‘Enjoy your game,’ I say curtly, as I tuck my racquet into my bag.
Sam smiles at me again, which I really wish he’d stop doing now.
‘You know, I can’t quite get over it,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘What?’
‘How little you’ve changed.’
‘Oh no, I’ve changed.A lot.’
A mildly perplexed look flashes in his eyes, so I feel the need to keep talking.
‘I’ve definitely got a few more wrinkles. And a bigger bum.’
My brother turns to me with a grimace that suggests he wants to disown me. But Sam is chuckling as I walk away and the sound of it sets off a chain reaction of endorphins that sizzle from the back of my neck, all the way to my toes. It doesn’t stop even as I stand outside my house for five minutes listening to my brother grumble about Denise Dandy, before we say goodbye and I go in.
As I head upstairs, I tell myself it’s for the best that I’m not playing today. It will give me a chance to answer some emails before Monday. I might push the boat out and paint my nails before I see Gavin tonight. Only nude though. I don’t want him getting any ideas.
I head into the bedroom and sit on the bed, pulling off my trainers, before drifting toward the window to gaze out across the courts. I have the best spectator seat in the house to watch play resume between Sam and Denise.
It’s immediately clear that the two of them are in a completely different league from anyone at Rusty Racquets. Denise’s control is exceptional, employing one gravity-defying slice after another, designed to flummox any opponent. But Sam’s speed, agility and power could match someone twenty years younger. It’s hard not to be mesmerised.
I shake my head, irritated. So what if he looks good on a tennis court? It’s only the same as watching some sexy lead singer in a band. When the lights go on at the end of the night, those guys are invariably unremarkable at best and complete wankers at worst. I feel a stab of guilt for even peeking. In all the time I was with Ed, I never even looked at another man.
That’s not going to change just because Sam Delaney has walked back into my life. I’m about to tear myself away, when Denise executes a perfect lob over his head. It should be an impossible shot. But all it takes is a corkscrew turn and three long strides before he’s on it, in exactly the right position for a backhand slice that wins the point. As Denise goes to collect the ball, Sam bends briefly to fix his shoelaces, before he lifts his gaze upwards and...
Fuck!
I fall to my knees the moment I realise I’ve been spotted. The only strategy I can think of next is to commando-crawl to my en suite like I’m in an FBI shootout. I’m almost there when I hear my phone beep. I pause and reach up to my bedside table to grab it and open a text from Jeff.
‘Meant to say: I realise you’re out of practice but for future reference when someone is flirting with you, do NOT point out the size of your arse, okay?’
Chapter 16
I never do get to have my knockabout with Jeff. In the days that follow, he’s too busy with the PTA, which he now seems to be running like the CEO of a Fortune 100 company, intent on world domination. Yet every time I look out of my window, I feel a weird pull towards the courts, until finally I have the inspired idea to book a one-to-one lesson with Nora on Friday, when I’m working from home. I take this during my lunch hour, which is the only option until the nights get lighter. I feel rebellious, like I’m bunking off school, despite having started answering emails at 6am to justify a whole sixty minutes away from my desk.
I enjoy itimmensely. I mean, to a stupid extent. How much of this is about the actual tennis, however, is a moot point. It’s more that I end up so engrossed that, for the whole hour, neither Frankie nor the turmoil at work even enter my head. It’s as if, when I step through those gates, the rest of the world ceases to exist and my only focus is getting a fuzzy yellow ball over a net and inside those lines. I am convinced this won’t last, that all my anxieties will start to filter back into my head later. But the rest of the day turns out to be a less fraught experience all round.
The other thing I like about the session is Nora herself. She is a ray of sunshine in human form, one of the nicest, most encouraging and optimistic people I’ve ever met. She’s exactly the kind of coach someone like me needs – I am free to make a complete idiot of myself and she doesn’t bat an eyelid.
I immediately organise another lesson on a day I’m working from home the following week and, when this has the same effect as previously, I make a snap decision to block-book a month’s worth of lessons and even try to practise in between. Nora tries to persuade me that the best way to do this is to join other female members on Saturday mornings when three courts are reserved for a ‘friendly’ session.
‘The opportunity to practise in an unpressurised environment is exactly what you need. Honestly, you’ll love it. At the very least give it a go.’
I remain entirely unconvinced that I’m good enough and, when she finally twists my arm, I discover that I was right. I am nowhere near as strong as their regular players, though admittedly the same can be said about Lisa and Rose and, either way, nobody seems to mind in the slightest about our duff shots.
The Saturday women are an eclectic bunch. The youngest is Samira, a twenty-two-year-old flight attendant, though there are others in their twenties and thirties. Then there’s an older contingent of age-defying Golden Girls, the original Ladies’ B team, who have been playing together for years.
Collectively, they are proof that skill on the court seems not to align to any stereotypes about age or body shape. Josie and Rachael – two midwives who work together – are as tall and lean as Steffi Graf in her prime, but the rest are as different as any other group of women I know. Some are big. Some are small. None of it seems to matter.
Of course, spending this much time at the club means I can’t escape the possibility of bumping into Sam Delaney again. In the three weeks after his game with Denise, I see him twice: once arriving for Rusty Racquets when he’s on a different court, and another time after a Saturday practice session, when he waves at me from the clubhouse terrace,making my stomach twist. I’m on high alert whenever I set foot in the place after that – only to feel relief or a strange sense of deflation when he’s not around.
But as I’m leaving the courts the following Saturday, I end up coming out of the gate at the exact moment he’s walking in. I am suddenly very conscious of my red cheeks and sweaty hair.
‘How’d you get on?’ he asks, with a smile that’s so all-encompassing it illuminates his whole face.
‘With what?’ I ask, puzzled.
