A Game to Love Page 4

  A feeling of warmth spread through me. I loved tennis, always had, from the minute as a three year old when I’d picked up my father’s discarded wooden racket and began hitting balls against the garage wall… I chuckled at my exaggerated memory, because pushing a ball might be a more accurate description…. until now, as a twenty-six year old hitting balls against, maybe not the best opponent in the world, but an opponent nevertheless. There was something about it, about the feel of the ball in my hand as I readied my serve, the surge of adrenaline when a long rally ended with a close call in my favour, the taste of salty sweat on my top lip as I bent to recover my breath…

  But my favourite time in the whole match was the first rapid pulse of anticipation. There was an instant, just one, after the umpire tossed the coin, after the five minute warm-up, an instant when I rotated the racket in my hand and I took a deep breath, eyeing my foe across the net.

  That was the instant when I forgot. Practically one whole heartbeat.

  An instant when Melbourne hadn’t happened.

  I now had a third reason for returning on Monday, I actually loved tennis and wanted to know if I could make it back to the top flight, wanted to feel the desire once more. I chuckled sardonically. If I kept going I might have an even half dozen reasons to see Dr Myers again before the weekend ended. This time I grinned. I’d forgotten the most obvious reason for continuing; Emma Myers was a fox.

  With the engine still ticking over, I stared once more into a rear view mirror that really wasn’t doing me any favours. It accentuated dark circles below shadowed eyes that showed, if nothing else, the next few weeks were going to be a trial of the greatest magnitude. Julia’s beat up Ford was in the drive, and I knew she’d only worry if I entered our home looking as pale and terrified as I did right now. It wouldn’t take a sports psychiatrist, psychologist or even a trick cyclist to guess something (other than the ubiquitous L next to my name) was up, and Jules was nothing but instinctive when it came to recognising my less than subtle emotional clues.

  I looked almost as bad as the day I’d turned up on her doorstep after the humiliation of Dubai.

  I wondered if it was worth it, if winning a damned tennis match was worth opening up my soul to a total stranger. I made a good living from the Birdcage and coaching tennis. Why rock the boat? I climbed out of Kermit slowly, my body aching as if I’d played seven three setters, instead of aching because I’d driven with every muscle in my body clenched tight.

  Home. I could literally feel the tension ease when I smelt the yellow roses which were starting to open. Julia and I rented a lovely little two bed stone cottage in the country, just outside Cambridge. It had Virginia creeper snaking up its walls and a beautiful mature garden full of roses of every colour, all very Miss Marple-esque. When I first bought the Birdcage I refurbished the flat above and lived there. But after a while working and sleeping in the same place took its toll, so Jules and I took on this cottage and, quite frankly, it was one of our better decisions.

  It was perfect because Julia’s older brother Sean and his wife Caroline lived nearby, so when we were travelling they kept an eye on the place and our two cats Ruby and Tuesday.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out their previous owner was a Stones fan.

  “It’s only me, Jules!” Kicking off my trainers, they gave a satisfying thump against the wall. “Jules, you there?” I shouted again after getting no response the first time. Of course she’s there, I chuckled when I heard Ellen Page’s ‘dulcet’ tones reverberate throughout the cottage, which explained why Jules hadn’t answered me. I loved my friend, I really did, but she owned the hearing of an eighty year old. I walked through to the front room and leant over the back of the sofa. “Boo!”

  Jules’ white wine almost took a leap into the unknown. “Christ, Georgy, don’t sneak up on me like that, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” I didn’t mention the fact that a bloody marching band could sneak up on her, we’d had that conversation many times before, and quite frankly after the day from hell I’d had, I was too tired for the ensuing ‘sure, there’s nothing wrong with my hearing’ discussion.

  “Whatcha watching?” I glanced at the telly. “Whip It? This must be the ninety seventh time you’ve salivated… I mean watched it.”

  “Yeah, but now I have a legitimate excuse to drool over Ellen.”

  “Perv.”

