Chapter 15
The lights are turned down and the room is soon packed with mingling guests. I’ve put two sixth-formers in charge of shoving a glass of Prosecco in the hands of everyone who steps through the door, before most of the parents in attendance are seated with their respective teams.
‘All set at our end, Lisa,’ says this evening’s host, a guy in his early sixties who owns a local wine shop. ‘If you jump on stage to say a few introductory words, I’ll take it from there.’
‘I didn’t realise you wanted a speech.’
‘Not a speech , as such. You just need to explain what you’re raising money for and tell people that if a fire alarm goes off, they should run for their lives.’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll find someone.’
Although I’ve done plenty of public speaking over the years, I can’t say it’s my favourite thing in the world, especially to an audience of this size. Thankfully, I know just the man to step into my shoes.
‘Can I ask a favour?’ I say to Jeff, as he’s about to sit down.
‘As long as it has nothing to do with babysitting a hamster.’
‘Could you jump on stage and do an introduction?’
‘Me? I wouldn’t want to take your glory, Lisa. You’re the one who masterminded this extravaganza. If Denise were here, she’d be straight up there with the mike. . .’
‘Honestly, I don’t mind. The limelight is all yours.’
‘You won’t need to ask him twice when you put it that way,’ drawls Andy, Jeff’s husband.
‘Oh, go on then,’ Jeff says, pushing back his shoulders heroically. ‘What do I need to say?’
After a short briefing, I take a seat on our table – just as one of my other favourite people arrives.
Nora is head coach at Roebury Tennis Club so most clothes look good on her athletic physique. But tonight’s blue shirt dress really compliments her pale skin, oval face and silky dark hair.
‘Well done on the decor, Lisa,’ she says approvingly, looking around the room. ‘It looks almost . . .’
‘Like a dimly lit sports hall?’
She chuckles. ‘Well, yes, but to be fair you didn’t have a lot to work with.’
For the first few months of our acquaintance, I didn’t really know Nora beyond what I’d seen from the clubhouse terrace, when I’d sit and watch her lessons with both of my boys. But I could instantly see why she was loved by adults and kids alike – for her infectious enthusiasm, encouragement and a superhuman ability to find something positive to say, no matter how bad the player or atrocious the shot.
I knew that her son Charlie was in the year below Jacob at Roebury and she’d also mentioned an older daughter, Isabelle, who is now at Bristol University studying Dentistry.But it was quite by chance that I discovered she and Rose were friends.
After that, it automatically followed that she and I would be too and, along with Jeff, we became a solid foursome, members of a WhatsApp group he set up with the name: ‘Roebury Besties’. All of which makes our mutual friend’s absence tonight all the more evident.
‘Have you seen Rose this week?’ Nora asks.
‘Only at the weekend, but we texted today. She nearly came tonight, but decided at the last minute to save her energies for something more salubrious.’
‘Poor thing. She’s really going through it, isn’t she?’ she says, with a small shudder. ‘Still, I bet Angel is looking after her.’
Nora’s husband, Iain, runs a freight business that has grown exponentially in the last few years, at least judging by the number of ski trips they started taking. He is a nice guy, although I can’t claim to know him particularly well. I’ve always thought of him as a bit of a closed book and he’s often away on business these days, so even at an event like this Nora is on her own.
‘Listen, sorry I couldn’t make it in time to help set up tonight,’ she continues. ‘Work is suddenly crazy now the summer league has started. I’d love to join the PTA but I don’t know how I’d fit everything in. You and Jeff are making me feel very guilty.’
‘Why, because of his floral arrangements?’
‘Hasn’t he told you he’s offered to do their end-of-year accounts?’ Nora says.
‘No! See . . . this how they suck you in,’ I say, under my breath. ‘Take my advice and stay well clear. You’ve got enough on your plate.’
‘So have you, haven’t you?’
‘I know, but I’ve been weak. There are forces at the PTA that I’m powerless to challenge,’ I say grimly.
She hoots with laughter. ‘Oh, Lisa . . .’
‘May I?’ We look up in unison.
Zach has his hand on the seat next to me.
I clear my throat. ‘Of course.’
As he sits down, his arm brushes against mine and the nerve endings on my skin begin to tingle.
Nora is looking at him with an odd expression – part surprise, part delight.
‘I’m Zach,’ he replies, convivially. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Hi there!’ she grins, then flashes me a look that says: Where on earth did you find this guy – Planet Hunk?
‘Oh, sorry,’ I say, realising I was too unsettled by this entire bizarre situation to remember to introduce them. ‘Zach, Nora. Nora, Zach.’
‘I had no idea you were seeing someone, Lisa,’ she says, astonished.
‘Oh, God, I’m not,’ I say hastily. ‘He’s nothing to do with me. I mean . . . we’re not seeing each other. Are we?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘This is my . . . colleague,’ I continue, for some reason at twice my usual speed. ‘He’s from Los Angeles.’
‘Via New York,’ he adds.
