Chapter 30
‘ FORTY LOVE! ’ GRAY SHOUTED .
Mungo was doubled over, leaning on his racquet, panting.
‘Are you all right?’ Maggie shouted from the wooden bench overlooking the tennis court. She hadn’t wanted to watch, suspecting that her husband would be thrashed, but Jamie had insisted they go out for moral support.
‘How many times are you going to get to watch Gray Hudson play your husband at tennis?’ he’d asked.
Never again after this performance, she imagined. Mungo hadn’t taken a single game off Gray.
He stood up, in an old polo shirt, and a pair of swimming trunks that sagged to his knees, plus a dusty pair of plimsolls that Maggie had found in Phil’s room. His cheeks were red, his forehead shining with sweat and his mouth wide as he inhaled and exhaled. ‘I’m … fine … I’m … absolutely … fine!’
At the far end, Gray was in gym shorts, Nike trainers and a t-shirt. Maggie tried not to stare at the taut expanse of back that was revealed every time he served, but it was impossible. It was a smooth, brown back she’d seen onscreen, in a tunic, on a horse, partially covered with armour. And now the back was right in front of her.
‘What a beautiful, beautiful man,’ Jamie murmured, as Gray threw the ball several feet into the air.
‘I know,’ Maggie replied unthinkingly.
Jamie elbowed her. ‘Oh, hello, perving on the star, are you, when your husband’s down the other end?’
‘I’m not perving. I’m admiring, which is different. You’re the one perving.’
Jamie tutted. ‘You admire cathedrals in European cities. You perve on an arse.’
Their eyes remained on Gray as he rotated his arm as majestically as a ballet dancer, and his racquet slammed down on the ball.
It whistled past Mungo before he even saw it, but he lunged anyway, then slipped and made a strangulated noise.
‘Mungo!’ Maggie shouted, as her husband fell to the asphalt and clutched his right leg to his chest.
‘You OK, man?’ Gray asked, jogging towards him.
They all arrived at Mungo together and stood looking down as he made whimpering noises.
‘It’s my hamstring, I’ve ripped my hamstring.’
Maggie crouched. ‘Can I see?’
Mungo opened his eyes. ‘You won’t be able to see anything. It’s internal.’
‘I know, I just …’
He groaned. ‘It’s this damn court. I slipped on a pebble. I would have had that serve if it hadn’t been for this court.’
‘If it’s a hamstring the best thing to do is rest and ice,’ said Gray. ‘I can help get you inside. Here, Maggie, can you take …’ He held out his racquet and squatted. ‘Mungo, if you can sit up, it’s gonna pull a bit. But we need to get you up, get an ice pack on it.’
Mungo slid his arm around the back of Gray’s neck and gripped one shoulder. ‘Can you move quite slowly? It’s … arggggh!’
‘I got you. OK, Jamie, can you take Mungo’s other arm, help him up.’
Jamie winked. ‘’Course I can. Did this for you not so long ago, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah, let’s not dwell on that. OK, Mungo, I’m gonna get up real slow.’
Gray and Jamie stood gradually, Mungo hanging between them like a string puppet, and started moving off the court, towards the hotel. Maggie followed, feeling a combination of guilt and dread at the effect this would have on the weekend. Although at least it meant she might not have to have sex.
When they reached the pool, Mungo nodded towards a sunbed and groaned like a wounded soldier returning from war. ‘Lower me onto one of these. In the shade! I can’t manage another step.’
‘Everything all right?’ asked Jack Wrackham, looking over his Kindle from the other side of the pool.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Maggie replied quickly. ‘All fine.’
‘No!’ said Mungo. ‘I’m very injured!’
‘You’ll be fine, stay here,’ she instructed.
‘Stay here? Stay here ? Where else am I going to waltz off to?’
Maggie ignored him and vanished inside to raid the freezer, only for Mungo to huff with disdain when she returned.