  “Me? What about your Portia obsession?” Jules was referring to an American comedy show called ‘Better off Ted’ I’d found hidden away in a tiny corner on Netflix.com. A friend suggested that the American version was much better than its UK counterpart for LGBT content, so we had used a VPN (virtual private network) to change our IP address. Okay so it wasn’t exactly legal, but we still paid the subscription and weren’t downloading any pirate copies, so we figured what was the harm? Although clearly Netflix disagreed with that philosophy and two months later it stopped working; so apart from discovering ‘Better Off Ted,’ it was a bit of a bust - and we were still having to pay for the VPN. Whoever said crime didn’t pay was right in this instance.

  So I bought the DVDs instead and happily watched a couple of episodes when I was in the mood for something light.

  I’d kinda become a little obsessed by Portia de Rossi… or DeGeneres, or… well whoever’s de show was.

  “Julia, Julia,” I shook my head in disappointment. “I watch that show because it is side-splittingly funny.”

  “So it has nothing to do with the delectable Portia being as hot as a July day in hell?” Julia gave a smug little smile, aware she had me bang to rights.

  “Now I didn’t say that, it actually has everything to do with the delectable Ms Rossi. She’s a very talented comedic actress.” I climbed over the back of the sofa and landed with a whump onto the duck egg blue cushions, before proceeding to demolish Julia’s bag of Malteasers. “And yes she is as hot as a July day in hell, during a heatwave.”

  “Hungry?” Julia asked, tentatively trying to retrieve one of the chocolate malted balls, but worried she’d lose a finger, or even her whole arm, she quickly pulled her hand back. “Jaysus, it’s like feeding time on the African savannah when you get the scent of chocolate, Maskel.”

  “I’m starving,” I answered, honeycomb flying everywhere as I practically inhaled them. “I thought I’d be home earlier-” I stopped talking.

  Like the good friend she was, Jules took note of, but didn’t try to coerce, the things unsaid. “I made chilli and there’s loads left, it just needs heating up.” My eyes widened in one part disbelief and three parts horror. I’d only ever seen Julia attempt to cook something once, a béchamel sauce. She was trying to impress a woman, as you do.

  It backfired spectacularly.

  Four pints of milk and a whole bag of flour later, she served up pasta á la wallpaper paste and the relationship lasted only until the soon to be ex-girlfriend finished puking from the food poisoning she’d contracted.

  So it was perhaps unsurprising that I gulped nervously before asking, “You, er, you made a chilli?”

  “Well I removed the cardboard sleeve and pierced the plastic film and put it in the oven, so technically yes, yes I did!” Jules smiled proudly at her achievement.

  “Praaaiiiise you, Jesus,” I said, accurately mimicking a southern Baptist preacher. “My stomach is in revolt begging for sustenance, but even then I wasn’t sure I would be that brave!”

  Jules thumped my shoulder. “I’m not that bad a cook.” I cocked my head and raised my eyebrows. “I’m not!” she protested.

  “Can you remember the jambalaya we made when we first moved in?” I hauled myself up off of the sofa and went through to the kitchen. The inside of the cottage was an open plan affair, which was another reason we loved the place. It was full of character on the outside, but apart from some nice original features such as the oaken doors and cast iron fireplaces, it owned a thoroughly modern interior.

  “Yeah, we misread the instructions and used a tablespoon of chilli po
wder instead of a teaspoon?”

  “And not even adding three tubs of natural yoghurt eased the burn!” We both laughed at the memory even though at the time it felt like our tongues were burning with acid – not good for a lesbian, that’s for certain. “I thought you were going to Sean and Caroline’s for supper?”

  “I needed a night in. I wasn’t feeling great this morning, and I think I might have to give up the red wine it’s started to disagree with me. I’ve changed colour to white, much more amenable.”

  Scraping what was left of the chilli into a large bowl, I watched, transfixed as it spun around and around in the microwave. I bent and touched my toes, then stretched to touch the low ceiling. I’m stiff as a board, I thought, that’ll teach me not to cool down properly after a match. You’re not getting any younger, George. Then I loudly sniffed the air. “Mmm, yum!” I moaned. The lingering scent of tex-mex tingled my taste buds and I began salivating like a pavlovian dog. It might be a ready meal, but at this point I’d eat a scabby Chihuahua.

