Games People Play (15 page)

As we walk back to our respective ends, the crowd is cheering loudly, expressing their excitement that this is a match which could go either way, a match which is the equivalent of a page-turning thriller that you can’t put down. In my head I hear an imaginary commentator’s voice: ‘Rachel, serving for the match. Can she hold her nerve?’

I jog from foot to foot. The ballboy feeds me three balls; I put one in the pocket of my tight dress, discard one, and roll the third in the palm of my left hand. The lineswomen stand around like policemen, arms behind their backs, legs splayed in their unflattering beige trousers, waiting for my mistakes. I throw the ball high, lift my racket, drop it behind my head, bend my knees, and launch myself with all my strength into the serve. It goes so fast that I’m as surprised as Natasha. When I look at the read-out of the speed, it says 115 mph: my fastest ever.

She gets it back, though, just about, and I have to run like hell to reach her return. I slam it past her, right into the far corner, and the cheers of the crowd gives me an almost sexual fluttery feeling in my belly.

I serve again, not as fast this time, but another ace. There’s been a lot of aces in this match. Natasha’s eyes are narrowed and she is muttering to herself, staring at the ground.

The next rally is a long, exhausting one. She has me running from side to side, as if she’s toying with me again – until one of her shots goes wide, and her strategy fails. Forty-love; three match points. Could I really be lucky enough to win the match on a love game? The crowd are no longer still, but fidgety and murmuring, slow hand clapping. The umpire has to shush them as I wait for the serve.

It happens in slow motion, my body falling into the positions it knows as well as walking: the ball toss, the leg bend, dropping the racket behind my head, hopping forwards on impact, until the ball finally leaves me, flying away to the exact spot I want it to go to, right at Natasha’s big feet like a heat-seeking missile, too close for her to be able to react on one side or another. She scrapes it off the ground – straight into the net. It’s all over. I’ve won.

Rachel

I have to go and do a brief post-match press conference as soon as I get off court. I hate doing these all red-faced and sweaty, but at least I’m the victor, so I’ve got a smile on my face for the TV cameras. I’m used to them now; they no longer frighten me as they used to when I was an up and coming Junior. But as I gabble away about my performance, all I can think about is how I’m longing to get to my phone and see if there’s a message from Mark.

As soon as I’m released I almost break into a run towards the locker room, stopping only to scrawl hasty autographs on outsize tennis balls for a group of clamouring Swiss schoolchildren. The locker room is empty. I rush over to my locker, open it and grab my phone out of my bag.

No messages. I feel my shoulders sag. Much more slowly, I strip off my clothes and head for the showers.

When I get back I check the phone again, just in case he’s rung or texted in the last four minutes. Still nothing. I am standing wrapped only in a towel, dripping on the floor, staring at the little blank screen, not thinking about the biggest win of my career, or the fact that I’ve got to do it all again tomorrow – only this time against the player ranked third in the world. I’m not thinking about my own ranking, or even the fact that I’m in with a good chance of winning the whole tournament ...I’m just wishing there could be a text from Mark telling me he loves me after all.

Suddenly the phone rings in my hand, making me jump, and my heart hurdle in tandem. As is often the case when I’m abroad, the caller’s number isn’t showing up, but I’m sure my prayers have been answered.

Breathlessly, I press the green button and hold the phone to my ear.

‘Hi, darling, it’s Mummy,’ says a distant crackly voice. ‘Is this a good time?’

I sink down on to the wooden slatted bench and begin to sob with disappointment. But the line is bad, and I don’t think she hears my distress.

‘Just ringing to tell you that I’ve booked the holiday! We’re going to Italy, in three weeks’ time, isn’t that exciting?’

‘Yeah,’ I manage. ‘But I’ve got to go, Mum, I’m about to be—’ I drop the phone on to the bench as a tsunami of nausea sweeps up from my knees to my throat, and I make it to the toilet just in time.

If I ever needed a bloody holiday, it was now.

I don’t tell anybody I vomited. Actually, I feel marginally better for it, as if I was puking out some of the stress and disappointment. I ring Mum back again later, after the fuss and excitement and congratulations from Kerry and José and a little coterie of British tennis supporters and journalists in the players’ enclosure of the stadium.

Mum is thrilled to hear I’m through to the semi-final, and speechless when she hears whom I’m playing next. She can’t believe I’ve just been interviewed on Eurosport, or that my ranking will go up for getting to the semis, probably to eighth in the UK. She tells me a bit more about the holiday, and says she’ll post me my air ticket.

‘I bet Ivan’s pleased with you,’ she says eventually, and I look around me, puzzled. I see lots of fit young people in tracksuits milling about, and José and Kerry are laughing and messing around, sharing a sports drink with two straws. But I suddenly realize I haven’t seen Dad since the end of the match.

‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘He’s not here. I mean, he was, but he isn’t now. Maybe his migraine came back.’

I hear Mum tutting in Kansas. ‘Probably can’t stand that you’re in the limelight,’ she says cattily. ‘Perhaps he and your opponent have gone off to console each other in private somewhere.’

I think of how gutted Natasha must be, and feel sorry for her. I saw her briefly, giving her ‘loser’s debrief’ to the TV cameras, and then she had vanished, sloping away with her racket bag over her shoulder. She was barely able to shake my hand after the match, trailing her fingers perfunctorily across mine over the net, not even bothering to attempt a smile.

Good riddance, I think, hoping I don’t have to play her again any time soon.

‘Well, I’d better go, Mum, I’ve got to get back to the hotel for some rest before the match tomorrow.’

‘Take care, darling,’ she says, as she always does. ‘I’ll keep everything crossed for you, you little star. You’re the best, you know that, don’t you?’

Not as far as Mark’s concerned, I think. And then I think: But actually, in terms of tennis? Yeah, I’m getting there.

I lose the next day’s semi, horrendously: 6-1, 6-1. I am no match for the world number three, who wipes the floor with me. But I don’t really care.

I’m pleased with my performance, my ranking’s gone up, and even though I’ve been dumped, I haven’t fallen to pieces, and I’ve had my best win in years.

On the plane on the way home I get to sit next to Kerry, who talks a lot about her physio, whom she fancies but who is married with twin sons, and who shows no interest whatsoever in her beyond the strictly professional. But at least I don’t have to sit with Dad.

Dad and José sit in the row behind, talking tactics – or ‘TicTacs’, as José once called them – and planning the arrangements for the next tournament.

It’s endless, this treadmill. I’m so glad I won’t be going to the next one; glad that I will be on holiday, like a normal person.

Susie

I couldn’t believe we were really here – I’d never even been to Italy before. Living in Kansas so long, I’d missed out on so much that Europe had to offer. Kansas was very handy for anywhere else in the USA, since it was smack bang in the centre of the country; but not at all for Europe.

It was a ‘singles holiday’, which was all I’d been able to find at short notice, and all I could afford. I hadn’t told Rachel that when I invited her; I thought it would put her off. And it probably would have done – the men in the group were, it has to be said, no great shakes. I hadn’t had much of a chance to look them over while we were on the coach from the airport to the hotel, but as we picked our way through deep snow to a minibus waiting to take us up to the ski-hire shop, I studied them surreptitiously. More for Rachel’s benefit than my own – there was no way I could face another relationship so soon. But perhaps meeting someone new would be just what Rachel needed to take her mind off Mark. They all looked a bit old for her, though. Frankly, they all looked a bit old for me too.

Our group, having been informed by the hotel manager that we had to collect our boots and skis right away, climbed gingerly aboard the minibus, which began to ferry us still further up the precipitous mountain road. I wasn’t sure what the point of the urgency was, since all I wanted to do was to have some food, a hot bath and a sleep – I’d been travelling for twenty-two hours. Rachel had only flown over from London, but even she, seasoned traveller she was, looked a little jaded.

Although perhaps that was more to do with heartbreak. I thought how much less resilient the young seemed. She and Mark had only been together a few months, less than a year, yet she was acting like her whole world had crumbled. Her eyes kept filling up, and she’d turn to me, then turn abruptly away again.

Surely she hadn’t been in this sort of a state ever since the break-up? She said she’d been ill, but still ...after three weeks, she ought at least to be able to function.

I felt awkward with her. I wanted to cuddle and console her but yet was conscious of this distance, unsure what she wanted of me. She clearly hadn’t noticed that anything was amiss in my own personal life. I’d been with Billy for nine years, and
I
was managing to hold it together...

‘You look fantastic, Mum!’ had been her first words to me when we met at Verona Airport, and for some reason, I still hadn’t been able to tell her about me and Billy. Perhaps I was afraid that she would think I was trying to steal her thunder. Or perhaps I couldn’t bear to admit to my daughter just yet that another relationship had failed. Or maybe it was simply that there was too much distance between us now. She could comment on the new highlights in my hair, but not notice that I wasn’t wearing an engagement ring any more.

After the excitement of our initial reunion, Rachel had been almost completely silent, and I could see that any socializing with the group would need to be initiated by me. I was about to introduce myself to the man in front, when he turned around in his seat and spoke first.

‘So what do you two do?’ he asked. He was friendly, if a bit lecherous in the way he tried to look us both up and down. Not that he could see anything of our bodies, waist up, since our top halves were encased in all-encompassing puffy nylon like man-made pupae.

