New Balls Please (Ball Games #3) (5 page)

After an afternoon of getting re-acquainted with my music equipment and blasting out some great tunes, I throw myself through the shower because I'm covered in cobwebs and muck and then head to The Red Lion for a burger and pint. Stomach satisfied and under the alcohol limit, I travel over to Meadowhall.

Meadowhall shopping centre is located in Sheffield but is very near Rotherham so it doesn't take long to drive to. Dora and Miranda meet there twice a year for the most obscure reason. Well, obscure to me anyway. They save up fifty pounds and buy paperbacks. Now Dora has a Kindle and one bookshelf, whereas Miranda has some kind of obsessional compulsive disorder with books. I've told Dora time and again that she shouldn't meet up with her and pander to it. But apparently 'it’s a ritual’. They've done it since childhood. So for no other reason than book shopping they meet up, go to the bookstore, pick lots of books, spend time looking at the books and then buy some. Because the other thousand on their shared Kindle, the two hundred on Dora's shelves, and the nine-hundred and counting on Miranda's aren't enough. I think Miranda buys books rather than compulsively eats. At thirty-eight, she's divorced, and I guess it was books, food or cats and books won. Anyway, its bizarre behaviour, but to get a book about how to man up and take charge of my missus, I need to go there.

Entering the vast domed building, I walk up to the information desk and ask where the bookshop is. Luckily for me, it's more or less opposite the information stand, so purchasing a cookie on my way past, (well, there's no nagging partner to tell me I've eaten enough today), I head towards the store.

I don't know what I was expecting but I walk in and well, there are books (obviously), and a counter. I spy a couple of stray chairs around the place. I have absolutely no idea why my partner and her sister think this is an amazing place and spend all day here. In fact, I now believe they are lying and going to a strip club or something, as this is well, nothing special.

I stroll around the store - fiction, nope. Travel, nope. No money for that now thanks to Dora. Sci-fi and Fantasy - it's my other half living in a fantasy word. Self-help. This might be the ticket. Ten minutes later and there are guides to everything except for how to handle a woman. I can train my dog but not a misbehaving partner. With a sigh, I head to the front desk.

'Can I help you?' says an afro-haired teenager wearing a Hogwarts tee and round glasses.

'Yes. I want a book on how to handle women.'

He snorts and tries to disguise it as a cough.

'Gosh, mate. If there were a book like that, the author would be a millionaire.'

'So there isn't one?'

He shakes his head. 'Only jokey-style ones.'

I sigh.

A red-haired woman who looks about thirty wanders over. Her name badge says Michelle.

She openly stares at me. 'Did I hear you right? You want a book on how to handle women?'

I sigh again. 'Yes. I'm fed up of my other half getting her own way all the time. It's time for me to rebel.'

She chuckles. 'Look, love. You're not going to win a war against a woman if she puts her mind to it, believe me. The best thing you can do for a quiet and happy life-' she winks as she says happy life, '-is to let her think she's getting her own way.'

I finger-tap the counter. 'She does get her own way. All the time.'

The woman shrugs.

I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears. 'She's currently in Center Parcs… spending our holiday money.'

'Whoo, sounds like you have a hot one there,' says Harry Potter.

I raise my hand in a gesture of surrender. 'Well if there's no book, then God knows what I can do to take back some control. Other than I stopped her finances.'

The woman gasps. 'You stopped her money?'

‘I did.’ I smirk.

Michelle laughs. 'Oh, honey, you think you stopped her money, but I reckon she'll be just fine.'

'What do you mean?'

'Can't give away a sisters secrets. I could be wrong though I'm not usually. Look, here's my advice. What books does your wife like?'

'We're not married.'

I get a dirty look for this and pursed lips.

'How long you been together?'

'Almost thirty years.'

'Christ you don't get that for murder,' says Harry Potter. The red-head hits his shoulder.

'I'd spend all your money too,' she says to me. 'Now I’ll ask you again. What books does your wife like? You could buy her some. That would win you a few points. Other than that, I suggest you propose while you have some assets of your own left.’ She mutters to herself, ‘stopped her money.’

