‘You’re all a lot better than anyone we recruited last year,’ Barbara reassures me.
Rose looks at her. ‘That was . . .nobody, wasn’t it?’
‘Well, exactly. It’s been a struggle for years. Now, best player Mary is recovering from a hip replacement, Katherine’s knees are always flaring up and June keeps threatening to move to Nottingham.To spend more time with her grandchildren,’ she huffs, in disbelief. ‘I have pointed out that we need her more than they do.’
I think she’s joking, but I couldn’t be a hundred per cent sure.
‘It wasn’t like this thirty years ago,’ she sighs. ‘We had three women’s teams then. Now we’re down to two and can barely sustain that.’
‘Why do you think that is?’ Rose asks.
‘I’ve got my theories,’ Barbara says. ‘When we were all fighting for equal rights in the seventies, I don’t think we quite envisaged that women would end up doing absolutely bloodyeverything. My daughter is a case in point. She’s the breadwinnerandhomemaker and as a result she neverhas a minute to herself. And her husband’s one of the good ones – a nappy-changing new man. I keep asking when she’s going to do somethingfor herself. She tells me she just doesn’t have the time.’
‘That sounds familiar,’ Lisa murmurs.
‘Well, it can’t be good for you. This, on the other hand,’ Barbara declares, bouncing a tennis ball on her racquet, ‘most definitely is.’
‘I’m guessing sixty-five,’ Rose says, ten minutes later, as she takes a sip of post-match Prosecco on the clubhouse terrace.
‘Nope,’ Nora replies.
‘Sixty-one?’ tries Jeff.
‘Miles off.’
‘She’s never sixty-eight?’ I say, but Nora is still shaking
her head.
We are playing a fun new game called ‘Guess Barbara Bainbridge’s Age’, at which we are all failing badly.
‘Well, I give up,’ Rose says, eventually. ‘Go on, tell us.’
Nora takes a sip of her drink. ‘She’sseventy-three.’
Jeff’s jaw drops. ‘If she’s seventy-three, I’m Jennifer Aniston.’
‘She’sformidable,’ Lisa says. ‘I’ll be over the moon if I’m still prancing about on a tennis court like she is at that age . . .’
‘Jules! You’re on!’ Denise calls.
I leave those who’ve finished playing to their Prosecco and grab my racquet, a knot forming in my stomach.
Our final match is against Sam and his partner, a beefy guy called Pete, who’s wearing a tent-like polo shirt and a permanently bewildered expression that strongly suggests he’s new to this game.
‘I think wemightneed to worry about these two,’ Sam jokes to him, nodding to us over the net.
‘Yeah, you do,’ Liam laughs. ‘We’re going to take you down, Sam!’
‘What’s his weakest shot?’ I ask, deliberately loudly.
‘His backhand’s rubbish,’ Liam shouts, before collapsing into giggles.
‘How dare you!’ Sam replies, which only makes Liam laugh harder.
The on-court banter has a temporarily relaxing effect, but it’s short-lived. As we win the spin and Liam opts to serve, I step forward in front of the net. Sam is on the other side, directly in front of me, all the way over at the baseline. The four of us fall silent as I glance behind me at my partner.
I’m supposed to be watching the baseline player, which in this case is Sam. But I don’t want to look at him. So I settle for fixing my gaze on his shoes. But the harder I try not to make eye contact, the more impossible it becomes. It’s an inverted staring contest, in which I’m desperately trying to hold my nerve, not move, not blink. But then . . .