Rachel looked better than I did, since she at least had trendy khaki snowboarding pants on, like weather-proofed combats. I was in what the ski-gear hire shop described as ‘racing salopettes’, which sounded glamorous but which were in fact skintight, thick, ugly leggings which flared out mid-calf, had two great fat built-in plastic kneepads and, to add insult to injury, braces attached to their ludicrously high waist. I could see the practicality of them as an item of sportswear, but they made me feel like Tweedledee and Tweedledum’s unattractive little sister. If I’d had time to try them on in the store, I would definitely have gone for something different. Plus, when I stood up, the crotch seam felt as if it was going to split me in half.

However, at least the man couldn’t see this, so I smiled encouragingly at him. He was probably in his late fifties, long-necked, balding and very lined, like a tortoise; although from what I’d seen of his body as we crunched up the path earlier, he was still lithe and skinny.

Rachel had completely ignored his question, and was gazing sullenly out of the smeary minibus window at the snowy mountain peaks, her jaw set in a hard line, lost in thought. I realized that this could be a difficult holiday.

‘I’m – um – in the process of changing careers,’ I replied, knowing I’d better tell him what I did first, since once he discovered that Rachel was a pro player, he more than likely wouldn’t be remotely interested in me any more. ‘I’ve been in real estate for some years, in the States, and now I’m thinking about becoming a life coach. I’m Susie, and this is my daughter, Rachel. She’s a professional tennis player.’

‘
Really
?
’ said the man, scrutinizing Rachel in the way people usually did when introduced to her: with the sort of attention implying I’d told him she was newly arrived from Jupiter. Rachel turned briefly, proffered a brief, tight smile, and went back to looking out of the window again.

‘How fascinating,’ he said, leaning further over the back of the seat. I waited for the barrage of questions to begin: Wimbledon? Success? Ranking?
Etc.
I always felt sorry for Rachel at being subjected to this inquisition every time anyone found out what she did. It was a bit like people finding out that I was an estate agent and instantly demanding to know how much commission I’d earned last year and what was the biggest house I’d ever sold. I’d hate it. But to my surprise, the man was looking at me. He had quite nice eyes, hazel with yellowy flecks in them. Pity about the appalling Eighties-style ski suit, though, all red and grey and lime green in blocks. It was odd, after all this time, looking at men as potential partners. I wished I didn’t have to. I only wanted Billy.

‘I’m Robin. Nice to meet you. So what qualifies one to coach others in life? Your own success at it?’

Pompous ass, I thought, whilst simultaneously being amazed that he hadn’t fallen over backwards with delight at meeting a real tennis player. But it was a reasonable question, if rather bluntly put. I thought bitterly of the rudderless morass of indecision which was currently my life: two failed relationships; a daughter I rarely saw and found it hard to open up to when I did; one career I’d disliked and another I hadn’t even started (and to which I was, now that I thought about it, eminently unsuited); not to mention an inability even to decide on something as fundamental as which continent I ought to live on.

‘Not really,’ I replied shortly, wishing that he had talked to Rachel about her tennis after all. The minibus swept wide around a corner, and I clutched the back of his seat, narrowly avoiding grabbing his hand in the process. ‘I have good interpersonal skills, and can empathize with others’ problems.’ I wondered if this was an accurate description. ‘Although that’s probably more true when I’m not tired, starving, and jetlagged,’I conceded, earning the first real smile from Robin. Actually, I felt rather embarrassed to be discussing my nascent career, when it was still so vague. I hoped Rachel was too lost in thought to be listening – it made me sound like such a lame-ass failure and I really didn’t want her to think of me that way. I changed the subject.

‘I’m not looking forward to the drive back down this mountain,’ I said, as the minibus hurtled around another hairpin bend. ‘It’s bad enough coming up it.’

Rachel turned then, and laughed. ‘Mum, you didn’t think we were
driving
back, did you? We’re skiing down.’ She gestured towards the wide, glassy ski slope to our right. It was mid-afternoon, and dusk was already beginning to soften and blur the edges of the mountains. ‘I heard the manager say so. It’s to let everybody get a run in before dinner. Why else do you think they told us to change into our ski gear?’

I sat bolt upright, clutching the cold metal bar of Robin’s seat back.

‘
What?
I can’t do that! I’ve only had three lessons on a dry ski slope! I can’t ski down a whole mountain yet!’ Fear and exhaustion gripped me in a dual embrace of foreboding.

‘Oh, you’ll be fine,’ said Robin dismissively. ‘It’s a blue run most of the way, I believe, except for one section that’s red.’

Blue ...red ...in America, the easy runs were green. No, I couldn’t do this.

