I was hoping to find a songbird emoji so I could send you a whole load of them. My phone is only offering the choice of a penguin, duck or chicken and none of those quite fit my current mood.
I laugh out loud and am considering a response when a series of dots undulate on the screen to show that he’s typing. I go to brush my teeth while I’m waiting for his message to appear. When I return, the words on the screen make something burn in my gut.
I’m going to wear my heart on my sleeve here. The idea of not seeing you again after I leave is killing me.
My heart begins to pump queasily at the thought that in ten days he’ll be gone. Then, I catch myself.
Don’t go there, Lisa. Not again. Do. Not. Go. There.
I type a response.Surely you’ll be able to find someone in LA willing to bust your balls as much as me.
Be as flippant as you want. I mean it.
I exhale and try to think of something obtuse to say. I suddenly have neither the words nor the inclination to be anything other than honest.
I know. And I feel the same.
You are amazing, Darling.
Oh shush.
Are you cringing again?
Half cringing, half soaking it up ??
We text for a long time afterwards, until I’m so tired that by the time we’ve exchanged goodnights and sweet dreams, I haven’t even got the energy to update any of my apps. So I click off the phone and stare at the ceiling.
Icannotget this attached to Zach. I can’t let what happened on my stairs today make me fall in love with him. I need to act like a grown woman and stop whatever is happening here before it gets out of hand.
I plug the phone in next to my bed. I turn off the light.
Despite everything, somehow I’m still smiling.
The following day, Jeff, Rose and I sit on the terrace of the tennis clubhouse, watching Nora attempt to teach her orange ball kids – who are mainly aged 10 and 11 – how to perform a backhand. The group seems louder than ever today and even Nora, who has a peculiar knack for holding children’s attention, is facing an uphill struggle to get them all to listen. So she employs a tried-and-tested method to get them all in a circle for the ‘Question of the Week’.
‘If you were allowed to have anything for breakfast – anything at all – what would it be?’
The answers range from blueberry pancakes andpains aux chocolatto Haribos, a Big Mac and someone’s grandma’s lasagne. Absolutely nobody mentions Bran Flakes.
‘What does this have to do with tennis?’ Jeff asks.
‘Nothing, it just stops them bouncing around and trying to kill each other for about three minutes,’ I say.
Rose turns to him. ‘So what would you have for breakfast if you could have anything you wanted, Jeff?’
He thinks for a moment. ‘Am I allowed to say Luke Evans?’’
Rose chuckles, but it turns into a cough. She got a cold a few weeks ago that went onto her chest and she just can’t seem to shake it. She was always one of those people who rarelytook a day off work with sickness, but this – presumably when combined with her treatment – seems to have taken it out of her. She looks so pale. I know I’m not the only one worried about her. Jeff texted me last night about exactly this after he’d seen her in the deli in Roebury.
‘Okay guys! On your feet and let’s get a little backhand competition going!’ says Nora.
The kids line up as she starts feeding balls to them one by one. There are some interesting techniques, a few of which actually result in them hitting the ball.
‘She must have the patience of a saint,’ sighs Jeff. He’s in his summer attire today – Italian leather boat shoes, linen shirt, gold-rimmed aviators and a pair of khaki shorts that show just an inch more leg than everyone else.
‘She’s certainly got more energy than anyone else our age that I know,’ I say.
‘That wouldn’t take much compared with me at the moment,’ Rose says, breaking into another cough.
