No. Surely not.
Except . . . in some ways, it does make sense. The way he pulled away from me the morning after Wimbledon. He couldn’t even look at me, let alone touch me . . .
I feel that thought bury itself in my chest and take root, a gnawing, nasty little parasite that won’t let go. The thought that he hasn’t just gone off the idea of the distance, but is actually repulsed by me . . . I feel slightly sick about it.
It strikes me that the only way I’d ever know is to eyeball him. I’m not going to come out and ask him, obviously. But I’dknowif I saw him in person. I glance over and see my tennis hat lying on the dressing table, next to my racquet, and make a split-second decision.
It takes me about three minutes to get ready, tug on my leggings, grab my bag and race downstairs. As I fling open the front door and head down my path, an enormous, glossy 4x4 car pulls up outside the club. Its number plate reads: ‘DENI55E’.
I recognise the legs first. Long, lean, tanned. Jeff’s predecessor at the PTA might be trying to sabotage his plans for the sponsored balloon-a-thon but she certainly rocks a set of turquoise shorts with matching visor. When Denise spots me, she starts to smile, but holds a finger up as if to make me wait, before pulling out an Invisalign mouthguard and popping it into a container that then ends up in her glove box.
‘Janet! How are you?’ she says, as she steps out and slams the door. I turn around to check who she’s talking to, then realise it’s me. ‘Hope the rain stays off, don’t you?’
‘Um . . . yes, it doesn’t look good, does it?’
She grabs her bag from the boot. ‘I did tell Sam the forecast wasn’t good. But you can tell when someone is desperate to play, can’t you? He was virtually begging. Who are you meeting?’ she asks.
‘Oh. Nobody,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a match tonight so I thought I’d practise some serves.’
Her eyebrows twitch in confusion. ‘But . . . where’s your racquet?’
I feel my face flush at the realisation that I haven’t even brought it.
‘Oh! Good point,’ I grin, backing away, with a silly little wave. ‘Enjoy your game!’
I enter the house and pick up my phone to find WhatsApp ablaze with notifications.
It turns out that the opposition tonight have already insisted on cancelling the match. They have too big a distance to travel so wanted to make the decision now, not least because the latest forecast is for torrential rain all night.
‘We’ve got a fortnight in which to play the rearranged fixture and there are two possible dates when our courts are free,’ Barbara types. ‘Back to square one, folks. I’d be grateful for your availability ASAP.’
Disappointed isn’t the word. It’s only as my adrenalin starts to dissipate that I realise how much I’d psyched myself up for tonight. Still, I scroll down to the days that are on offer. One is on the day I am due to complete on the house sale and move into the flat in London. The other is on the day of the crucial presentation I have to deliver to the Barisian board.
I sink onto the bottom of my stairs in utter dismay.
Having moved heaven and earth to make myself available all summer, when it’s time for the biggest and most important match of the season . . . I now can’t play.
Chapter 57
There are a lot of things I will miss when I move to London, but the twice-weekly commute I’ve been making for the last few weeks is not one of them. Still, on the day when the team are playing the last match, the journey to deliver my big presentation to the board could be worse. Indeed, it has been. At least this time I’m not stuck next to the woman who ate boiled eggs like they were chocolates, or the man so eager to garnish his sausage sandwich that he ripped open his ketchup sachet and pebble-dashed my keyboard. We’ve just passed Stafford when a text arrives from Lisa.
‘Are you absolutely sure you can’t make this match? Last chance. I’m very happy to step aside if you change your mind! x’
Having shown no signs of nerves all season, she is suddenly feeling the pressure. Anyone would. And although nobody would blame her if she lost tonight – we all know that any player can only do their best – there’s so much riding on this, given that our only chance of having a team next year is if absolutely everyone pulls this off.
Or should I saytheironly chance. I am still struggling to get my head around the idea of this team no longer being mine after today. My final match has already been played. And although I would love nothing more than to take Lisa’s place tonight, there is no way I’d make it back to the club in time. My meeting is at 2.30pm. The match begins at 6.30pm. A return train wouldn’t even get me back to Roebury until 7pm.
‘I really can’t, Lisa. But you don’t need me anyway,’ I type back. ‘You’ve been fantastic lately. Just keep doing those lobs! I’ll be keeping everything crossed and I’ll be there hopefully before the end of play with a glass of Prosecco ready for you x’
Once I arrive in London, I take the tube to a café near Ed’s mum’s house where we’ve met a few times before over the years. It’s only as I get there that I realise it’s under new management. Gone is the old-fashioned little place that used to serve builders’ tea and doorstep toast. Instead, you can smell the new paint over the scent of designer cold brews and cardamom-laced Thai coffee. I’m ten minutes early, so I order a drink and find a seat outside in the sunshine, until Terri arrives and I stand up to give her a hug.
We spend a lovely hour together, chatting about the family and comparing notes about some of the more entertaining texts Frankie has sent us both.
‘Is Gilbert still doing his art classes?’
‘Oh, you couldn’t keep him away,’ she laughs. ‘He’s no Picasso, though, believe me. I think we all know he only goes for the opportunity to get out of the house and see his little gang of friends.’
‘Well, I get that. It’s the same with me and the tennis. Don’t get me wrong, I love the game. I’m possibly addicted. But mainly it’s an excuse to have a laugh with some really nice people.’
