Chapter 15
The way Sam is looking at me makes me feel like I’m standing on stage in the glare of a spotlight and have suddenly forgotten my lines. I am illuminated, augmented, wondering if the whole world can see the goosebumps that have erupted on my skin.
‘Mummy! Mummm!’ We turn to look as Nora’s young student calls out. ‘My strings have broken!’
Denise sighs, grabs a spare racquet from her bag and with a ‘Coming!’ breaks into a dainty jog towards them.
‘How are you, Jules? I didn’t recognise you at first . . . you know, when you were calling me an idiot.’ He says it in a jovial tone that suggests this is some kind of shared joke. Still, it sends a shot of heat to my temples.
‘Oh, yes, sorry about that. I hadn’t recognised you either, obviously,’ I say, forcing an unconvincing laugh.
‘It’ll be the beard,’ he says, with a grin.
‘Probably,’ I reply, though I’d rather not dwell on the beard, which adds a new level of masculinity to his face that I was unprepared for.
I don’t know why facial hair makes him even more handsome than I remember, but for some reason it makes me think of a documentary I once watched about mating peacocks.
The moment the male’s feathers were on show, the females were all over him.
‘I was actually in the midst of an emergency, too,’ I add, in a bid to break this chain of thought. ‘I really needed to get out of my drive.’
He is suddenly concerned, a little ashen actually. ‘Oh God, sorry. Hope everything turned out okay?’
‘I mean . . . nobody died!’ I force another laugh, then shake my head. ‘It’s a long story. I was always being blocked in historically, but then we got yellow lines opposite and it basically solved the problem. Until you came along, that is.’
My attempt to match his own jokey tone just sounds passive-aggressive now.
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ he says finally. ‘I think those lines must have been covered up.’
I nod. ‘Leaves.’
‘Right.’
This excruciating exchange makes me feel a sudden and acute affinity with twelve-year-old me, stepping on the bus with all eyes on her too-tight perm. There is a beat of silence in which I can feel my blush deepen.
‘Well, you’ll be glad to know I’m on my bike today,’ he smiles.
‘Good!’ I say.
‘Have you been in Roebury all this time?’ he asks, a combination of delight and disbelief in his voice
‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘My husband and I lived in London for fifteen years. We moved here just before our daughter started school.’
‘You’ve got a daughter? Wow.’ He looks like this is both wondrous and unexpected. Clearly, in his head, I had remained a teenager all this time.
‘Yes. Francesca. She’s eighteen. What about you? Any kids?’
‘I’ve got a son. Toby. He’s in Sydney doing a PhD in climate science.’
‘Ah. He inherited your brains then,’ I say, resisting the urge to add that he’s clearly putting them to far better use.
‘How do you two know each other?’ Jeff pipes up.
Sam seems to shift on the spot then turn to me again. Something catches inside my breastbone as a smile appears on one side of his mouth. ‘We were in the school orchestra together,’ he says.
‘Oh, God, not the French horn? I’m surprised your hearing’s intact.’
‘I don’t think either of us were much good,’ Sam says.
‘Let’s face it, there wasn’t a huge amount of hidden talent at St Cuthbert’s,’ Jeff agrees. ‘Though the drama teacher did go onto bigger and better things.’
‘Really?’ asks Sam.
‘Yes, he went to work on a cruise ship. Admittedly, it was never clear if he was an entertainer or deckhand.’
As they continue to chat, my gaze drifts to Sam’s wedding finger. Which is bare. A series of stupid thoughts instantly shuffles through my brain like I’m Sherlock Holmes piecing together clues to a murder . . .
The absence of the ring alone isn’t necessarily meaningful, I decide.
I once read that Prince William doesn’t have one.
And my dad, who was an electrician, stopped wearing his years ago, despite being very married to Mum for five decades.
I don’t even wear mine anymore – though only because I was sick of people leaping to assumptions when they saw it, forcing me into a torturous explanation of how I was once married to a wonderful man, who then died – and, no honestly, please don’t worry, you haven’t put your foot in it at all . . .
The point is, this proves nothing. Especially as Sam is holding his racquet in his left hand, so he could feasibly have removed it simply to play tennis. Possibly before kissing his beautiful wife goodbye, just before he left the house . . .
‘Crisis averted!’ Denise calls out, as she returns and heads onto the court. ‘I’m going to warm up my serve. Are you coming, Sam?’
He turns back to Jeff and me.
‘We could always play doubles?’ he suggests.
My brother’s face brightens. ‘That’s a lovely idea.’
But he’s silenced by Denise’s ‘practice’ serve, which flies over the net like an Exocet missile, at the kind of speed that could take out a passing pigeon.
‘On second thought, I need to see a man about a bouncy castle. Thanks anyway,’ Jeff says, grabbing his bag to sling over his shoulder.
For a moment, I’m rooted to the spot as a vivid memory floods my mind in glorious technicolour: a stifling hot day. The touch of soft hands on my young skin. The feel of his lips as I accidentally brushed them with my tongue . . .
‘Enjoy your game,’ I say curtly, as I tuck my racquet into my bag.
Sam smiles at me again, which I really wish he’d stop doing now.
‘You know, I can’t quite get over it,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘What?’
‘How little you’ve changed.’
‘Oh no, I’ve changed. A lot.’
A mildly perplexed look flashes in his eyes, so I feel the need to keep talking.
‘I’ve definitely got a few more wrinkles. And a bigger bum.’
My brother turns to me with a grimace that suggests he wants to disown me.
But Sam is chuckling as I walk away and the sound of it sets off a chain reaction of endorphins that sizzle from the back of my neck, all the way to my toes.
It doesn’t stop even as I stand outside my house for five minutes listening to my brother grumble about Denise Dandy, before we say goodbye and I go in.
As I head upstairs, I tell myself it’s for the best that I’m not playing today. It will give me a chance to answer some emails before Monday. I might push the boat out and paint my nails before I see Gavin tonight. Only nude though. I don’t want him getting any ideas.
I head into the bedroom and sit on the bed, pulling off my trainers, before drifting toward the window to gaze out across the courts. I have the best spectator seat in the house to watch play resume between Sam and Denise.
It’s immediately clear that the two of them are in a completely different league from anyone at Rusty Racquets.
Denise’s control is exceptional, employing one gravity-defying slice after another, designed to flummox any opponent.
But Sam’s speed, agility and power could match someone twenty years younger. It’s hard not to be mesmerised.
I shake my head, irritated. So what if he looks good on a tennis court?
It’s only the same as watching some sexy lead singer in a band.
When the lights go on at the end of the night, those guys are invariably unremarkable at best and complete wankers at worst. I feel a stab of guilt for even peeking.
In all the time I was with Ed, I never even looked at another man.
That’s not going to change just because Sam Delaney has walked back into my life.
I’m about to tear myself away, when Denise executes a perfect lob over his head.
It should be an impossible shot. But all it takes is a corkscrew turn and three long strides before he’s on it, in exactly the right position for a backhand slice that wins the point.
As Denise goes to collect the ball, Sam bends briefly to fix his shoelaces, before he lifts his gaze upwards and . . .
Fuck!
I fall to my knees the moment I realise I’ve been spotted. The only strategy I can think of next is to commando-crawl to my en suite like I’m in an FBI shootout. I’m almost there when I hear my phone beep. I pause and reach up to my bedside table to grab it and open a text from Jeff.
‘Meant to say: I realise you’re out of practice but for future reference when someone is flirting with you, do NOT point out the size of your arse, okay?’