‘I can’t tell you that. But I know you’re going to love it.’
‘Gavin. I—’
‘No! You won’t prise it out of me!’ he interrupts, mysteriously. ‘All I’ll say is this: you’ve mentioned it more than once. And I’m a man who knows how to take a hint.’
My mind starts whirring.What have I said? What have I told him I want?
‘Can’t you give me a clue?’ I ask helplessly.
‘Nope!’
‘Only this: Block out 4 July in your diary. We are going somewhere very special.’
I end the call feeling slightly nauseous and not only because he follows it with a photo of his kombucha, which looks like pickled brain in a mason jar. I immediately start googling key concerts, exhibitions and sports fixtures happening locally on 4 July, but I hit on absolutely nothing. So I widen the search to the whole of the UK, and one thing emerges that I’m one hundred per cent sure I’ve mentioned, possibly more than once.
Wimbledon.
Oh. Fuck.
Chapter 32
The next day, I catch a glimpse of my pale, unexfoliated thighs while stepping out of the shower and make a snap decision to go for a spray tan before I leave for our Spanish mini-break tomorrow. This is not a regular occurrence. Contrary to what I once imagined my life would be like, I’m not the type of woman who is permanently mani-ed and pedi-ed and most of my self-care choices are limited to whatever is on offer at Boots.
The last St Tropez I had was for my cousin’s wedding a decade ago and it was an unedifying affair, which involved standing in a booth in paper knickers, battling hypothermia as my breasts were hosed down with a freezing brown liquid by a total stranger. But the resulting glow was unquestionably a confidence boost and, given that our continental mini-break represents the first ritual baring of flesh this year, it feels like the minimum requirement.
As I head past the botanical gardens towards the shops, messages on the WhatsApp group set up for this trip start to ping. I’ve only just joined it and am partly glad given the sheer volume there has been in the last twenty-four hours. I open it up and see that the chat has moved on from discussing check-in times and airport pick-ups to whether anyone is taking straighteners and if it’s feasible to share conditioner.
Jeff jumps in to respond. ‘Sadly, nobody in the men’s apartment has enough hair to merit either, except possibly Sam.’
My feet stop dead in the street. I read the message again twice. I call my brother immediately.
‘I . . . oh God, give me a moment. I need to sit down.’
‘What’s the matter?’ I ask, alarmed.
‘I forgot to bring my foot pump to the PTA talent show. I’ve got forty-two balloons left to blow up and I’m already feeling lightheaded.’
‘Since when was Sam Delaney coming to La Manga?’
I ask.
He coughs. ‘Barry dropped out after breaking his wrist. Sam’s taken his place.’
‘But . . .how?’
‘He fell off his moped.’
‘Not Barry.Sam.’
‘Why would you care? What would be the problem ifnothing ever happened between the two of you?’
This was the story I told Jeff after that mix-up with the courts nearly two months ago and I’m sticking to it. If he thought for a moment Sam and I had history, however brief, I’d never hear the end of it.
‘I don’t careas such,’ I say, feeling flustered. ‘I just think it’s a great shame Barry can’t go.’
‘You’ve never even met Barry.’
‘Yes I have! He was my partner for weeks at Rusty Racquets. We became quite close, if you must know.’
