Get Free Read & Download Files The Tennis Party PDF. THE TENNIS PARTY. Download: The Tennis Party. THE TENNIS PARTY - In this site isn`t the same as . It's a sunny summer Saturday and four couples gather for a weekend of tennis. Meet the tournament hosts: self-made man Patrick and his brash. If you may be interested to read this The Tennis Party Wickham Madeleine book of You will likewise locate this e-book in layout ppt, pdf, txt, kindle, zip, word.
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Tennis Cvr BLAD 1/2/07 Page 1 And then he got a tennis racket. Shane McG Yesterday was Tom's birthday! He go. Play XO vs Game an Puzzle game free online. XO vs Game is a version of classic tic-tac-toe game. Players place X's and O's on a 3×3 or 5×5. DOWNLOAD OR READ: THE TENNIS PARTY PDF EBOOK EPUB MOBI the tennis party Tennis is a racket sport that can be played individually against a.
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I really wanted to read more about the play the children were performing and the long-suffering nanny. This was indeed the stage of the game where the audience becomes more fascinating than the players. Love Forty: Sigh. Yes, that does mean bonking Charles. That would explain a lot.
Game: Perhaps it was the post-match champers, but I rallied ha! She even makes that husband of hers, the dreadful Patrick, suddenly seem like the good guy. Sort of. Good for her. Post Match Wash-up: A decent enough game, if you like this sort of thing.
Caroline, he noticed, had turned her attention back to her nail polish. Particularly because, to be fair, there was a lot more in Georgina that Caroline could claim as her own that he could. Mother and daughter shared their blond hair, their athletic frames, their tendency to burst into raucous laughter.
She was used to beauty, physical accomplishment and popularity. Whereas Patrick, short, stumpy and short-sighted, was not. Or Austrian, or something. I just thought it would be nice for them to have that room. Caroline raised suspicious eyes.
How long have we been here? Nearly three years. Caroline gave a cackle of laughter. Patrick stared at Georgina. You hardly know her. And Charles used to play the guitar. Her eyes seemed to reflect his own failures and worries back at him, reminding him in a tacit instant of the disappointments and disillusionments of the last thirteen years. She tasted, as she had done when he first kissed her behind one of the stand at the Daily Telegraph personal finance exhibition, of lipstick, cigarettes and alcohol.
And the other twin could play with the nanny. How about that, Daddy? As Patrick entered his study, he felt rather deflated. Life at Bindon had not turned out quite as he had wanted, and he, too, often felt a secret nostalgia for the days at Seymour Road. All the smart little girls that he met at her school seemed to live in villages, in old rectories and farmhouses, with dogs and horses and sheep.
None of them lived in red-brick villas in the suburbs of Silchester. So they had sold twenty-four Seymour Road, moved to Bindon and bought Georgina a pony. Here, Patrick had felt, they would move into a new level of existence.
His mind had been filled, in the few weeks before the move, with images of large houses with sweeping drives, aristocratic girls leading horses out of loose boxes, croquet on the lawn, young boys called Henry and Hugo for Georgina to grow up with. Many had moved to Bindon out of Silchester, or even London, attracted by the quick rail link to Waterloo. Besides, they tended to keep to themselves, relying for their social life on parties of friends down from London — and, when those dried up, often moving back to London themselves.
For there was a village community of sorts in Bindon. They knew the old lady whose family had once owned the manor house — and who now lived in a nearby cottage. They knew the fluttery pair of sisters whose brother had been the vicar of Bindon before he died. They knew the rather eccentric Taylors, who had lived in Bindon for generations — and probably married each other for generations, Caroline liked to add. But nowhere had Patrick found the smart, sociable, double-barrelled, Country Life families for which he was looking.
Patrick, who himself comuted to London, was not offended by this remark. But Georgina could and would be, if only she could mix with the right people. He was now looking seriously at moving further into the country — Dorset, Wiltshire, Somerset, perhaps. He had visions of a big Georgian house; perhaps ten or twenty acres. If this year went well, perhaps they could start looking.
