Score!

But Eulalia, pallid beyond belief, with the evening sun showing up a moustache and a gap of hairy leg between flowing skirts and leather boots, had her sights set higher.

‘Chloe Catford,’ she cried, ‘I was appalled by that drivel Beatrice Johnson wrote about you in the Scorpion.’

‘The bitch completely misquoted me,’ said Chloe, unfreezing slightly.

‘That was apparent. I resented the way she trivialized you.’ Eulalia’s blinking unmade-up eyes behind her granny specs were full of compassion. ‘Could you spare me a moment tomorrow?’

‘Why don’t we do lunch?’ Chloe turned to Lady Rannaldini, who had drifted on ahead of Eulalia, clearly reluctant to get sucked into the tennis. ‘Hi, Helen, that is a gorgeous dress.’

Helen paused for a second, holding out the mauve silk, patterned with purple lilac and pale yellow honeysuckle. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Then, looking coldly at Pushy, ‘My husband brought me back the silk from Tokyo.’

Wolfie and Simone easily dispatched Lucy and Ogborne to reach the final against Granny and Griselda.

‘We’re going to have trouble beating those two,’ sighed Griselda. ‘Wolfie plays like Boris Becker.’

‘Boris Better. Wolfie’s much nicer looking and such a good boy,’ said Granny approvingly, as Wolfie topped up everyone’s glass and handed round strawberries, giving Simone time to get her breath back before the final. He had lost so much weight, his signet ring kept falling off, so he gave it to Lucy to look after.

As the chapel clock struck half past nine, the finalists took up their positions. Lucy and Simone are so sweet, thought Wolfie, as he jumped from foot to foot on the baseline. Why was he too hopelessly in love with Tab to consider anyone else? Glancing across the valley he felt sick to see a car, looking suspiciously like his father’s Merc, creeping stealthily up the little lane to Magpie Cottage. An ace from Griselda whizzed past his ear. He mustn’t give in to weakness. If he was incapable of returning Simone’s love, he could at least ensure her victory.

‘Oh, well played, Wolfie,’ said Simone, five minutes later, as he aced Granny for a second time.

Alpheus, sitting away from the rabble on the other side of the court, much envied the way Simone ran around picking up balls for Wolfie. It was high time he had an adoring young woman in his life again. He picked up his mobile.

Moths were bashing against the floodlights. Even Rannaldini’s sapphire delphinium bed, the only thing watered in the garden, was losing colour in the dusk. A mobile rang, everyone dived hopefully — but it was for Chloe.

‘OK,’ she purred, ‘terrific. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

Not having had any exercise, she announced she was going for a jog and, giving Mikhail a kick in the ribs as she passed the weeping ash, disappeared into the darkness. Shortly afterwards, Alpheus muttered about swimming his twenty lengths, drained his glass of Perrier and also left.

‘He and Chloe must have started up again,’ hissed Flora.

‘I hate Rannaldini,’ said Pushy.

‘So do I,’ agreed Bernard, stunning everyone, because he never bitched.

‘No-one hates him as much as I do,’ said Griselda, as she remembered Rannaldini wrecking Hermione’s dress.

Mikhail must have been roused by Chloe’s kick for suddenly he reared up and sang, ‘“Thunder rumbles deep in the heavens, a man must die,”’ then slumped back to sleep.

Everyone exchanged nervous glances, particularly when real thunder started to grumble round the hills in sympathy. A slight breeze rattling the summer-hardened poplar leaves sounded like rain. Lucy put her arms round a quivering James: she’d have to trank him if the claps grew louder.

‘Guess what I had to do earlier today,’ she asked the remaining spectators, as the players changed ends. ‘Streak Clive’s hair.’

‘Whatever for?’ asked Meredith.

‘He had an important date, he said. His bloodless face went quite pink. Actually, he was really sweet and told me about his mum, and he tried to pay me afterwards.’

‘Must be the first time,’ shuddered Flora. ‘Clive scares me more than Rannaldini. That black crow’s been sitting on top of the cypress for the last two hours. D’you think it’s stuck?’

‘Its name is Death,’ said Ogborne, with a sepulchral laugh. ‘Christ, that girl’s got amazing legs.’

Everyone turned as Jessica, Sexton’s beautiful secretary, loped back from the house.

‘You’ll never guess what?’ she gasped.

‘You’ve been streaking Clive’s hair,’ said Ogborne.

‘I just saw Tristan.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Bernard roughly. ‘He’s in Paris. You’ve had too much to drink.’

‘Keep your hair on, Bernie,’ said Meredith. ‘Baby saw a ghost yesterday.’

‘What was Tristan doing?’ asked Flora.

‘Nearly running me over, belting down the drive.’

‘Must have been someone else,’ insisted Bernard angrily.

‘I find it a relief Tristan’s away,’ confessed Flora. ‘He’s so uptight, and he was bitchy on that tape. I always thought he adored us all. Oh, well played, Simone.’