  “Seriously, Maskel, if it’s not like the bloody savannah, it’s like a brothel with the noises you make!” Jules said from behind me and it was my turn to jump. “So are you going to tell me about Cambridge, or leave me trying to guess what’s up from the cryptic text you sent?” She poured herself another glass of wine. She knew she had to nudge me into a confession so right now it was like she was teasing wool, gently does it or it’d rip apart.

  “Nothing much to tell.” I heaped sour cream and grated cheese on top of my bowl of chilli and watched it fuse together like a Francis Bacon masterpiece. “David thinks that seeing a sports psychologist might help my game. He’s given me a month off.”

  “And you agreed, just like that?” Jules asked a touch sceptically. My silence answered her. “Thought not. Want to talk about it?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “No worries.” But Julia clearly was, I heard it in her voice. “Anyway I know one person who will be pleased you’ll be around for the next few weeks,” she smiled and I cocked my head questioningly. “Tara. She hasn’t stopped talking about you since Maggie’s wedding.” I groaned inwardly. Tara, one of the admins at the Chronicle, had been a disastrous hook-up. In spite of every effort to let her down gently, Tara just would not take the hint. She was on the brink of ordering hers and hers monogrammed towels from John Lewis at one stage.

  “Yeah, about that. I’m not going to see Tara again. She’s great and everything, but I think she’s looking for more than I can give her, like a relationship.”

  “She’s a woman, of course she wants a relationship. Honestly, Georgy, if men are from Mars and women are from Venus, you must be from Pluto”

  “Why? Because I don’t want a girlfriend?”

  “How do you know if you do or you don’t, you never get to know anyone properly. Sometimes it takes more than one night!”

  I wasn’t a player, or rather I hadn’t been for the last year, but I still enjoyed the occasional company of a woman, occasional being the operative word. Two nights was the most I was prepared to give. Hell, if I make it to ten sessions with my new doctor it will be my longest relationship since Ana. “Jules, at the moment I’m nowhere near in the right place for a serious relationship. I hope one day I’ll meet her, the one you go on about.” I threw Julia a bone, if only to get her off the Tara road and onto something more pleasant like root canal.

  “The one I go on about?” Julia tilted her head.

  “Yes, you know, the soulmate from those trashy romances you try and make me read.”

  “I caught you with that one on your Kindle,” Jules teased, “don’t deny it!”

  “I won’t deny it. I also won’t deny that sometimes I’m closed off.” I could see warmth in Julia’s eyes as well as understanding. It made it easier. “Yes, eventually I do want something more than one night in a stranger’s bedroom. It’s not satisfying, well, not on an emotional level anyway.” Jules remained quiet and still, probably worried if she even twitched an eyebrow she’d spook me. She’d never heard me be quite so candid about my love-life. “I want forever, just like everyone else. I thought I’d found it once, but… well you know what happened with that one.”

  “Russian bitch face, you mean?” Jules could see from my sudden closed down expression she’d gotten all she was going to get from me tonight. “When’s your next appointment?” she asked changing the subject.

  “Monday at four thirty.” The letter was still scrunched up on the passenger seat of Kermit. I’d clutched it so tight when I left my first session it went from being A4 to A5 in less time than it had taken me to throw away three match points.

  “On your birthday? That’s a bit rough, what was that eejit, David, tinking?”

  “Probably soonest started, soonest mended.” Julia was clearly desperate to know more but held back. She flicked channels until she found an old episode of Grey’s Anatomy. This was must watch television for both of us; we had vegged out with the box sets of seasons one through six one weekend and were hooked, mainly on Calzona, but the rest of it wasn’t bad either. Callie started singing and Julia gave a small smile. It was our favourite episode of all time. If anything would take my mind off the day, it would be Chasing Cars sang by my fourth favourite actress.

  “Actually, this has worked out perfectly. I’ll phone Sally-” she said once we were distracted by the goggle box.

