After Wimbledon

by Roberts, Jennifer Gilby

  I’m glad I don’t have to play today.

  I do something I don’t think I have ever done before: I wonder what I should wear and actually try on several different outfits. Then I get a grip on myself and deliberately select something modest, accompanied by the least attractive underwear I own. I resist the temptation to shave my legs or my underarms. I put my hair in a ponytail and even leave off my earrings. There. An entirely suitable outfit for dropping in on a friend.

  The fact that I’ve never gone through this thought process when visiting Adrienne is neither here nor there. There are different rules with male friends, that’s all.

  It's chucking it down by now, so I catch a bus to Sam’s street. I jog down it, looking for the right house. None of them seem to have numbers and they’re rather spread out, but eventually I find it. I hurry through the open black iron gates and up the gravel drive to Chez Pennington.

  I think I was expecting something like Chez Harker, i.e. a vast futuristic greenhouse. This is definitely not that. It’s certainly a good deal larger than mine, but it’s a red brick, faintly gothic Victorian pile surrounded by lawns, towering oak trees and rambling roses. I can’t believe this is where Sam lives. It’s so... English.

  I climb the steps and ring the doorbell. Then tap the knocker, just because it’s cool. I quickly wipe my feet on the huge scratchy doormat. And then my palms on my jeans.

  The door opens to reveal Sam, also in jeans. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’ I swallow hard.

  'Come in.'

  I step in and see... wood. Everywhere. Panelling, flooring, bare doors, a huge carved staircase. It’s beautiful.

  I turn to Sam in wonder. ‘Can I move in?’

  He laughs. ‘There’s more,’ he promises. ‘Come see.’

  I spend half an hour racing around excitedly, loving everything I see. Although there are some beautiful features, it’s not a house that says ‘look, but don’t touch’, but rather ‘I was built to last, so do your worst.’ Everything looks used, lived in. Just as a house should be.

  Sam lets me poke my head into the rooms at will, and go into vapours over cast-iron fireplaces and hidden alcoves, until I finally find myself standing in a room at the front of the house with bars on the windows. I give him a quizzical look.

  ‘The old nursery.'

  And then it hits me. While Joe’s house screams 'Bachelor,' Sam’s quietly states 'Family.' Except he doesn't have one.

  I follow him down again, through the house and out into the garden. A slightly wild wonderland – plus tennis court, of course. A sturdy looking swing hangs from a massive tree. Visible between the leaves is a tree house.

  This place is my fantasy come to life.

  ‘That was inherited from the previous owners. They raised six kids here.’

  ‘Six! Wow, the most we have in the family is four. And their mum’s making their dad get a vasectomy, so there won’t be any more.’

  That’s Matilda, of the monkey children. Frankly, I’m amazed she didn’t do it when she saw the first one.

  ‘Four’s a good number,’ Sam says, as I settle myself on the swing. He looks around. ‘I bought this place expecting to grow into it.’ He grins wryly. ‘What is it they say about not counting your chickens?’

  I smile at him and squeeze his hand. ‘Plenty of time yet,’ I tell him. ‘And you’re not exactly a bad catch, are you? What would your personals ad say? "Wife wanted for gorgeous, intelligent and loaded former professional athlete. Must want several children." Royal Mail would have to run an extra delivery just for the replies!’

  He looks sideways at me. ‘That’s quite a compliment.’

  I flush. Then I realise I’m still holding his hand and blush deeper as I drop it. ‘Well, you know. No doubt all your fans say the same thing.’

  I’ve definitely said the wrong thing. Just when I was getting the hang of not acting like a fan.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ he says, looking out into the garden. ‘They don’t know the real me, so it doesn’t mean much.’

  I look out over the garden as well. I can easily picture kids running around on the grass, swinging, climbing trees. I realise after a few seconds that I’m imagining our kids, not just his.

  Is that normal? I’m sure I’ve never done it with anyone else.

  ‘Do you miss her?’ I hear myself ask.

  ‘Julia?’

  I nod, but don’t look at him.

  ‘No. I miss being part of a couple, I admit. But I wouldn’t want her back, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  Of course it is.

  Our bare arms brush lightly against each other as we both shift position at the same time. I feel the contact everywhere. I don’t dare even glance at him.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say quickly. ‘That would be great.’

  He has an Aga. Not that I’d know how to cook on one, but it’s still very cool. The floor is flagged and dark wood cabinets are everywhere. It's just gorgeous.

