A pale youth with long mousy hair, wearing a v-necked sweater with reindeers round the border, came up and cleared his throat. Nicky looked up without enthusiasm.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m from Yorkshire Television,’ said the youth. ‘I wonder if we could have a few words with you?’

‘When?’ said Nicky.

‘Well now?’

‘I’m busy.’

‘It won’t take long.’

‘I’ll talk to you after the doubles. Now beat it,’ said Nicky curtly, and turned back to Imogen.

She gazed at him, bewildered by such perfection. Perhaps it was the black rim round the iris or the thickness of the lashes that gave his blue eyes their intensity. His suntan was so even, it looked painted on. And he’d actually called her beautiful. Later that night she would bring out the remark like an iced cake saved from tea murmuring it over and over to herself, trying to remember exactly the husky smouldering overtones of his voice.

‘Where d’you play next?’ she asked. The thought of him going away was already unbearable.

Nicky grinned. ‘Rome on Monday, Paris the week after, then Edinburgh, Wimbledon, Gstaad, Kitzbühel, and then the North American circuit, Washington, Indianapolis, Toronto, finally Forest Hills, if I don’t die of exhaustion.’

Imogen gasped. Scotland was the most abroad she’d ever been to.

‘Oh, how lovely,’ she said. ‘Think of the postcards one could send.’

Nicky laughed. ‘I could face it if you came with me,’ he said, lowering his voice.

Imogen blushed and gazed into her tea cup.

Nicky watched her for a second. ‘Trying to read the tea-leaves? They’re telling you that a tall, dark, tennis player has just come into your life,’ he said.

‘Hi,’ said a voice behind them. ‘I see you’ve got yourself stuck in as usual, Nicky.’