I'm getting nowhere. Why is there not a bloke my age here? He'd understand.

'She reads that sexy stuff, the grey stuff.'

'That I can work with. Okay, wait there.'

Michelle returns with six different books. All of them have black covers and items like pearls, scarves, and ice-cubes on the front. 'Okay, you buy her these and maybe read a few. This is the holy grail. This is what women really want. That's my advice to you. Have a look at them. Get some tips.'

'Really? They aren't just grown up fairy tales?'

She shrugs. 'Of course they're grown up fairy tales. Do you see many suited and booted billionaires coming in here? No, me either. Now are you going to buy these or not?'

I agree. I thank the staff for their time and take my books out of the store. I practically stomp out of the shopping centre. No books for blokes. I should bloody write one, I’d make a damn fortune. Then again I’d get hits ordered on me because women form a kindred gang when it comes to us blokes. I went in to get help and came out with presents for Dora. How did that happen? It would appear I have some reading to do to find out what women want and see if there’s a way to get my own way.

What the fuck does she read?

I called in sick again. It's now late Tuesday morning and I've spent hours pouring over these books. Billionaires. Cowboys. Rock Stars. I've also been through the shelves. Dora already had a couple of the books I've bought her. One thing they all have in common? What I have seen termed as an
Alpha Male
. Basically, you start off treating the woman like absolute shit, but it's okay because you have issues. It's not personal, it's because you're an orphan. In these books, every one of them is an orphan. Could the authors not be fucking bothered to write parents and family in? Fuck those few thousand words and complications. Road accident for Ma and Pa. Job done. Well, I'm not an orphan but my mum died a few years ago, so that's something I can work with. I'll develop some kind of issue with it, to make myself angry.

Then there's the sex. No missionary position for these people. Now, myself and Dora, well I don't really like to talk about it, but we have a good sex life. Not only relegated to missionary. We have a range of positions and we don't always do it in the bedroom though of course that the main place. I'm not converting my new music room into a sex dungeon, that's for sure.

As an alpha I have to speak like this:
'You are mine. Do you fucking hear me? Mine.'

Or even Alphier,
'That fucking cunt belongs to me. Spread your legs, I want to taste that sweetness.'

I've obviously been getting it wrong with my odd tit grope and pressing up behind her with an erection to see if she gives me a hint she's up for it. I'd better read up on some of this language.

Tuesday evening and I'm back at Meadowhall, this time to buy a new suit, a few ties (with the dual purpose of looking smart and tying a woman up). I call into the hairdressers and have my mop tidied up. I also need to grow a little stubble to be more alpha. My body isn't in too bad a shape for forty-eight as I swim regularly, but it looks like I might have to cut down on the evening beer.

When Dora gets home, she'll wonder what's hit her. Probably me, with my belt, with what I'm reading.

When I wake Wednesday morning, I have to say I'm very surprised that Dora has not returned home yet, skint and with her tail between her legs. I check the bank transactions online and there has been no action on them. She could have cash on her, but I find that hard to believe as she usually sticks purchases on cards to get points she can then convert to book vouchers.

I check out the Center Parcs website to see what this tennis thing is she's doing. Camille never did it like she said she would. It's not long before I spot the image of ex-professional Tennis Player Cole Grant. Dressed in tighty-whities, he’s six-foot-plus. In the pic, his wrist is curled around the racket, causing his arm muscles to bulge out. Even I can see he exudes Alpha pheromones. I've left my partner having lessons with this man? I throw off the duvet. Bloody woman, she's won. Well of sorts. I'm going to Center Parcs to make sure Dora knows she needs to come home. She'll soon find out I've changed, though. No more Mr Nice Guy. I'm going broody on her arse and if she plays up, I'll spank it.

Chapter Seven

Dora

Monday morning and I'm up bright and early. I hit the shower and dress in my new fitness apparel. Last night at the spa, I applied my healthy glow fake tan and plucked my eyebrows. Today, a dusting of blusher, a flick of mascara and a pop of lip-gloss and I'm ready. I decide to wear my hair down until we start the actual lesson as I look better that way. You can see less of my wrinkles. A quick spritz of hair shine over the straightened golden blonde locks and I'm ready for tennis.