‘Wine coolers?’
‘It’s all I could find,’ she mumbled, as she strapped two frozen wine sleeves around his thigh with a tea towel.
‘Ow, Maggie! Can you be a bit gentle? I’m wounded!’
‘Can you lift it so I can get the towel … OK, yep, that’s it. There we go.’ She knotted two ends of a tea towel together and frowned at his leg. ‘It’ll do for now. And look, take these.’ She held out a packet of ibuprofen.
Mungo tutted. ‘That terrible court. We should never have played. A health hazard!’
‘It’s a bit late now.’ Maggie didn’t mean to sound unkind but this was classic Mungo. There had been multiple injuries over the years. He often walked into things – doorways, signposts, trees – because he didn’t seem to realize how tall he was. He always burned himself on holiday. He once put his back out sneezing. And now this, a pulled muscle which, Maggie knew, would be taken very, very seriously.
‘Sorry, man,’ Gray said, still hovering by the sunbed.
‘Not your fault. Well played. I’d suggest a rematch but I fear this injury will set me back.’
‘Um … if it’s all right with everyone else, I might go and catch up on a spot of work,’ Jamie said, glancing at Maggie.
‘Go,’ she said, before glancing across to the Wrackhams, ‘I should be getting on with lunch.’
‘Darling,’ Mungo said, looking up, ‘do you think I might have a coffee?’
Over the next hour or so, Maggie tried to assemble lunch while constantly ferrying items out to her husband: coffee, cold water, another ice pack, his phone, his laptop, more ibuprofen.
When she emerged with another coffee, Arabella Wrackham was on the sunbed beside Mungo, asking questions about property.
‘The thing is,’ she said, as Maggie laid down the cafetière, ‘we really want to be in Chelsea, that area between the New King’s Road and Stamford Bridge. They have some lovely houses there, and not too pricey. You can get a four-bed, with a decent garden for under three million, which isn’t bad these days, is it?’
‘No no, not bad at all,’ Mungo replied, holding up his cup for Maggie as if she was a waitress.
‘But then we’d probably have to send this one …’ Arabella paused and rubbed a hand over her pregnant belly, ‘to school at St Saviour’s, and a friend tells me it’s all foreigners there. Russians .’
‘Yes, but that’s a problem in much of central London now. The prep schools are stuffed with Russians and Chinese, and Azerbaijanis.’
‘Really?’ she screeched with disbelief, before looking across the pool to her husband. ‘Jack, angel, did you hear that? London’s full of, what did you call them?’
‘Azerbaijanis,’ Mungo repeated.
‘Where are they from?’
‘Azerbaijan.’
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Maggie said, desperate to get away from this conversation, ‘but lunch is laid out in the dining room.’
Mungo looked up and winced. ‘Darling, could you bring me a plate? I’m just not sure it’s a good idea to move. What have we got?’
‘Er, there’s a terrine, and a hazelnut salad, and some roast asparagus. And cheese.’
‘All of the above would be splendid.’
‘How’s the leg?’ she checked, a slight edge creeping into her voice. ‘Not too sore to eat?’
He glanced at his thigh. ‘It’s jolly sore, so I’m not sure I’ll be up to much this afternoon.’
‘I’ll get you lunch. Jack and Arabella, please help yourself.’
Maggie ducked back inside and picked up a plate. She needed a walk this afternoon. She needed to get out and have an hour or so to herself, away from everyone else and their different demands. Once lunch was over, she’d slip out for a bit. Mungo’s leg clearly wasn’t going to fall of—
‘Maggie! Maggie! Quick, Maggie!’
She put Mungo’s plate down and hurried through the French doors. ‘What? You can probably have another painkiller if you need?’
‘No no,’ her husband said, leaning forward on the sunbed, hunched over his phone, ‘it’s not the leg. He’s made an offer, darling! Bob Lacey wants it! He wants it so much he’s offered twice the asking price!’