‘We work together. That’s all .’
‘Right,’ she says slowly, still looking a bit confused. ‘New York. How exciting.’
‘It has its moments, but then . . . so does Manchester, as I’m already discovering.’
I’m saved by the sound of a knife tapping a wine glass. Jeff has taken the stage.
‘Good evening and a very warm welcome to this special venue,’ he begins, as if he’s watched The Greatest Showman one too many times. ‘I’m sure you’ll all agree that, when it comes to glamour, the Met Gala has nothing on us. So much so that Lady Gaga is hoping to make an appearance later, though sadly we’ve just had a message from Nicole Kidman’s agent to say she’s washing her hair. . .’
Nora leans in. ‘You do realise that you’ll never get the mike off him now, Lisa.’
She’s not wrong. Considering Jeff’s job was predominantly to detail the location of the fire exits, the rest of the speech is worthy of a stand-up slot at the Edinburgh Fringe. After a round of applause, he returns to the table.
‘I quite enjoyed that,’ he confesses.
‘You’d never guess,’ laughs Nora. ‘You’ll want to announce the raffle winners next.’
‘I’ve already got Miss Bennett on the case.’
‘Is that the elderly French teacher?’ he asks. ‘Tell her I’ll arm wrestle her for it.’
I’m usually not bad at quizzes. I grew up in a family in which my teenaged cousins and I relished taking on the adults at Trivial Pursuit and these days I can usually manage a passable score in our local pub quiz. But this particular challenge – to test the subtlety of one’s nose – turns out not to be my forte.
The idea is that we have to match eight small samples of wine with the host’s descriptions, identifying for instance which of them is ‘dry, fruity with balanced acidity and tannin levels’ (and therefore a Merlot) and which is ‘rich and spicy with mouth-watering notes of apricot, peach and honeysuckle’ (and is therefore a Viognier). On the basis of all this, my palate, it seems, is about as subtle as a brick. And my partner’s – because for these purposes that’s what Zach is – is not much better.
‘Pretty sure it’s a red,’ says Zach, frowning as he swishes the liquid around his glass. ‘Possibly with top notes of gasoline and grape Jell-o.’
‘ That’s what you’re getting from this?’ I reply.
‘Definitely. I’m going to say it’s a . . . Zinfandel,’ Zach declares.
‘There’s no Zinfandel on the list.’
I take a sip, swish it around my mouth and swallow. ‘I can definitely detect some alcohol.’
‘You two are useless,’ laughs Nora. ‘We’re never going to win the bottle of champagne at this rate.’
‘It’s Prosecco,’ I tell her. ‘Not that I’d be able to taste the difference between that, champagne and 7-Up, apparently.’
‘Then I give up,’ Nora says, abandoning the sheet. ‘So tell me, Zach. How long have you lived in the UK?’
‘Three weeks exactly. At least, this time around.’
‘You’ve lived here before?’ Jeff asks, leaning in and way too interested.
‘Yeah. A long time ago.’
It turns out that Zach spent four years as a student in Edinburgh, which was where he met his wife, from whom he is now separated, pending a divorce. I concentrate on taking another sip of red and mark it down on the sheet, pretending not to listen to the conversation around me.
‘She’s originally from Manchester, though she moved to LA with me when we got together. Only now her dad is really sick with late-stage cancer. Sadly, it looks like he’s not going to make it,’ Zach explains.
‘Oh dear. That’s sad,’ Jeff says.
‘Yeah. It is. He’s a great guy, a real sweet man. She understandably wants to be here with him at a time like this – and support her mom. Except, we have a daughter, Mila. And . . . because her mom’s here, she has to be here too. Which I get . . . except,’ he takes a breath, ‘I just cannot be a whole continent away from her. That’s not even an option for me.’
‘I see,’ Nora says. ‘So that’s why you’ve come to live and work here?’
‘Exactly. Only for a short while.’ He shrugs. ‘It was never part of the plan, but it is what it is.’
There’s something about the way he says it that sounds as if, all things being equal, he’d prefer not to have left the US.
‘How old is Mila?’ Nora asks.
‘She’s four.’
Nobody around the table could fail to notice the sparkle in Zach’s eyes as he almost automatically picks up his phone, unlocks the screen and is about to thrust it in front of Nora before withdrawing self-consciously.
‘Sorry,’ he smiles. ‘I sometimes forget that nobody is interested in other people’s kids, no matter how besotted you are.’
‘Not at all,’ protests Nora, as she pulls out her own mobile. ‘ I’m interested. How about I’ll look at yours, then you can look at mine?’
‘Hand it over,’ he grins.
I catch a glimpse of a picture on his screensaver of a small girl sitting on top of Zach’s shoulders. She has soft, curly hair and exactly the same dimple in her chin as her father.
He glances at me and I clear my throat.
‘Very cute,’ I say, feeling caught out.
Jeff, on my left, leans into whisper. ‘The kid’s sweet too.’
