Amongst them, there seemed to be a strict hierarchy in line with their abilities: the most popular girls were also the best in the club, long-limbed county champions who’d been playing since they were in nappies.
I did not fit into this environment in any way, shape or form. And yet, a little magic sometimes happened when I least expected it. Like when I’d perform a rally that broke down the toughest opponents, or a drop shot so precise and impenetrable that it would make onlookers gasp. These were the golden moments. The ones that convinced me that I, too, could climb higher to the top of this tree ifonlyI tried harder.
I did win a couple of junior league matches at the beginning, but I can hardly even remember what happened. Any positive memories were obliterated by the final months I spent representing that club, in what turned out to be a spectacular and apparently endless losing streak. I felt like I was going backwards, getting worse, not better. I played one memorable doubles match with a girl who, rightly, blamed our loss on me.
Afterwards, as I sat crying in a toilet cubicle, I heard her voice as she entered the bathroom with one of the other players.
‘That was adisaster. Is she usually that bad? My parents are furious. They’re complaining to the coach right now. My mum says if I ever get put with that girl again they’ll pull me out of the club altogether.’
For all these reasons, the competitions I’d once craved became nothing but traumatic, and not only while they were happening. My stomach would churn for a week before a match and I’d step on court with my heart thrashing so hard, I felt like it was going to burst out of my chest.
My parents, incidentally, were oblivious to how I felt, probably because of the great efforts I went to in order to hide it.I’d annoyed them enough after giving up the French horn and by now they’d spent a fortune on racquets and clothes, not to mention paying for coaching up front. They wouldn’t have been angry, they’d have beendisappointed, which every kid in the world knows is far worse.
D-Day happened at a regional tournament. I hadn’t slept a wink the night before and arrived at the indoor venue feeling like I’d landed on the wrong planet. I can only remember snippets of the day: a group of mean girls, legs like dressage ponies, laughing as they walked past. An angry dad yelling at his small son. The crowd. The noise. The formality.
The match itself was a train wreck.
It was like I’d lost control of my limbs or forgotten how to run. My opponent was all over me from the start, brimming with confidence, grinning at her parents every time I messed up, while they celebrated with fist pumps, air punches, and theatrical cries of ‘YESSS!’
I’d been an idiot for thinking I deserved to be here and kept asking why I hadn’t chosen anicerhobby, such as stamp collecting or embroidery or paranormal investigation.
Why, of all the things, was I playing tennis?
I was only thinking about how I wanted to be anywhere else on earth than here, when my opponent attempted a lob and made a rare mishit. An opportunity opened for me to kill the point with an overhead smash. I told myself this was it – my big chance. But not only did I miss the ball – I somehow managed to hit myself smack in the face, like I was auditioning for a live-actionTom and Jerryepisode, complete with cartoon stars circling my head.
Objectively speaking, this was unquestionably hilarious and I’m sure I can’t blame anyone for laughing – the bastards. I could hardly make evenmoreof a scene so, tears stinging my eyes, I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, ignored the trail of blood on my wrist and carried on.
The final score was an extremely character-building 6–0, 6–0.
I’ll never forget my poor dad’s expression as I trudged towards him, head hanging. His face was contorted with guilt at what he clearly thought he’d put me through and when he threw his arms around me, it was for one of those hugs that nearly take your breath away. Then he put his hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eyes and made a promise.
‘Julie, love. You never have to do that again.’
So I never did.
Chapter 18
A ‘special meeting’ is put in the shared calendar the following Monday by Angus, with three exclamation marks in the subject line. Attendance is compulsory for all senior staff, meaning any prior plans must be cancelled – even holidays or medical appointments. And yes, I suspect that does include triple bypass surgery.
‘I’ve just seen Carole bringing in a tray of posh sandwiches,’ Kayla says gravely, as we take the lift to the third floor. ‘You know it’s serious when the budget stretches to those.’
Today is our first opportunity since the takeover to meet Niles Fischer, CEO of our new owners, the Barisian Group – aka, Mr Big.
‘You can almost smell the tension in the building, can’t you?’ Kayla whispers, as the doors close.
‘I think that’s the air-con filter,’ I reply, though she’s not wrong.
‘So what do you think? Is he going to sack us all on the spot?’
‘Oh, I doubt it. He’ll say something about how day-to-day operations will remain the same but that he has ambitions to improve value for customers and take a larger market share. He’ll admit that roles and responsibilities may be under review but will stress that the company isabsolutely committedto treating everyone fairly and respectfully.’
She looks at me, perplexed.
‘That’s what they always say,’ I add, as the lift opens.
I’ve been through periods of change in the past, cost-cutting exercises at this company and at my last employer. But a takeover is a new one. I keep telling myself not to assume the worst, but I can’tnotthink about this. I need to have some kind of contingency up my sleeve if I do need to leave. And frankly, it’s hard to see what that would look like.
I do know a couple of women my age, school mums mainly, who stopped working when they had kids and never went back. But there’s been only one income in our household since Ed died, and now I’m facing three years of Frankie’s university fees. Things were already feeling tight even without this uncertainty.
