Chapter 17
On the Friday morning before my next lesson with Nora, she sends me a text.
‘Forecast doesn’t look great today. Would you prefer to cancel? No charge, obviously.’
By now, I’ve sat through back-to-back video calls with suppliers, our finance department and the head of customer services about a complaint from a woman who didn’t like the taste of the cinnamon oil she’s been adding to her coffee each morning – presumably because it was designed for use in an aroma diffuser.
The only glimmer of relief on the horizon was our lunchtime session.
I look at my weather app for what must be the ninth time.
It’s still forecasting light rain. So I try the Met Office instead.
When that doesn’t give me the answer I’m looking for, I download AccuWeather, which shows a twenty-six-minute dry spell at the start of our session. That seems to be as good as it gets.
‘Shall we give it a go and see how we get on?’ I suggest.
We manage half an hour of a backhand lesson before the rain creeps in . . . and in. We hold out as long as possible before running into the clubhouse changing room, where we are confronted with a pathetic sight in the mirror. Red-nosed and panda-eyed, we are both drenched.
‘I feel like Private Benjamin,’ I say, which makes Nora splutter with laughter.
‘Well, nobody can doubt your dedication.’
We shelter in the clubhouse and make some hot tea while we wait for the rain to ease.
‘Did you always want to teach tennis for a living?’ I ask, sipping my drink.
She shakes her head. ‘The thought never even occurred to me when I was younger. I studied law at university.’
‘Really? Why the change of heart?’
‘A desk job would have been all wrong for me. I’ve always been happiest outdoors.
Plus, I’m competitive.’ I’d never thought of this before, but she really is – behind that soft, gentle personality there’s clearly a fire in her belly when it comes to sport.
‘I tried everything at one time – volleyball, hockey, cricket, the lot. I just loved being part of a team, you know? That feeling of belonging. The camaraderie. Does that make sense?’
‘Hmm. Yeah,’ I say, but it takes me a moment to commit to the statement.
I have never felt like this about playing sport competitively.
‘Are you enjoying the social tennis on Saturdays, by the way?’ she asks.
‘Oh, I am. The women on the B team are all lovely,’ I reply.
‘I’m really glad they have made you feel welcome,’ Nora grins.
‘They definitely have. Though I’m a bit concerned about the way they keep referring to us as “new blood”.
I have warned them that when their summer league begins, I’ll cheer from the sidelines, but I’m not playing for the team.
Barbara, the captain, still keeps inviting me to their Tuesday sessions though. ’
‘Well, those training sessions wouldn’t commit you to anything,’ she shrugs. ‘It might just be nice for you to hit with some different players.’
‘Hmm. This is how they reel you in,’ I say suspiciously.
‘Would that be so terrible?’ she smiles, in the same tone you’d use to coax a kitten from a tree.
‘Yes! I’m not as good as the current players and neither are Lisa and Rose. If they came near the bottom of the league last year, I dread to think how good the opposition is.’
‘They did badly because they were short of players, that’s all. There’s more of you now.’
‘More of them. Honestly, Nora, I’d really prefer to stick to these lessons. If that’s okay?’
She clearly realises this is a battle she’s not going to win. ‘As long as you’re enjoying yourself, I’m happy.’
‘I mean . . . who wouldn’t love this?’ I wring out my soaking wet jacket and she laughs. ‘Seriously, though. They’re the highlight of my week.’
Her face lights up. ‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve got a few things going on at the moment that have been giving me sleepless nights. There are lots of changes afoot at work and, well, Frankie being away is a constant headache. But when I’m on this court, I stop worrying. It feels like the only time.’
‘Free therapy,’ she says, knowingly. ‘That’s what my sister used to call tennis when she was going through a divorce. You know, I’m really happy you’re enjoying this, Jules. And I can’t believe how quickly you’re improving. You can tell you’ve played before.’
‘Not for decades.’
‘Yeah, you said that,’ she says, taking a sip of her drink. ‘So what was it that made you give it up?’
In so many ways, it is not much of a reason.
It wasn’t like I had one of those obnoxious parents who thrust a racquet in my hand before I could walk and spent the next decade yelling at my missed shots.
And undeniably, for a short, intense period, I loved the game.
Scrap that, I was obsessed. But by the time I called it quits a year or so after I started, it was like ditching a friend who’d been dragging me down for months.
I must stress that I was never as good as Jeff makes out. He might believe what he says, but he’s speaking as someone whose tennis-related expertise doesn’t stretch beyond celebrity sightings at the US Open.
I first picked up a racquet after watching Wimbledon one year with my mum when I was off sick with chickenpox at the age of thirteen.