  “I won’t be in the mood to celebrate after spending an hour and a half getting my head examined,” I snapped.

  “Oh come on little miss doom and gloom, it might be just what you need afterwards. A nice meal, a few glasses of wine for me, water for you, all very civilised. Let’s face it, snookum, you’re too old for clubbing and all that malarkey now!” Jules held up a pillow as I tried to give her a slap.

  “Snookum?” we both chuckled. “You know Ryan, you’re a cheeky mare, but you might have a point.”

  A night out might be just what the doctor ordered.

  Chapter 10

  Georgia

  When Callie woke from her coma and said, ‘Yes I’ll marry you’, the episode of Grey’s was finished and so was I. I scraped the last of my second helping of chilli with my spoon. It seems stropping off in a psychologist’s office did wonders for my appetite. “I’m shattered, Jules, I think I’ll turn in.”

  “Okay, babes.”

  “Can I grab a lift to the gym tomorrow?” I asked from the door to the hallway.

  “Not a prob.”

  “Cool. See you in the morning.”

  “Yeah you… wait, shit. Sorry. I almost forgot your Dad called. He said he couldn’t reach your mob and wasn’t sure he had the right number.”

  “Oh right. My phone’s been playing up a bit... Thanks, I’ll text him now.”

  Jules gave me another ‘I don’t believe a word your saying look,’ but didn’t take it any further. She plugged in her headphones, a compromise we’d reached if I was going to bed and she was staying up to watch television.

  I lay down with every intention of watching a few episodes of Better Off Ted after talking about it earlier, but the message threw me. I expected it, yet…

  Hey Dad, how r u? And Mum. I added as an afterthought. I held my breath. Sorry I missed your call.

  We’re both good, sweetie. I thought I might drive up to Cambridge tomorrow and take you out for dinner. Big day Monday!

  Damn. There it was. Oh. Sorry Dad, that sounds great but Jules has arranged a girl’s night out.

  What about lunch? He sounded desperate, well as desperate as anyone could sound in a text message.

  I typed sure then deleted it several times before finally replying, I have lessons all day tomorrow. Sorry. Maybe we could catch up later in the month? David’s running me ragged.

  How’s that going? I heard you played well today.

  Yeah, good I lied. Really good. I think we’re really starting to turn the corner.

  I’m pleased. Maybe we can come and see you when we get back from America?<
br />
  Fuck no. Yeah maybe. Take care, Dad. I love you.

  I love you too, Georgia. Sleep tight.

  I threw my phone down and watched it bounce towards the edge of the small double bed. I hated the distance that had grown between my father and I. After my ban I tried to play happy families, but the strain of pretence became unbearable. The longer I kept my mouth shut, the harder it became to speak the truth. Besides, the odd phone call or occasional dinner was far better than the alternative.

  The silence of rejection.

  My head thumped onto my pillow. Would it make any difference if I told him? Our relationship was pretty much sunk anyway. He was a good man, my father, the sort of man you would be proud to call friend never mind Dad. I wouldn’t be so selfish as to ruin his life now, just because I had nothing left to lose. It was too late.

  My mother may not have made my bed, but she damned well provided the sheets, duvet and pillows.

  Chapter 11

  Georgia

  Flicking the indicator and turning right into Ozier Avenue, I felt my pulse start to quicken. Emma Myers’ practice was ten minutes from the centre of Cambridge on a wide chestnut tree lined street, where the budding branches provided a sheltering canopy from the warm afternoon sun. Towards the end of the road was a plaque large enough to be noticed, but not too big to be intrusive to the neighbours. Driving through the black gates tipped with gold I slowed, the wheels crunching on the yellow and gold pea gravel, and I reversed into one of the car parking spaces that had been created by removing a large chunk of turf from the front garden; my every action was done with consummate care and drawn out for far longer than necessary.

  I sat for few minutes to gather my wits like an invisible cloak of protection, and in the peaceful moment before I went into battle I studied my surroundings, something I was unable to do the day before. Oh, I’d tried, but unshed tears blurred the view outside whilst sharpening to a knife edge the reality that my walls were about to be stormed.