Chapter 25
Feeling guilty for dropping Gavin at the last minute to play in Thursday night’s tennis match, I rearrange our gym date for the weekend and repeat my apologies.
But as we meet outside the fitness centre, he gives me a little kiss on the lips and is clearly not too upset.
In fact, as we swipe in, he has a spring in his step and an expression on his face like a kid trying to hold in a secret.
‘I got my gut health results back,’ he eventually tells me.
‘So how were they?’
There’s a short pause, like the one before an Oscar winner is announced.
‘I have a microbiome score of . . . eighty-six,’ he says, his mouth twitching as he fights a smile.
‘Gosh that’s . . . good?’ I say brightly.
‘I know!’ he bursts out, with a laugh. ‘Even I was surprised! It included thirty-nine different types of good bacteria, including a recently discovered Oscillibacter species. Thirty-nine!’
‘You must be proud.’
‘Well, I don’t like to brag,’ he replies, knocking back a mouthful of vitamin water. But there’s no doubt he’s worked hard for this and is buffer than ever all round. As I follow him up the stairs, his glutes currently look like two boiled eggs.
As he opens the door for me and places his hand on the small of my back, it strikes me that he seems quite touchy-feely today. He’s still a complete gentleman, though, and I wonder with a bolt of alarm if this is his way of trying to gently move our relationship forward onto a more physical level.
‘I hope you realise all the progress you’re making, Jules,’ he says encouragingly, touching my elbow now, as he directs me to a bench. ‘You look shredded.’
‘Oh. Thanks,’ I smile.
‘So today is a triceps and biceps day,’ he adds.
‘You know . . . I’m actually thinking of doing some core today. Would you mind?’
Gavin spins round, looking alarmed. ‘But it isn’t a core day.’
‘I know but I thought I’d live a little. Variety is the spice of life and all that.’
‘But Jules, your whole workout has been meticulously planned out. The number one factor for success is—’
‘Discipline?’ I finish. It’s not the first time he’s said this.
‘Precisely.’
‘I’m not suggesting I sit in the coffee shop and eat cream cakes,’ I say, though the idea suddenly sounds quite appealing. ‘I’m just a bit stiff after last night’s match.’
His expression darkens. I wish I hadn’t said anything. ‘Which part of you has seized up?’
‘Oh, it’s not that bad. My legs are a bit tired, that’s all. And perhaps a bit of lower back.’
He exhales through both nostrils. ‘I did tell you about tennis, didn’t I? You’d be better sticking to spectating.’
‘Well, I would love to go to Wimbledon, though it’s not easy to get tickets. Besides, I’ve read that these aches and pains are nothing a bit of Pilates can’t sort out. It apparently protects your joints from all the twists and turns involved in racquet sports.’
I must admit, I wasn’t sure about the idea myself.
Until I reached an age when I couldn’t avoid it, I shied away from anything ‘holistic’, a word I usually associate with an excessive interest in crystals and Kate Bush in the ‘Wuthering Heights’ video.
But I’ve warmed to the idea if it means I won’t be quite so creaky next time I play.
Gavin is clearly unconvinced.
‘I thought you’d decided you weren’t going to carry on with all that anyway?’
‘I was in two minds,’ I reply, wondering why I’m having to justify myself. ‘Though I am also conscious that I’m not as young as I was. You were right about the potential for injury.’
He looks slightly mollified by this concession.
‘But I’m taking steps to mitigate against that,’ I continue. ‘It’s especially important when you’re in perimenopause, apparently. Hormones are all over the place at my age. People think it’s all just hot flashes and periods going haywire but . . .
are you all right?’
His face has blanched and it occurs to me that I’ve perhaps strayed into territory he’s not entirely comfortable with.
I probably shouldn’t be surprised about this.
I accidentally dropped a Tampax in the street a few weeks ago and, when I picked it up and popped it back into my bag, Gavin ushered me away from the scene like he was shielding me from the paparazzi.
‘All right, you go and do some core, but I’m going to stick to my routine,’ he says finally. ‘I was thinking, maybe we should start doing some more things together away from the gym?’
‘We should. You’re right,’ I say.
‘How about the cinema one night?’
‘Great idea.’
‘You come over this week for dinner? I could cook one of the recipes on the nutrition programme?’ he suggests.
‘Gavin, that would be lovely,’ I say, though my head does start to spin a little about where this is leading.
‘How about Tuesday?’
‘Oh. I can’t do Tuesday. That’s practice night.’
‘Thursday then.’
‘Thursday is the next match night.’
‘Friday?’
‘I sort of said I’d go out with the team then . . .’
He puts down a weight and looks at me. ‘Are you . . . making excuses, Jules?’ he asks, gently.