The only thing that stopped me scratching at my spots was my decision, there and then, that I wanted to be Gabriela Sabatini when I grew up.
The moment I recovered, I signed up for a summer camp at Mossley Vale, a club a few miles away that was well known for its junior programme.
I adored those first classes. Led by an encouraging young coach called Luke and full of like-minded newcomers, they were endlessly fun.
When I wasn’t playing I was thinking about playing and I soon started overtaking the other kids in the class.
To my utter surprise and delight, it wasn’t long before I was invited to train with the U15 team.
It was there that my shortcomings became instantly apparent and my relationship with the sport began to sour.
From the word go, it was intense. The head coach was shouty and intolerant, though at the time, everyone was convinced by his mantra, ‘This is how winners are made.’ I wasn’t alone in being desperate to win his approval, though there were only tiny scraps on offer: If you performed well enough to impress him during a practice session, you got an honourable mention at the end and I’m sure it must have felt like you’d been anointed. In my case, I never got to find out.
I was the youngest girl on the team, and while I could beat anyone in those early beginners’ lessons, here I was totally out of my depth. I knew it. The coach knew it. And the other players definitely knew it.
Amongst them, there seemed to be a strict hierarchy in line with their abilities: the most popular girls were also the best in the club, long-limbed county champions who’d been playing since they were in nappies.
I did not fit into this environment in any way, shape or form.
And yet, a little magic sometimes happened when I least expected it.
Like when I’d perform a rally that broke down the toughest opponents, or a drop shot so precise and impenetrable that it would make onlookers gasp.
These were the golden moments. The ones that convinced me that I, too, could climb higher to the top of this tree if only I tried harder.
I did win a couple of junior league matches at the beginning, but I can hardly even remember what happened.
Any positive memories were obliterated by the final months I spent representing that club, in what turned out to be a spectacular and apparently endless losing streak.
I felt like I was going backwards, getting worse, not better.
I played one memorable doubles match with a girl who, rightly, blamed our loss on me.
Afterwards, as I sat crying in a toilet cubicle, I heard her voice as she entered the bathroom with one of the other players.
‘That was a disaster. Is she usually that bad? My parents are furious. They’re complaining to the coach right now. My mum says if I ever get put with that girl again they’ll pull me out of the club altogether.’
For all these reasons, the competitions I’d once craved became nothing but traumatic, and not only while they were happening. My stomach would churn for a week before a match and I’d step on court with my heart thrashing so hard, I felt like it was going to burst out of my chest.
My parents, incidentally, were oblivious to how I felt, probably because of the great efforts I went to in order to hide it.
I’d annoyed them enough after giving up the French horn and by now they’d spent a fortune on racquets and clothes, not to mention paying for coaching up front.
They wouldn’t have been angry, they’d have been disappointed, which every kid in the world knows is far worse.
D-Day happened at a regional tournament.
I hadn’t slept a wink the night before and arrived at the indoor venue feeling like I’d landed on the wrong planet.
I can only remember snippets of the day: a group of mean girls, legs like dressage ponies, laughing as they walked past. An angry dad yelling at his small son. The crowd. The noise. The formality.
The match itself was a train wreck.
It was like I’d lost control of my limbs or forgotten how to run. My opponent was all over me from the start, brimming with confidence, grinning at her parents every time I messed up, while they celebrated with fist pumps, air punches, and theatrical cries of ‘YESSS!’
I’d been an idiot for thinking I deserved to be here and kept asking why I hadn’t chosen a nicer hobby, such as stamp collecting or embroidery or paranormal investigation.
Why, of all the things, was I playing tennis?
I was only thinking about how I wanted to be anywhere else on earth than here, when my opponent attempted a lob and made a rare mishit.
An opportunity opened for me to kill the point with an overhead smash.
I told myself this was it – my big chance.
But not only did I miss the ball – I somehow managed to hit myself smack in the face, like I was auditioning for a live-action Tom and Jerry episode, complete with cartoon stars circling my head.
Objectively speaking, this was unquestionably hilarious and I’m sure I can’t blame anyone for laughing – the bastards. I could hardly make even more of a scene so, tears stinging my eyes, I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, ignored the trail of blood on my wrist and carried on.
The final score was an extremely character-building 6–0, 6–0.
I’ll never forget my poor dad’s expression as I trudged towards him, head hanging.
His face was contorted with guilt at what he clearly thought he’d put me through and when he threw his arms around me, it was for one of those hugs that nearly take your breath away.
Then he put his hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eyes and made a promise.
‘Julie, love. You never have to do that again.’
So I never did.