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things,’ she retorted. ‘A particularly lovely brown coat, for example.’ Stephen’s mouth twisted into a smile in spite of himself. The brown coat had been donated to Annie by his mother, a well-meaning lady who had spied it at a church bazaar and thought it just the thing for her busy daughter-in-law. It had orange stitching around the lapels, a virulent green lining, and, as Annie often observed, about twenty-five years’ life still in it. It hung on the kitchen peg, so that Mrs Fairweather could see it when she came to babysit, and it never ventured out of the house.
    ‘Perhaps we should sew a little green crocodile onto that,’ said Stephen.
    Caroline and Valerie came out onto the terrace, Valerie’s left hand decorated with a plaster.
    ‘Good thing it wasn’t your right hand,’ said Annie, watching her pick up her racquet.
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Valerie doubtfully. The thing is, I’ve got a double-handed backhand.’
    ‘It wasn’t a deep cut,’ said Caroline dismissively. ‘Just a scratch. You’ll be fine.’
    Valerie made a few cautious swings with her racquet and winced slightly. ‘I’ll be OK,’ she said.
    ‘Perhaps we should be given a handicap,’ said Don in a semi-jovial tone. ‘A couple of points per set orsomething.’ Patrick looked up and gave an uncertain laugh.
    ‘That’s getting a bit technical for me,’ he said.
    ‘It’s not important,’ said Don. ‘It’s just that if Valerie’s at a disadvantage because of her hand . . .’ The two men stared at each other, and Annie suddenly realized that Don was serious. She stared at Valerie’s hand. The plaster was about an inch long. She couldn’t possibly have hurt herself badly.
    ‘Valerie,’ she said, ‘do you really think your tennis is going to be affected?’ Valerie looked up with a pained expression.
    ‘Oh no, I shouldn’t think it’ll really matter. I mean, if I try to avoid playing on my backhand . . .’
    ‘Good,’ said Caroline loudly, lighting a cigarette. ‘Then you won’t need a handicap, will you? Right, let’s get started.’ She swept Valerie off the terrace and down the grassy path to the tennis court, giving Don a contemptuous glance as she did so. The others followed meekly behind in silence. The path led down a slight incline to the tennis court, surrounded by hedges and with a lawned area for viewing. It was a grass court, in immaculate condition, and Annie stared with pleasure at the inviting soft greenness.
    ‘Lovely!’ she said. Patrick turned and smiled at her.
    ‘Looking good, isn’t it?’
    ‘I’ve always said this is a fine court,’ said Don surprisingly. ‘You’ve heard about the American at Wimbledon? He asked the groundsman how to get a court into that condition. “It’s very simple,” said the groundsman. “You just roll it and water it, roll it and water it . . . for a hundred years.”’ Don looked around with a pleased look. ‘Nothing finer than a good English grass court. Although, of course, it’s not a surface I’m used to. Too fast, you see.’
    ‘We both usually play on all-weather courts,’ put in Valerie. ‘Grass is quite different.’
    ‘So you’ll have to excuse us while we accustomize,’ said Don cheerfully to Caroline. ‘You’ll probably wipe the floor with us to begin with.’
    ‘I expect we will,’ agreed Caroline in a bored voice. Patrick shot her a look and gave a little laugh.
    ‘I shouldn’t think that’s very likely,’ he said. ‘You sound very professional. I’m afraid we hardly ever get to play.’
    ‘Aha!’ said Don, with a knowing expression. ‘It’s always the ones who say they never play! Don’t believe a word of it, Val!’
    As he and Valerie went onto the court, and Annie and Stephen sat down on the bank to watch, Caroline beckoned to Patrick.
    ‘Out of interest,’ she said sweetly, ‘why the fuck did we invite Don?’ Patrick looked uncomfortable.
    ‘He’s not so bad really,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize