Chapter 31
For two weeks following the incident in the shed, I manage to avoid bumping into Sam altogether.
But I still catch sight of him out of my bedroom window whenever he’s there with his friend Chris, or Liam, or Denise Dandy.
I resort to keeping the blinds shut as much as possible, until Barbara stops me in the street one day and asks me if someone’s died.
It occurs to me that I should consider leaving the club so I never have to see him again.
But I can’t now.
Because with each new match I play, I become even more stupidly invested in our little team.
Which makes no sense, especially given that I haven’t even won anything yet.
Barbara and Rachael are paired together in the next two matches and shine in both – but the most we manage as an overall team is a draw.
Which must be frustrating as hell for our captain given that she has about twice the number of players to draw on than last year. There are twelve of us on her WhatsApp group now and in any given fixture, she must field six – or three pairs.
She has mixed and matched us all, but seems to like putting me with Rose.
Which is more than fine by me, though I’d be happy to play with anyone who’ll have me.
I’ve discovered we all have our little quirks on a tennis court.
Like June, who can’t remember a score to save her life.
Or Mandy, who says, ‘Are you sure that wasn’t on the line?
’ at least five times a match. Or gentle, laid-back Josie, who turns into Arnold Schwarzenegger in Commando the moment she gets a racquet in her hand.
Barbara loves that kind of enthusiasm, but would never condone cheating, complaining or bad behaviour of any kind.
‘It’s not the Roebury way,’ she says, with the air of a strict headmistress.
She believes in grace at all times, even when opposition teams have no such qualms, pushing every boundary there is and angrily disputing points, as if there’s a Grand Slam title at stake.
In the course of these two weeks, however, one thing becomes increasingly certain to me.
I need to tell Gavin that it’s over. Even if I’m not sure there ever was an ‘it’.
It surely can’t have passed his notice that we never really had a romantic relationship.
It certainly hasn’t been physical, unless you count the odd kiss, which he delivered with his lips firmly closed, in the same way teddy bears do on the front of greetings cards.
And I suspect deep down that he must want more out of a relationship, if not with me then with someone, even if that isn’t a conversation we’ve ever explicitly had.
The only problem with deciding to end it with him, however, is this: I have apparently reached the age of forty-seven without ever having dumped someone before. I can’t believe how stressful it is. I feel so mean – positively villainous.
And although I know dragging things out will only make this worse, when I try to broach the subject while we’re at the gym one night, I pull back at the last minute when it occurs to me that breaking bad news while someone is doing chest presses is a spectacularly bad idea.
Instead, I phone him the following day while he’s busy fermenting jars of kombucha for his nutritional programme.
I’m on the verge of doing it when he announces: ‘I’ve got a surprise for you. ’
‘Oh! What is it?’
‘I can’t tell you that. But I know you’re going to love it.’
‘Gavin. I—’
‘No! You won’t prise it out of me!’ he interrupts, mysteriously. ‘All I’ll say is this: you’ve mentioned it more than once. And I’m a man who knows how to take a hint.’
My mind starts whirring. What have I said? What have I told him I want?
‘Can’t you give me a clue?’ I ask helplessly.
‘Nope!’
‘Only this: Block out 4 July in your diary. We are going somewhere very special.’
I end the call feeling slightly nauseous and not only because he follows it with a photo of his kombucha, which looks like pickled brain in a mason jar.
I immediately start googling key concerts, exhibitions and sports fixtures happening locally on 4 July, but I hit on absolutely nothing.
So I widen the search to the whole of the UK, and one thing emerges that I’m one hundred per cent sure I’ve mentioned, possibly more than once.
Wimbledon.
Oh. Fuck.