‘Well, I didn’t want to be the only one not at the party. I assume I’ll be playing with Jeff ?’
‘Oh no, you can’t have him,’ Denise informs me. ‘Each pair needs a strong player and a weak one. We can’t have two of your standard. It wouldn’t be fair.’
If I’d been in any doubt that the combined strength of Jeff and me didn’t amount to much, I’m not anymore. Nora catches my eye and suppresses a smile. As Denise runs a manicured finger down her sheet, I become aware of someone behind me and turn to find Sam.
The sight of him sets off a chain reaction. A thumping heart. A flipping stomach. It’s all as baffling as it is annoying, but he’s all shoulders and abs and that goddamn beard, which I’ve been thinking about excessively lately. Wondering how long he’s had it. Trying to decide whether it suits him or not. And musing about various practicalities, such as face washing and trimming and, okay yes,kissing. I draw a private breath and look away.
‘How you doing, Jules?’
‘Good thanks. You?’
There’s something deeply unsettling about being around him. Maybe it’s just the memory of what it was like to be eighteen years old, when the future was expansive and anything was possible. Maybe it’s the knowledge of what was to become of all that wide-eyed optimism. And the fact that I knew so much less than I thought I did back then, not least about the type of man who deserved a place at the centre of my world.
‘You’re with Liam,’ Denise tells me.
‘Oh! I’ll go and get him,’ says Sam, stepping away.
My relief that she hasn’t put us together is so acute that I can’t immediately recall who Liam is. I vaguely remember ayoung estate agent who joined Rusty Racquets to lose weight and wonder if that’s who she’s talking about.
‘Here he is. Top seed in the tournament.’ Sam grins as he returns with my partner, who is twelve years old and the son of one of Sam’s oldest friends.
‘Can’t I be with you?’ Liam asks as he looks up at Sam, who is clearly his idol.
‘Maybe we can have a little hit later. For now, you get to go with Jules. She’s an old friend of mine.’
I hold up my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Liam. I hope
I don’t let you down.’
‘Are you . . . any good?’
‘It depends on who you’re comparing me to,’ I shrug.
‘I suspect Serena Williams wouldprobablybeat me.’
‘Only on a good day,’ Nora calls over.
‘Well, it doesn’t really matter if we don’t win. All anyone can ask is that you do your best,’ Liam says, with an earnest if unconvincing air.
‘Wise words,’ Sam says, as he catches my eye and flashes one of his glittering smiles.
There are thirty-six players of varying ability and ages, of whom Liam is the youngest. Our first ‘match’ – which consists of four games – is on court two, where we take on Rose and Barbara Bainbridge, captain of the Women’s B team. She is slim, with silver, cropped hair and one of those faces – like Helen Mirren’s or Jane Fonda’s – whose lines only seem to enhance its beauty.
My main takeaways from the next twenty minutes are as follows. One: Rose’s recent practice has paid off. There’s been a gradual improvement in her game during our social sessions, but today she’s on fire. It’s hard to believe that only this time last year she was undergoing cancer treatment.
Two: despite being older than Rose and me by what must be a couple of decades, Barbara moves across the court like a gazelle. She is a fantastic player. Not powerful, admittedly, but with an almost magic touch that allows her to place the ball precisely where she intends it to go. Every. Single. Time.
Three: Liam, who has more energy than the rest of us put together, is going to be brilliant one day and is already halfway there. But he takes the slightly haphazard, all-or-nothing approach that I’m guessing is common among pubescent boys – bouncing around like a sprite and whacking the ball as hard as is physically possible. The result is either dazzling or disaster – there’s no in-between.
Partnered with a solid player, he’d win easily. Sadly, he’s only got me. And, just like every other time I’ve taken part in an actual competition, all the good days I’ve had on court recently now elude me. Things probably aren’t helped when, halfway through a rally, I register what looks like a large growth on my thigh and realise it’s actually a pair of knickers that have been through a wash-and-dry cycle stuck in one leg of my leggings. As Liam disappears between games to hand our scores in, I check the coast is clear and wrestle the pants to the top of my waistband, before whipping them out.
‘It’s so lovely to have you youngsters,’ says Barbara, appearing from nowhere. I pretend to blow my nose on the underwear and stuff them in my tennis bag.
‘We’re in our forties, Barbara,’ Rose reminds her, as Lisa joins us. ‘I don’t think any of us qualify as that.’
‘Forties?You lucky young things,’ Barbara grins, turning her attention to me. ‘You know, I’m still hoping you’ll change your mind about joining our team.’
‘I don’t know why, on the basis of that performance,’ I reply.
