Dead in Time

Chapter Five

July 16th 1976 

The raw heat tapered off as day passed into late afternoon. A clear, blue sky grew hazy where it met the acid yellows and greens of the trees; birds called in the beeches. Inez ran slowly along in the lee of the grassy slope that circled the south-eastern side of the garden, and her feet crunched on the parched lawn. She approached the stone and weatherboard bulk of Westleve House, rising dark against the bright sky, and her pace grew uneven. The smaller, older west wing cast a welcome shade over the crescent of stone steps that led up to the terrace; pots of garish pink dahlias and fragrant thyme scented the air.

Panting, her white shorts and t-shirt sticky with sweat, Inez headed up the steps and into the cool shade of what had once been the old scullery, now fitted out as a small country kitchen. She lurched to the Deal table, catching its solid edge with the heels of her palms, clumsy enough—her vision still streaked blue from the bright sunlight—to stumble against the wood and stub her toe. She cursed, hanging on to the table part in support and part for resistance as she bent her knees to a series of lunges. Inez gritted her teeth at the pain, letting out a grunt of frustration at her own weakness. This being the quietest part of the house, her anger echoed back at her, a blunt reinforcement of her failure. She began a set of stretches, her eyes at last adjusting to the dimness. She didn’t like the poky rooms back here. Stuff the elm beams and the Georgian cupboards; if she’d had her way, they could have knocked it all through when the east wing had been extended and made room for a south-facing sun lounge. But Damon had his fantasies, didn’t he? And it was his house, his money… he’d left the whole of this wing virtually untouched in the two years since he’d bought the place, apart from the odd lick of paint or fitted carpet, chosen with the kind of care he normally reserved for a new guitar. Inez groaned and bent towards the cool slate floor, her muscles protesting.

Like watching a bloody bird nest.

And he’d talked about babies.

It drove her crazy. How could he even…? As if she would be happy to let this injury be the end of her career! At least she’d heard the last of that one. For now, anyway. But, that he could think she’d be happy to sit back and breed, when she needed to hear that she could still get back to her peak, she could get back on top….

On the third repeat, she touched her palms to the smooth stone and, with a gasp, allowed herself to stand. Graham understood that. Who knew what she’d do without Graham, although he wasn’t going to be pleased with her. Not after this. She swore, limping across to the refrigerator that sat incongruously beside the mellowed yellow pine of the cupboards, their iron hinges wrought like lacework. Still panting too… fucking ridiculous. That circuit, four months ago, would have been a mere warm-up, the sort of thing she’d do before going onto the hard court that Damon had had built for her, and getting in a few hours’ practice. She wouldn’t have broken a sweat over it, but now… no. Clammy with perspiration and as out of condition as she was breath.

If only it wasn’t so fucking hot!

Inez grabbed a glucose drink from the fridge and leaned against the table while she drank, wiping the cool bottle across her brow, eyes closed against the pain, the frustration, and the things that kept her awake at night. Having to watch the Open on the bloody television had been bad enough, then that Czech bitch, Hovorka, had actually had the nerve to send her two tickets to the Wimbledon women’s final, along with a cutesy little note that made her want to spit blood.

Better Luck Next Year.

She’d show the cow. Inez glanced at her watch (solid gold, first anniversary present, virtually unreadable dial) and then at the clock on the wall. It had put her in a filthy mood, and now it felt like her whole day had been wasted.