back.
At least the letter was off, winging its way across London. He was in with a chance. Today, he was scrambling for spare change but tomorrow? Who knows? He popped a crisp into his mouth. After all, it was difficult to keep a Venables-Smythe down.
He made a note of the time on the clock by the front door, then turned to the sports page and checked the cricket score.
Sooner or later, Leticia’s client would leave.
And sooner or later, the Reverend Hardascanbee would have his evil way.
Leticia closed the door.
Nothing was going to plan today. Hughie was late, the romance novelist turned out to be four foot seven, a size twenty, and obsessed with the colour pink and now she’d have to measure her in the workroom because the plumber was poking about in the bathroom, trying to locate the mysterious leak. He was hammering on something, making the most God-awful noise.
She checked the tea things she’d laid out earlier, running her fingers over the exquisite china cups and saucers. Thin, tangy lemon biscuits, smoky Assam tea, fine white sugar, milk, all neatly arranged on the large silver tray. Turning on a CD of Handel arias, she tried to look serene and composed, taking it back into the main room. ‘Please forgive me!’
The novelist beamed up at her, dressed in a pair of too-tight jeans and a waxed Barbour jacket, smelling of wet dogs and hand lotion. ‘No problem at all!’
‘So,’ Leticia poured a little tea in a cup, checking the colour, ‘you want something with puffball sleeves, is that right? And a train? Are you sure?’
She nodded eagerly. ‘Do you think you can do it?’
‘Well.’ How to break the news to her? ‘It’s not what I would recommend. Why don’t we go for something more … streamlined … more sophisticated?’
The woman’s face fell. Leticia was clearly demolishing a childhood dream.
‘Milk and sugar? That’s not to say it won’t be gorgeous,’ she added temptingly.
‘Excuse me.’
It was the plumber, standing in the doorway, wiping his hands on an old rag. These people had no sense of timing.
‘May I have a word?’
‘Pardon me.’ She eased the novelist into a chair, piling a stack of sketchbooks onto her lap and popping a biscuit in her hand. ‘Have a look through some of these. It will give you some fresh ideas. I won’t be a minute.’
She followed him into the bathroom. ‘Yes? So what exactly is wrong?’
‘How long ago did you have this put in?’
‘Three years ago. Why?’
‘And who did it?’
‘Freelance guys. Armenians. Friends of my godfather’s.’ (‘Friends’ was a euphemism.)
‘So not a proper outfit, is that right?’
She didn’t like all these questions. ‘Well, no. Not as such. Why?’ She folded her arms across her chest. ‘What has that got to do with anything?’
Sam sighed. ‘I didn’t think it could be done by a legitimate company. Not by the quality of the work. But I wondered for your sake. Then you might have some legal recourse.’
The word ‘legal’ sounded ominous.
‘See this,’ he continued, pointing to the pipes that fed into the freestanding bath. ‘Underneath the floorboards there are places where they’ve been held together with chewing gum and electrical tape. These pipes aren’t even the same width. You’ve got a well of water underneath there that’s rotting the wood. I’m surprised you couldn’t smell it.’
The Armenians had done it at the most amazing price. And so quickly too.
She ran her hand over her eyes. ‘Can you fix it?’
He shook his head. ‘I can fix it but it means tearing up these floorboards, maybe even starting from scratch.’
‘And how expensive will that be?’
‘Hard to say. Twelve hundred?’
‘No!’
‘You can get a second opinion. I mean, another quote. But don’t use it for a couple days. It needs to dry out.’ He began packing up his bag. ‘If you want me to do the work, I can fit you in, but you need to let me know quickly. Here,’ he took a card out of his back pocket. ‘Let me know what you decide.’
‘Thanks,’ she said grimly, leading him through the workshop and opening the back door.
‘By the way,’ he stopped on the threshold, looking around, ‘what is it you actually do here?’
‘I design bespoke lingerie.’
‘You’re kidding!’ he laughed.
Leticia straightened. ‘What’s so funny about that?’
‘Nothing. Hey, any chance of coming to a fashion show?’
‘Thank you for coming by,’ she said briskly, shutting the door.
Twelve hundred for pipes! Of all the things to have to spend money on! Then she thought of her ever-climbing overdraft. It was all so depressing.
She tossed the card down on the counter, adjusted the music and went back to her client.
This really wasn’t her sphere; she was an artist, after all.
Arnaud Bourgalt du Coudray was the king of the tennis ball. Anyone who ever thought about tennis balls (and there were those who did), couldn’t help but consider the du Coudray Imperial, with its bold mandarin-yellow felt and exceptionally springy rubber core, as everything a tennis ball should and could be.
But the du Coudray Imperial had been Arnaud’s father’s accomplishment. (Actually, it had taken two generations to perfect – one for the felt and another for the springy core.) By the time Arnaud was born, the Imperial was the established tennis ball of champions. And so throughout Arnaud’s privileged life, his mother had followed him around, first when he was too small to get away from her and later, when he was too guilty to try, drilling into him that he would never match his father’s success as a son, a human being or a producer of world-class tennis balls. He might as well give up right now. Which would, of course, be disgustingly lazy.
But Arnaud did not give up. It is a credit to his sheer stubbornness