I sank back in my seat. It was true that the information about the holiday and the resort had stated, in quite big print, ‘Not suitable for beginners’, but I’d assumed that surely I’d be able to pay for some tuition when I got here, and I’d brushed aside my qualms that I wouldn’t be proficient enough, mostly because it was the only group holiday that had any vacancies left, and I hadn’t wanted Rachel to feel that I was holding her back. I’d wing it, I had decided, thinking that I was being brave and spontaneous. I had good balance and co-ordination, I was quite fit, and my dry ski slope lessons had gone very smoothly. How hard could it be?

But the Kansas City dry ski slope had been about fifty metres long, not the several
thousand
that we’d been steadily climbing up alongside for the past twenty minutes. Stray skiers were whizzing down at the sort of velocity that indicated they’d been fired out of a cannon rather than being propelled by their own body weight.

None of the rest of the group seemed unduly worried about the ordeal facing us, which struck me as odd too. I mean, weren’t you supposed to warm up before hurtling down a mountain? They too had all come off planes and endured the long coach ride from the airport, with no rest or sustenance offered on arrival at the hotel, just this ignominious bundling into an ancient minibus. Yet they were all laughing and chatting tentatively to one another, the way you do when you meet a group of strangers with whom you’ll be spending the next seven days. I was glad I had Rachel with me for company.

Across the aisle from Robin was a younger man whom I had initially spotted at Verona airport and identified as part of our group from his luggage tags.

Although he looked in his early thirties, he had a helmet of iron grey hair with an arrow-straight side parting, the kind of hair-do favoured by retired army colonels. I thought that he must have some weird medical condition too, since he wore a rucksack with a clear plastic tube protruding from the top flap, which wound round to the front of his chest, and around the end of which was taped a piece of kitchen towel. Rachel later told me that this was merely a source of delivering water ‘camelback’ for the thirsty skier.

He saw me looking at him, and smiled, displaying far too many teeth all jostling for space, like piglets sucking at their mother’s teats. ‘Typical,’ he said, thrusting a long leg out in front of me. He was wearing salopettes and Jesus sandals over his ski socks. ‘I forgot to bring my callus-remover, and I just know the boots are going to make them worse.’

I smiled back at him, I hoped in a sympathetic way; although I suspected it probably came out more as incredulity than sympathy. As opening gambits went, this wasn’t exactly gusset-dampening. The only other guy within my range of vision was a follicly-challenged Italian professor of philosophy, who had BO I could smell from three seats back, clearly not helped by the tight Lycra ski gear he wore. I could tell it was unlikely that either Rachel or I would be getting it on with any new men this week, unless there were some handsome waiters at the hotel. Still, at that moment, I was more concerned with how I was going to get down the damn mountain. Knowing my luck, I’d break my leg on the first attempt at a run, then Rachel would have her vacation ruined too, having to fly me home ...I should never have pretended that I was anything other than a beginner.

Rachel caught my anxiety. ‘You’ll be fine, Mum,’ she said, giving my arm a squeeze. ‘I’ll stay with you, don’t worry. We can just take it really slowly.’

I laughed hollowly; it was my turn to feel tears smarting in my eyes. I looked away furiously. There was no way I wanted Rachel to see me cry. I missed Billy then, desperately and overwhelmingly. He’d never have done anything as daft as go skiing. Our holidays had always involved lots of lying around turquoise pools, Billy getting high, me sleeping and reading. It had often bored me stupid, though, now that I came to think of it. Wasn’t that why I was here? I didn’t have to endure those holidays any more. I could do whatever the hell I wanted. Let Eva get bored and sunburned.
I
was going skiing. Although I’d have preferred to go skiing tomorrow. Not now. Not right down the mountain with no practice.

It struck me, not for the first time, how nebulous and unpredictable a beast my own self-confidence was. Had I always been like this? Wavering between certainty and doubt, bravery and cowardice? I wished I could be more like Rachel: she just went for it and worried about the consequences afterwards. I think she got that from her father.

‘It’s going to be dark soon,’ I said, trying not to sound too chicken.

‘That’s why they hurried us,’ Robin replied, not assuaging my fears at all.

We arrived at a cluster of buildings: bars, ski shops, gift emporia; and the minibus came to a sudden halt next to several large dumpsters.

‘This must be the resort,’ said Rachel doubtfully. ‘It’s very small, isn’t it? We should have gone to Courchevel or somewhere.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not exactly au fait with European ski resorts. It was cheap. Maybe this is why.’

‘I’m not criticizing you, Mum,’ she replied, in what could only be described as a critical tone of voice.

We all queued up to be fitted with our boots and skis, and I thought: How strange to be standing on this icy path in Italy with Rachel and a bunch of strangers, like we were all waiting for a bus. Around this time, I ought to have been waking up in Lawrence with Billy’s arms wrapped around my back and his breath warming my neck, wondering what to wear for work, or if there was time to make love
and
have a shower, or whether I’d have to head straight for the shower.