We don’t move for another hour. We discuss what it’s like in
the acute stages, when you’re filled with fear and feel like screaming every time you hear the words, ‘I’m sorry for your loss’. We talk about how we hid how much we were suffering, in his case running away to travel; in mine, refusing to accept help, even from friends and family and throwing myself into a hundred different activities with Frankie. We also talk about how, even years later, although the noise in your head does quieten, there are times when sadness can still engulf you.
‘Yeah. It can feel like a tidal wave sometimes, can’t it?’ I say.
He nods. ‘I didn’t mean this conversation to get so deep.’
‘Sometimes deep conversations need to be had,’ I shrug. ‘Even in lovely places.’
‘That’s very wise. So are we friends again?’ he asks.
Friends. I like that. Friends is a concept I can definitely get behind.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Good,’ he smiles. ‘Then let’s get out of here and go get those showers before people start to complain.’
Chapter 36
The following day, I do the unthinkable and buy a tennis skirt. It feels momentous to me and goes completely unnoticed by everyone else. Possibly because every other woman here, no matter what their age, shape or size, is wearing one. Clearly, they came to the decision faster than I did that baring a little flesh, even when it’s as imperfect as mine, is a better option than collapsing of heat exhaustion. I still find myself hiding my legs behind my racquet as I walk to the court, but moments after I step on and feel the blessed relief of fresh air around my thighs, I have an almost biblical conversion. No spray tan will ever give me legs like Gigi Hadid but I think Rose had it right – and it turns out I give less of a toss about what anyone else thinks than I ever thought I did.
The session is run by a coach called Marco, a tall, lithe guy in his late fifties who’s so athletic he’d put most twenty-year-olds to shame. The focus is on groundstrokes – long forehand and backhand shots from the back of the court. He gives us a quick demonstration, before we start on a series of practice drills and he invites me to step up first.
I stand in the centre of the baseline as he feeds a ball wide. I have to run to reach it, hit it across the court, then sprint back to my start point. Over and over again. The pace is steady but relentless and my heart rate quickly goes through the roof. But with Marco chanting, ‘Vamos, Jules! Fantastic! You can do it!’, I find reserves of energy I never knew I had.
Here, it doesn’t matter about the shots that go out, or the ones that hit the net. It doesn’t even matter when I fire one directly at Marco’s head; he darts out of the way like Keanu Reeves inThe Matrixand laughs, ‘Hey, Jules, don’t kill the coach!’ before keeping them coming.
The drill must only last for three or four minutes, but he says the words, ‘Just one more!’ on at least nine occasions. By the time it ends, I’m exhausted but nearly hiccoughing with laughter.
‘Whatare you trying to do to us?’ Lisa chuckles, patting me on the back.
‘You’re about to find out, Lisa! Come on, your turn!’
As she steps up, Rose grins at me. ‘I bet you’re glad you wore a skirt. Imagine doing that in leggings.’
‘I think I’d be in an ambulance by now. I have definitely come around to the idea of this,’ I say, looking down.
‘So you should! It looksgreat.’
And, actually, for the first time in my life, I feel like it does look nice. I’m never going to have the best legs in the place, or even within our small group for that matter. But here, in the Spanish sunshine, drunk on adrenalin, I don’t just feel comfortable in this thing. I feel positively good in it. The intensity is dialled down a little for the rest of the session, but the on-court banter from the coaches certainly isn’t.
While the teaching is a highlight of the trip, it’s far from the only one and the rest of the holiday unfolds in a blissful haze of sunshine, endorphins and rosé wine. At night my muscles ache from all the exercise and my belly from all the laughter. I feel like I should be tired, but I’m not – nothing like it. Since I arrived, I have slept like the dead and woken feeling relaxed, energised and optimistic. Our final evening comes around way too soon.
‘If you’d told me when I got my diagnosis I’d be doing something like this, I wouldn’t have believed you,’ Rose says, on the sun-bleached balcony of our apartment.
‘You’re an inspiration,’ Lisa replies.
‘No need to be sarcastic.’
‘I wasn’t!’ Lisa protests.
‘Oh well in that case, youreallyneed to shut up,’ Rose laughs.
I’m about to go and touch up my lipstick, when I get a video call from Frankie.
‘What’s that on your nose?’ I ask.
She wipes it off with her wrist and looks at it.
