Champagne Summer. India Grey
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Tamsin, who had flung herself down on top of the mountain of clothes piled on her un-made bed, gave a cry of dismay and slithered to her feet. ‘Oh, my God, the shirt! I’d almost forgotten about that. I have to get it back. If I don’t, by the end of tomorrow’s press conference my reputation is going to be toast, and on top of everything else that’s the last thing I need.’
‘How are things at Coronet?’ asked Serena carefully.
‘Bad. While I was dealing with the shirt crisis, Sally left a message on my answerphone to say that another buyer had pulled out because of loss of exclusivity, since the designs have been so widely copied on the high street.’
‘Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, darling,’ Serena said weakly. ‘And the shirt crisis wasn’t your fault. The factory messed up the dye process, and it’s entirely to your credit that you thought to test the shirts for colour-fastness ahead of the game.’ Serena giggled. ‘Otherwise England would have been playing in pink by half time.’
‘Given that the press are out for my blood already, I don’t think they’ll see it that way.’ Tamsin threw open her wardrobe and began to rifle through the rails. ‘Which is why I can’t afford for it to get out.’
‘What’s that noise? What are you doing?’
‘Looking for something to wear.’
‘Ah. Does that mean you’re going?’
‘Oh yes, I’m going all right,’ Tamsin said grimly, pulling out a sea-green silk dress, grimacing and putting it back. ‘I’m fed up of being taken advantage of. Alejandro bloody D’Arienzo picked the wrong day to mess with me. He screwed me up enough last time, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of doing it again. He took something that belongs to me.’ She paused, frowning. ‘And I intend to take it back.’
‘Are we talking about the England shirt now?’ said Serena gently.
‘Amongst other things.’ Let’s see: my pride, my sense of worth, my self-confidence … ‘God, Serena, when I think about that night—about how it felt when I realised he wasn’t coming back … I thought nothing could be worse than knowing that he found me so unattractive back then, but you should have seen the expression on his face this afternoon. It’s like he hates me, like he has nothing but contempt for me. Like I’m worthless.’
‘Don’t say that, Tam.’ Serena’s voice hardened slightly. ‘He was the one in the wrong back then. You’re brilliant. And beautiful.’
Tamsin stopped, catching sight of herself suddenly in the wardrobe mirror. Wrapped only in a towel, her newly washed hair was slicked back from a face that was flushed from the bath. So far, so OK, but her eyes automatically travelled downwards to her right arm.
She grimaced and turned away.
‘Yeah, right. And you’re clearly suffering from pregnancy hormones,’ Tamsin said with a rueful grin. ‘Go and eat another pickled onion and chocolate-spread sandwich and leave me alone. Don’t you know I have a party to get ready for?’
‘Not so fast. I need to know what you’re wearing first. You can keep your weird sandwich combinations; now that I know I’m condemned to spending the next six months in a maternity smock, my only craving is for tailored clothes, so I’ll have to indulge myself through you. You need something that screams “successful, glamorous, assured, mysterious, sexy, but completely unavailable”.’
Tamsin pulled out a narrow slither of light-as-air ash-grey chiffon and looked at it thoughtfully. ‘Exactly.’
‘You look lovely, darling,’ Henry Calthorpe said stiffly, barely glancing up from the evening paper in his hand as Tamsin slid into the back of the car beside him. ‘Nice dress.’
‘Thank you, Daddy.’
Tamsin suppressed a smile. She was grateful for the sentiment—sort of—but it would be great if for once he’d actually looked. Then he would have seen that the dress wasn’t nice—it was a triumph. It was her favourite design for the new season’s collection; the whisper-fine chiffon was generously gathered from a low V-neck, crisscrossed by bands of silver ribbon which fitted snugly under the bust and swept downwards at the back, giving the whole thing a slightly Greek feel. The long semi-sheer sleeves fell down over her hands, covering her arms. Of course; fashion wasn’t her father’s thing, but he certainly would have noticed if she’d left her arms bare.
‘Initial comment on the strip seems to be fairly positive, you’ll be pleased to know,’ Henry continued acidly. ‘It’s just a shame they didn’t manage to get a picture of one of our players wearing it.’
He closed the paper and put it down quickly, but not before Tamsin had caught a glimpse of a full-page photograph of Alejandro walking from the pitch in the England shirt beneath the headline: Barbarian Conqueror.
She picked up the newspaper and opened it. In the hushed interior of the Mercedes, her heart was beating so loudly she was surprised her father couldn’t hear it. Trying to keep her hand from shaking as she held the paper, she began to read.
Former England hero Alejandro D’Arienzo made a welcome return to Twickenham this afternoon in a closely fought match between England and the Barbarians. In a stunning display of skill, the Argentine Adonis helped the Barbarians to a surprise 36-32 victory, after which an outclassed Ben Saunders handed D’Arienzo his new shirt in a gesture of well-deserved respect.
The crowd were clearly delighted to see D’Arienzo back in the England number ten shirt, the position he famously made his own in his three years in the England squad. His international career came to an abrupt and mysterious end six years ago amid rumours of a personality clash with then-coach Sir Henry Calthorpe, and D’Arienzo returned to his homeland where he has earned a formidable reputation in the polo world, as both patron and player for the high-goal San Silvana team.
Both sides have always maintained a steely silence on events that led to this defection, but his dazzling performance today, coupled with reports that he is closely involved with Los Pumas, must make Calthorpe wonder if he would have been better swallowing his pride and keeping him on …
‘Utter rubbish,’ said Henry tartly as Tamsin folded the paper with exaggerated care and put it down on the seat between them. Picking idly at a bead on the sleeve of her dress, Tamsin kept her voice neutral as she said, ‘You never liked him, though, did you?’
Henry suddenly seemed hugely interested in the featureless black landscape beyond the car window. ‘I didn’t trust him,’ he said with quiet bitterness. Then, turning back to Tamsin, he gave a bland smile. ‘He was dangerous. A loose cannon. No loyalty to the team with that … that God-awful tattoo on his chest. The press conveniently forget all that now, don’t they?’
Tamsin felt the breath catch painfully in her throat as the image of Alejandro’s chest, with the Argentine sun blazing on the hard plane of muscle over his heart, filled her head. As a teenager she had cut a picture from a magazine that had showed him stripped to the waist during one hot summer training session for the World Cup. Even now, all these years later, she could still recall the sensation of terrible, churning longing she’d felt whenever she looked at that tattoo.
The car slowed, and a scattering of flashbulbs from the other side of the darkened glass told her they’d arrived at the very exclusive hotel where the post-match party was being held. Tamsin blinked, dragging in a shaky breath and forcing herself back into the present as the car glided smoothly down the drive towards a solid-looking, square stone house half-covered with glossy creeper.
Even before the driver had opened the car door, the noise of the party was already clearly audible.
‘After this afternoon’s shameful performance, heaven knows what they think they’ve got to celebrate,’ said Henry cuttingly, getting out of the car. ‘You’d better do the photo-call straight away while there’s still some hope of the team doing justice to your elegant