Chapter 34
I’m the first up the following morning and leave Nora sleeping as I step out of the bedroom to find the apartment flooded with light.
I throw open the balcony doors to be greeted by an extravagant blue sky and a labyrinth of yellow-tiled rooftops, palm trees and, in the far distance, the luminous waters of Mar Menor.
I close my eyes and lean on the wall, letting sunshine warm my eyelids for a moment.
Until I’m jolted by the sound of a splash below and look down to see a lone swimmer in the large, kidney-shaped pool.
Which I realise, with a bolt of lightning in my chest, is Sam.
Brilliant.
‘Fancy a coffee, Jules?’ I spin round to find Lisa at the door, feeling caught out. ‘They left us a complimentary pack.’
‘Oh, um. That’d be great,’ I say, flustered.
She’s about to turn away, when she cranes her neck and looks down to the pool. Something in her expression shifts.
‘Lovely view from up here, isn’t it?’ she says, with a hint of amusement, before walking away.
Josie and Rachael, the two midwives, take a stroll to the supermarket and return with fresh eggs, warm sourdough bread, fruit and yogurt.
We have brunch on the balcony, in no rush at all, until it’s time to meet the others at the tennis centre, a short walk away.
As Rose opens the apartment door to leave, she turns to look at me.
‘Are you really wearing leggings? It’s forecast to be a scorcher today.’
‘I don’t do skirts,’ I tell her. ‘I haven’t got the legs for them.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ Nora argues, in a kindly but entirely deluded way. ‘We’re all friends here.’
‘You lot wouldn’t understand because you’ve all been blessed by beautiful limbs,’ I tell her.
‘That’s not it at all,’ Rose replies. ‘I’ve just reached the stage of my life when I no longer give a toss about what anyone thinks of my cellulite.’
I salute this sentiment in every way – but I still wear the leggings.
The Racquets Club has twenty-eight courts, most of them made from a terracotta clay that’s so vibrant in the sunlight that it somehow reinforces the fact that we’re abroad.
They run lessons here for every level, from beginners of all ages right through to a pro academy, honing the skills of junior players who have the potential to be the best there is.
Nora, Sam and a couple of the guys from the Roebury contingent head off to join an advanced session, while the rest of us are introduced to the other, less experienced players. While there are lots of British voices among them, there are also some French, Italian and American ones too.
The coaching staff are a fit, attractive-looking bunch, who emerge en masse wearing matching blue T-shirts, deep tans and big smiles.
They introduce themselves as Fernando, Maria, Antonio and Carlos in perfect English enhanced by lilting Spanish accents.
I read before we came that some of the staff here are ex-ATP players and as soon as they start playing, it shows.
From the first demonstration, these guys are next-level – though their racquet skills are only part of it.
The most impressive thing of all is how encouraging and calm they are throughout the whole of our first session, how no coach ever seems to forget a name and – no matter how atrocious anyone’s performance – one thing is implicitly understood: that getting better at tennis is only a small part of why we’re here. The main priority is having fun.
While everyone is glowing after two hours of forehand drills, as I leave the courts, I am forced to concede that Rose may have been right about the leggings.
Steam is coming off my head and, even after heroic levels of rehydration, my face is almost camouflaged against the clay.
I urgently need to get back to the apartment, jump in the shower and blast it onto the coldest possible setting.
But a voice calls out as I open the gate.
‘How did you get on, Jules?’
I look up and see Sam grinning as he walks towards me along the path.
‘Oh, good,’ I reply, self-consciously.
He looks cheerful and energised, with a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
My eyes drop to his lips, which are a little flushed, and something warm dissolves in my stomach, like caramelising sugar.
As he gets closer, the smell of him almost overtakes me.
‘The coaches were all lovely although I suspect you lot had it tougher in the advanced class.’
‘No, they were all really nice over there too,’ he smiles.
‘I still feel like I’ve been put through my paces though.’
‘I think everyone’s earned their complimentary drink today, that’s for sure,’ he replies.
‘What complimentary drink?’
‘All players get one. I think it’s a bit of a marketing tool, a way to introduce us to the bar . . .’
‘I couldn’t possibly sit around like this. I am disgusting,’
I say, pulling out my sweaty T-shirt.
‘We’re all disgusting. Anyway, it’s compulsory. You don’t pass the course unless you partake in the beer afterwards.’
I throw him a sceptical look. ‘They told you that, did they?’
‘I’m sure it’s in the small print somewhere.’
I am persuaded to stay for a drink because, in Jeff’s words, it would be rude not to.
The bar is in an attractive, al fresco area directly overlooking the padel courts.
They’re all full, either with families playing with small children or energetic young men hitting the kind of hard, powerful shots against the glass walls that simply demand to be watched.
An area has been sectioned off for those of us on the tennis course, where bottles of rosé sit in chilling coolers alongside icy wine glasses perspiring in the heat.
Our group stays for a while, chatting amongst ourselves and other players on the course.
But when they begin to drift away and only a handful are left talking to two women from Argentina, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, with a view to leaving immediately afterwards. When I return, only Sam is left.
‘Where did everyone go?’ I ask, bewildered.
‘To get a head start on the shower.’
I sigh. ‘Does that mean everyone’s beaten me to it?’
‘Probably. You might as well finish this with me,’ he smiles, topping up my glass with the last splash of rosé.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I—’
‘Jules?’
I look up and meet his eyes. They are so intensely green in this light that they look almost ethereal.
‘I know you’re feel awkward after what happened but—’
‘I don’t,’ I interrupt, with an innocent shrug.
‘Good. Because I’d hate it if we were here for several days in this lovely place and you were in any way uncomfortable.’
‘No. Not at all.’ I sound so unnatural I’m almost squeaking. He holds my eyes for a second before a smile filters onto his face.
‘Glad to hear it,’ he says as he pushes the glass towards me.