Chapter 7
I wake up the following morning with a swoop of regret when I remember what I’ve signed up for.
Nothing seems quite as bleak as it did yesterday and, even if the idea of finally reorganising my drawers isn’t that exciting, there’s always the cutlery to de-tarnish for a real thrill.
But I can’t cancel now. I get out of bed and rub my temples.
One tennis session. That’s it. I’m certainly not going to buy anything special for the occasion, except possibly a racquet.
Even I’d concede that playing without one of those would be a challenge.
The tennis skirts only come in two lengths – short and very short.
I may not be a self-conscious thirteen-year-old these days, but there is still no love lost between me and my thunder thighs.
Hate might be too strong a word for what I feel about them, but I’ve never considered my limbs to be long enough, slim enough, or Cindy Crawford’s enough.
And I’m always happy when wide-leg trousers come back into fashion.
I know this makes me a bad feminist and a hypocrite, having banged on for years to my daughter about body positivity. But I’m also a realist whose knees haven’t seen sunlight since the early eighties and I can think of a hundred other issues I’d rather bother blazing a trail over than this.
Instead, when I get to the gate of Roebury Tennis Club on Sunday afternoon, I’m dressed in one of the trusted combos I wear to the gym: a vest top and ‘power leggings’, with fabric that has the suction of a Dyson and a magical ability to smooth lumps and bumps.
There are ten of us booked into the class, seven women and three men, covering a broad spectrum of ages, from mid-twenties to early seventies.
The group is reduced to nine after one guy cancels at the last minute, citing a veterinary emergency involving his German shepherd and a pack of Crayola crayons.
Concern for the dog proves a rich topic of small talk while we wait for the final player – Jeff.
He finally arrives in a pair of small, retro ivory shorts, a matching zip-up track top, white sports socks pulled to mid-calf and, never one to do things by halves, an elastic headband.
‘I’m not late, am I?’ he asks cheerfully, swinging an enormous racquet bag off his shoulder.
‘Just starting, Jeff. Come on over,’ says Nora.
He slides into line between Lisa and me.
‘You’ve certainly dressed for the occasion,’ I say.
‘It’s all new,’ he confides.
‘I should hope so given that you haven’t played tennis since you were ten.’ I look him up and down. ‘You look like you’re on your way to a fancy-dress party dressed as Bjorn Borg, circa 1984.’
He looks delighted. ‘Do I really?’
Lisa snorts. ‘It’s very you,’ she adds, approvingly.
‘Don’t encourage him,’ I mutter, though I suspect he needs no encouragement.
‘Welcome to Rusty Racquets,’ Nora says to the group.
‘For those who don’t know, I’m head coach here at Roebury Tennis Club and today we’re going to be focusing on your forehands.
I know we’ve got a couple of complete beginners for this session, as well as some players, like Jules, who are returning after a bit of a break. ’
The class looks at me as I smile self-consciously. I feel like reminding her: thirty years is not a bit of a break. It’s eons.
‘At this stage, please don’t worry about your level. We’re all friends here and the emphasis is on fun,’ she continues.
We begin with a warm-up drill, which Nora demonstrates with the help of a heavy-set guy in his late fifties, dressed in an enormous turquoise polo shirt and baggy shorts.
He is hesitant at first, but soon gets the hang of the exercise, which involves standing close to the net and tapping the ball back and forth in ‘a nice, controlled fashion’.
Those are Nora’s words. It proves to be an optimistic instruction as Lisa and I pair up.
We don’t exactly get off to a flying start.
At first, I hit too gently and the ball repeatedly ends up in the net.
So I add more force, which makes it fly off in one direction, then another.
On the plus side, at least I manage to make contact, unlike Lisa, who spends most of the time chasing after balls she’s missed completely.
‘How did they make this look so easy in the demo?’ she asks.
‘Things can only get better,’ I mutter, but she doesn’t seem convinced. ‘So how are the kids? Leo must be, what – fifteen now?’
She hits the ball into the net and bends to pick it up. ‘Sixteen, thank God. I never want to repeat fifteen again.’
I laugh. ‘Was he a handful?’
‘I’m his mother. I love him. But, yes, I’m willing to say it: he was a complete pain in the neck for a while.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘But then he had his birthday and the clouds parted,’ she says. ‘It was so weird. Overnight, he transformed into a nice, considerate human being again. He’s got a girlfriend these days, so I suspect that helps.’
‘It’s easy to be in a good mood when you’re in love.’
‘Well . . . exactly,’ she laughs, reddening slightly. ‘So have you heard from Frankie?’
‘Yes. She arrived safely in Paris,’ relieved even though the mere mention of this subject is enough to remind me of last night’s dream, in which she’d been kidnapped by a roguish Captain Jack Sparrow type, who threatened to hold her hostage until I transferred ownership of the semi and the Honda Civic.
