of him was a young man with sleeked-back hair and a suit and tie even sharper than Charles’s; on the other, a girl with carefully frizzed blonde hair, whose trim figure was enhanced by a navy leather suit that teetered between sexiness and tartness.
It soon became apparent that they were married. The young man took Charles’s hand firmly in his and announced, rather as if presenting a business card, ‘Daryl Fletcher, and that’s my wife Shelley.’
‘Hello. My name’s Charles Paris.’
‘We’re here because it’s part of Daryl’s bonus.’ The girl had one of those Cockney voices that sound as if the owner’s just going down with a sore throat.
‘Well, it’s not exactly part of the bonus, just a kind of pat on the back. I got Top Salesman,’ he confided to Charles.
‘Oh. Oh, well done.’
‘Yes. I’m North-West Area. Quite something for a North-West salesman to beat all those jammy bastards in the South.’
‘I should think it is,’ Charles agreed sagely.
‘Don’t know they’re born, half of that lot. I got Runner-up last year, but this year I really pulled out the stops.’
‘Well done.’
‘Means me and Shelley get a weekend for two in Paris.’
‘And the car, Daryl.’
‘Yeah, and the car. Get presented with that at the sales conference. I’ll trade it in, mind. Just some little Fiesta. Not my sort of motor. But the money’ll be handy.’
‘Yeah, except you’ll just spend it on your other car.’
‘All right, what if I do, Shelley? I’ll see you get a bit of naughty lingerie, and all.’
This seemed to strike her as disproportionately funny.
‘I got a pretty nice motor, you see,’ Daryl confided to Charles. ‘I don’t mean the company car – no, I drive round day by day in a Ford Sierra, but I got this car back home with a bit of character.’
‘Oh,’ said Charles, to whom all cars had the same character.
‘Cortina,’ said Daryl airily.
‘Oh,’ said Charles, reassured. He had been afraid of being blinded by car talk, but this was all right. He had heard of the Cortina. Reliable, long-running Ford model, now out of production and a bit boring, really. But at least, he comforted himself, there’s not a lot you can say about a Cortina.
Charles couldn’t have been more wrong.
‘It’s the old Mk I,’ Daryl confided.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Picked it up at a scrap-yard four years back. Saw its potential straight off.’
Charles couldn’t conceive what possible potential a car from a scrap-yard might have.
‘Basically in good nick, but I had to do a lot of body and chassis work.’
‘Ah.’
‘Built a full roll cage inside.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yeah, and then while I got the body off, I give it a four-inch chop. Pleased with the way that worked, I was. Lovely job, though I say it myself.’
He looked up for approbation, but Charles wasn’t quite quick enough to replace the bewilderment in his expression with something more congratulatory.
‘You do know what I mean by a “chop” don’t you, Charles?’
‘Er, well . . .’
‘Tell you for free,’ Shelley chipped in. ‘It’s nothing to do with a chopper!’
This again struck her as extravagantly funny.
‘We are talking “custom” here,’ Daryl explained generously. “‘Chop” means you take the roof down a few inches.’
‘Ah. Why?’
‘Well, gives you a bit of style, doesn’t it?’
‘Does it?’
Daryl’s social training told him perhaps he ought to open the conversation out a bit. ‘What do you drive then, Charles?’
A chuckle. ‘Well, er, taxis, if anything.’
‘You a taxi-driver?’ asked Shelley.
‘No.’
‘What are you then?’ asked Daryl.
‘An actor.’
The answer struck both of them dumb. They wracked their brains for things that might be said to an actor, but nothing offered itself.
Charles filled the silence. ‘What I meant was that the only cars I really travel in these days are taxis. I use the tube most of the time, but if I do go in a car, it tends to be a taxi.’
‘You mean you haven’t got a motor?’ asked Daryl in softly awestruck tones.
‘No, I haven’t. Used to, when I was living with my . . .’ He caught a glimpse of Frances entertaining her new friends at the adjacent table, ‘some time back,’ he concluded lamely.
‘Blimey,’ said Daryl quietly. ‘Haven’t got a motor.’
‘No.’
But not for nothing had Daryl Fletcher been nominated Top Salesman. It was a salesman’s job to keep talking, and he wasn’t going to let anything – even a shock on the scale that he had just received – deter him from his duty.
‘You know, when I took the engine on the Mk I apart, I found the cylinders was still well within specs, so what I done was . . .’
After about two millennia of this monologue, during which Charles, almost without noticing, consumed smoked salmon, boeufe-en-crôute and meringue glacé, together with a lot of red wine, he became aware of a general movement around him.
Frances caught his eye and waved. She pointed at her watch. ‘Two o’clock. Match starting on the Centre Court.’
‘Oh yes, right.’
Charles started to stand up, but Frances’s words had stopped Daryl in mid-description of how he’d recalibrated the gauges from an old Cortina GT. The Top Salesman rose to his feet, ‘Great, I want to see this. Dishy pair of birds playing.’
Charles sank back into his chair. The risk of ending up sitting next to this cataract of Custom Car arcana was too great. ‘I’ll just have a cup of coffee and be right along, Frances.’
His wife shrugged and nodded. She wasn’t exactly unused to Charles making his own timetable.
The marquee did not empty completely, though most of the guests went off to watch the tennis. Ken Colebourne had gone some twenty minutes earlier, gallantly escorting his fragile wife, and Brian Tressider had led his party off soon after. But a few lingered over the last of their coffee, wine or brandy.
Shelley Fletcher, Charles observed, had made no attempt to move.
‘I’ll go along in a bit,’ she said. ‘Only women on Centre Court this match.’ She giggled. ‘I’ll wait till the hunks get out there.’
‘Ah.’
‘Daryl’s very fond of his Cortina,’ she explained, unnecessarily.
‘Yes,’ said Charles Paris. ‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’