Chapter 42
Over the next couple of days, Sam and I can’t seem to stop texting one another.
It’s always him who messages first, occasionally to ask when I’m next playing a league match, or when he’ll next get to see me.
Mainly, our exchanges are about something and nothing, any excuse to strike up conversation.
‘I want to be back in La Manga xx’ he says, in a text that lands as I’m nearing the end of a long video call with several members of our new group finance department.
I see it flash up on my phone, which is on silent, and feel warmth spread slowly across my chest. When the meeting ends, I pick it up and compose a response, as I glance at the rain pelting the office window.
‘I know! What is with this weather? I keep dreaming about rosé wine and sunshine x’
His response arrives less than a minute later.
‘That’s funny. I keep dreaming about your lips xxx’
Our first league match after the holiday is due to take place on Thursday and I find myself obsessively watching my weather app for a break in proceedings. At one point it looks like there might be one, but our hopes are dashed when we hear from Barbara.
‘The opposition captain has been in touch and they feel that, even if this clears, the playing surface is less than ideal. They have therefore cancelled today’s match with a view to rearranging next week.’
I feel a rush of childish indignation, which is echoed by my teammates.
‘It’s only a bit of drizzle!’ Rose protests. ‘Sorry, but I’m away next week so can’t play!’
When a new fixture is finally set, for the following Wednesday, several people aren’t available, for reasons that include ‘grandma duties’, Achilles issues, a dodgy hamstring, a twenty-first birthday party and, worst of all, an AGM at the local golf club which several of the older members are attending.
‘GOLF!!?’ Lisa writes on the Roebury besties WhatsApp group, clearly appalled. ‘Why would anyone want to play golf ? I feel like they’re having an affair. They’re shameless!’
Barbara manages to cobble together six players but we are a long way from a dream team.
So much so that, to my horror, she promotes me to play with her as ‘first pair’ – the highest-ranked couple in the fixture.
The words ‘lamb’ and ‘slaughter’ spring to mind.
I phone our captain up and attempt to get her to see reason.
‘Barbara, please. I can’t play in that position. I’m not good enough.’
‘What rot!’ she says. ‘You’re much better than you think. Besides, it’s you or bringing Judith out of retirement. And she shouldn’t risk it with her toenail.’
If ever there was a sentence I have no desire to delve into further, it’s that one.
So I am forced to accept that I am at the mercy of the mysterious maladies of the older members of our team and am immediately in a state of mild anxiety about it.
I play tennis with Sam on the evening of our cancelled match.
It’s one of those leisurely games in which neither of us are really trying to win, but just enjoying the pop of the ball on our racquets in between idle conversation.
Then the following night, we meet after work at the wine bar in Roebury, for a ‘quick drink’ that becomes several hours.
‘How’s your day been?’ I ask at one point.
‘Long. Good though. Ended with a consultation with one of my favourite patients – a fifteen-year-old burns victim whose face I reconstructed after a fire. He’s doing so well that he’s been approached by a filmmaker who wants to make a documentary about him.’
‘That’s amazing.’
‘It is. Though he wants me to be a part of it,’ he groans.
‘You don’t seem keen,’ I laugh.
‘On being on TV? No thanks. I prefer anonymity any day.’
‘Oh, but you can’t say no! It’ll raise awareness. And more importantly give me bragging rights that I know you.’
‘Ha!’
And although I’m joking, the truth is I’m momentarily dizzy with awe, even though in every way that counts, he’s just Sam, the same Sam I knew way back before I knew anything much at all.
The evening ends with a long, slow kiss on my doorstep that leaves me fizzing from head to toe.
‘I am suddenly finding the idea of a fortnight away from you fairly unbearable,’ he murmurs.
‘I am sure you’ll cope,’ I say softly, but as I sink my lips into his again, I feel a pang of alarm at how long two weeks feels.
He’s flying to Malawi first thing tomorrow, for a voluntary stint with the same charity that launched his career.
I want to prolong the evening and though the only way I can do that is to invite him in, something makes me hesitate.
The idea of making out on the same sofa that Ed and I once snuggled on is just too much.
