Chapter 49
The sheer volume of admin involved in a relocation at my time of life is eye-watering.
My new job will start almost immediately but they want me to be present in the London office in two months’ time, in the first week of September.
When I write a list of all the things I need to do to move there, from getting the house valued and finding a cheap apartment if I haven’t sold it by then, to persuading someone else to take Bill’s bins out, it covers enough pages to amount to a short novella.
Oddly though, this isn’t the most difficult thing about the move.
Much harder is telling people what I’m doing once I’ve officially accepted the Barisian job.
Explaining the reasons over and over again, reiterating that I have no choice, but stressing all the positives too: it’s a promotion!
And the money’s good! Plus, I love the capital, which after all is not the other side of the world!
Nobody seems inclined to make it easy for me.
But I hold steady when Jeff’s mouth stiffens and a little wrinkle appears above Bella’s nose.
I don’t flinch when Dad places a supportive hand on Mum’s shoulder and her lip begins to tremble.
And by the time I tell Sam, I am well-rehearsed in all the arguments.
Still, I can hardly meet his eye as he sits at my breakfast bar with a cup of coffee on Saturday afternoon.
I still feel a little odd with him being here if I’m honest, in rooms with my wedding photos on the wall.
But today didn’t feel like the day to not show willing.
‘Absolutely none of this needs to change anything between us,’ I say emphatically. ‘It really doesn’t.’
He looks doubtful. ‘You . . . don’t think so?’
‘Absolutely not!’ I say brightly.
‘But how can it not alter things, Jules? Let’s be real.’
‘All right, maybe it does a little,’ I concede.
‘Obviously. On a surface level. But it’s just not a catastrophe.
It is the twenty-first century after all.
We can video-call. Plus, I’ve been looking at the cost of railcards.
If you book in advance and buy split tickets there are some bargains to be had.
You can visit me. I can visit you. People keep relationships going long distance when there are whole continents between them.
’ I’m about to give the example of Emily Blunt and John Krasinski but decide against it.
Because I realise that he’s suddenly unable to meet my eyes.
‘I don’t have any choice, Sam,’ I say quietly. He lowers his cup and nods.
‘Yeah. I get it.’
But I am left with a lingering feeling that he doesn’t quite believe me. That he thinks if I really wanted to stay, I would. And there are times over the next few days when I find myself wondering if maybe that’s true.
Either way, every time I tell someone my news, the words feel odd as they emerge from my mouth.
When I give the spiel to friends and neighbours, then actually put the house on the market, it still hardly feels real.
I cannot shake the sensation that I’m having an out-of-body experience.
And the only time I stop stressing about any of it, as ever these days, is on a tennis court.
While I start planning my departure, nothing short of a miracle has started to happen with the Roebury Women’s B team. There have been four clubs at the bottom of the table for most of the season, all of us vying not to end up last. Whoever does won’t be able to play in the league next year
at all. But after two fixtures ended in an overall draw for us, we stand third from the bottom – or fifth from the top, if you’re more of a glass-half-full person.
The table is still ridiculously tight and this season could go any way for several clubs.
But, given that it was widely assumed Roebury would be booted out at the end of the summer, the significance of this cannot be overstated.
Especially because so many of us are brand new, not just to the club but to the sport itself.
As Barbara keeps pointing out: who knows what this group of women could achieve if they were allowed to carry on next year?
The sentence makes my heart twist every time.
Because, whatever happens to the team, I won’t be here.
Still, until I leave for London, I intend to do everything in my power to make sure Roebury Women’s B team wins enough points to still be standing at the end of the season.
I owe it to this lot, for everything they’ve done to keep me sane for the last few months.
‘I don’t mind saying it,’ Nora says one day when we’re volleying at the net, ‘I feel ridiculously proud of you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes you,’ she grins. ‘You’ve improved so much. I think you might be my best student.’
‘I’ve heard you say that to the five-year-olds.’
She laughs. ‘Well, I mean it with you!’
She reaches out and catches the ball mid-rally, then looks at me from over the net as her laughter suddenly dies. She swallows. ‘God, I’m really going to miss you, Jules.’
‘I . . . me too.’
‘Just promise me you’ll come back and play again with us.’
‘Course I will. I’ll be back all the time,’ I say, lightly.
‘In that case, we might also have to explore the option of you being some sort of visiting player next year. There must be something in the rules that allows that.’
‘You do think there’ll be a next year then?’
‘You know what? For the first time in a very long while, I am starting to think there will. Just promise me one thing when you move, okay?’
‘Go on.’
‘You will join a tennis club, won’t you?’
‘Obviously,’ I smile. ‘Though I don’t know whether I’ll ever find one quite like this.’
I am again hit by a feeling of sleepwalking into this decision and have to remind myself that, even if it wasn’t my only option, this is the right thing to do.
My unease is not because I think fundamentally this is a mistake.
On the contrary. It’s because it’s an upheaval.
It would have been at any time of my life, but I actually think Niles got it right when he said some of us who’ve been around for a long time are resistant to change.
I know it will pass as soon as I am in London.
Still, every so often, if someone brings up the subject and asks, ‘How long have you got left?’ it takes me a moment to summon a response.
In those instances, I try to remember another bit of advice that’s worked wonders on the tennis court for me lately. Don’t think. Just do.
Then, in the first week of July, I turn forty-eight.
Birthdays are a bit of a non-event for most adults I know, but being a widow adds another dimension too.
They force you to think about the places where you blew out candles or opened gifts in happier times.
But I anticipate this one more than I have for years, for the simple reason that it falls on a match day.
Jeff sets aside his consternation and hosts a family dinner the night before.
Sam is invited too, but he’s at a conference in Helsinki.
At one point, I find myself wondering what my parents will make of him when they get to meet.
I’m taken aback by the thought the moment it enters my head, wondering how I started even considering something like this.
Still, we have a lovely time, even if I do decline Jeff’s cocktails, determined to be in peak physical condition the following night.
Instead, he produces a cotton-candy maker that he’s bought for the PTA summer fair and, after an hour of battling with a set of instructions, I am eventually presented with his very first stick.
‘It looks like a Q-tip,’ Dad quips. ‘Is she meant to eat it or clean her ears with it?’
The following day, my birthday itself, I am working in the office and – despite my attempts to dart off early – I only manage to get home with ten minutes to spare before I need to be next door.
There are several unopened cards on my doormat, which I put on the sideboard for after the match before running upstairs to get changed.
I turn up at the tennis clubhouse to find that the dining table has been decorated with balloons.
There’s a birthday cake and a huge bouquet.
It takes me a moment to realise that it’s for me, bought and organised by my teammates.
But the best present of all is the fact that Rose and I win both of our matches, as do Barbara and Mandy – giving the team two more much-needed points.
We stay behind far too late, finishing off the champagne and running through the details of another small victory.
When we’ve finally cleared up, I head home and crash on the sofa to open my cards.
There are several from distant aunts and another from my neighbour Bill, with a picture of a fishing teddy bear on it.
Then there’s one from Sam, which feels thicker than the others. I open it up and read the message.
‘Happy birthday to my favourite baseliner. Thanks for giving me a good excuse for a nice day out. Sam xx’
I’m confused by the message, until I open up a piece of paper folded inside the envelope, and my breath catches. It says: 5 July. Centre Court, All England Lawn Tennis Club.
I’m finally going to Wimbledon after all.