My face blanches. ‘No! Not at all,’ I say – truthfully. These are all very real commitments in my diary. They just happen to be quite convenient too, given that I have no idea what Gavin is imagining will happen at his house after dinner one night.
‘Only, I do understand why you’d want to take things slow. I want you to know that,’ he says. ‘I am very aware that it’s been a while since you were romantically involved with anyone.’
‘I . . . well, yes. It has.’
He reaches out and squeezes my hand. ‘So I’m taking your lead here, okay?’
Oh God, he’s so sweet. It occurs to me that maybe he isn’t seeing other people after all.
He’s just been respectful and nice and has apparently accepted the idea that he’s dating someone with the outlook of a Mother Superior.
I feel a crunch of guilt and wonder how I’m going to dig myself out of this hole without hurting his feelings – or giving the impression I’ve led him on. Which I might well have.
‘The thing is, Gavin—’
‘Jules, don’t worry about it,’ he reassures me. ‘Maybe we could go out somewhere instead if you can find an evening in your diary?’
‘That would be . . . great,’ I say eventually.
‘What sort of thing would you like? A gig? A sporting event?’
‘Anything you like, Gavin, honestly. You decide.’
He smiles and leans in to give me a little kiss on the cheek.
‘Challenge accepted,’ he says. ‘I’ll come up with a little surprise I know you’ll love.’
I log onto Find My iPhone that night to discover that Frankie is bobbing somewhere in the middle of the Mediterranean.
Scenes from various gangster movies involving bodies trussed up and weighed down with rocks filter into my head, where they remain for a good hour.
Then she calls me back to say she’s been on a ‘sunset cruise’, sipping green-tea cocktails, which apparently are quite a different experience from the ones made by Twinings.
It’s been a fraught week at work, which has done nothing to quell my concerns about the company buyout.
Suppliers have been asking questions I can’t answer about what’s going on and an avalanche of emails from various people with incomprehensible job titles have landed in my inbox, some of them demanding information about what exactly I do all day.
It’s a blessed relief to get out of the house for Saturday’s social tennis session, then Rusty Racquets the following day. It’s during this lesson that Nora tells me she’s thinking of signing up for La Manga.
‘A few others from the club decided to go once they got wind of the idea and there’s only one space left in the women’s apartment,’ she says.
‘Iain is happy to hold the fort – says he owes me one given the number of times he’s been away on business – but I wanted to check with you first that you definitely don’t want it.
Because if you do, you should have it, not me. ’
‘Why?’
‘Well,’ she shrugs. ‘I just know you’ve a lot on with work and that you’ve been worried about Frankie. It would do you good.’
I hesitate, because in truth I’m already regretting not having signed up after hearing the rest of the group excitedly make preparations for it.
Plus, although I really can’t afford it given what’s going on at work, I have never felt in more urgent need of some guaranteed stress relief.
But I can hardly turn around and take the last place when Nora has her eye on it.
‘Oh, no. You take it,’ I urge her.
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
She straightens her back and smiles. ‘All right then. But it won’t be the same without you.’
I don’t have time to dwell on this, because my only focus now – at least as far as tennis is concerned – is our next league match. Which I suddenly don’t just want to play in. I want to win.
So one morning before work the following week, I get up early so I can go next door to practise my serve.
I changed my phone settings recently so that, instead of being jolted awake by a shrill alarm, it skips straight to the comforting drone of Radio 2.
It feels like a nicer awakening somehow, unless of course they happen to be playing ‘Highway to Hell’ at precisely 6.
10am. This morning, I am pleasantly roused by Keith Urban, before heading next door, where I have all six courts to myself.
Crisp light is beginning to push through the trees and the birds are in full, rambunctious song.
The air is fresh and perfumed with the clean, dewy scent of spring.
I head to the shed that’s tucked away behind the clubhouse and backs onto woodland, currently carpeted with bluebells.
Nora’s equipment is in there and, although today is her day off, she’s told me to help myself to any of it.
I key in the code to her lock and have to wrestle with the door. Once inside, I find shelves stacked with netting, practice cones and one of those slightly terrifying lobster machines that I’ve seen firing shots at players during practice.
I pick up a huge tub of what must be 200 balls and take it over to the roadside court to practise my serve, which was the weakest part of my game last week.
I try to recall what I watched on at least four different videos by Tennis with Cody.
There was something about making contact at a certain angle.
Using your feet to gain power. What was it he said about rotating the wrist?
I pick up the first and hit it over the net.
It’s out. So I try again with a small adjustment, sending this one straight into the net.
I continue like this until about seventy balls have disappeared, less than five per cent of which end up as even vaguely decent shots.
I am getting exasperated when I hear a clank of the gate.
I turn to see Sam, backlit and shimmering at the entrance, stepping inside.
‘Getting some practice in?’ he smiles, as every instruction in my head evaporates.