Chapter 19
As I dash through the club gates at the weekend, I spot a poster announcing that next week’s Rusty Racquets session has been cancelled to make way for a fundraising tournament. I feel a crunch of disappointment.
‘Don’t worry,’ Jeff says. ‘I’ve got you a ticket to play at the event instead.’
‘Why did you do that?’ I say quickly.
He purses his lips. ‘Oh come on. It’s a “fun tournament”. Emphasis on the fun.’
‘He’s right,’ Lisa adds. ‘Denise Dandy is organising, so “fun” is compulsory. Anyone not having an acceptable level of fun will be asked to leave immediately.’
‘Besides, your name’s down now,’ Jeff adds. ‘So you’ll mess up Denise’s planning if you don’t go. She’s a professional microblader. I wouldn’t like to say what she’s capable of.’
I continue to hedge my bets until Sunday morning, when I occupy myself by stalking Frankie in Rome on Find My iPhone, catastrophising about what the Barisian Group’s takeover might mean for us all and checking the balance of the savings account I set up for Frankie’s university fees to see if any money I’d forgotten about had miraculously appeared in there.
In a bid to still my thoughts, I resort to a new oven-cleaning hack I’ve found on Instagram, which involves a convoluted scouring technique using lemons, baking soda and a squirt of white wine vinegar.
It takes half the morning and has a peculiar effect on my eyes, which are still watering an hour after I’ve finished.
I remind myself that I existed perfectly well before I rediscovered tennis. And that – as stubborn as this particular perimenopause symptom is – there are multiple answers to my anxiety that don’t involve hitting a ball over a net.
I go upstairs and lie on my bed, opening the copy of Crime and Punishment I decided to pick up recently, thirty years after I started it at the age of seventeen.
I manage five pages. At least, my eyes definitely make contact with each of the words.
I must admit, if I were subject to a spot check of how many are actually going in, I’m not sure I’d pass.
It’s hardly my fault though, given the sounds drifting in from outside.
The thwacks and the pops and the clinks.
A cacophony of undeniably enticing noises – of tennis balls and glasses of fizz.
A burst of light illuminates the room and I stand up and go to the window.
I push aside the blinds I’ve recently had installed and see sunlight sparkling on the courts.
The clubhouse is decorated with bunting.
On the terrace, there’s a long table filled with home-made cakes and an array of drinks.
Grown-ups are milling around laughing, while kids play tag.
I spot Jeff as he chats to Rose, Lisa and a strikingly handsome man whom I can only presume is the American boyfriend Zach I’ve been hearing about.
The tournament hasn’t yet started, but there is already a carnival atmosphere. I sigh and fling the book down on my bed, before heading to the wardrobe for a pair of leggings.
I enter the club gates and find Nora at a desk marked ‘player registration’. She looks happy to see me, but not as much as Denise Dandy, who appears out of nowhere with her clipboard.
‘You made it!’ she exclaims jubilantly. Just as I’m thinking Jeff has this woman all wrong, she adds, ‘You’d have made a total mess of my order of play if you hadn’t turned up.’ She ticks off my name.
‘Great to see you, Jules,’ Nora interjects.
‘Well, I didn’t want to be the only one not at the party. I assume I’ll be playing with Jeff ?’
‘Oh no, you can’t have him,’ Denise informs me. ‘Each pair needs a strong player and a weak one. We can’t have two of your standard. It wouldn’t be fair.’
If I’d been in any doubt that the combined strength of Jeff and me didn’t amount to much, I’m not anymore. Nora catches my eye and suppresses a smile. As Denise runs a manicured finger down her sheet, I become aware of someone behind me and turn to find Sam.
The sight of him sets off a chain reaction.
A thumping heart. A flipping stomach. It’s all as baffling as it is annoying, but he’s all shoulders and abs and that goddamn beard, which I’ve been thinking about excessively lately.
Wondering how long he’s had it. Trying to decide whether it suits him or not.
And musing about various practicalities, such as face washing and trimming and, okay yes, kissing. I draw a private breath and look away.
‘How you doing, Jules?’
‘Good thanks. You?’
There’s something deeply unsettling about being around him.
Maybe it’s just the memory of what it was like to be eighteen years old, when the future was expansive and anything was possible.
