I laugh as she props herself up on an elbow.
‘Hey, have you brought earplugs?’ she asks.
‘No. Why, do you snore?’
‘Well, Iain has never mentioned it so I don’tthinkso,’ she says. ‘But now I’m here I’m slightly paranoid.’
‘From all the way over here, I can’t boot you in the back like Ed used to tell me I should do.’
She smiles. ‘Did you?’
‘What, boot him in the back?’ I smile. ‘Only if it didn’t work when I nudged him with my elbow. That usually worked, unless he’d had red wine beforehand, in which case I might as well have given up on sleep entirely.’
‘Oh, red wine is theworst. I think it should be illegal for all married men over the age of forty to drink it,’ she says. Her smile quickly fades into a silence.
‘You must really miss him, Jules. Ed was such a wonderful person.’
I nod. ‘He really was.’
We finally get round to turning off the light, but even then, the conversation continues about what’s in store tomorrow. Because, despite my concerns about how I’ll avoid Sam, just being here has unknotted something inside me. Maybe it’s the continental warmth. Or the prospect of more tennis. Or simply that I’m lying here, feeling like I’m at a sleepover for the first time since I was fourteen years old.
Chapter 34
I’m the first up the following morning and leave Nora sleeping as I step out of the bedroom to find the apartment flooded with light. I throw open the balcony doors to be greeted by an extravagant blue sky and a labyrinth of yellow-tiled rooftops, palm trees and, in the far distance, the luminous waters of Mar Menor. I close my eyes and lean on the wall, letting sunshine warm my eyelids for a moment. Until I’m jolted by the sound of a splash below and look down to see a lone swimmer in the large, kidney-shaped pool.
Which I realise, with a bolt of lightning in my chest, is Sam.
Brilliant.
At home, it feels like every other time I look out of my bedroom window, he’s there. I appear to have come 1,500 miles only for the same thing to happen, except now he hasn’t got his top on. Even from this distance I can see the implausible contours of his arms and am hit with a sudden, electric flashback of how it felt when they were wrapped around my waist. It’s followed by an involuntary melting sensation as I recall the taste of his lips on mine and the way, when our tongues brushed, it set off an explosion of nerve endings in my—
‘Fancy a coffee, Jules?’ I spin round to find Lisa at the door, feeling caught out. ‘They left us a complimentary pack.’
‘Oh, um. That’d be great,’ I say, flustered.
She’s about to turn away, when she cranes her neck and looks down to the pool. Something in her expression shifts.
‘Lovely view from up here, isn’t it?’ she says, with a hint of amusement, before walking away.
Josie and Rachael, the two midwives, take a stroll to the supermarket and return with fresh eggs, warm sourdough bread, fruit and yogurt. We have brunch on the balcony, in no rush at all, until it’s time to meet the others at the tennis centre, a short walk away. As Rose opens the apartment door to leave, she turns to look at me.
‘Are you really wearing leggings? It’s forecast to be a scorcher today.’
‘I don’t do skirts,’ I tell her. ‘I haven’t got the legs for them.’
‘I’m sure youhave,’ Nora argues, in a kindly but entirely deluded way. ‘We’re all friends here.’
‘You lot wouldn’t understand because you’ve all been blessed by beautiful limbs,’ I tell her.
‘That’s not it at all,’ Rose replies. ‘I’ve just reached the stage of my life when I no longer give a toss about what anyone thinks of my cellulite.’
I salute this sentiment in every way – but I still wear the leggings.
The Racquets Club has twenty-eight courts, most of them made from a terracotta clay that’s so vibrant in the sunlight that it somehow reinforces the fact that we’re abroad. They run lessons here for every level, from beginners of all ages right through to a pro academy, honing the skills of junior players who have the potential to be the best there is.
Nora, Sam and a couple of the guys from the Roebury contingent head off to join an advanced session, while the rest of us are introduced to the other, less experienced players. While there are lots of British voices among them, there are also some French, Italian and American ones too.
The coaching staff are a fit, attractive-looking bunch, who emerge en masse wearing matching blue T-shirts, deep tans and big smiles. They introduce themselves asFernando, Maria, Antonio and Carlos in perfect English enhanced by lilting Spanish accents. I read before we came that some of the staff here are ex-ATP players and as soon as they start playing, it shows. From the first demonstration, these guys are next-level – though their racquet skills are only part of it. The most impressive thing of all is how encouraging and calm they are throughout the whole of our first session, how no coach ever seems to forget a name and – no matter how atrocious anyone’s performance – one thing is implicitly understood: that getting better at tennis is only a small part of why we’re here. The main priority is having fun.
