‘No problem,’ I say, lying through my teeth.
I sit in the back, while Rose is in the passenger seat. She and Lisa chat all the way, their voices drifting in and out of my head. Lisa is saying someone hacked her Instagram account, resulting in a call from her mother demanding to know all about her new job selling bitcoin and the down payment she’d just made on a Ferrari. Rose is talking about a new BBC show she’s been watching with her husband.
‘I don’t think a night goes by these days when we don’t sit in front of the TV and say, “What have I seen him in before?”’
Eventually, I join in because I don’t think any of us wants a silence that would allow something else to sweep in. Nerves? Almost certainly. Fear? I can’t speak for the othertwo, but I haven’t even started running about yet and sweat is already collecting behind my knees.
We eventually find ourselves in a leafy suburb, which we drive around four times while Lisa swears loudly and calls her sat nav names. We locate the tennis club down a poorly marked road which opens up onto six AstroTurf, three grass and two padel courts, overlooked by a building immediately identifiable as posher than ours.
‘If Rolex made clubhouses, I suspect this is what it would look like,’ Rose murmurs, slamming the door.
We meet the rest of the team – Barbara, Rachael and Samira – at the gates and what happens next unfolds in an almost complete blur. After a brief introduction to the opposition team, names are jotted down and the rules are explained: Rose and I will play two matches this evening, each consisting of two sets. I am directed to a court to warm up for the first one with Rose. We walk side by side, in ominous silence.
‘I need you to keep your expectations low here. Okay?’ I whisper.
Her head snaps to me.
‘I’m fine in a friendly game but I go to pieces in competitions,’ I continue. ‘I’m just not sure what’s going to happen here. Obviously, I’m not going to back out, but I—’
‘Jules,’ she says, as I stop and turn to look at her. ‘It’sokayto be nervous. I am too. Look.’ She holds out her hand. It’s trembling.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’ve always thought of Rose as an absolute badass, someone who doesn’t suffer fools and takes no shit from anyone. So this, from her, is not as reassuring as she clearly thinks it is.
‘Whyare we putting ourselves through this?’ I ask, in disbelief.
She grins. ‘I’m not entirely sure. But I can’t think of anything better to do on a Thursday night, can you?’
‘What, than having a nervous breakdown?’ I say, but she just laughs, as if it’s the only thing left to do.
‘Hello!’
The two opposing players meet us at the edge of the net and introduce themselves. Diana is the kind of glowy sixty-something with bouncy silver hair that you’d see in a probiotic yogurt advert. As athletic as she looks, I can’t help noticing that she is wearing an elbow guard and orthopaedic supports on both knees. When she walks, she has a pronounced limp.
‘I shouldn’t really be playing,’ she says, popping open a tube of balls.
‘Oh?’
‘Hammer toe,’ she says, by way of an explanation. ‘This is my granddaughter, Martha.’
Her partner has the kind of excessively long legs that seem to be compulsory for teenagers these days and a face full of make-up, topped off by extravagant false eyelashes.
‘She only started playing tennis last week,’ Diana says, smiling fondly as Martha taps at her phone screen with the most impractical nails I’ve ever seen. ‘She’s only seventeen. This is all brand new to her.’
Rose and I exchange a private look and simultaneously resist the urge to give each other a high five.
‘So, as I understand it,’ Rose whispers, as we head to our side of the court, ‘one has a dodgy toe and the other only started playing last week. We are going to befine.’
But we are not fine. Diana does not hobble around the court like a little old lady in a state of chronic impairment. She discards her jacket to reveal a natty all-white tennis dress, lengthens her back, loosens her limbs and then off she goes, like a prima ballerina with a perfect backhand slice. That isn’t even the strongest part of her game. Turns out, Diana can keep a rally goingforever. Her main strategy seems tobe to bore her opponent into a coma. In fact, the only thing more effective on this court than Diana . . . is Diana’s teenage granddaughter.
Martha moves like a member ofThe Incrediblesand is unstoppable at the net, intercepting rallies and smashing the volleys so hard they almost end up in the car park. It’s as impressive as it is thoroughly demoralising . . . until Rose smells a rat.
‘Have you seriously not picked up a racquet until last week?’ she asks, dripping with sweat as she catches her breath between points.
‘Not atennisracquet,’ Diana qualifies. ‘Martha is in the UK’s junior badminton squad though. She qualified for last year’s Commonwealth Games.’
It seems that this amounts to a transferrable skill.
In the end, we lose that match 6–3, 6–2 and the one after that, against an even stronger pair, 6–1, 6–0. My partner’s morale is clearly on the floor.
