Chapter 14
The following day, I have one of those creative mornings that remind me why I love my job.
I spend it with two home-textile designers discussing some of the ideas I had on an inspiration trip to Marrakech a few weeks ago.
I am like a magpie when I’m abroad and always return with a suitcase full of samples and a scrapbook bursting with new concepts.
I’m already excited when they present me with their designs for some stunning flatweave cushions in seaside colours and pretty jute rugs with contrasting tones.
But my good mood crumbles when I, along with other senior staff members, am called into a meeting after lunch.
‘You may have seen a lot of speculation in the press about the future of Fable & Punk in the last twenty-four hours,’ Angus says with forced cheer, as sweat beads on his forehead. ‘And I can tell you now, most of it is absolute tosh.’
‘Oh thank God. So . . . we’re not being bought out?’ asks another buyer, Oliver.
‘Oh no, we are,’ Angus admits.
‘But it’s not by Barisian Group?’ asks Aurelie, our colleague in fashion.
‘Well . . . yes it is.’
‘So . . . where did the news stories get it wrong?’
He looks stumped for an answer. ‘Probably best if I just read out my speech,’ he says.
He pulls out a piece of paper and delivers a statement very obviously written by someone in our new owners’ Corporate Comms department. It strings together various words that I’ve never heard him use before – like pivoting and circling back – as we all look on, some more anxious than others.
He invites questions, but is unable to answer them in any meaningful way, beyond repeating how ‘exciting’ it all is and promising with a nervous laugh that all will become clear in due course. This fills nobody with confidence, least of all me. I can feel my chest tightening by the second.
For a lot of people in this company, especially the younger ones, working for Fable & Punk was never a ‘job for life’.
Nothing like. But for me, in my late forties and a few rungs further up the corporate ladder than most, I’d assumed this was as close as it got.
Yet last night when I googled Barisian’s previous mergers and acquisitions, they all follow a similar, inevitable pattern: streamlining.
Job losses. Layoffs. I feel my blood run cold.
I have transferrable skills of course, and there are other big retailers here in Manchester: a well-known sportswear brand, a supermarket and a very successful chain of bakeries have their HQs here.
But none of them are exactly what you’d call ‘me’.
That evening after work, desperate to stop spiralling about the takeover, I give in to the algorithm and start watching tennis videos on Instagram.
Before long, I’ve watched so many that I start to feel like I’m Cody’s best friend – or more accurately, his mum’s best friend.
I’ve also now consumed so much content about tennis theory and the biodynamics of every shot that I’m almost convinced it really can’t be that hard to master.
I briefly wonder if this is like the time I watched a couple of subtitled Scandinavian Noir thrillers and fooled myself into thinking that I was fluent in Danish.
But then, another odd thing happens. The next morning, I drive to the nearest branch of Lululemon and, though I resist an urgent compulsion to purchase everything in sight, I do feel unable to stop myself from stocking up on a few ‘basics’.
Even if I’m still terrible at tennis, I’ll have a new outfit to wear when I next go to the gym with Gavin.
When Saturday afternoon comes around, I pull on my new leggings, pick up my racquet and stroll round the corner to the club.
It’s been a beautiful spring day and the air is crisp, the last hour of fading sunshine glimmering through the clouds.
I wave to Nora, who’s giving a private lesson to a girl of about ten.
Adjacent to them, elderly men are having a lively game of doubles, while most of the other courts are filled with teenage girls or men in their thirties.
I feel a pleasant shiver of anticipation as I step onto court five and am midway through stretching my hamstrings when . . .
‘Oh, I’m afraid this is already booked.’
I glance up to see a woman whose glossy lips are contorted into a vinegary smile. She appears to be roughly my age, but with her swishy blonde ponytail and matching athleisurewear, she looks about ten times more tennis player than me.
‘Oh! Really?’ I say, taken aback.
She nods, in a way that’s apologetic but at the same time not at all. ‘Everyone knows court five on a Saturday afternoon is mine.’
