‘Your tennis match.’ He nods to the courts. ‘I presume that’s what you’ve been here for?’
My heart clangs. Of course I was here to play tennis, though right this minute my head has emptied of any real reason foranything.
‘Oh . . . not bad,’ I say. ‘I mean, I don’t think you could call it a match. We played a couple of sets, but it was just practice really.’
‘Always helps.’
I don’t know why the conversation feels so stilted. I’m like an awkward teenager at a school disco, blushing and stumbling over my words.
‘Are you playing with Denise again?’ I say, pulling myself together.
‘No not this time. Just a guy I work with. I’m trying to play a bit more these days as I rarely got the chance when I lived in Edinburgh.’
‘Edinburgh? How long were you there?’
‘Nearly two decades. My ex-wife was originally from there,’ he explains. ‘I stayed for a while after we got divorced, but then a job opportunity came up back here and it felt like the right time. There aren’t that many in my line of work.’
My mind briefly spins with all the gaps he’s just filled in with one short statement: about where he’s been living,whether he ever married, if they’re still together. But it’s none of those things I really want to know about.
‘You finally made it as a doctor then,’ I say instead.
‘I did!’ He says it as if he’s surprised that I remembered.
‘I know it was a burning ambition of yours once upon a time,’ I add. ‘You’d wanted to really make a difference.’
He raises his eyebrows then lets out a little laugh. ‘Well. It’s fair to say I was a very idealistic teenager.’
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ I say, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. Yet it’s still a little heartbreaking to me that he ended up devoting that incredible brain of his to giving the women of Greater Manchester the 32DDs of their dreams.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so sniffy about the plastic surgery thing. I have no right to disapprove, and in many ways Idon’t. An old friend of mine in London had breast augmentation a decade ago and it made her very happy. Also, who even said he does boobs? Could be noses. Bums. Anything. It’s really not for me to judge, as long as it’s not that weird labiaplasty thing for people with the demented idea that their vulva needs to be prettier.
That night, I find myself replaying our conversation and wondering if we might ever get onto the subject of our past, that early summer in the mid-nineties, when I quietly lost my mind over him. It would feel odd to bring up how it ended now. I’d feel ridiculous after all these years. He probably doesn’t even remember what happened. He was just an eighteen-year-old guy who had a change of heart or, more likely, a better offer. I’m sure he’s more mature these days. Honestly, though, I don’t even know why I’m thinking about it.
The unsettling thing is this: though I’ve barely given him a second thought for at least two decades, when I did, I’d placed him firmly in the same category as all the idiots I subsequently met at university. The guys who messed mearound, or said they’d call then didn’t. But after being around him earlier today, I feel like I need to give my younger self a little more credit. I can understand exactly how I got pulled in.
I found my heart beating a little faster as I contemplated how different he looks with a beard and now, his stupidly handsome face has been scorched into my visual cortex for most of the evening. I am a little appalled with myself, a feeling that is exacerbated every time I glance up and see a photo of Ed. Still, I end up lying on the sofa that night desperate to google his name. It wouldn’t do any harm, surely? I could just see how much he charges for liposuction . . .
I get as far as ‘Sam De—’ and pause. Take a deep breath. And ask myself a question:whyam I even thinking about this man? What the hell do I think I’m doing? If I should be googling anyone, it’s Gavin, but I haven’t done that since before our first date when I wanted to check that he wasn’t a serial killer. I slam shut my laptop and consider the matter closed.
Chapter 17
On the Friday morning before my next lesson with Nora, she sends me a text.
‘Forecast doesn’t look great today. Would you prefer to cancel? No charge, obviously.’
By now, I’ve sat through back-to-back video calls with suppliers, our finance department and the head of customer services about a complaint from a woman who didn’t like the taste of the cinnamon oil she’s been adding to her coffee each morning – presumably because it was designed for use in an aroma diffuser.
The only glimmer of relief on the horizon was our lunchtime session.
I look at my weather app for what must be the ninth time. It’s still forecasting light rain. So I try the Met Office instead. When that doesn’t give me the answer I’m looking for, I download AccuWeather, which shows a twenty-six-minute dry spell at the start of our session. That seems to be as good as it gets.
‘Shall we give it a go and see how we get on?’ I suggest.
We manage half an hour of a backhand lesson before the rain creeps in . . . and in. We hold out as long as possible before running into the clubhouse changing room, where we are confronted with a pathetic sight in the mirror. Red-nosed and panda-eyed, we are both drenched.
‘I feel like Private Benjamin,’ I say, which makes Nora splutter with laughter.
‘Well,nobodycan doubt your dedication.’