The evening is a triumph. Proof that, despite the less-than-salubrious venue, if you are surrounded by good company and a lot of plonk (even if I suspect some of these bottles fell off the back of a lorry) you can still have a wonderful time. And Zach, it is undeniable, is good company.
He manages to charm everyone, without dominating the conversation. Though it’s fair to say that our concentration on the quiz itself wanes the more the evening progresses. Eventually, we find ourselves discuss anything but wine. The reformation of Bananarama. Exactly how popular soccer is in the US these days. How Nora reckons that my moody 15-year-old not only has a superb forehand slice, but in her presence is never anything other than pleasant, polite and engaging. Dr Jekyll, basically.
As the evening draws on, we’re also treated to the revelation that Jeff is considering a hair transplant.
‘I don’t think you’re thinning that much, are you?’ I say, surprised.
‘Are you joking? I feel like a Scotch pine on Boxing Day. There’ll be nothing left soon.’
‘You exaggerate.’
‘Not at all,’ he says. ‘As soon as my dad started thinning, it happened very quickly. All his teeth went next. I’m not going through that.’
Nora is finding this hysterical. ‘Well, now you’ve revealed your secret. If you’d gone ahead and said nothing, none of us would’ve noticed.’
‘They cost about ￡15k, don’t they?’ asks Zach. ‘For that you’d want everyone to notice.’
‘Exactly,’ laughs Jeff.
Zach seems easier to get along with outside the context of work. But then, perhaps we all are. I certainly couldn’t accuse him of not getting into the spirit of things.
‘Oh look, you’ve won!’ Jeff exclaims, nudging Zach and pointing at one of the many raffle tickets he’s bought.
‘Wow,’ he smiles. ‘Glad I came.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Go and collect your prize,’ Jeff says.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ I call after him, as he pushes out his chair and walks towards the stage. I turn to the others. ‘I think the only prizes left are a Thermos flask and an Imperial Leather gift set.’
In fact, Zach soon heads back carrying a tin of tennis balls, the kind that cost about ￡9 from Sports Direct. He places them on the table in front of him before sitting down.
‘I hope you weren’t hoping for a new iPhone,’ I say.
‘What are you talking about?’ he grins. ‘I’m having the time of my life. Forty-three years old and I swear I can’t remember winning anything. Apart from an Emmy, that is.’
My mouth drops. He looks at me, with a smirk. ‘That’s a joke. Sadly.’
‘Oh!’ I smile, taking a sip of wine.
Forty-three.
Four years younger than me.
An age gap.
Why the hell am I thinking this?
‘So do you play?’ he asks me. ‘Tennis I mean.’
‘I used to,’ I say.
‘And she still should ,’ Nora interjects. ‘Lisa is a lovely player. I’m constantly trying to persuade her to get on a court, rather than just watching her kids.’
‘I’m not a lovely player. I’m a rusty one. I haven’t picked up a racket in years. These days, it’s the same old story.’
‘You just don’t have time for it?’ he says.
‘How did you guess?’
We come second to last in the quiz. I can’t say I’m surprised. Then, before we know it, someone points out that it’s 11pm and therefore my job – as event co-ordinator – to start turfing everyone out. This is easier said than done. Because it turns out that eight glasses of wine – even ‘tasting’ sized – is quite enough to make everyone reluctant to tear themselves away.
I eventually flick all the lights on, prompting a scene reminiscent of a Hammer Horror, in which daylight melts the flesh of a room full of vampires. But it at least empties them out, before I – along with Zach and a handful of PTA stalwarts – blearily put away tables, wash glasses and get ready to lock up.
‘I still can’t actually believe you came here tonight,’ I say, as I put my last tea towel in a bin bag to take home to wash.
He picks up the final crate of unopened wine as we walk towards the door, which he opens for me. I flick off the lights then step outside to lock up.
‘I paid ￡85 for the privilege.’
‘No you didn’t. I gave you that back. It’s hidden under your keyboard. I told you.’
‘Yes, but I bought 190 raffle tickets.’
This, for some reason, is one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard. It might be the eight tasting glasses of wine. Either way, when I start laughing, he joins in and soon we can’t stop. We walk across the floodlit car park and I click open my boot. I’m obviously not going to drive home, but I’ll leave the vehicle and its contents here overnight and either get a lift from my dad in the morning or – if I’m feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed enough – go for a run to collect it.
I throw in the last bag full of junk from the evening, while Zach places the final crate in. I’m about to close it when I grab a bottle of Chenin Blanc and thrust it into his arms.
‘Here, take this. It will make me feel less guilty for swindling you out of so much cash.’
‘Well, at least it’s for a good cause. What was it again?’
‘A sensory garden.’
‘Cool. How far away is your Uber?’
I look at my phone. ‘Twenty-five minutes. Friday night. It takes forever. What about yours?’
‘Thirty.’ He looks at his bottle and holds it up. ‘One for the road?’
I plan to say no. I swear I do. But for some reason that’s not what comes out of my mouth.
‘Oh, why not?’