I owe it to this lot, for everything they’ve done to keep me sane for the last few months.
‘I don’t mind saying it,’ Nora says one day when we’re volleying at the net, ‘I feel ridiculously proud of you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes you,’ she grins. ‘You’ve improved so much. I think you might be my best student.’
‘I’ve heard you say that to the five-year-olds.’
She laughs. ‘Well, I mean it with you!’
She reaches out and catches the ball mid-rally, then looks at me from over the net as her laughter suddenly dies. She swallows. ‘God, I’m really going to miss you, Jules.’
‘I . . . me too.’
‘Just promise me you’ll come back and play again with us.’
‘Course I will. I’ll be back all the time,’ I say, lightly.
‘In that case, we might also have to explore the option of you being some sort of visiting player next year. There must be something in the rules that allows that.’
‘You do think there’ll be a next year then?’
‘You know what? For the first time in a very long while, I am starting to think there will. Just promise me one thing when you move, okay?’
‘Go on.’
‘You will join a tennis club, won’t you?’
‘Obviously,’ I smile. ‘Though I don’t know whether I’ll ever find one quite like this.’
I am again hit by a feeling of sleepwalking into this decision and have to remind myself that, even if it wasn’t my only option, this is the right thing to do.
My unease is not because I think fundamentally this is a mistake. On the contrary. It’s because it’s an upheaval. It would have been at any time of my life, but I actually think Niles got it right when he said some of us who’ve been around for a long time are resistant to change. I know it will pass as soon as I am in London. Still, every so often, if someone brings up the subject and asks, ‘How long have you got left?’ it takes me a moment to summon a response. In those instances, I try to remember another bit of advice that’s worked wonders on the tennis court for me lately. Don’t think. Just do.
Then, in the first week of July, I turn forty-eight. Birthdays are a bit of a non-event for most adults I know, but being a widow adds another dimension too. They force you to think about the places where you blew out candles or opened gifts in happier times. But I anticipate this one more than I have for years, for the simple reason that it falls on a match day.
Jeff sets aside his consternation and hosts a family dinner the night before. Sam is invited too, but he’s at a conference in Helsinki. At one point, I find myself wondering what my parents will make of him when they get to meet. I’m taken aback by the thought the moment it enters my head, wondering how I started even considering something like this.
Still, we have a lovely time, even if I do decline Jeff’s cocktails, determined to be in peak physical condition the following night. Instead, he produces a cotton-candy maker that he’s bought for the PTA summer fair and, after an hour of battling with a set of instructions, I am eventually presented with his very first stick.
‘It looks like a Q-tip,’ Dad quips. ‘Is she meant to eat it or clean her ears with it?’
The following day, my birthday itself, I am working in the office and – despite my attempts to dart off early – I only manage to get home with ten minutes to spare before I need to be next door. There are several unopened cards on my doormat, which I put on the sideboard for after the match before running upstairs to get changed.
I turn up at the tennis clubhouse to find that the dining table has been decorated with balloons. There’s a birthday cake and a huge bouquet. It takes me a moment to realise that it’s for me, bought and organised by my teammates. But the best present of all is the fact that Rose and I win both of our matches, as do Barbara and Mandy – giving the team two more much-needed points. We stay behind far too late, finishing off the champagne and running through the details of another small victory. When we’ve finally cleared up, I head home and crash on the sofa to open my cards. There are several from distant aunts and another from my neighbour Bill, with a picture of a fishing teddy bear on it. Then there’s one from Sam, which feels thicker than the others. I open it up and read the message.
‘Happy birthday to my favourite baseliner. Thanks for giving me a good excuse for a nice day out. Sam xx’
I’m confused by the message, until I open up a piece of paper folded inside the envelope, and my breath catches. It says: 5 July. Centre Court, All England Lawn Tennis Club.
I’m finally going to Wimbledon after all.
Chapter 50
Sam picks me up at 7am, in a suit with an open-necked shirt that’s the perfect blend of summer casual.
‘I see you’re determined to be in the running forGQ’s best dressed men list this year,’ I smile.
