Free The Tennis Party by Sophie Kinsella, Madeleine Wickham Page A

Valerie. She gazed at Cressida admiringly. ‘But you’ve got such a good figure. I expect you always just eat a little of everything, to be polite.’ There was a pause, while Cressida tried to work out what this woman was talking about.
    ‘I attend a lot of charity events,’ she said eventually.
    ‘Yes, you must do,’ said Valerie. ‘I suppose you’ve got loads of lovely ballgowns?’ Cressida looked around for escape.
    ‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go and get myself some lunch,’ she said, giving Valerie a taut smile.
    ‘That’s all right,’ said Valerie brightly. ‘I could do with some seconds myself.’
    After lunch, no-one seemed inclined to move. Everyone lolled on chairs or on the grass, except for Cressida, who was sitting bolt upright, unable to escape Valerie’s fawning commentary. Patrick looked around. Now may be the moment. He sauntered casually across to Charles, who was lying back with his eyes closed.
    ‘Remember that collection of prints I started,’ he remarked. ‘Well, I’ve been adding to it.’
    Charles opened one eye. ‘Really? What have you bought?’
    Patrick laughed. ‘Now you’ve caught me. I can’t even remember who they’re by. They’re both modern, though. Cost me a fair bit, too.’
    ‘Where did you get them?’ Charles’ attention was now fully engaged. ‘You could have come to us.’
    ‘I know,’ said Patrick. ‘But these were impulse buys. In London.’ Charles scowled.
    ‘I expect you were robbed.’
    ‘Probably. In fact, I was hoping you’d come and give them a look. Tell me just how much I was ripped off.’
    ‘Now?’
    ‘Why not? While everyone’s asleep.’ Patrick surveyed the dozy scene. ‘I don’t know how we’re going to get anyone back on the tennis court this afternoon.’
    Charles reluctantly got to his feet.
    ‘OK, let’s come and see the damage. Although I really wish you’d contain your impulses until you’re in the Print Centre. Then you can be as impulsive as you like.’
    ‘I’ll remember that,’ said Patrick, ‘next time I’m feeling in the mood.’
    Patrick’s study was cool and tranquil, and for a few minutes the men blinked, trying to focus in the dim light. Charles sank into a leather sofa.
    ‘This is a nice room,’ he said. He looked around. ‘I bet you haven’t read all those books.’
    ‘No, but I’m intending to,’ said Patrick. ‘Actually, Caroline bought a lot of these. Because they look nice, I think.’ Charles shrugged.
    ‘And why not? The book as a visual art-form. I think it has potential. Why should we bother to read what’s inside?’ He reclined further into the squashy leather. ‘So, show me these prints.’
    ‘Here you are.’ Patrick placed two small, unframed prints on his lap. Charles sat up and, with a practised eye, looked carefully at each, turning them over, scrutinizing the signature, examining the texture of the paper.
    ‘Actually,’ he said eventually, ‘I think these are rather nice. Where did you get them?’
    ‘Mocasins. Bond Street.’ Charles sighed.
    ‘Of course. My word, Patrick, you must be doing all right for yourself if you can afford to impulse buy there.’
    Patrick shrugged. ‘It’s the right time to be investing. I realize it, my clients realize it. I mean, if I’m doing well, you should see how they’re doing. If I had the money to invest properly in some of the ventures I know about . . . Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t be buying little prints; I’d be onto the big stuff by now.’
    Charles was still examining the prints, and Patrick judged it best not to interrupt him.
    ‘One of my clients’, he said, ‘invested ten thousand pounds five years ago. Emerging markets, he went into. Now he’s sitting on a hundred thousand.’
    ‘Really?’ murmured Charles absently.
    ‘He said to me, “If I’d known that would happen, I would have invested ten times as much. I’d be a millionaire!”’ Patrick laughed reminiscently. ‘I said to him,