‘Carole, I’m sorry. Can we just rearrange the meeting?’
‘Of course! Let me just have a peek at Angus’s diary.’
‘Could I phone you later to rearrange?’
‘Better to sort it now. I’m going on my lunch soon.’
The next few moments are punctuated with the tip tap of Carole’s nails on her keyboard. My palpitations begin to roll like a snare drum.
‘Carole, I—’
‘February 28th at 3pm?’
‘Great!’
‘Oh no.’
‘What?’
‘That’s the volunteer community clean-up day.’
‘Right.’
‘You should have it in your diary already. I put you down for plastics. I still haven’t decided who I’m giving the poobags to yet. I’m torn between Nigel in accounts and Gillian in—’
We’re interrupted by a call from Frankie’s number. I mutter an apology to Carole and cut her off.
‘Just wondering how long you’re likely to be?’ my daughter asks.
‘I have no idea,’ I sigh. ‘I’m going as fast as I can.’
‘Could you give us a rough estimate? Only, I thought we could go to Pizza Express but Milly isn’t sure we’ve got time?’
I try not to sound too exasperated, aware that this is already far from the touching farewell I was hoping for.
‘Frankie, Idon’t know. I’ll have a better idea if you let me get off this phone and on the road.’
‘Haven’t you even left?’
‘I’m trying to!’
‘All right!’ she huffs, as we end the call and I leap out, striding across the road to the dark blue saloon that’s causing the problem. My nerves are now so frayed that my hair is almost standing on end and I feel a surge of annoyance at the anonymous Hyundai-driving wanker responsible for this. Parking might be at a premium around here, but how selfish do you have to be to abandon your car without a thought about who you might be inconveniencing?
I peer in through the window and spot a fuzzy yellow ball on the passenger seat.
I might have known.
I march to the entrance of the tennis club, imagining the type of person who might be responsible for this. I’ve met their kind at the school gates, the ones who swing a top-of-the-range 4x4 – because it’salwaysa top-of-the-range 4x4 – onto the no-parking zone, leaving kids, strollers and crossing guards to dive for cover. I’d simmer with disapproval with the other parents, but never went as far as challenging anyone. I’ve never had the time to be a vigilante, let alone the guts.But today’s different. Today, I have the guts, the inclination and a genuine emergency to contend with.
I go to push open the metal gate, but it’s locked and, as I’m not a member, I’ve never been given the key code. I rattle it a couple of times, to no avail. Then I see someone through the netting: a guy, alone on one of the middle courts, next to a tub of tennis balls. He is about to serve, his arm stretched high. I clear my throat as his body begins to unfurl.
‘EXCUSE ME!’
When the ball catapults into the net, he turns to look in my direction, as if it was my fault.
He is tall and lean, dressed in dark sportswear, the sleeves of his tracksuit top pushed up muscular forearms. He’s wearing a beanie and sunglasses and has a clipped salt-and-pepper beard. I can see enough of his physique to recognise that he’s attractive, if you like that sort of thing. I, however, am immune to hotness. It’s one of my superpowers.
So when I address him, it’s with the same air of authority that I’ve always secretly admired in the receptionist of our GP surgery, who accepts zero bullshit and probably took part in the Spanish Inquisition in a previous life.
