Chapter 29
What the fuck happened? Those are the words on repeat in my head in the aftermath of Shedgate.
What. The fuck. Happened?
The sentence first popped into my head the moment I stumbled out into daylight and regret started to spread through me like a virus.
Even a day later, I can’t concentrate on a thing as I sit in video calls, staring at my screen in the glare of a ring light, trying to process not merely events in the shed, but also what happened afterwards.
The fact that Sam tried to stop me at the club gates to ask for my number. I mumbled something about the fact that I was already seeing someone so this was all a terrible mistake. He had a vaguely slapped look on his face, before I spun on my heel and darted to the house.
I read an article recently, written by a guy who’d had an affair.
He described it as ‘the greatest tragedy of his life’ and said that his self-destructive behaviour not only killed his marriage, but crushed his spirit to the extent that it made him ill.
I know this isn’t an affair. Of course I do.
But I understand how he felt. And the fact that none of how I feel is about Gavin in itself probably makes me a terrible person.
It’s not him I feel like I’m cheating on. It’s Ed.
If I said this out loud with Jeff in the vicinity, he would protest so fiercely that he’d virtually be howling. Because although there is a part of me that thinks my husband probably would have wanted me to ‘move on’, I don’t actually
know that. It’s just some trite thing that people say.
Truth is, in all the years we were together, that wasn’t a discussion we ever had.
Besides, it’s actually not about how Ed would have felt about it.
It’s about how I feel about it. And all I can tell you is that it’s like being pierced in the gut, every time I unlock my phone screen and see his smiling face.
And yet . . .
That very same night, when I’m lying in the bath, I am suddenly assaulted by a full, sensory flashback of Sam’s hand as it slid across my lower back.
The exquisite thrill that ran through my limbs.
The way I’d turned him on so much that he was straining in his shorts.
My body is reacting to this whole abhorrent incident in the most treacherous manner imaginable.
Worst thing is . . . it’s not the first time today it’s happened.
My nipples keep tightening. A blooming sensation begins to radiate from below.
Now, when I close my eyes and submit to it, every cell in my body feels so sensually alive that I honestly don’t know what to do with myself.
In short, I am stuck in a relentless pain–pleasure cycle that is so distracting that during a meeting with a potential new supplier at work, I come dangerously close to placing an order for 400 Wednesday Addams wigs by a woman who makes costumes for dogs.
As if I need reminding that this is no time to be on anything less than my A game, the following day, head office announces a series of targets and cost-savings we need to make in the coming months.
I’m all for ambition but these, quite simply, are so impossible it feels like we’re being set up for failure – though I’m not allowed to say those words, according to Angus.
‘Nothing is impossible!’ has been one of his mantras lately, along with a series of others that he seems to have picked up in the Barisian Group handbook.
We need to move the needle, apparently. Create synergies.
And reach out about something or other, which I swear he says more times each day now than the Four Tops.
Coupled with this, we have received various missives from the HR department, offering ‘generous voluntary redundancy packages’ for those who are prepared to jump before they’re pushed.
Despite having had absolutely no desire to leave Fable & Punk, I idly enquire about the lump sum they would offer me in principle.
It’s a decent amount, certainly enough to tide me over for a few months.
But what then?
I make some initial searches for alternative employment and am quickly disabused of the fantasy that I’d have competitors banging down my door to employ me, certainly not in the kind of job I actually want.
It seems things are not as easy as they used to be when you’re forty-seven years old, tied to the North-West of England and have certain salary expectations that go hand in hand with a daughter heading to university and a mortgage to pay.
Things have been tight enough as it is since Ed died.
Although he had a small life-insurance policy, after it emerged that he’d been put on stronger medication a few months before his death – and failed to let the company know – they didn’t pay out.
It was an oversight on Ed’s part, which amounted to non-disclosure and meant that I’ve since had to cover all outgoings alone.
That night at 3am when I’m lying awake, as well as the lost dog and forehand technique videos, I now end up googling things like, ‘Pros and cons of becoming an Uber driver’ and ‘Best new careers in your forties’.
Number one is apparently a wind turbine service technician.
I curse myself for not having chosen a more useful career in the first place, the kind of job society will never stop needing.
My grandma was clearly right: I should have become a nurse.
Or an electrician. I wonder how much an undertaker earns?
It strikes me that things might have been easier if Ed and I had ever started that business we once dreamed about.
Maybe in a different universe I could have been running a company the size of Oliver Bonas by now.
Or happily making ends meet in a pretty little store in Brixton.
Of course, I am well aware that – between a pandemic and a cost-of-living crisis – it could’ve all gone horribly wrong too.
But sometimes it’s nice to think of your ‘what ifs’ with an unapologetically rose-tinted filter.
Over the next few days, there’s only one point when my head clears completely: when I’m on a tennis court.
On Tuesday night, it’s team practice – but afterwards, it hits me that from now on, I’ll have to stick to women-only sessions, or at least check the court booking system first to make sure Sam isn’t around before I dare go over there.
I’m paired with Rose again on Thursday for a home fixture, against a team that has performed averagely well so far this season and is, according to Barbara, ‘beatable’.
‘Beatable by whom?’ I ask, as we head onto court.
Rose laughs. ‘You are way too cynical, Jules. I presume she meant by us, though now you mention it, it is possible she was referring to Andy Murray.’
I’ve concluded that I can say the words, this doesn’t matter, it’s only a game, as many times as I like.