‘Time’s up, folks,’ Nora announces, as we finish the rally. ‘I saw some great shots there. How many points did you and Jules get, Lisa?’
Lisa and I lock eyes, realising that we’ve singularly failed to keep score while chatting.
‘Eighteen, wasn’t it?’ she asks, with a hopeful, possibly deluded, note in her voice. It was more like three, but Nora jumps in before I can correct her.
‘Oh, very impressive!’
We look away, sheepishly.
The final half hour is devoted to what Nora generously terms ‘match play’ although this is about as far from anything you’d see at Centre Court in Wimbledon as you could imagine.
The format is doubles. Lisa is paired with Annabel, an attractive Scottish doctor in her mid-sixties.
I am with Jeff. It’s the first competitive thing we’ve done together since a school talent show in which he sang ‘I Just Called To Say I Love You’ by Stevie Wonder, while I accompanied him on the bugle.
‘Would you like to serve?’ Annabel asks.
‘Honestly, I can’t think of anything I’d like less,’ Jeff tells her, before inviting her to do the honours instead.
Our game begins with a minor debate between Jeff and me about where exactly inside the service box the net player is supposed to stand at the start of a point before Nora comes along and ushers Jeff into place.
Annabel heads to the back of her court and fires off her first serve, with Jeff receiving.
It is immediately clear from the speed and precision of her shot that there is little about Annabel’s game that qualifies as ‘rusty’.
Jeff is so taken aback when the ball skims past that he lets out a gasp then stops to look at his racquet as if the only possible explanation is that there is a hole in it.
The next points are over just as quickly and Annabel and Lisa are winning one game to love without breaking a sweat. We switch ends.
‘I don’t know why you’re looking so smug, Lisa, darling,’ Jeff calls over. ‘You haven’t even touched the ball yet.’
‘I’m clearly just a very intimidating presence over here,’ she fires back. ‘Because something has got you two completely flummoxed.’
‘I’m not having that,’ he mutters to me, loud enough for her to hear. ‘We need to win at least a point. Come on, Jules. Get your head in the game.’
While this is all very amusing, I don’t mind admitting that I don’t really want to lose every point either.
Sadly, the first three of the next game disappear in the blink of an eye.
But at forty–love, there is a bona fide rally between Annabel and me, which lasts for nine shots and only breaks down when she mishits a backhand and Jeff cries, ‘YESSSS!’
‘Don’t get too excited,’ I mutter, but even my heart is thrumming now and not only from the exertion.
To my astonishment, we win the next four points. Jeff even hits the ball a couple of times. Somehow, we find ourselves at Advantage.
I notice an odd and unexpected sensation beginning to creep under my skin.
There’s something about the sound of each shot, the whoosh of the racquet and the small beat of jubilation when it lands where it was intended that forces me to ask: Am I actually enjoying this?
I push the thought away immediately.
What I’m enjoying is getting to spend time with Jeff.
Having a laugh with some nice people. Breathing in some fresh air.
It’s not the tennis per se that’s putting the smile on my face.
And while there’s something undeniably satisfying about the act of hitting a ball, it’s no better than, say, getting to the bottom of your laundry basket or popping some bubble wrap.
It’s my turn to serve. I toss the ball, strike it with an overhead swing – and it goes in.
What follows is less of a performance and more of a pantomime.
Annabel returns the ball and, when it’s unclear who’s closer, Jeff and I both dive for it, clash racquets, but miraculously get it back.
Lisa, in what I’m sure she’d admit is a fluke, returns it down the middle.
I’m closest so scramble for it, headless chicken-like, before the ball plops directly at my feet.
I somehow get it back over the net in a technique I last used on Shrove Tuesday when flipping pancakes.
Annabel dives for a volley, Jeff returns it and for the next four shots the three of us play a game of ping pong – going back and forth – as I am vaguely aware of gasps from the five other students in the session, alongside Nora.
The rally finally ends with an overhead smash from Annabel that is impressive in every way but one – it goes out.
Jeff flies towards me, flings his arms around my shoulders and spins me round.
‘You were amazing!’ he laughs, before pulling away with a grimace. ‘Urgh. And also very sweaty . . .’
A burst of applause makes me look up and realise that our fellow students weren’t the only ones watching.
There’s a handful of people on the clubhouse terrace including, at the very front, the guy I had a run-in with on the day I had to rescue Frankie’s passport.
He’s not wearing sunglasses or a hat now.
And even with a beard and the flecks of grey in his hair, I’d know the wide smile and playful eyes anywhere.
Something swoops from my breastbone to my belly the moment I realise who exactly it is.
Sam Delaney, my first ever school crush.