After reporting to reception at the Jardin de Sports, I'm directed to the court. Altogether there are eight of us. Seven women including myself, most of whom seem to be in their late twenties/early thirties, and a middle-aged bloke with a mullet hairdo.

Cole comes sauntering over, a white towel around his neck as if he's just had a workout. The other six women perk up and their breasts perk out. Now don't get me wrong, Cole is a good-looking guy. He has spiky, almost jet black hair, dark brown eyes and, of course, an athletic body, all honed and toned. However, he is clearly one of those men who considers themselves God’s gift to women. In situating himself at Center Parcs, he no doubt has a weekly buffet of offerings, also known as, simpering, pathetic women. I watch them preen and it's sad. There's possibly only myself and Dave (I've no idea what his real name is but he looks like David Essex) here to actually learn how to play tennis.

Cole addresses everyone.

'So, welcome all to your first tennis lesson. We'll get to know each other a bit and then I'll start showing you some introductory moves.'

I bet you will.

He then spends five minutes explaining his professional experience and how wonderful he is.
Yawn.

'Today, we’ll focus on the correct techniques for forehand and backhand. Nothing too difficult, but learning how to hit the ball correctly will improve your game straight away. Before we move onto the court and pick up the rackets, can we all introduce ourselves and say what we hope to achieve.'

Five women introduce themselves with a flick of their hair, a giggle, and say they're here to learn tennis.
Duh. Now I know why he said nothing too difficult. They’re all dumb.

I wait for David Essex to be the first to say he's here to learn properly.

'Hey there, I'm Terry and I absolutely love your style. I've watched every one of your games and it's an honour to meet you. Though I hope to learn a few moves, for me, it's mainly about meeting you.'

The other five women nod.

Oh for fucks sakes.
My fist clenches.

There’s one woman left to speak other than me. She looks in her early thirties. Her hands shake. I bet she hates these kind of introductory sessions.

'I'm Jackie, my sister wants me to go on a sports holiday next year for her fortieth. I saw this training advertised on the internet and thought it would be a great opportunity to gain some skills from a professional before next year.'

Cole beams but I bet my own is wider. Jackie actually wants to learn, not flirt. Hurrah, I've found a friend.

Cole looks at me.

I stand up straight. No simpering from me. 'I'm Dora. Every year I watch Wimbledon and vow I'll learn to play. I love sports and I'm quite fit.'

'I can tell,' says Cole.

Vomit.

'I'm always in the gym and it would be nice to do an outdoor sport for a change. I don't want to take out a tennis club membership unless I know I'll make the most of it.'

'Fair enough. Well, thank you, everyone. If you all want to pick up a racket and place it on the floor in front of you.'

He looks down every female’s top as they do so.

I turn to Jackie. 'Is this guy for real?'

She sighs. 'Do you know, I met him a few years ago on a holiday abroad though he obviously doesn't remember me. He wasn't like that then. He was engaged to a total bitch but madly in love with her. I needed some help to carry lagers back to my table. When he realised I was on a hen night he bought a round of drinks for us and asked them to be delivered.'

'Well, something must have happened between then and now, cos his ego has definitely landed.'

Jackie shrugs.

'Okay, now I know women like to gossip, but come on you two, we only have another hour.' Cole taps his watch.

We apologise.

'Okay, everyone pick up a racket. That's it. Hold it like you would a frying pan. Okay line up over here and we’ll get you hitting the ball over the net one at a time. Let's go.'

We have varying levels of success at hitting the ball. Every time he gets hold of one of the other’s arms to correct their wrist position they look like they're about to faint. It's pathetic. Even Jackie keeps giving him a weak smile.

'Do you fancy a coke after this? I'm dying of thirst,' I ask her.

'God, yes. I'm knackered.'

Cole isn't the slightest bit tired. He's in his element. 'That's it. Hold your core muscles. Both hands on the racket now. Guide it, let that hand go. Keep the racket closed. That's it, Sophie, follow the forearm with the racket going over that shoulder. Fantastic.'