  I sit down at the kitchen table while he puts the kettle on. This too is very solid, sturdy wood. It could probably support the weight of two adults quite easily. It may already have done so, for that matter.

  I feel a stab of something when I think that. Am I actually feeling jealous over a man?

  There’s nothing around the house that looks like her influence. Not that I’ve seen, anyway.

  ‘Sam,' I ask slowly, ‘why did you and Julia split up?’

  He pours two cups of tea. ‘I don’t really like to talk about it,’ he says, not unkindly. ‘It was rather messy.'

  I nod and force myself not to ask again. Where’s a tabloid journalist when you need one? Surely, someone must have checked this out?

  I get up and move to join him, leaning against the centre block.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘supposedly it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’

  ‘So I’ve been told. Frequently. It’s a good deal more painful though, at the time.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ I say, dropping my head to stare at his chest, ‘never being in love may be easier, but it’s pretty depressing at times. I mean, if you’ve never loved anyone there must be a reason for it, right?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sam says softly. ‘But most likely that reason is just that you haven’t found the right person yet.’

  I look up. He looks down. A couple of inches between our lips shrinks to nothing.

  There’s none of the grab and rip action I’d envisaged. It’s not even a hard kiss, just the softest brushing of lips. Yet I can feel it all the way down to my curling toes. My eyes close on instinct. I reach up and place my palm on his chest. I can feel his heart beating. I can hear mine.

  The kiss deepens, but still only a little. Sam’s arms encircle my waist and he shifts closer. I’m amazed I’m still upright, because my knees feel like they’re made of sponge. I’m trembling, head to toe.

  If Joe walked in right now, I don’t think he’d even understand what he was seeing. I’m not sure I do. I have never in my entire life been kissed like this.

  Shit. Joe. This is exactly what I’m not supposed to do.

  Physically I’m not restrained at all, but it takes every scrap of strength I have to drop my head and move a crucial step back. Sam lets me go straight away. I can’t look at him. I’ll only kiss him again.

  ‘I’m sorry, I just...’ I don’t know how to finish that sentence.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ Sam says, moving further away. ‘It was my fault. I’ve no business kissing you like that. At all.’

  He sounds nearly as rattled as I feel. Where's the legendary calm? Apparently, even that has its limits.

  ‘I think I should go,’ I force myself to say. ‘I mean, I only came by to drop off those...’

  Oh, Christ.

  ‘... DVDs, which I’ve just realised I left...’

  At home. Because I totally forgot that was my excuse - reason - for coming here.

  ‘... on the bus
,’ I finish. ‘I’m really sorry; I’ll just give them to you some other time. If I can get them back from the depot, I mean.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sam says. He’s looking at me, but I can’t look back. ‘That’s probably best. I’ll just... walk you to the door.’

  ‘No!’ I say quickly. ‘It’s fine. I remember the way.’

  I quickly turn and make it two steps towards the door.

  ‘Lucy,’ Sam says. He hasn’t moved. ‘I just wanted to say that I don’t make a habit of this. I know you’re taken.’

  Yes, I’m taken. I’m all yours. Because no other man in my entire life has even come close to making me feel the way that you just did.

  ‘Me neither,’ I whisper back. And practically run from the room.

  I do run once I’m out the front door, nearly slamming it behind me. Down the drive, out the gates and back along the road. I slip on a patch of wet grass on the verge and get a grass stain - and probably a bruise - for my trouble.

  My feet carry me straight past the bus stop, even though it's raining again. I can’t be still now; I need to keep moving. I wish I had my iPod. I need a tune to drown out my heartbeat and lyrics to distract me from the crossfire of thoughts in my brain.

  Part of me wants out. If I had any doubts about my feelings for Joe, that kiss has put them to rest. There’s a whole new level that I’ve just had a peek at, which Joe and I could never get to because our foundation is way too shaky to build that high. I want to dump Joe. Now. So I can stop pretending and experience the real deal with Sam.

  Another part of me, though, is terrified. My brief glimpse has shown me that this new level will be far more intense than anything I’ve felt before. Jealousy, insecurity, intimacy, the risk of having my heart shattered into tiny pieces. I’ve never had to deal with all that before. Can I cope with it now?

  Maybe I should just stick with Joe. A nice, safe relationship where I know the rules and the stakes are comfortably low.