He would ask Charles casually into the study after lunch. No hassle, just an agreeable piece of business between friends. Never had been. Always courteous. Sometimes they were intrigued; sometimes he even found the punter phoning him back. But not if they were sophisticated investors — or, most tricky of all, thought they were sophisticated.
But a doubt kept swimming around in his mind. He sat back in his chair, staring blindly at the bookcase. Was it worth phoning Charles and Cressida to check that they were coming? He rehearsed the call in his mind.
Caroline will never forgive you. Patrick held his breath. He replaced the receiver and closed his eyes. By this time tomorrow it should all be in the bag; signed, seal and stamped. He picked up the folder and flicked through it a couple of times. But he was already completely familiar with its contents. He put it into his top drawer, closed and locked it. Then he spread out the sheet for the tournament chart and began to write the names of the four pairs across the top.
Patrick and Caroline, he wrote. Stephen and Annie. Don and Valerie. Charles and Cressida. Charles and Cressida Mobyn were attending a drinks party at the house of Sir Benjamin Sutcliffe, before a charity performance of the Messiah in Silchester Cathedral.
They mingled, holding glasses of Kir Royale, with the most eminent residents of Silchester — many of whom lives, like they did, in the Cathedral Close — together with a sprinkling of celebrities from around the area and eve na few from London.
Cressida was one of the few guests present with her back towards the cathedral. Tall, elegant and queenly, she seemed oblivious of its towering presence; even though she was universally acknowledged as one of the most tireless campaigners for the West Tower Fund.
She was talking now to the well-loved radio presenter who would be making a speech at the beginning of the concert. The radio presenter was gesturing flamboyantly at the splendid sight of the cathedral, and Cressida, looking slightly taken aback, turned to look at it.
Almost immediately, she turned back and smiled politely at the presenter. She had, after all, seen the cathedral nearly every day for the last for years. She did, after all, live opposite it. Charles, watching her from the other side of the room could follow her thoughts as easily as his own. After all this time, the combination of her blinkered mind, her rangy blonde beauty and her wealth still acted on him like an aphrodisiac. When Cressida, at the breakfast table, looked up from the newspaper and asked in all innocence what they meant by privatization — or what on earth was wrong with insider dealing — he invariably felt an immediate surge of sexual energy.
He had married her for her complete indifference to it.
The only child of a successful toy manufacturer, Cressida had been raised by her aristocratic mother to live on a stream of chequebooks, shop accounts and credit cards — all to be paid off by Daddy. Even now, she invariably carried little cash.
Her portfolio of investments, managed by a blue-blooded investment management firm in London, kept a steady flow of income into her Coutts account, and it was now Charles, not Daddy, who undertook the monthly reckoning up of bills.
The portfolio had diminished rather sharply in size over the last three years. A large chunk had gone on the house in the Cathedral Close, and another on downloading out Angus, his former busimess partner. Charles was now the sole proprietor of the Silchester Print Centre, part gallery, part shop, dealing in prints of all descriptions.
When he, Angus and Ella had run the Centre together, it had been different. They had put on lots of exhibitions of new young artists; had held printing workshops; had sponsored an annual print competition at the local technical and arts college. Now, running it more or less on his own, and engrossed with Cressida and the twins, Charles found himself veering towards the safer, more predictable end of the market.
He defended this path to himself on financial grounds: Occasionally he felt momentary stirrings of nostalgia for their cosy existence together in Seymour Road. This, mingling with important people in an important house in the Close, was real life. Discussing schools for the twins, instructing Coutts to open bank accounts for them, was real life. Being asked, as he had been today, to be godfather to the Hon.
Sebastian Fairfax — that was real life. Homely, red-brick Seymour Road had simply been a preparation for the real world. He remembered it fondly and still held affection for it — but it was the same affection he felt for his childhood rocking-horse when he outgrew it. As for Ella, he hardly ever gave her a thought.
The lights were on at eighteen Seymour Road when Stephen Fairweather pushed his bike through the gate and padlocked it to the fence. The overgrown front garden smelt of fresh evening air and honeysuckle; as he pushed open the front door, this was combined with the aroma of frying mushrooms.
Downstairs, in the cosy basement kitchen, Annie was making mushroom omelette while Nicola sat at the kitchen table, carefully colouring in a map of Africa.