Page 10 of Hit For Six (Balls and Banter #1)

CHAPTER SIX

Monty

‘Darling, you are a trouper!’ said Helena, ushering Monty inside the grand family country home and relieving him of the shopping, which was systematically passed to one of today’s hired waiters.

It always felt strange to come back to Upper Badminton, though the house was just a few miles from Bath.

For all his happy childhood memories in the verdant village, the imposing building of his childhood lacked the cosiness and charm of his city-centre apartment.

No sooner had he set foot in B-C HQ than he couldn’t wait to get back to the Crescent, which was ridiculously contradictory when one considered the vast scale of its architecture.

And last night’s dream wasn’t helping. It kept coming back to Monty at the most inopportune moments during the day: waiting at a crossroads to traverse busy traffic, in the checkout queue at Waitrose where he’d made himself look like a gormless twit.

And here it was again now at his folks’ place, threatening the same.

He’d never experienced butterflies in his stomach over a woman before but the T20 girl had crept into his slumber last night; her soft, naked body melding against his firm muscles as they got cosy beneath the sheets and he spooned her until she was spent.

All of this despite the fact he staunchly refused to look at his socials or watch the replay so he couldn’t possibly have retained a detailed image of her face.

It was all a bit mystifying and hopefully just a phase.

The thought of said recurring dream was heaven and hell.

‘That had better not be what I think it is.’ Monty jolted himself back to the present… and the present. Helena frowned as she side-eyed the neatly-wrapped cricket bat. ‘Really, Monty. A jigsaw or a book would have been far more appropriate.’

‘Erm, well… Roddie can never start playing cricket too soon.’ Monty struggled to get his words out, as he called after his mother’s retreating back, her chignon barely moving as they headed toward the kitchen. ‘London coaches children from four years and up, you know.’

Helena pivoted to face him, pursing her lips at this.

‘I’m sure Dante would prefer for his son to take more of an equestrian interest as far as the sporting world is concerned, under the guidance of somebody who is not named after a city.

’ See, this was the constant battle. God forbid Monty had ever defected to the likes of football in his teenage days, or developed a crush on Paris Hilton.

Once again, this was all about pretending to be an old money family with a rich heritage of aristocratic pursuits.

Once again, this was all about the Twenty20 twist on the game.

When Monty had started out playing traditional cricket (aka the posh man’s sport) his parents had been over him like a rash.

‘Right, let’s put this article in the reception room,’ Helena changed the subject.

‘Roddie can open his presents later. Go on through to the garden and play social butterfly with our guests. Everyone’s gathered outside, the band is playing, and the Pimm’s is plentiful. ’

Monty was glad of the change of scene already but just as he started to amble into the kitchen and Fly Me to the Moon piped into the house courtesy of a variety of brass, woodwind and stringed instruments, Helena reappeared in front of him like an apparition, the look on her face casting him to stone:

‘I almost forgot,’ she said in hushed tones. ‘A couple of family members caught wind of what happened at the final and they’re under strict instruction not to bring it up today. The last thing I want is for Roddie’s party to be ruined.’

This from the woman who had paid a small fortune for a little boy to be serenaded by Sinatra as opposed to Sing a Song of Sixpence at his birthday party.

‘You do realise that such capers are not just a byproduct of T20 and have even been known to take place at Wimbledon, Mother?’ Monty’s exasperation loosened his tongue. ‘Most probably with the royals in attendance.’

He didn’t often challenge Helena but he really did despair at times.

No doubt Darling Dante (aka golden boy son-in-law who owned a multi-million pound private helicopter business) had done his worst to egg her on.

Luckily Helena simply threw him a disapproving look, leaned in to straighten his shirt collar and remove some invisible dust, then tottered off to dispose of the cricket bat.

Bloody hell. It felt more like a wedding reception than a child’s birthday party as Monty stepped outside via the vast and bustling kitchen and took in the sight.

