‘Just an idea, that’s all. I might know something that could take your mind off this.’
I pick Kayla up at 5.30pm and am both surprised and not a little impressed at how composed she is, especially when I think back to my own mental state before my first league match.
‘Does it matter that I don’t know how the scores work?’ she asks, topping up her lipstick.
‘Not at all. I’ll keep track.’
‘How about the fact that I don’t know the rules?’
I scrunch up my nose. ‘I’ll keep you in check.’
‘Any tips before we get there?’
My head swims with the dozens, if not hundreds, of instructions I must have picked up in the last few months. I wonder how I might boil down a sport which some people devote their lives to mastering into a single sentence.
‘If you see a ball coming your way, hit it. Ideally with your racquet,’ I say, which makes her snort. ‘Have you really never played this before, Kayla? Like, ever?’
‘I didn’t say that. I played all the time as a kid.’
‘What?’
‘Only on a Wii though,’ she adds.
I am more than a little dismayed by the revelation when we arrive that, although Kayla’s presence means all the scheduled matches will go ahead, the fact that she is not a paid-up member of our tennis club means any wins she has are null and void anyway – they fall into the category of ‘just for fun’.
But, as I step on court, I’m not entirely convinced how much fun this is going to be. I now strongly suspect that we are about to be battered to a bloody pulp by our opposition.
Between points, I have to shuffle Kayla around on the court like a chess piece on a board. Even serving underarm, she gets more double faults than I’d thought humanly possible, though is blissfully oblivious to the penalties we incur every time.
But . . . there are many buts. She has good hand–eye co-ordination. She is surprisingly athletic for someone who says she dodged PE for a whole year using the same forged note about menstrual cramps. Most importantly of all, there’s this: she loves it, every minute, particularly when she hits the odd accidentally brilliant volley and gets a little cheer from Lisa and Rose at the sidelines.
The final point of the match ends with an impressive forehand from one of the other team’s players. They have beaten us 6–0, 6–0 – a clean sweep. I go over to hug my partner.
‘Oh! Is that it?’ Kayla asks, surprised.
‘Yep, all over. You were fantastic.’
‘I must admit, I played better than I was expecting,’ she says, fighting the smile on her face. ‘Tell me though . . . did we win?’
Chapter 46
Even a great evening of tennis is not enough to get me to sleep that night. All I can think about is the video call I have the following day with Niles and Jacinta. The Zoom of Doom. The list of random things I worry about at 3am returns with a vengeance, although unlike before, these are completely rational anxieties. Like how I’m going to pay the mortgage if I am unemployed. And how I’m going to put Frankie through three years of university. And what possible profession I could retrain into without having an actual income.
Moreover, although I have a 50/50 chance of retaining my jobfor now, Barisian have said they still want a buyer and have made it very clear they don’t see a future for Fable & Punk. I don’t care what their stupid focus group said, this still feels crazy to me. Look at our reviews. Listen to whatactual customerssay. Consumer demand is still there but Barisian seems determined to conflate that with factors beyond anyone’s control, like interest rates and supply chain challenges.
I wind myself up into a frenzy thinking of things they could be doing differently, until I finally resort to putting one of my sleep apps on and drift off for what must be less than an hour. When I wake up, I drag myself to the bathroom mirror and groan. I haven’t had circles under my eyes like this since last Halloween.
My big meeting takes place mid-morning, when I enter the virtual meeting room and discover that Niles is already there. Which means there’s just the two of us. Schoolgirl error. Never, ever be early on Zoom with your new boss unlessyou want to face the sort of excruciating small talk usually reserved for standing in lifts after someone has farted.
‘Hello!’ I grin, sounding like a children’s entertainer about to pull a bunny out of a hat.
He looks up and peers in.
‘Julia,’ he says smoothly. I decide now isn’t the time to correct him. ‘How is it in sunny Manchester?’
‘Not that sunny,’ I chuckle, lamely.
But he’s now typing, apparently taking the opportunity to respond to a couple of emails. A silence thunders through my ears. He hits a final decisive key, then sits back, as I resort to the conversational techniques that work for my hairdresser.
