The picture on my screen is not the most flattering, thanks to a blob of unabsorbed suncream on my nose and the weird fringe I’d been experimenting with at the time. But it was taken on one of my favourite family holidays, to Kefalonia when Frankie was nine. It was Ed’s idea to go after I’d been obsessed byCaptain Corelli’s Mandolinthe previous summer. The three of us look so relaxed and happy, all sun-warmed smiles and bright eyes.
I don’t know how long I lie on top of the duvet after that, flicking though old photos, from as far back as when it was just Ed and me living in London. Before Frankie. Before his fatal asthma attack. Back in the days when life was so ridiculously good that it seems incomprehensible now that we ever assumed it would last.
My pictures didn’t stop after he died, just as life didn’t. For the first six months, I felt like I’d been caught up in a bomb blast and was stumbling to the emergency exits, choking on black smoke. But even then, I knew that my job now was to make life as normal and happy as possible for Frankie. That was what I channelled all my energies into as soon as I possibly could. Before Ed died, I was your average slapdash mum. But for a time afterwards, I became that parent who hosted sleepovers every weekend. The one who organised movie marathons, spa afternoons and mocktail parties for all her friends. There wasn’t a weekend when I didn’t have some wholesome activity planned. Then, as she got older, I became her unpaid Uber driver, the first to offer lifts to the cinema, parties and, latterly, her shifts at the care home. I really didn’t mind all this. On the contrary. It suddenly felt all too precious – and the minimum requirement for a fatherless daughter.
But as I’m lying there, cold and covered in goosebumps, all of this begs the question: what the hell am I going to do with myself now that she’s gone?
I sit up and walk to my bedroom window, gazing out at the courts below as I recall the conversation from the previous night.
Am Ireallyconsidering this, a sport that once nearly drove me out of my mind with anxiety and crushed my self-belief ? Jeff’s reaction alone would be unbearable. But, at this stage, exactly what is the alternative tomorrow?
I take a deep breath and compose a text before I change my mind.
‘Hi Nora. Just wondered if you might still be able to squeeze me into Rusty Racquets tomorrow? x’
Chapter 7
I wake up the following morning with a swoop of regret when I remember what I’ve signed up for. Nothing seems quite as bleak as it did yesterday and, even if the idea of finally reorganising my drawers isn’t that exciting, there’s always the cutlery to de-tarnish for a real thrill. But I can’t cancel now. I get out of bed and rub my temples. One tennis session.That’s it. I’m certainly not going to buy anything special for the occasion, except possibly a racquet. Even I’d concede that playing without one of those would be a challenge.
I head to Sports Direct as soon as it opens to buy the cheapest model I can lay my hands on. It costs £12.99 and has all the aerodynamic properties of a frying pan. As I’m heading to the checkout, I wander past the clothing, where I find further affirmation of my decision to give up this sport when I was a teenager.
The tennis skirts only come in two lengths – short and very short.
I may not be a self-conscious thirteen-year-old these days, but there is still no love lost between me and my thunder thighs. Hate might be too strong a word for what I feel about them, but I’ve never considered my limbs to be long enough, slim enough, or Cindy Crawford’s enough. And I’m always happy when wide-leg trousers come back into fashion.
I know this makes me a bad feminist and a hypocrite, having banged on for years to my daughter about body positivity. But I’m also a realist whose knees haven’t seen sunlightsince the early eighties and I can think of a hundred other issues I’d rather bother blazing a trail over than this.
Instead, when I get to the gate of Roebury Tennis Club on Sunday afternoon, I’m dressed in one of the trusted combos I wear to the gym: a vest top and ‘power leggings’, with fabric that has the suction of a Dyson and a magical ability to smooth lumps and bumps.
There are ten of us booked into the class, seven women and three men, covering a broad spectrum of ages, from mid-twenties to early seventies. The group is reduced to nine after one guy cancels at the last minute, citing a veterinary emergency involving his German shepherd and a pack of Crayola crayons. Concern for the dog proves a rich topic of small talk while we wait for the final player – Jeff. He finally arrives in a pair of small, retro ivory shorts, a matching zip-up track top, white sports socks pulled to mid-calf and, never one to do things by halves, an elastic headband.
‘I’m not late, am I?’ he asks cheerfully, swinging an enormous racquet bag off his shoulder.
‘Just starting, Jeff. Come on over,’ says Nora.
He slides into line between Lisa and me.
‘You’ve certainly dressed for the occasion,’ I say.
‘It’s all new,’ he confides.
‘I should hope so given that you haven’t played tennis since you were ten.’ I look him up and down. ‘You look like you’re on your way to a fancy-dress party dressed as Björn Borg, circa 1984.’
He looks delighted. ‘Do I really?’
Lisa snorts. ‘It’sveryyou,’ she adds, approvingly.
‘Don’t encourage him,’ I mutter, though I suspect he needs no encouragement.
‘Welcome to Rusty Racquets,’ Nora says to the group. ‘For those who don’t know, I’m head coach here at Roebury Tennis Club and today we’re going to be focusing on yourforehands. I know we’ve got a couple of complete beginners for this session, as well as some players, like Jules, who are returning after a bit of a break.’
The class looks at me as I smile self-consciously. I feel like reminding her: thirty years is nota bit of a break. It’s eons.
‘At this stage, please don’t worry about your level. We’re all friends here and the emphasis is on fun,’ she continues.
We begin with a warm-up drill, which Nora demonstrates with the help of a heavy-set guy in his late fifties, dressed in an enormous turquoise polo shirt and baggy shorts. He is hesitant at first, but soon gets the hang of the exercise, which involves standing close to the net and tapping the ball back and forth in ‘a nice, controlled fashion’. Those are Nora’s words. It proves to be an optimistic instruction as Lisa and I pair up.
We don’t exactly get off to a flying start. At first, I hit too gently and the ball repeatedly ends up in the net. So I add more force, which makes it fly off in one direction, then another. On the plus side, at least I manage to make contact, unlike Lisa, who spends most of the time chasing after balls she’s missed completely.