Fragrant summer honeysuckle floated on the breeze, waiting staff ferried drinks and canapés about with airborne noses, a middle-aged Rat Pack tribute who’d missed his vocation belting out bygones on cruise ships was trying to console himself by pretending he was one of the nouveau riche.

And the grown-up chit-chat sounded reliably haughty-taughty, peppered with the usual giggles and guffaws.

In fact, there were just a handful of little ones running around.

What Roddie and co really wanted was a bouncy castle.

How Monty wished he’d arranged one of those for his nephew’s birthday present.

His grandmother’s face would have been worth every penny. He chewed back his grin. Next time.

‘Uncle Montyyyyy!’

A little pair of hands grabbed at his calves– thankfully Monty was wearing chinos; he didn’t have the hairiest of legs, but Roddie pinched like a crab– and almost toppled him into the pistachio and rosewater croquembouche tower.

Nevermind getting him to follow in Dante’s hooves to play sodding polo; Roddie had the makings of a rugby player.

‘Come here, you little rascal!’

Monty pulled a funny face and twisted to flip his nephew up in the air, where he turned him into a plane.

‘Careful with the birthday boy!’ came Sakia’s husky Marks don’t worry, I’ve not started talking about myself in third person quite yet. ’

‘Phew and ew!’ said Monty, making Roddie laugh, whilst wondering how it had come to this; that he and his siblings lived in a perpetual hum of low-level fear where their mother was concerned.

He gently put his nephew down and Roddie went back to running around with his friends. Blissfully carefree. What Monty would give to turn the clock back. Actually, no. That would mean reliving his strict childhood.

‘You’re a natural with children, little bro… and I need more nieces and nephews to cluck over. Isn’t it about time you got a move on, finished sowing those wild oats and found yourself The One?’ said Saskia, lifting a brow.

Monty took a glass of Pimm’s from a passing waiter. ‘Why, thanks for the congratulations over yesterday’s win, big sis.’ He raised his drink to her.

‘Oh, yes, that. Well done, you!’ Saskia planted a smacker on his cheek. ‘I am proud of you, even if I don’t understand the rules of new-age cricket– actually, I still don’t understand the rules of the traditional game. There. Is that better?’

‘It’s a start.’

Monty allowed his lips to curl into a smile. He loved both his sisters, but if he was honest with himself, Saskia edged it in the affection stakes over Beatrice. She’d had his back so often growing up. He couldn’t stay annoyed at her for long.

But talking of age, Monty’s overtly second coming of age seemed to be the words on everybody’s lips.

Had they seriously got nothing else to obsess over?

After circulating the garden and exchanging pleasantries with all and sundry, Helena welcomed some fashionably late guests into the fold.

There was nothing too unusual about that…

except her over-obvious attempts at matchmaking.

‘Monty, there you are!’ Honestly, he felt like a pet dog sometimes the way his mother talked to him, as if he was constantly wandering off and getting into scrapes.

‘I wanted to introduce you to Joanna Bennoy-Bell.’ Quelle surprise.

Another double-barrel bidder. Majorly hypocritical of Monty, considering his own toffee-nosed surname.

Ah, so the middle child was in on the act now too, hey?

Yes, she bloody well was. Monty fake grinned at his other sibling, whose eyes were busily darting about in the background, trying to pretend this had nothing whatsoever to do with her.

It was typical of Bea to turn up with one of her latest parade of friends whenever Hugh was away on ‘business’.

And yes, that noun was meant to be in inverted commas.

It was well known in these circles that her darling husband had been embroiled in a string of extra-marital affairs, which Bea chose to point blank ignore.

Even when the evidence was splashed all over HELLO!

Magazine ’s society pages. Monty had tried to talk sense into his sister.

He couldn’t bear her doormat ways and panicked they’d rub off on her impressionable young girls.

But there was only so much he could do when she was adamant that Hugh’s mental health caused him to stray, so concessions needed to be made.

His family was so headstrong in so many ways and cutting through the bullshit was impossible most of the time.

It was easier to accept that and let everyone live their own lives. If only the favour could be returned.