‘So what did the advanced group get up to while we were working on our forehands?’ I ask.
‘We also did groundstrokes, then devoted the last fifteen minutes to overhead smashes.’
‘Ugh,’ I shudder. ‘I hate those.’
‘Are youserious?’ he grins, clearly not relating to this at all. ‘That’s your glory shot, right there. There’s nothing better than belting the ball out of sight and killing any chance your opponent could reach it.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I miss every time.’
‘Surely noteverytime?’
‘Every. Damn. Time. I attempted one in a tournament as a kid once and hit myself in the face. I had a spectacular nosebleed, in front of a whole crowd. I was mortified. It’s not a good look when you’re thirteen years old.’
He takes a deep breath then blows out his cheeks. ‘I’m . . . trying to work out whether I am supposed to think that story is tragic or funny.’
‘You should see my therapy bills.’
‘Well, if it makes you feel any better I was once playing in front of about twenty parents and thought I’d try something new and exciting with my serve. It resulted in . . . let’s call it a “self-inflicted groin injury”.’
I widen my eyes. ‘Are you telling me you smacked yourself in the balls?’
‘Then had to hobble to the bathroom to puke.’
‘Oh my God,’ I gasp, but now we’re both laughing. ‘Oh, that’s bad, Sam. That’s very, very bad.’
As our laughter dies down, he looks at me with those unfeasibly green eyes. I’ve noticed, every time he does that, it feels like a magnetic field has momentarily formed around us, or like we are inside a little bubble and nobody else exists.
‘Did Iknowyou were into tennis back when we were teenagers?’ He asks the question more to himself than me. ‘I feel like we should’ve played together that summer.’
‘I’d sworn against it by then, after the aforementioned incident. Anyway. We were revising that whole time.’
‘True. Still, I don’t know how I didn’t know this about you,’ he says.
‘There were alotof things you didn’t know about me,’
I say, twirling the stem of my glass.
He tilts his head, intrigued. ‘Like what?’
I look back up at him. And maybe it’s the rosé or the sunshine, or something else I can’t put my finger on, but I feel the need to come clean with him.
‘Like . . . Ireallyliked you, Sam.’
There is an emphatic tone to the sentence which makes it sound unintentionally intense. But the moment it’s out there, part of me feels glad to have said it. I look up to see him trying to interpret this sentence.
‘Well, I really liked you too.’
I look down at my glass for a moment and consider just leaving it. But I can’t.
‘Then why did you disappear?’
I try to give off casual vibes, but I’m not sure it works. I feel immediately silly for sounding so bothered by something that happened decades ago. I wave a dismissive hand. ‘Forget I said anything. You probably don’t even remember.’
‘No, I remember.’
‘It was just silly teenage stuff. Anyway, you did me a favour because I went to London and met the love of my life.’ I look up at him with a deliberately playful smile. ‘Still, youtosser.’
I nudge him in the arm.
