‘But this is such a small group,’ I argue, feeling my face flush. ‘The last market research we had was really positive.Glowing, actually,’ I add. I decide not to mention that was at least six years ago. ‘And . . . I’m sorry to say this but how is Derek the Vauxhall Astra salesman more qualified than any of us, with decades of experience between us, to decide what’s right for this brand?’
I wait for someone else to say something. Nobody does.
‘The fact that we don’t only sell one thing is a strength, not a weakness,’ I argue. ‘We’re for the woman who goes in to buy a sweater for her best friend’s birthday, but can’t resist picking up a trinket dish for her mother, a pair of shoes for herself and a cult recipe book for her boyfriend while she’s at it.’
I catch sight of Niles, who, judging by the little lines above his nose, clearly does not relate.
I want to slump into my seat, or possibly into the floor. But now I’m in this hole, continuing to dig seems like the only option.
‘Look, I understand the need for changes,’ I continue. ‘But this all suggests that Fable & Punk is an absolute disaster of a brand. And it’s just not. The products we sell are beautiful. People love them.Ilove them. The whole sector has had a challenging time of it lately. Not just us. The idea that the problem is our product, our brand, our whole ethos, it’s justnot right. It’s a red herring. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Being led up the garden path.’
My voice trails off as I realise I might have broken some kind of record for mixing metaphors. But it’s not like I had time to prepare this impassioned speech. It’s the best I can do. I turn to my colleagues for backing and, while there are a few murmurings of approval, nobody starts banging their fists on the table like I might have hoped.
Worse, a smile is now playing on Niles’s lips. It makes my cheeks inflame.
He finally breaks eye contact to look around the room.
‘This business,’ he says, in a deep, deliberate voice, ‘has beensurviving. Not thriving. We’re going to turn that around. I know there are some difficult messages here. Some of you have been with the company a long time and may be . . . resistant to change.’ He looks directly at me again. ‘But this is what it takes. This is what will secure this company’s future. And I’d ask you all to treat these results with the respect that they deserve and embrace these developments fully and wholeheartedly.’
I slink down an inch in my seat, suitably chastised.
I don’t get the train back with the others straight after the meeting. Instead, I take the opportunity of being in London to meet up again with Ed’s mum, Terri, for a coffee. We have a good chat about Frankie and she fills me in about that side of the family. One of Ed’s sisters has a new job. The other is having trouble with her landlord. She tells me she’s trying to get Ed’s dad to reduce his cholesterol after seeing something on TV. It’s as lovely as always and I promise myself I won’t leave it this long again.
But the whole time, I can feel my mind wandering back to what happened with Sam in the shed two weeks ago. And what the hell Terri would think of me if she knew.
That night when I get home, I open the drawer in the hall table, where I shoved the book that Sam gave me, which I haven’t looked at since. I type his number into my phone and make at least five attempts to compose a text.
‘Hi Sam. Apologies that it’s taken until now for me to say thanks for the book, which was really thoughtful. However, what I said was true. I am seeing someone at the moment so what happened really shouldn’t have. Sorry. Must have been the excitement of actually getting a serve in.’
It is an unsatisfactory text, not least because it’s a reminder of what I did to poor Gavin, who I am feeling increasingly guilty about. I took heart from a conversation I had with Kayla the other day about her latest experiences with online dating. She saw two different people in one week and was clearly not losing any sleep whatsoever about it. It is apparently essential in order to ‘widen the dating pool’. She is unquestionably more qualified than me on this issue. But I can’t help thinking that you don’t go round snogging men in sheds when you have something that could even vaguely be defined as a relationship with someone else.
That being the case, I have just effectively confessed to Sam that I am a cheat and that he was unknowingly complicit in my betrayal. Just writing it makes me feel thoroughly ashamed of myself and wonder if he’ll even text back. He replies in less than ten minutes.
‘No problem at all. Lucky guy. It goes without saying that I was not planning to broadcast what happened. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the book and I’ll see you around the club sometime. Keep practising those serves.’
The smiley face makes my mouth turn up involuntarily, before I scowl at my phone and throw it on the sofa.
Chapter 31
For two weeks following the incident in the shed, I manage to avoid bumping into Sam altogether. But I still catch sight of him out of my bedroom window whenever he’s there with his friend Chris, or Liam, or Denise Dandy. I resort to keeping the blinds shut as much as possible, until Barbara stops me in the street one day and asks me if someone’s died. It occurs to me that I should consider leaving the club so I never have to see him again.
But I can’t now.
Because with each new match I play, I become even more stupidly invested in our little team. Which makes no sense, especially given that I haven’t even won anything yet. Barbara and Rachael are paired together in the next two matches and shine in both – but the most we manage as an overall team is a draw.
Which must be frustrating as hell for our captain given that she has about twice the number of players to draw on than last year. There are twelve of us on her WhatsApp group now and in any given fixture, she must field six – or three pairs.
She has mixed and matched us all, but seems to like putting me with Rose. Which is more than fine by me, though I’d be happy to play with anyone who’ll have me. I’ve discovered we all have our little quirks on a tennis court. Like June, who can’t remember a score to save her life. Or Mandy, who says, ‘Are yousurethat wasn’t on the line?’ at least five timesa match. Or gentle, laid-back Josie, who turns into Arnold Schwarzenegger inCommandothe moment she gets a racquet in her hand.
Barbara loves that kind of enthusiasm, but would never condone cheating, complaining or bad behaviour of any kind. ‘It’s not the Roebury way,’ she says, with the air of a strict headmistress. She believes in grace at all times, even when opposition teams have no such qualms, pushing every boundary there is and angrily disputing points, as if there’s a Grand Slam title at stake.
In the course of these two weeks, however, one thing becomes increasingly certain to me. I need to tell Gavin that it’s over. Even if I’m not sure there ever was an ‘it’. It surely can’t have passed his notice that we never really had a romantic relationship. It certainly hasn’t been physical, unless you count the odd kiss, which he delivered with his lips firmly closed, in the same way teddy bears do on the front of greetings cards. And I suspect deep down that he must want more out of a relationship, if not with me then withsomeone, even if that isn’t a conversation we’ve ever explicitly had.
The only problem with deciding to end it with him, however, is this: I have apparently reached the age of forty-seven without ever having dumped someone before. I can’t believe how stressful it is. I feel somean– positively villainous.
And although I know dragging things out will only make this worse, when I try to broach the subject while we’re at the gym one night, I pull back at the last minute when it occurs to me that breaking bad news while someone is doing chest presses is a spectacularly bad idea. Instead, I phone him the following day while he’s busy fermenting jars of kombucha for his nutritional programme. I’m on the verge of doing it when he announces: ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’
‘Oh! What is it?’
