Power Games by Judith Cutler Page A

shouted, according to Mrs Nelmes.’
    Good for him! But Kate said nothing.
    But Cassie needed no encouragement. ‘Of course, I don’t see what the problem is, and so I told Mrs Nelmes. A man does a long day’s work, gets a lift from a friend, gets to this God-bothering in time – no wonder he gets cross when his wife starts cross-questioning him. After a day like that, he should get a nice warm welcome, no questions asked. That’s what my Arthur expected. And got,’ she added with satisfaction, swigging the gin in one.
    Kate reflected silently on the difference between a wife and a mistress.
    â€˜So I told her,’ Cassie continued, ‘I wasn’t surprised the worm had turned. Only it seems that Flavia is the only one entitled to call the poor lad a worm, so Mrs Nelmes is no longer speaking to yours truly. So there you are. So I think I’ll have another – just a finger – to celebrate. What about you?’
    â€˜Why not?’ She helped herself to another tonic. So what was Cassie celebrating? Her spat with Mrs Nelmes or a marriage with a problem?
    â€˜You don’t call that a drink?’
    â€˜I do at this time of night when I’ve got to be up at six tomorrow.’
    Cassie cackled. ‘Oh, aye. Got yourself a breakfast date, have you? Oh, not with the worm?’
    â€˜No. With a very attractive young man called Jason. My tennis coach. And we start hitting little yellow balls at seven prompt.’
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    â€˜Start low, that’s it, and end high. Let me see the side of that racquet. That’s it. What a shot! Now – just to show it wasn’t a fluke – another backhand.’ Jason sent down another ball. She might be hot enough to have shed her tracksuit and to have started to swig from her water bottle, but he – all six foot one of him – was still cool, not a drop of sweat glistening in his curly black hair.
    They were in the tennis centre. The centre – which held eight courts – was divided in two by a high-level walkway, designed to stop people straying on to others’ courts while they were in use. Heavy canvas curtains at the end of each court reduced the echo and deadened the flight of the balls. The other side of the walkway was completely unoccupied and in darkness. Only their court and the next one had lights on. Not that anyone was on the next court. No, as far as Kate knew, she and Jason were the only people in the whole complex, apart from the receptionist, still bug-eyed with sleep, and a cleaner, the only evidence of whose existence was a trolley half-way out of a door marked PLANT.
    They’d spent ten minutes or so knocking up, to get the eye in and the joints moving, and had then collected up the tennis balls. Jason somehow transformed the ball basket into a ball-gatherer. Kate simply gathered as many as her racquet would carry.
    â€˜You’d think in a place like this people would dispose of their litter more thoughtfully,’ Jason said, slinging a couple of plastic ball-tubes and a bottle into the bin beside the net. ‘Ugh.’ The bottle was obviously sticky.
    Kate was fossicking behind a curtain: five or six balls were lurking behind it. And a couple of empty bottles. She kicked them free. As soon as she’d deposited the balls in Jason’s basket, she went back, and slung the bottles with unnecessary force into the bin.
    â€˜It’s as bad as the bloody High Street,’ she said. ‘Some days you see whole families coming out of McDonald’s and dropping litter. Why can’t they use bins?’
    â€˜Because they don’t want to draw attention to themselves by being different,’ Jason suggested, finding a chocolate wrapper and binning it. ‘Right. Ready to work on your forehand?’
    She nodded, heading for the far end of the court.
    â€˜Ready position. Knees bent, remember, take the racquet head down really low – that’s it! How’s