‘Oh thank God. So . . . we’re not being bought out?’ asks another buyer, Oliver.
‘Oh no, weare,’ Angus admits.
‘But it’s not by Barisian Group?’ asks Aurelie, our colleague in fashion.
‘Well . . . yes it is.’
‘So . . . where did the news stories get it wrong?’
He looks stumped for an answer. ‘Probably best if I just read out my speech,’ he says.
He pulls out a piece of paper and delivers a statement very obviously written by someone in our new owners’ CorporateComms department. It strings together various words that I’ve never heard him use before – like pivoting and circling back – as we all look on, some more anxious than others.
He invites questions, but is unable to answer them in any meaningful way, beyond repeating how ‘exciting’ it all is and promising with a nervous laugh that all will become clear in due course. This fills nobody with confidence, least of all me. I can feel my chest tightening by the second.
For a lot of people in this company, especially the younger ones, working for Fable & Punk was never a ‘job for life’. Nothing like. But for me, in my late forties and a few rungs further up the corporate ladder than most, I’d assumed this was as close as it got. Yet last night when I googled Barisian’s previous mergers and acquisitions, they all follow a similar, inevitable pattern: streamlining. Job losses. Layoffs. I feel my blood run cold. I have transferrable skills of course, and thereareother big retailers here in Manchester: a well-known sportswear brand, a supermarket and a very successful chain of bakeries have their HQs here. But none of them are exactly what you’d call ‘me’.
That evening after work, desperate to stop spiralling about the takeover, I give in to the algorithm and start watching tennis videos on Instagram. Before long, I’ve watched so many that I start to feel like I’m Cody’s best friend – or more accurately, his mum’s best friend. I’ve also now consumed so much content about tennis theory and the biodynamics of every shot that I’m almost convinced it really can’t be that hard to master.
I briefly wonder if this is like the time I watched a couple of subtitled Scandinavian Noir thrillers and fooled myself into thinking that I was fluent in Danish. But then, another odd thing happens. The next morning, I drive to the nearest branch of Lululemon and, though I resist an urgent compulsion to purchase everything in sight, I do feel unable to stop myself from stocking up on a few ‘basics’. Even if I’m stillterrible at tennis, I’ll have a new outfit to wear when I next go to the gym with Gavin.
When Saturday afternoon comes around, I pull on my new leggings, pick up my racquet and stroll round the corner to the club.
It’s been a beautiful spring day and the air is crisp, the last hour of fading sunshine glimmering through the clouds. I wave to Nora, who’s giving a private lesson to a girl of about ten. Adjacent to them, elderly men are having a lively game of doubles, while most of the other courts are filled with teenage girls or men in their thirties. I feel a pleasant shiver of anticipation as I step onto court five and am midway through stretching my hamstrings when . . .
‘Oh, I’m afraid this is already booked.’
I glance up to see a woman whose glossy lips are contorted into a vinegary smile. She appears to be roughly my age, but with her swishy blonde ponytail and matching athleisurewear, she looks about ten times more tennis player than me.
‘Oh! Really?’ I say, taken aback.
She nods, in a way that’s apologetic but at the same time not at all. ‘Everyone knows court five on a Saturday afternoon is mine.’
‘I see. It’s just, I could have sworn my brother said it was court five that he’d reserved . . .’
There’s a note of pity in her voice now. ‘I don’t think so. Besides—’
‘Sorry I’m late!’
Our exchange is cut short when Jeff strides across the court, racquet bag slung over his shoulder. But his feet slow and he lowers his sunglasses as he approaches. The pinched look on his face reminds me of when he’s buying wine in Asda and the assistant is too quick to verify that he’s over twenty-five.
‘Denise. How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you, Jeff,’ she says, curtly.
‘I didn’t know you played tennis,’ he replies.
‘I’m in the Women’s A team,’ she adds, clearly pleased to be passing on this information. ‘I’m vice-captain – brackets, winter league.’
‘Wow. That must keep you busy now that . . .’ his voice trails off.
She begins to glower. ‘Now I’m no longer running the PTA?’
The penny drops. This is Denise Dandy. Ex-chair of the PTA, before she was forced to resign at the end of last year, after a power struggle that sounded like something out ofGame of Thrones.
‘How are things going at the helm?’ she asks sweetly, clearly hoping the answer isterribly.
‘Busy,’ he says. ‘I’m rushed off my feet. You know how it is.’
