‘Not at all,’ he says. ‘As soon as my dad started thinning, it happened very quickly. All his teeth went next. I’m not going through that.’
Nora is finding this hysterical. ‘Well, now you’ve revealed your secret. If you’d gone ahead and said nothing, none of us would’ve noticed.’
‘They cost about £15k, don’t they?’ asks Zach. ‘For that you’d wanteveryoneto notice.’
‘Exactly,’ laughs Jeff.
Zach seems easier to get along with outside the context of work. But then, perhaps we all are. I certainly couldn’t accuse him of not getting into the spirit of things.
‘Oh look, you’ve won!’ Jeff exclaims, nudging Zach and pointing at one of the many raffle tickets he’s bought.
‘Wow,’ he smiles. ‘Glad I came.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Go and collect your prize,’ Jeff says.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ I call after him, as he pushes out his chair and walks towards the stage. I turn to the others. ‘I think the only prizes left are a Thermos flask and an Imperial Leather gift set.’
In fact, Zach soon heads back carrying a tin of tennis balls, the kind that cost about £9 from Sports Direct. He places them on the table in front of him before sitting down.
‘I hope you weren’t hoping for a new iPhone,’ I say.
‘What are you talking about?’ he grins. ‘I’m having the time of my life. Forty-three years old and I swear I can’t remember winning anything. Apart from an Emmy, that is.’
My mouth drops. He looks at me, with a smirk. ‘That’s a joke. Sadly.’
‘Oh!’ I smile, taking a sip of wine.
Forty-three.
Four years younger than me.
An age gap.
Why the hell am I thinking this?
‘So do you play?’ he asks me. ‘Tennis I mean.’
‘I used to,’ I say.
‘Andshe still should,’ Nora interjects. ‘Lisa is a lovely player. I’m constantly trying to persuade her to get on a court, rather than just watching her kids.’
‘I’mnota lovely player. I’m a rusty one. I haven’t picked up a racket in years. These days, it’s the same old story.’
‘You just don’t have time for it?’ he says.
‘How did you guess?’
We come second to last in the quiz. I can’t say I’m surprised. Then, before we know it, someone points out that it’s 11pm and therefore my job – as event co-ordinator – to start turfing everyone out. This is easier said than done. Because it turns out that eight glasses of wine – even ‘tasting’ sized – is quite enough to make everyone reluctant to tear themselves away.
I eventually flick all the lights on, prompting a scene reminiscent of a Hammer Horror, in which daylight melts the flesh of a room full of vampires. But it at least empties them out, before I – along with Zach and a handful of PTA stalwarts – blearily put away tables, wash glasses and get ready to lock up.
‘I still can’t actually believe you came here tonight,’ I say, as I put my last tea towel in a bin bag to take home to wash.
He picks up the final crate of unopened wine as we walk towards the door, which he opens for me. I flick off the lights then step outside to lock up.
‘I paid £85 for the privilege.’
‘No you didn’t. I gave you that back. It’s hidden under your keyboard. I told you.’