Maybe it’s the knowledge of what was to become of all that wide-eyed optimism.
And the fact that I knew so much less than I thought I did back then, not least about the type of man who deserved a place at the centre of my world.
‘You’re with Liam,’ Denise tells me.
‘Oh! I’ll go and get him,’ says Sam, stepping away.
My relief that she hasn’t put us together is so acute that I can’t immediately recall who Liam is. I vaguely remember a young estate agent who joined Rusty Racquets to lose weight and wonder if that’s who she’s talking about.
‘Here he is. Top seed in the tournament.’ Sam grins as he returns with my partner, who is twelve years old and the son of one of Sam’s oldest friends.
‘Can’t I be with you?’ Liam asks as he looks up at Sam, who is clearly his idol.
‘Maybe we can have a little hit later. For now, you get to go with Jules. She’s an old friend of mine.’
I hold up my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Liam. I hope
I don’t let you down.’
‘Are you . . . any good?’
‘It depends on who you’re comparing me to,’ I shrug.
‘I suspect Serena Williams would probably beat me.’
‘Only on a good day,’ Nora calls over.
‘Well, it doesn’t really matter if we don’t win. All anyone can ask is that you do your best,’ Liam says, with an earnest if unconvincing air.
‘Wise words,’ Sam says, as he catches my eye and flashes one of his glittering smiles.
There are thirty-six players of varying ability and ages, of whom Liam is the youngest. Our first ‘match’ – which consists of four games – is on court two, where we take on Rose and Barbara Bainbridge, captain of the Women’s B team.
She is slim, with silver, cropped hair and one of those faces – like Helen Mirren’s or Jane Fonda’s – whose lines only seem to enhance its beauty.
My main takeaways from the next twenty minutes are as follows. One: Rose’s recent practice has paid off. There’s been a gradual improvement in her game during our social sessions, but today she’s on fire. It’s hard to believe that only this time last year she was undergoing cancer treatment.
Two: despite being older than Rose and me by what must be a couple of decades, Barbara moves across the court like a gazelle.
She is a fantastic player. Not powerful, admittedly, but with an almost magic touch that allows her to place the ball precisely where she intends it to go. Every. Single. Time.
Three: Liam, who has more energy than the rest of us put together, is going to be brilliant one day and is already halfway there.
But he takes the slightly haphazard, all-or-nothing approach that I’m guessing is common among pubescent boys – bouncing around like a sprite and whacking the ball as hard as is physically possible.
The result is either dazzling or disaster – there’s no in-between.
Partnered with a solid player, he’d win easily.
Sadly, he’s only got me. And, just like every other time I’ve taken part in an actual competition, all the good days I’ve had on court recently now elude me.
Things probably aren’t helped when, halfway through a rally, I register what looks like a large growth on my thigh and realise it’s actually a pair of knickers that have been through a wash-and-dry cycle stuck in one leg of my leggings.
As Liam disappears between games to hand our scores in, I check the coast is clear and wrestle the pants to the top of my waistband, before whipping them out.
‘It’s so lovely to have you youngsters,’ says Barbara, appearing from nowhere. I pretend to blow my nose on the underwear and stuff them in my tennis bag.
‘We’re in our forties, Barbara,’ Rose reminds her, as Lisa joins us. ‘I don’t think any of us qualify as that.’
‘Forties? You lucky young things,’ Barbara grins, turning her attention to me. ‘You know, I’m still hoping you’ll change your mind about joining our team.’
‘I don’t know why, on the basis of that performance,’ I reply.
‘You’re all a lot better than anyone we recruited last year,’ Barbara reassures me.
Rose looks at her. ‘That was . . . nobody, wasn’t it?’
‘Well, exactly. It’s been a struggle for years.
Now, best player Mary is recovering from a hip replacement, Katherine’s knees are always flaring up and June keeps threatening to move to Nottingham.
To spend more time with her grandchildren,’ she huffs, in disbelief.
‘I have pointed out that we need her more than they do.’
I think she’s joking, but I couldn’t be a hundred per cent sure.
‘It wasn’t like this thirty years ago,’ she sighs. ‘We had three women’s teams then. Now we’re down to two and can barely sustain that.’