It has no effect. I am just as nervous as in the first match, even if I admit I feel slightly more accepting of this feeling now.
At least if I’m worrying about this, I don’t have to think about Sam.
Or Ed. Or Frankie. Or work. All I need to do is play.
Winning would of course be a bonus. And when Rose and I find ourselves in a tiebreak, we come tantalisingly close to our first victory.
Under certain circumstances, I like to think I am effective under pressure.
I’ve had nobody else to come to my rescue in the last five years to deal with flat tyres, roof leaks or plumbing emergencies.
The only person available has been me, my rubber gloves and a series of profoundly unexciting YouTube videos.
But for some reason, being two points away from winning the entire match is all too much for me, no matter how many times I remind myself that I’m a grown woman, this is only a game, and in the scheme of things, none of this matters.
When it’s my turn to serve, I step forward and do my best to remember something constructive.
What Sam told me about loosening my grip pops into my head.
Unfortunately, it might have worked like a dream then, but this time, the racquet flies out of my hand like I’ve walked into the wrong sporting venue and was actually looking for somewhere to throw a javelin. It clatters to the ground somewhere near the service line and Rose spins round in shock.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I mumble, scrambling to pick it up.
‘That is a banned word around here,’ she tells me. ‘You’re fine. Deep breaths.’
She gives me a nod of solidarity, the kind I’ve come to rely on in these matches, along with various other small, shared gestures: a word of encouragement if I’ve double-faulted.
A sneaky eye roll at a dubious line call.
A pat on the back if I’ve won a point. They all make me feel like we’re in this together.
And that, I tell myself, is the reason I need to pull us back from the brink: so I don’t let my partner down.
We promptly lose the next four points.
I am not just disappointed about this loss.
I am slightly furious about it. There’s no other word.
To have come so close only for me to blow it at the end is, frankly, crushing – not least because we go on to lose the match after that too.
Still, at least nobody is around to witness it, apart from Rose’s husband, who stood heroically at the sidelines, clapping every so often.
Rose might be indignant about the lack of spectators, but personally I wouldn’t want it any other way.
‘Why would you want anyone to watch?’ I ask, as we walk towards the clubhouse.
‘I agree,’ says Lisa, helping us pick up the balls. ‘Zach was threatening to come at one point. I told him I’d never speak to him again if he did.’
‘People watch the men’s teams,’ Rose points out. ‘Why are they the glamour fixtures and not ours?’
‘Have you seen their A team? They play tennis like it’s supposed to be played,’ Lisa points out.
‘So do we!’ Rose argues.
‘Oh, come off it,’ Lisa says. ‘Nora videoed my volleys last week. In my head, I looked like Emma Raducanu. Turns out it was closer to my granny playing Swingball.’
‘You exaggerate,’ Rose insists, shaking her head.
‘I’m all for smashing the patriarchy, Rose – just not if it means people standing there, judging my shit backhand.’
We step into the clubhouse to discover that Barbara and her partner this week, Rachael, a police officer in her twenties, have both won their matches.
It’s a nice morale boost for the team as a whole, but not enough to count as an overall win.
Still, we console ourselves during the post-match tea and cakes that’s a tradition for all home matches and feel generally more positive after the sugar.
Nora steps into the clubhouse with an expectant look on her face. ‘How did you get on?’
‘It wasn’t our week,’ Rose tells her, glumly.
‘Oh. Sorry guys.’
‘This team is going to win next time,’ Rose says. ‘All of us. I can feel it in my bones.’
‘Oh, me too,’ Lisa replies. ‘Though it might be early-onset arthritis.’
‘Sorry I missed all the action,’ Nora says. ‘I was desperate to come and watch but have been taxiing the kids around to various clubs all evening. Have you seen the messages on WhatsApp? Gemma had to pull out of La Manga. Her aunt just died so she needs to go to the funeral.’
‘Oh no, poor thing.’ Lisa says. ‘Hope she’s okay.’
‘Yeah, me too. She’s looking for someone to take her place,’ Nora says. ‘She’ll lose a lot of money otherwise.’
They all turn to look at me.
‘Come on, Jules,’ Nora says, hopefully. ‘Aren’t you tempted? Sunshine. Blue skies. And a few lovely days of tennis.’
‘Surely after losing by only two points, the trip is worth it just for that?’ Rose points out.
I was already dying to go. I might be worried about money and the turmoil at work, but the idea of not having to see Sam out of my bedroom window is suddenly very appealing.
More than that, those two crucial points that lost us the match feel impossible to ignore.
Several days of coaching could make all the difference.
‘Go on then. You’ve twisted my arm.’
The three of them give a little cheer.
After we’ve cleared away the plates and locked up the clubhouse, we head out into a crisp, starlit night and crunch down the gravel path before saying goodbye.
As I let myself into the house, I find something lying on the floor, which has been posted through the letter box.
It’s been wrapped up in thick blue paper held together with a little sticker that reads, ‘The Roebury Bookshop’.
I pick up the parcel and fold away the wrapping, to find a book with the title The Inner Game of Tennis by W. Timothy Gallwey.
I open the first page, where a handwritten note is tucked inside.
‘This book helped me a lot once (though it was a while ago so hope it’s as good as I remember). Also, I thought I’d pass on that phone number you definitely didn’t want or need in the pathetic hope that you change your mind. : ) Sam x’