‘I see. It’s just, I could have sworn my brother said it was court five that he’d reserved . . .’
There’s a note of pity in her voice now. ‘I don’t think so. Besides—’
‘Sorry I’m late!’
Our exchange is cut short when Jeff strides across the court, racquet bag slung over his shoulder.
But his feet slow and he lowers his sunglasses as he approaches.
The pinched look on his face reminds me of when he’s buying wine in Asda and the assistant is too quick to verify that he’s over twenty-five.
‘Denise. How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you, Jeff,’ she says, curtly.
‘I didn’t know you played tennis,’ he replies.
‘I’m in the Women’s A team,’ she adds, clearly pleased to be passing on this information. ‘I’m vice-captain – brackets, winter league.’
‘Wow. That must keep you busy now that . . .’ his voice trails off.
She begins to glower. ‘Now I’m no longer running the PTA?’
The penny drops. This is Denise Dandy. Ex-chair of the PTA, before she was forced to resign at the end of last year, after a power struggle that sounded like something out of Game of Thrones.
‘How are things going at the helm?’ she asks sweetly, clearly hoping the answer is terribly.
‘Busy,’ he says. ‘I’m rushed off my feet. You know how it is.’
‘A little tip from someone who’s been there,’ she says, leaning in.
‘You need to learn to delegate. Still, I know it’s all very new to you.
Hopefully you’ll pick things up soon enough.
Anyway, my training partner will be here any minute – we’re in the Fairlawn mixed doubles tournament next month . . . so if you could leave us to it.’
She actually shoos us away. Jeff looks venomous.
‘I’m afraid I booked this court, Denise,’ he replies, which causes Denise to sigh and repeat everything she told me earlier about this court being hers and hers alone at this time on a Saturday, by decree of some unspecified higher authority, presumably the gods of tennis.
‘Oh, here’s my partner now,’ she exclaims, adding smugly: ‘He’s a plastic surgeon, by the way. An excellent one by all accounts. Oh, Sam!’
Obviously, I knew there was a chance of bumping into Sam at some point if I returned to this club.
I didn’t want it to happen, and I also wasn’t going to be so pathetic as to let it stop me coming here.
But when I see him heading towards us, I stupidly find myself looking away, trying to avoid eye contact.
As I bend down to rifle needlessly in my tennis bag, I can’t help replaying what Denise just said.
A plastic surgeon? That’s what he did with his medical degree?
All that idealism he was supposed to have had!
All that earnest determination to ‘help people’ and save lives!
Did he seriously end up doing boob jobs?
‘Sorry I’m late, Denise. Oh, I didn’t realise you’d arranged doubles . . .’
I still don’t stand up, but glimpse enough to notice that he’s wearing a pale T-shirt, with navy shorts over muscular thighs. When the hell did he get legs like that?
‘I didn’t. Just a mix-up. These people are going now.’
She gets out her phone and with a tippy-tap of a manicured nail, satisfies herself with whatever it says, before brandishing it at Jeff.
‘Let’s just go,’ I mumble, standing up behind him and attempting to pull him by the elbow.
‘Just a minute,’ he says, pulling out his own confirmation. He thrusts his mobile at Denise. This, it seems, is iPhones at dawn.
She peers in and reads it out loud. ‘Court five. 3.30pm 25 April. ROSEBURY tennis club.’ She looks at him with a sly pout. ‘Would that be Rosebury in Middlesborough, as opposed to Roebury in Manchester? Sorry, Jeff!’
Jeff inhales. ‘No problem. We’ll just . . . go,’ he says, in a strangulated voice. He turns to Sam first and offers his hand. ‘I’m Jeff by the way. Pleased to meet you – albeit briefly.’
‘Sam,’ he replies. Only as he goes to shake with my brother, it’s not Jeff he’s looking at. It’s me.
‘And this is my sister—’
‘Jules,’ Sam finishes.
I step out from behind and manage to smile.
‘Hello, Sam,’ I say, feeling blood rush to my temples. ‘Long time no see.’