Junction X

pint. “I wonder if they’ll fit in? Don’t suppose he plays?”
“No. Don’t think so. They made friends with Valerie, though. They remembered her name from back when she was on the circuit.”
“Valerie’s easy to like,” he said with a wry grin. “Come on, we didn’t come here to discuss wives.” His voice had an acid tinge to it and I wondered again what the problem was.
“We could, if you needed to.”
“I don’t.” His tone was dismissive and I knew I’d get nothing from him. Perhaps tonight, when he’s a little oiled with brandy, I thought, I’ll try again. I felt a rush of fondness for him that I hadn’t felt for ages, and I wanted to help him if I could.
Whether it was the pleasure of playing against Phil again or the challenge of learning a new course, my golf wasn’t as good as it should have been that day. Phil beat me easily, the first time he’d done that for a year, at least. He accused me of letting him win, and I let him believe it. We had a late lunch and then played another round, which I won, narrowly, before coming back to shower and change. I was tired, sunburned and feeling rather mellow.
The bar was filling up with men, some off the course, some members who came purely for the evening, to drink and mingle. Phil led me through the crush, smiling at this one, patting the back of that one, until we reached a group of several large and exquisitely turned-out individuals. The tallest of them, an older man with white hair and a physique he obviously worked hard to keep, turned to Phil and directed the attention of the two men with him to our arrival.
“There you are, Carter. The Secretary told us you were here. Have you been on the course all day?”
“Just about,” Phil said. “This is Ed Johnson.”
The three men turned their attention to me with no small amount of interest. I could feel them sizing me up and was glad I’d worn the best I could wear. Appearances were everything in my game.
The tall man, who Phil introduced as Hargreaves, the Club Captain (as if I hadn’t guessed that by the blazer and engraved tankard), looked me up and down. “Phil’s next door neighbour, eh? Yes, we’ve heard a lot about you.”
I felt warmth in my stomach and guilt crept through me for all the neglect that I’d accused Phil of over the past few months. It seemed he’d been laying the groundwork for the day I stopped being stubborn.
“Nine, aren’t you?” Hargreaves asked, referring to my handicap. He shook my hand and I could tell right then that getting in here was going to be easy.
“I was, last year. Before he went and abandoned me. I’m more an eleven now.”
“Ah, yes. Didn’t you used to play at Woodlands?”
I didn’t like say I still did, and nodded.
“Decent enough club in its day,” said one of the others, a man with a red nose and dark hair.
“I know him,” the third one said. “Thrashed me last year.” I couldn’t place him, but I grinned and offered to pay for a round to make up for it.
“Not allowed, old thing,” my vanquished new friend replied. “Non-members aren’t allowed to pay for drinks.”
“And that’s where we come in,” Phil said, looking every inch a man who could sell snow to Eskimos. “You wouldn’t allow a man with a nine handicap—”
“Eleven,” I said.
“—a nine with the right ambition,” he stressed, “to get away? To win for Woodlands?”
The three of them looked at each other and then back at me. Phil was just smiling, his face radiating confidence; his hand was on my elbow, squeezing hard. It was if he was telling me to say nothing, that the deal was already made, the marks already caught.
“All right,” the dark haired one said. “I’ll countersign him.” Phil whooped with triumph and disappeared to go and find the Secretary and a form.
The Captain shook my hand again, “Welcome to The Sands. Work on cutting back to nine, though, will you? Could do with a nine in the team.”
I stammered out thanks. Once I’d signed a half a dozen forms and a disgustingly pricey cheque, they allowed me to buy them drinks, then dinner. Then a lot more drinks. Phil and I poured out of the club rather than walked out at 10 p.m., both of us holding the other up and neither of us succeeding very well.
As soon as we got back into the car, I realised that the atmosphere had changed, charged with brittle electricity I could almost feel. Perhaps it was the drink—we’d started our episodes while well under the influence—perhaps it was the warmth of the night and the success of my first night in the club.
“Drive slow,” Phil said huskily as we passed under the rhododendrons in the drive. He put his hand on my thigh.
“It’s not far.”
“Then go somewhere else.”
I nearly said, “Where?” But it didn’t really matter. His hand was massaging my thigh, working its way upwards. I wouldn’t have cared if I’d driven straight into the sea.
I did a U-turn and drove toward the industrial end of the seafront, pulling into an empty car park of a unit being built. The car slid into deep shadow and I yanked the hand brake, flicked off the lights and turned to him. For once in my life I felt in control—he’d helped, but I was the one who’d conquered the club members, and I was swept away in the moment of ego. Just for a second, his fingers tried to push my head down but I wasn’t having it. This was my night and we were doing things my way.
I started to kiss him. His mouth was hard and resisting under mine, his jaw locked and it took a moment on my insistence, nipping his lips, demanding entrance with my tongue before his lips moved, softened, and his mouth opened at last.