It strikes me that things might have been easier if Ed and I had ever started that business we once dreamed about. Maybe in a different universe I could have been running a company the size of Oliver Bonas by now. Or happily making ends meet in a pretty little store in Brixton. Of course, I am well aware that – between a pandemic and a cost-of-living crisis – it could’ve all gone horribly wrong too. But sometimes it’s nice to think of your ‘what ifs’ with an unapologetically rose-tinted filter.
Over the next few days, there’s only one point when my head clears completely: when I’m on a tennis court. On Tuesday night, it’s team practice – but afterwards, it hits me that from now on, I’ll have to stick to women-only sessions, or at least check the court booking system first to make sure Sam isn’t around before I dare go over there.
I’m paired with Rose again on Thursday for a home fixture, against a team that has performed averagely well so far this season and is, according to Barbara, ‘beatable’.
‘Beatableby whom?’ I ask, as we head onto court.
Rose laughs. ‘You are way too cynical, Jules. I presume she meant by us, though now you mention it, it is possible she was referring to Andy Murray.’
I’ve concluded that I can say the words,this doesn’t matter, it’s only a game, as many times as I like. It has no effect. I am just as nervous as in the first match, even if I admit I feel slightly more accepting of this feeling now. At least if I’m worrying about this, I don’t have to think about Sam. Or Ed. Or Frankie. Or work. All I need to do is play. Winning would of course be a bonus. And when Rose and I find ourselves in a tiebreak, we come tantalisingly close to our first victory.
Under certain circumstances, I like to think I am effective under pressure. I’ve had nobody else to come to my rescue in the last five years to deal with flat tyres, roof leaks or plumbing emergencies. The only person available has been me, my rubber gloves and a series of profoundly unexciting YouTube videos.
But for some reason, being two points away from winning the entire match is all too much for me, no matter how many times I remind myself that I’m a grown woman, this is only a game, and in the scheme of things, none of this matters. When it’s my turn to serve, I step forward and do my best to remember something constructive. What Sam told me about loosening my grip pops into my head.
Unfortunately, it might have worked like a dream then, but this time, the racquet flies out of my hand like I’ve walked into the wrong sporting venue and was actually looking for somewhere to throw a javelin. It clatters to the ground somewhere near the service line and Rose spins round in shock.
‘I’msosorry,’ I mumble, scrambling to pick it up.
‘That is a banned word around here,’ she tells me. ‘You’re fine. Deep breaths.’
She gives me a nod of solidarity, the kind I’ve come to rely on in these matches, along with various other small, shared gestures: a word of encouragement if I’ve double-faulted. A sneaky eye roll at a dubious line call. A pat on the back if I’ve won a point. They all make me feel like we’re in this together. And that, I tell myself, is the reason I need to pull us back from the brink: so I don’t let my partner down.
We promptly lose the next four points.
I am not just disappointed about this loss. I am slightly furious about it. There’s no other word. To have come so close only for me to blow it at the end is, frankly, crushing – not least because we go on to lose the match after that too. Still, at least nobody is around to witness it, apart from Rose’s husband, who stood heroically at the sidelines, clapping every so often. Rose might be indignant about the lack of spectators, but personally I wouldn’t want it any other way.
‘Why would you want anyone to watch?’ I ask, as we walk towards the clubhouse.
‘I agree,’ says Lisa, helping us pick up the balls. ‘Zach was threatening to come at one point. I told him I’d never speak to him again if he did.’
‘People watch themen’steams,’ Rose points out. ‘Why are they the glamour fixtures and not ours?’
‘Have youseentheir A team? They play tennis like it’s supposed to be played,’ Lisa points out.
‘So do we!’ Rose argues.
‘Oh, come off it,’ Lisa says. ‘Nora videoed my volleys last week. In my head, I looked like Emma Raducanu. Turns out it was closer to my granny playing Swingball.’
‘You exaggerate,’ Rose insists, shaking her head.
‘I’m all for smashing the patriarchy, Rose – just not if it means people standing there, judging my shit backhand.’
We step into the clubhouse to discover that Barbara and her partner this week, Rachael, a police officer in her twenties, have both won their matches. It’s a nice morale boost for the team as a whole, but not enough to count as an overall win. Still, we console ourselves during the post-match tea and cakes that’s a tradition for all home matches and feel generally more positive after the sugar.
Nora steps into the clubhouse with an expectant look on her face. ‘How did you get on?’
‘It wasn’t our week,’ Rose tells her, glumly.
‘Oh. Sorry guys.’
‘This team is going to win next time,’ Rose says. ‘All of us. I can feel it in my bones.’
‘Oh, me too,’ Lisa replies. ‘Though it might be early-onset arthritis.’
‘Sorry I missed all the action,’ Nora says. ‘I was desperate to come and watch but have been taxiing the kids around to various clubs all evening. Have you seen the messages on WhatsApp? Gemma had to pull out of La Manga. Her aunt just died so she needs to go to the funeral.’
‘Oh no, poor thing.’ Lisa says. ‘Hope she’s okay.’
