‘I want to be back in La Manga xx’ he says, in a text that lands as I’m nearing the end of a long video call with several members of our new group finance department. I see it flash up on my phone, which is on silent, and feel warmth spread slowly across my chest. When the meeting ends, I pick it up and compose a response, as I glance at the rain pelting the office window.
‘I know! What is with this weather? I keep dreaming about rosé wine and sunshine x’
His response arrives less than a minute later.
‘That’s funny. I keep dreaming about your lips xxx’
Our first league match after the holiday is due to take place on Thursday and I find myself obsessively watching my weather app for a break in proceedings. At one point it looks like there might be one, but our hopes are dashed when we hear from Barbara.
‘The opposition captain has been in touch and they feel that, even if this clears, the playing surface is less than ideal. They have therefore cancelled today’s match with a view to rearranging next week.’
I feel a rush of childish indignation, which is echoed by my teammates.
‘It’s only a bit of drizzle!’ Rose protests. ‘Sorry, but I’m away next week so can’t play!’
When a new fixture is finally set, for the following Wednesday, several people aren’t available, for reasons that include ‘grandma duties’, Achilles issues, a dodgy hamstring, a twenty-first birthday party and, worst of all, an AGM at the local golf club which several of the older members are attending.
‘GOLF!!?’ Lisa writes on the Roebury besties WhatsApp group, clearly appalled. ‘Why would anyone want to play golf ? I feel like they’re having an affair. They’re shameless!’
Barbara manages to cobble together six players but we are a long way from a dream team. So much so that, to my horror, she promotes me to play with her as ‘first pair’ – the highest-ranked couple in the fixture. The words ‘lamb’ and ‘slaughter’ spring to mind. I phone our captain up and attempt to get her to see reason.
‘Barbara,please. I can’t play in that position. I’m not good enough.’
‘What rot!’ she says. ‘You’re much better than you think. Besides, it’s you or bringing Judith out of retirement. And she shouldn’t risk it with her toenail.’
If ever there was a sentence I have no desire to delve into further, it’s that one.
So I am forced to accept that I am at the mercy of the mysterious maladies of the older members of our team and am immediately in a state of mild anxiety about it.
I play tennis with Sam on the evening of our cancelled match. It’s one of those leisurely games in which neither of us are really trying to win, but just enjoying the pop of the ball on our racquets in between idle conversation. Then the following night, we meet after work at the wine bar in Roebury, for a ‘quick drink’ that becomes several hours.
‘How’s your day been?’ I ask at one point.
‘Long. Good though. Ended with a consultation with one of my favourite patients – a fifteen-year-old burns victim whose face I reconstructed after a fire. He’s doing so well that he’s been approached by a filmmaker who wants to make a documentary about him.’
‘That’s amazing.’
‘It is. Though he wants me to be a part of it,’ he groans.
‘You don’t seem keen,’ I laugh.
‘On being on TV? No thanks. I prefer anonymity any day.’
‘Oh, but you can’t say no! It’ll raise awareness. And more importantly give me bragging rights that I know you.’
‘Ha!’
And although I’m joking, the truth is I’m momentarily dizzy with awe, even though in every way that counts, he’s just Sam, the same Sam I knew way back before I knew anything much at all.
The evening ends with a long, slow kiss on my doorstep that leaves me fizzing from head to toe.
‘I am suddenly finding the idea of a fortnight away from you fairly unbearable,’ he murmurs.
‘I am sure you’ll cope,’ I say softly, but as I sink my lips into his again, I feel a pang of alarm at how long two weeks feels.
He’s flying to Malawi first thing tomorrow, for a voluntary stint with the same charity that launched his career. I want to prolong the evening and though the only way I can do that is to invite him in, something makes me hesitate. The idea of making out on the same sofa that Ed and I once snuggled on is just too much.
‘Well, I guess I’d better go and finish my packing,’ he says ruefully, lifting up my hand to brush his lips against my skin. ‘Good luck with your matches while I’m away, okay? Let me know how you get on.’
