Chapter 26
I say something about waking up early and not being able to sleep.
He tells me he’s meeting someone for a knockabout before work.
Then he takes a seat at the side of the court and I’m struck afresh not merely by how handsome Sam is, but how age has somehow made the features of his face even more attractive.
He’s your classic fine wine. The cute smile of his teenage years is still there, but now his cheekbones are chiselled.
He looks so damn healthy, he’d make anyone feel like a physical wreck in his presence.
And those long legs that once seemed sort of ungainly are now tanned, ripped with muscles and right there, begging to be admired.
I shift my eyes away and pick up a ball.
But as I walk to the service line and fix my feet, the pressure of his gaze makes my chest feel as if a balloon is being slowly inflated somewhere behind my breastbone. I lower my arm.
‘I can’t do this with an audience.’
He laughs and looks down, before raising his gaze back up to me from under those long eyelashes.
‘Okay. I’ve got a couple of emails to send anyway, so I’ll studiously ignore you until Chris gets here.’
When I don’t immediately place the name, he adds: ‘Liam’s dad. A very old friend of mine.’
‘Ah.’
Sam reaches into his racquet bag and makes a point of burying his head in his phone. But as I move to the line,
I realise it doesn’t matter if he’s suddenly engrossed in something else. I feel self-conscious just being within twenty feet of him.
I need to get a hold of myself. This time, as I focus on the opposite side of the court, my overriding thought is not only how I’m going to put this ball in the right place, but also .
. . how I’m going to look in the process.
Which is pathetic. Yet, tapping it over will suddenly not do at all.
I take a steadying breath and channel Serena .
. . Venus . . . Billie Jean . . . Coco. What do they look like when they serve?
Athletic, that’s what. I can do athletic.
I roll my shoulders, take a deep breath and then I go for it. Hard as I can.
The result isn’t terrible, except that it’s out. I pick up another ball and notice that Sam is no longer studying his phone. When he realises I’ve caught him, he tips his chin and quickly starts typing again.
‘You said you wouldn’t watch!’
‘I apologise!’ he laughs. Though I’ve come to realise that this word does no justice to the transformative effect it has on his face.
Dimples appear in his cheeks. His eyes sparkle.
The sight of the creases around his temples makes my stomach flip so hard it’s almost a punch.
‘I don’t know why, though. What was wrong with that last one? ’
‘It was out.’
‘Meh,’ he says, dismissively. ‘Only a little bit.’
‘Isn’t this the same as being pregnant? There’s no such thing as “only a little bit”. It either is, or it isn’t.’
‘Second serve then,’ he nods, gesturing for me to continue.
I narrow my eyes. ‘Do. Not. Watch.’
Suppressing a smile, he holds up his hands in surrender.
‘I have plenty to keep me occupied without spectating.’
I turn away and go to serve, fully aware he’s still looking.
‘Wouldn’t want to put you off.’
‘Oh, shush!’ I laugh.
My next attempt does go in but it floats over the net with all the power of a wall-mounted hotel hairdryer.
‘I must say, I’m impressed with your dedication. But then you always were very . . .’
‘Very what?’ I ask.
‘Diligent.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Diligent? That’s your overriding memory of me?’ I don’t know whether to be amused or appalled by this description.
‘Oh, I didn’t say it was the main one,’ he grins. A shiver fizzes through my core and I wonder if I’ve imagined the vaguely flirtatious note in his voice. Either way, I turn away and will him to go back to his phone.
‘Are you practising for anything in particular?’ he asks.
I clear my throat before I answer. ‘The next Women’s B team match.’
‘You’re in the team?’
‘You could try and hide the note of surprise in your voice.’
‘Not surprised at all. Just impressed.’
‘Don’t be. We lost our first match and because I’m a glutton for punishment, I’ve signed up for another one this Thursday. Which we really need to win. The Women’s B team have been struggling lately, to put it mildly.’
‘I did hear that. You’d better carry on practising then.’
I step forward and pick up a ball. I send it over and decide to make conversation to detract from my technique.
‘So how long has your son lived in Australia?’ I ask.
‘He started his PhD in September, so only a few months.’
‘You must miss him?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe,’ he says with a rueful smile. ‘I’m going out to see him soon hopefully. It’s not as easy as when he was at college in the UK. You’re talking twenty-five hours of flying.’
I wince, then try to work out the maths behind all this. ‘So . . . how old is he?’
‘Twenty-three. I was quite young when we had him,’ he says, articulating what I was already thinking. ‘That was . . . one of life’s many twists and turns, put it that way.’
Sam tells me he’d been seeing Toby’s mum for less than a year when she became pregnant. They married in his final year of medical training.
‘I didn’t want him growing up without a dad around. I’d been through that myself,’ he says. ‘After that, we were together for eighteen years.’
‘Something must have worked then.’
‘Some things did,’ he agrees, though it’s an oddly unconvincing affirmation.
‘But it was apparent to both of us for a long time that Toby was the thing keeping us together. I like to think we did a good job of being parents, at least as far as anyone can ever be sure of that. And the split was amicable. She remarried last year and I’m genuinely very happy for her. She’s a good person.’
‘So there’s been nobody since? For you I mean?’ I feel the tips of my ears heating up as I ask, but still can’t stop myself.
‘Nobody serious. Which is fine. Even if . . . I like to think there’s someone out there for me, I must admit.’
His smile softens on me, releasing a shot of adrenalin. I realise I can’t remember when I last hit a ball so I pick one up and stand at the baseline.
‘Anyway, tell me about your daughter,’ he says.
I fire off a serve, which goes miles out, and turn back to him.
‘Oh, Frankie’s one of a kind,’ I say.
‘In what way?’
‘Well, she’s confident, funny, beautiful, unique. But she’s also caused me a few sleepless nights over the years and now she’s interrailing round Europe, which is causing a few more.’
I end up putting down my racquet and pulling out my phone to show him one of my favourite pictures, which Milly took of her in the South of France.
‘She looks like her dad,’ I tell him.
He examines my photo then raises his gaze to settle on me.
‘But she has your eyes.’ He says it in a voice that’s so soft and low that it makes something erupt behind my ribs. I open my mouth to reply, but whatever I planned to say dissolves on my lips.
His phone rings.
He backs away and picks it up from the arm of the bench. I put my own device into my bag and go back to serving, as I catch snippets of his conversation.
‘Hey, not a problem. Honestly, don’t apologise. I just hope it all gets sorted.’
‘Have you been stood up?’ I ask, when he ends the call.
‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’
Liar, I think.
There’s a loaded pause as I slide a ball into my leggings pocket.
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ he says.
He slaps his hands on those quads and rises to his feet.
‘Enjoy the rest of your day, Sam,’ I say pleasantly.
‘And you.’
He zips his bag, picks it up and starts walking. He’s only taken a few steps before he stops and turns around.
‘I couldn’t tempt you to hit a few, could I?’