I stop when I take in the look on his face. I feel a bolt of alarm. ‘Jeff ?’
He doesn’t respond.
I know things are bad when I can’t rely on my brother for another sarcastic comment. Instead, he turns off the hob and comes to sit in the chair next to me. He exhales sadly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, quietly.
I’m momentarily speechless. Jeff and I have always been of the same school of thought as Ali McGraw inLove Story: ‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry.’And frankly I could scream at him right now because just the sight of him being this upset nearly breaks me.
‘You do know it’s only because I’m completely gutted about all this, don’t you? That this is physically hurting me. Here.’ He thuds his fist against his chest.
‘That’s very dramatic,’ I whisper.
‘Well, it’s true. You are a seriously irritating person, but I love you. I can’t deny it.’
‘You aresoridiculous. And I love you too,’ I sniff, as my lips tighten and heat springs behind my eyes, at the precise moment Bella appears at the doorway.
‘Dad,’ she says. ‘One of the dogs has done a wee in my bedroom.’
Chapter 56
If ever there was any doubt about our collective determination to secure a future for the Roebury Women’s B team, you’d only have to look at the sheer number of messages pinging on the WhatsApp group in the run-up to the final match.
There is a non-stop exchange of Instagram videos about doubles tactics, motivational quotes and, most importantly, the post-match catering. Between the players and supporters, the menu for this occasion seems to involve enough sausage rolls, cakes and bakes to feed an army – that’s before we even get onto the Prosecco, which seems a lot, even by someone used to Jeff’s measures.
But all the sausage rolls in the world can’t distract from the reality that we are at the bottom, with a point separating us from the three teams above. There is only one scenario in which we could stay up: we need to win and at least one of the other teams needs to lose. If all three managed a draw or win, we will be doomed – regardless of our own result.
Happily, this seems to be the first fixture all season in which Barbara is spoiled for choice when making her team selection. Nobody has an ingrowing toenail, hair appointment or visiting relatives. Players have come out of the woodwork that haven’t been seen since week one. Which does leave our captain with a dilemma, which she shares with the rest of us during Tuesday’s team training.
‘I feel awful for doing this when you’ve all been so committed. But if we’re going to stay up next season, I need to be ruthless and leave some of you on the bench,’ she says.
‘Absolutely,’ Lisa agrees enthusiastically. It takes a moment for the penny to drop. ‘Oh. You mean me, don’t you?’
‘I’msosorry,’ Barbara says, clearly finding the decision excruciating, but Lisa bats away her apology.
‘Not at all. I’m taking this one for the team. We need to win. Bring out the big guns, Barb.’ She nudges me on the shoulder with one fist and Rose with the other. ‘And go get ’em, you two.’
I have too much to do before the final match to let my nerves get the better of me – top of which is prepping for the big board meeting where Jacinta and I are both presenting. As the date creeps closer, I start to wonder if I’ve overprepared. So, on the day of the last fixture, in a bid to stop my temples from throbbing, I throw myself into packing – again.
It’s hard to be strict. I may have become a bit of a hoarder over the years and I can’t bear to get rid of some of the items that made this place my own, from the embroidered Turkish cushion covers to the fancy throws, pretty candles and unusual pottery that I’ve accumulated over the years.
In any given room, I’m in the process of making two piles – one for things that are to be kept; the other for those destined for the bin or charity shop. At the moment, the only thing on that pile is my angora socks.
Problem is, even mundane items have the capacity to make a new memory bubble up to the surface. I’m not just talking about photos, though I could lose myself for hours in those if I let myself. I’m talking about other things. An old scarf of Ed’s that he bought on our first ski trip to France. A tape measure he used to keep in his desk drawer, even though itwas broken. A lamp that’s still got a crack in the base after it got knocked off the table during one of Frankie’s birthday parties. I come across a whole boxful of folders that I filled when Ed and I were making plans to open our own store. I pick up one notebook and open it to find a list of names that we’d clearly been brainstorming. There are five or six pages of ideas, some of which were frankly terrible. Then, in amongst them all, is ‘Jules Loves’, with a big circle around it. I feel my heart twinge at the sight of his handwriting.
Even books have a similar effect, something that only occurs to me as I pick upCheckmateby Malorie Blackman and remember Ed reading it on holiday when we went to Crete one year. Afterwards, he’d pressed it into my hands and implored me to read it, going on about how wonderful it was. But for some reason I never got round to it. I put it to one side, vowing to start it when I have a spare moment and pick up my phone to check the tennis WhatsApp group. There is a message from Barbara that’s just arrived.
‘Ladies, there is a yellow weather warning with a 100% chance of rain from 5pm to 3am this evening. These things aren’t completely reliable, but this seems fairly certain. We’ll look at the forecast at 4pm and make our call then so that nobody has to make a wasted journey.’
‘Oh no,’ I say out loud. If the match doesn’t go ahead tonight we’ll have to reschedule and all that will do is prolong the agony. I go to the window to check the sky. It’s grey and overcast, but not currently raining. If it stays like this we might get away with it. My head jerks to the clubhouse door, which is opening.
Sam steps out.
Since the day after Wimbledon, I have felt as if he’s fallen off the face of the earth. I’d almost become convinced that he’d left the club just to avoid me. But now, as I hover behind the curtain and watch as he takes some balls out of his bag, my heart startsspinning like a Catherine wheel on Bonfire night. And the most stupid, illogical thought pops into my head.
Might Jeff have been onto something?
I know he took it back afterwards, but could there have been a grain of truth in the idea that Sam got the ick about me?
