‘The club is almost empty this evening.’ Peter Cassidy greeted James Gordon in the changing room at Cannon’s as the latter, having fitted his card into the electronic door, came in carrying his sports bag. ‘We needn’t have bothered to book a court.’ He stooped to retie the lace on one white tennis shoe. ‘How is your sister, James? Em seems to think she’s going through a rough patch.’
‘Is she?’ Putting his card back in his wallet, James ripped off his tie and pulled the Asser and Turnbull shirt up over his head without undoing more than two buttons. ‘I haven’t talked to Clare for ages. I think she was a bit miffed about me inheriting Aunt Margaret’s money. I mean, the old girl had a very good reason for doing it, but Paul and Clare didn’t see it that way. Paul wanted to contest the will and have her declared senile.’
‘Which she wasn’t, I gather.’ Peter sat down on the bench in the middle of the room to wait for him.
‘No way. She was right on the ball up to the last five minutes, Ma said. Clare knew that of course. I don’t think she cares, actually. It’s Paul. You’d think with all his money he’d leave it alone, wouldn’t you? But perhaps it’s a habit with him.’ He paused reflectively. On the whole he was a great admirer of Paul’s. ‘Anyway, I thought Clare might be too embarrassed by the whole stupid thing to want to talk to me for a bit.’ He grinned, flicking his dark hair back from his face. ‘Besides, she hasn’t been much fun lately. She leads such a boring life, stuck in that house stuck in the middle of nowhere.’ He stepped out of his trousers and reached for his shorts.
‘It doesn’t sound boring from what I’ve been hearing.’ Peter laughed. ‘She’s having personal private lessons in body-building from a continental lothario.’
James had been rummaging in his sports bag for a shirt. Abruptly he straightened. ‘Oh, come on. That’s one of Emma’s stories!’
‘No, you ask Clare.’
‘I will.’ James laughed. ‘Good old sis. Perhaps she’s finally kicked over the traces. I always knew she would in the end. I wonder what Paul thinks?’
‘He’s horrified. He was the one that rang Em. He wants her to talk Clare out of it all. Apparently he thinks it’s all some sort of compensation for not getting pregnant.’
‘What a load of crap.’ James had finished putting on the white socks and shoes. Stowing the last of his things into his locker he picked up his squash racquet. ‘It’s Paul who is neurotic about having a son. I don’t think Clare gives a screw. Come on. I’m going to thrash you tonight, then last man to finish twelve lengths of the pool pays for dinner.’
James looked distastefully round at the disordered living room of his flat in the Barbican when he got home that evening and sighed. The cleaning woman had failed to come for the second time running, and it was thick with dust. Dirty plates and glasses littered every free surface and there were clothes scattered on the floor. The air smelt stale. Throwing open the windows he went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was empty of food. Tonics, cans of lager, two bottles of Bollinger, that was all. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t hungry. Peter had gone home to Emma for supper in the end. James had been invited, but he hadn’t wanted to go – there was always tension in the Cassidy house. He helped himself to a can of Pils and, going back into the living room, threw himself down on an easy chair, picked up the phone, and extending the aerial, began to punch out a number.
It was several minutes before she replied, and when she did she sounded depressed.
‘Hi, Clare, how are you?’
‘James?’ From the slight sniff he wondered suddenly if she had been crying and he frowned. Deep down, beneath all the aggression, he was very fond of his sister.
After Penny had dropped her off at the house an hour earlier, Clare had gone straight upstairs to lie down, not even bothering to remove her dress. Still indignant at Paul for sending her home like a child who has been forbidden a party because it has misbehaved, she was even more cross with herself for allowing him to do it. She had been lying gazing up at the ceiling, still feeling very shaky, when James rang. Now slowly she sat up, and, the receiver to her ear, swung her feet to the carpet, pushing her hair back from her face.
‘It’s a long time since you bothered to ring. What do you want?’ she asked, forcing herself to sound cheerful.
That was more like it. He grinned to himself as he lay back in his chair, resting his ankle across his knee. ‘I don’t want anything. I can afford my own, now, remember?’ he said maliciously. ‘No, seriously, sis. I’ve been hearing weird stories about you and your body-building. What gives?’
There was puzzled silence, then Clare laughed. ‘Bodybuilding? Who told you that?’
‘A reliable source. Come on. Tell me about it.’
‘It, James, is yoga, that’s all.’
‘What, no dumb-bells? No rippling muscles and black satin G-strings?’
‘No.’ It was her old infectious laugh.
‘And no continental lothario?’
There was a pause. ‘No, Californian actually.’
James whistled. ‘What does Paul say?’
‘He’s not interested, and if he was I wouldn’t care.’ She sounded rebellious. She didn’t want to think about Paul. She changed the subject abruptly. ‘James, you haven’t had any letters about selling any of the estate, have you?’
‘No. Why?’
She hesitated. ‘I had one from a solicitor in Edinburgh – Mitchison and Archer – saying they had a client who wanted to buy Duncairn.’
James gave a soundless whistle. ‘I wonder why. Did they name a price?’
‘No. They said it would be negotiable.’
‘Are you going to sell?’
‘Of course not. That’s my inheritance. All there is of it,’ she couldn’t resist adding.
James ignored that. ‘I can’t think why anyone would want Duncairn,’ he went on relentlessly, ‘unless –’ He stopped suddenly. ‘You know, there were some rumours in the City last month about the oil companies sniffing round the north-east coast again. Maybe they’re looking for somewhere to put a new terminal.’ He was intrigued. ‘That would be a turn up, Clare, if old Duncairn turned out to be worth a fortune. Whatever they want it for, if it is an oil company, they would offer serious money.’
‘Even if they do, I’m not selling.’ Clare was appalled at the thought. ‘Listen James. Don’t mention this to anyone. I haven’t told Paul about the letter and I don’t intend to. There’s no point.’
‘There would be if they offered you enough money, sis. I’ll ask around and see what I can find out for you.’
Clare walked across to the window after James had rung off and drew back the curtains. The night was cold now, after the hot day. She could smell smoke. Someone had been burning dead leaves in one of the squares and the scent flavoured the night with autumn.
With a sigh she closed the window and walked slowly downstairs still wearing her green dress. The skirt dragged on the steep uncarpeted staircase behind her with an exotic rustle. She went down the second flight to the basement kitchen, wondering if she should find herself something to eat – she hadn’t eaten properly since breakfast that morning, but she wasn’t really hungry.
Damn James. She hadn’t wanted to think