‘Well, I guess I’d better go and finish my packing,’ he says ruefully, lifting up my hand to brush his lips against my skin. ‘Good luck with your matches while I’m away, okay? Let me know how you get on.’
‘I will,’ I smile, and give him a wave as he disappears down my path.
On the day of the rearranged league fixture, my angst about being ‘first pair’ turns out to be for nothing.
‘Change of plan. Judith has rallied and is meeting us there,’ Barbara declares happily, as we get into Lisa’s car to drive to the away venue.
‘What about her toe?’ I ask.
‘She’s on new blood pressure tablets,’ Barbara says, which prompts more questions than answers, so I don’t bother asking them. ‘All of which means, you’re with Lisa. Third pair.’
I feel like kissing her.
An hour later, we find ourselves at a huge sports venue that has not only tennis courts, but several rugby pitches, a cricket pavilion and a large clubhouse.
The opposing team are a nice bunch – some older than us, some younger.
As I’ve discovered since I’ve returned to this sport, neither tells you anything about your chances of success.
Lisa and I warm up with our opponents, then – after Nora stressed the importance of discussing tactics in our last lesson – we huddle in one corner of the court.
‘So. How do we approach this?’ I ask.
‘Um . . . try to win?’ she suggests.
I nod. ‘Good plan.’
I’m first to serve.
I walk to the edge of the court with a ball, as my head fills with an avalanche of instructions. Move forward when volleying. Reach higher in a serve. Twist the torso on a forehand and use my non-dominant arm for power on the backhand . . .
I bounce the ball a couple of times, until another thought filters into my head.
Don’t try too hard.
I take a long breath.
‘Everything all right?’ one of the ladies calls over, snapping me out of it.
‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘No rush,’ she smiles.
Then for some reason, I recall something Nora once told us all. Enjoy the fact that it’s a beautiful day. You’re outdoors. And you’re getting to play . . .
I step forward to make my shot.
An unprecedented thing happens over the course of the next three hours.
My body is inhabited by someone who knows how to play tennis.
A person with a solid serve. And an ability to rally, apparently endlessly.
It’s not just that I’m playing in the same fluid, confident style that I do when I’m only practising with Nora and nothing matters.
It’s that, whenever there’s a miss, I brush it off, don’t give it a second thought, tell myself things can always go my way in the next point.
The result of all of this is odd, wonderful and a little bit bewildering.
Because for the first time since I started playing competitive tennis again, I actually believe that I have it in me to win a match.
It’s more than that. Suddenly, and irrationally, losing feels like such an unlikely outcome that I tell myself it isn’t worth even considering.
Even when I fluff an easy volley. Or Lisa gets two double faults on the trot and starts calling herself a bloody idiot.
I drift over to her, zen-like, touch her on the arm and say, ‘You have nothing to worry about. It’s just a blip. We’re going to win this.’
She snorts, assuming it’s a joke, then registers my expression. A little line appears above her nose. ‘What?’
‘We’re going to win. I’m telling you. Today’s the day.’
Her mouth parts, as the idea filters through her head.
I’m not saying that after that Lisa’s game is completely transformed.
But something changes in her, just like it did in me.
I’m also not denying that the result is close and that on another day it could’ve gone the other way.
But that’s almost the point. The only thing that’s different on this particular day is our self-belief.
When the final point is scored – and our opponents hit the ball into the net – Lisa gasps so hard that her racquet falls out of her hand. She turns to me, wild-eyed in disbelief and starts laughing. Then she runs towards me. Flings her arms around me as the two of us hug in a sweaty, ecstatic mess.
‘Have we actually won something?’ she asks.
‘I think we have,’ I laugh, with stupid, happy tears in my eyes.
Just when I thought the evening couldn’t get any better, we go on to win our second match of the evening too.
Afterwards, we climb into Barbara’s Volvo and drive back to Roebury, full of adrenalin and post-match cake and with ‘We Are The Champions’ by Queen on the stereo.
As I look out of the window, a smile overtaking my face, I realise that I’ve finally got an answer to a question I asked myself a very long time ago.
This is it. The reason I’d been looking for. This is why I play tennis.