‘Why do you think that is?’ Rose asks.
‘I’ve got my theories,’ Barbara says. ‘When we were all fighting for equal rights in the seventies, I don’t think we quite envisaged that women would end up doing absolutely bloody everything.
My daughter is a case in point. She’s the breadwinner and homemaker and as a result she never has a minute to herself.
And her husband’s one of the good ones – a nappy-changing new man.
I keep asking when she’s going to do something for herself.
She tells me she just doesn’t have the time. ’
‘That sounds familiar,’ Lisa murmurs.
‘Well, it can’t be good for you. This, on the other hand,’ Barbara declares, bouncing a tennis ball on her racquet, ‘most definitely is.’
‘I’m guessing sixty-five,’ Rose says, ten minutes later, as she takes a sip of post-match Prosecco on the clubhouse terrace.
‘Nope,’ Nora replies.
‘Sixty-one?’ tries Jeff.
‘Miles off.’
‘She’s never sixty-eight?’ I say, but Nora is still shaking
her head.
We are playing a fun new game called ‘Guess Barbara Bainbridge’s Age’, at which we are all failing badly.
‘Well, I give up,’ Rose says, eventually. ‘Go on, tell us.’
Nora takes a sip of her drink. ‘She’s seventy-three.’
Jeff’s jaw drops. ‘If she’s seventy-three, I’m Jennifer Aniston.’
‘She’s formidable,’ Lisa says. ‘I’ll be over the moon if I’m still prancing about on a tennis court like she is at that age . . .’
‘Jules! You’re on!’ Denise calls.
I leave those who’ve finished playing to their Prosecco and grab my racquet, a knot forming in my stomach.
Our final match is against Sam and his partner, a beefy guy called Pete, who’s wearing a tent-like polo shirt and a permanently bewildered expression that strongly suggests he’s new to this game.
‘I think we might need to worry about these two,’ Sam jokes to him, nodding to us over the net.
‘Yeah, you do,’ Liam laughs. ‘We’re going to take you down, Sam!’
‘What’s his weakest shot?’ I ask, deliberately loudly.
‘His backhand’s rubbish,’ Liam shouts, before collapsing into giggles.
‘How dare you!’ Sam replies, which only makes Liam laugh harder.
The on-court banter has a temporarily relaxing effect, but it’s short-lived.
As we win the spin and Liam opts to serve, I step forward in front of the net.
Sam is on the other side, directly in front of me, all the way over at the baseline.
The four of us fall silent as I glance behind me at my partner.
I’m supposed to be watching the baseline player, which in this case is Sam.
But I don’t want to look at him. So I settle for fixing my gaze on his shoes.
But the harder I try not to make eye contact, the more impossible it becomes.
It’s an inverted staring contest, in which I’m desperately trying to hold my nerve, not move, not blink. But then . . .
I lift my gaze and find Sam already looking at me. My heart snags as we lock eyes and a slow smile appears on his face. I snap my gaze away as my pulse starts to thunder in my ears. But by now only one thing is going through my head.
I want to beat you, Sam Delaney. I want to beat you so bad . . .
Liam hits a perfect serve. Sam returns it cross-court. But, in an ill-disguised bid to go easy on us, it’s a weak return and I decide to take my chance at the net. Unfortunately, Liam sprints forward with the same idea.
‘MINE!’ we yell, in unison.
I try to pull back, but I’m not quick enough. We collide amidst a crunch of racquets and limbs.
It’s true what they say about these things happening in slow motion. It’s like someone’s flicking through the pages of a flip book, illustrating a series of weird and wonderful contortions. Liam flying through the air. His elbow askew. Me slamming backwards. Both of us ending up on the ground.
There is a brief moment when I’m aware of the presence of pain but have yet to decide how bad it is. I glance at Liam, who’s clutching his arm, then at Sam, as he sprints from the baseline.
‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble to Liam, as Sam leaps over the net like some kind of movie stuntman. Only, by the time he’s hit the ground, Liam is starting to get to his feet.
The next thing I know, Sam is beside me.
‘You okay?’ he whispers.
My face feels cold and waxy, but I’m drenched in sweat.
I look down at my ankle and realise I’m not okay at all.