‘Friday?’
‘I sort of said I’d go out with the team then . . .’
He puts down a weight and looks at me. ‘Are you . . . making excuses, Jules?’ he asks, gently.
My face blanches. ‘No! Not at all,’ I say – truthfully. These are all very real commitments in my diary. They just happen to be quite convenient too, given that I have no idea what Gavin is imagining will happen at his house after dinner one night.
‘Only, I do understand why you’d want to take things slow. I want you to know that,’ he says. ‘I am very aware that it’s been a while since you were romantically involved with anyone.’
‘I . . . well, yes. It has.’
He reaches out and squeezes my hand. ‘So I’m taking your lead here, okay?’
Oh God, he’s so sweet. It occurs to me that maybe heisn’tseeing other people after all. He’s just been respectful and nice and has apparently accepted the idea that he’s dating someone with the outlook of a Mother Superior. I feel a crunch of guilt and wonder how I’m going to dig myself out of this hole without hurting his feelings – or giving the impression I’ve led him on. Which I might well have.
‘The thing is, Gavin—’
‘Jules, don’t worry about it,’ he reassures me. ‘Maybe we could go out somewhere instead if you can find an evening in your diary?’
‘That would be . . . great,’ I say eventually.
‘What sort of thing would you like? A gig? A sporting event?’
‘Anything you like, Gavin, honestly. You decide.’
He smiles and leans in to give me a little kiss on the cheek.
‘Challenge accepted,’ he says. ‘I’ll come up with a little surprise Iknowyou’ll love.’
I log onto Find My iPhone that night to discover that Frankie is bobbing somewhere in the middle of the Mediterranean. Scenes from various gangster movies involving bodies trussed up and weighed down with rocks filter into my head, where they remain for a good hour. Then she calls me back to say she’s been on a ‘sunset cruise’, sipping green-tea cocktails, which apparently are quite a different experience from the ones made by Twinings.
It’s been a fraught week at work, which has done nothing to quell my concerns about the company buyout. Suppliers have been asking questions I can’t answer about what’s going on and an avalanche of emails from various people with incomprehensible job titles have landed in my inbox, some of them demanding information about what exactly I do all day.
It’s a blessed relief to get out of the house for Saturday’s social tennis session, then Rusty Racquets the following day. It’s during this lesson that Nora tells me she’s thinking of signing up for La Manga.
‘A few others from the club decided to go once they got wind of the idea and there’s only one space left in the women’s apartment,’ she says. ‘Iain is happy to hold the fort – says he owes me one given the number of times he’s been away on business – but I wanted to check with you first that you definitely don’t want it. Because if you do, you should have it, not me.’
‘Why?’
‘Well,’ she shrugs. ‘I just know you’ve a lot on with work and that you’ve been worried about Frankie. It would do you good.’
I hesitate, because in truth I’m already regretting not having signed up after hearing the rest of the group excitedly make preparations for it. Plus, although I really can’t afford it given what’s going on at work, I have never felt in more urgent need of some guaranteed stress relief. But I can hardly turn around and take the last place when Nora has her eye on it.
‘Oh, no. You take it,’ I urge her.
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Are yousure?’
‘Absolutely.’
She straightens her back and smiles. ‘All right then. But it won’t be the same without you.’
I don’t have time to dwell on this, because my only focus now – at least as far as tennis is concerned – is our next league match. Which I suddenly don’t just want to play in. I want towin.
So one morning before work the following week, I get up early so I can go next door to practise my serve. I changed my phone settings recently so that, instead of being jolted awake by a shrill alarm, it skips straight to the comforting drone of Radio 2. It feels like a nicer awakening somehow, unless of course they happen to be playing ‘Highway to Hell’ at precisely 6.10am. This morning, I am pleasantly roused by Keith Urban, before heading next door, where I have all six courts to myself.
Crisp light is beginning to push through the trees and the birds are in full, rambunctious song. The air is fresh and perfumed with the clean, dewy scent of spring. I head to the shed that’s tucked away behind the clubhouse and backs onto woodland, currently carpeted with bluebells. Nora’s equipment is in there and, although today is her day off, she’s told me to help myself to any of it.
I key in the code to her lock and have to wrestle with the door. Once inside, I find shelves stacked with netting, practice cones and one of those slightly terrifying lobster machines that I’ve seen firing shots at players during practice.
