Nigel
‘Ready?’
‘I hadn’t got any non-marking ones, so I sported out on these beauties with their improved lateral stability and state-of-the-art shock absorption.’
‘Don’t use them as an excuse if you lose,’ she said, opening the boot for him to put his gym bag inside. ‘You did say you’d booked balls as well as racquets?’
‘Yes, my old balls have lost their bounce.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s your age.’
He grinned. They really were back to how they used to behave together. ‘No comment.’
She jumped in the driver’s seat. ‘Come on, Farnham, we’re going to be late otherwise.’
Nigel got into the car. It felt odd being a passenger. He’d driven them everywhere as soon as he’d learnt to drive because he had his own car. He loved that old Volvo - not flashy, built like a tank, safe and reliable. The complete opposite of a boy racer. That said a lot in hindsight.
It wasn’t the only thing that was odd. When they reached the main road, he could’ve been anywhere in England.
He’d driven this route to the tennis club many times in the 1990s, but it was barely recognisable now.
Straighter, wider and lined with new housing estates instead of rolling fields, it had lost its rural Devon charm.
‘You’re quiet,’ Helen said. ‘Still jetlagged?’
‘No. I was thinking how everything changes, and not necessarily for the better.’
She smiled at him. ‘But they can get better again - sometimes.’
‘40 love,’ Helen said with a grin.
Nigel wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘I think you’re enjoying this more than I am.’
He’d been able to keep up with her for the first few games, but now he was shattered.
‘I thought you said you went to the gym several times a week.’
‘I do, but it looks like I need to do more cardio. Mind you, I’m being a gentleman by hitting the ball back to you. You’re having me running all over the court.’
‘Are you saying you’re going easy on me?’
‘Might be.’
‘I see.’
She had that steely look in her eye. He was going to pay for that comment.
He went back to the baseline and waited for Helen to serve. Yep. The ball whizzed past him before he could get his racket to it.
‘Game!’
‘Making a point?’
‘Just playing a point,’ she grinned.
‘I think you’ve been secretly getting lessons from Andy Murray while I’ve been away.’
‘You’re just a sore loser.’
Nigel checked his watch. ‘We’ve got five minutes left.’
‘Do you want me to take another game off you? Or shall we go upstairs to the cafe?’
He’d rather spend the rest of the morning chatting than have Helen wipe the floor with him on the tennis court. ‘Cafe.’
Nigel picked up his teaspoon and started playing with the froth on top of his cappuccino.
He’d really enjoyed this morning, even though Helen had resoundingly won.
This was what he’d hoped a morning at the tennis club with Madison would be like, but she preferred to spend all her spare time chatting with her friends.
Helen came back from the toilet, clutching a leaflet.
‘What’s that?’ Nigel asked.
‘It explains what those courts are for.’ She nodded at the smaller courts surrounded by glass and wire nets on the other side of the venue. ‘Padel tennis. I thought it might suit you. Smaller court to cover and you serve underarm. Less strenuous.’
‘Are you saying I’m a poor old sod?’
‘You’re still sweating, and you’ve been sat down for at least ten minutes.’
‘I think I might be coming down with something.’
She gave him her “pull the other one” look.
‘Thank you for your sympathy. I’ll be fine on a normal tennis court. I need more practice, that’s all. You always were a natural player.’
‘Shame about the court at the Grange.’
‘Yes.’ He decided not to tell her that he’d got someone coming to look at it next week to give him a quote for refurbishing it. It might be a nice surprise for her birthday in the summer. ‘We could come back here though. The weather’s not good enough to play outdoors yet.’
‘I’d like that.’ From the way she smiled at him, he thought she genuinely meant it. She was right. Things could get better again.