  I want to hide. Burrow down somewhere no one will find me and no decisions await me.

  And so it is that my feet carry me home.

  I slam the door, despite knowing it’ll shake my neighbours’ houses as well. It doesn’t make me feel better.

  I pull off my wet and slightly muddy trainers and abandon them in the hall. I trudge into the living room, curl up on the sofa and hide under my huge furry blanket with the penguins on it.

  It reminds me of being a kid, when I used to build a den out of two armchairs pushed together with a blanket over the top. So safe and cosy in there. Like I was completely shielded from the outside world.

  I stay still and listen to myself breathing. And then I cry.

  Crying is pretty rare for me. One doesn’t cry on the tennis court. That’s what I was taught, anyway. I have a clear memory of sobbing after a match – how old was I? 10 or 11, maybe – and Mum giving me a sound ticking off. ‘Smile, shake your opponent’s hand, congratulate them, be gracious in defeat. And save anything else until you GET HOME.’ Except that, when I got home she told me to pull myself together and toughen up.

  Life used to be so simple. All that mattered was becoming the best player I could be, winning titles and Wimbledon. It wasn’t an easy life, but it was a clear-cut one. Not like my current one, which feels like it’s been cut out by a hyperactive pre-schooler with wrong-handed scissors. When is all this confusion going to end?

  The doorbell rings. Christ, that’s all I need. I’m tempted to ignore it, but I make myself get up, wipe my face and go answer it.

  If it’s a man selling double-glazing, I swear I’ll shove an umbrella down his throat.

  It isn’t. It’s my dad, looking rather concerned.

  ‘Hello sweetheart,’ he says. ‘Bad day?’

  I sniff. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘I think it was the way the hall light was swinging after you slammed the door.’

  I shrug and let him in. ‘I’m just having a mental breakdown, that’s all. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  I accidentally told my dad everything. And I mean everything. I never imagined talking about this stuff with him. To his credit, he took it like a man.

  ‘It was just so... different,’ I say. ‘I mean, every first kiss I’ve ever had has been so... aggressive. This was so gentle and yet if anything it had more effect. For a moment there I just... forgot everything but him.’

  Dad stirs his tea thoughtfully. ‘Believe it or not,’ he says, ‘that’s pretty much the way I felt the first time I kissed your mother.’

  I stare at him. I’m not sure what to say to that. I mean, Mum and Dad have been my role models in many things, but in love?

  He sees my expression and sighs. ‘I admit things have gone downhill a bit since then, but that doesn’t change anything. Keeping the love in a marriage over so many years isn’t easy. Maybe we’ve paid a bit too much attention to the Club and not enough to each other. But I couldn’t be married to anyone but her.’

  I guess that’s quite romantic.

  ‘It’s scary,’ I admit quietly. ‘Really scary.’

  He smiles. ‘Of course it is. It’s supposed to be. And there’s only one thing to do when you’re terrified of doing something. Which is...?’

  ‘Do it anyway.’ I gulp down some more tea. ‘Does that ever make the fear go away?’

  ‘Not usually, but it teaches you that fear needn’t hold you back.’

  I pour another cup of tea. And change the subject.

  After Dad has left, I watch the coverage on TV. The match before Joe's goes on for hours, but keeps being rained off. I don’t head back to Wimbledon until halfway through the third set. I don’t want to go then, but I have to be there for Joe’s match. And act my heart out.

  On the way up, my mobile rings. It’s Sam.

  ‘I’ve been trying to call for a while,’ he says awkwardly. ‘I just wanted to apologise for earlier and make it clear that I didn’t invite you over to try to seduce you.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘You don’t need to apologise. I’m the one in the relationship.’

  ‘But I knew that and still... well, it doesn’t sit well with me. I meant what I said, you know. I’ve never looked twice at anyone I knew was involved before.’

  I go to agree, but then I remember that Australian player. I cringe inwardly. I wish that had never happened.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say again.

  ‘Lucy... when you figure out what’s happening, just... let me know, okay? Either way. I like to be clear on where I stand.’

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘I have to go.’

  I drag myself to Court 1 for Joe’s match and settle into his player’s box. I smile and chat to his coach. He’s Italian, like Joe’s mother was, and rather fiery. I often think their coaching relationship must be in permanent danger of spontaneous combustion. Yet it’s been two years and they’re both still alive (and, more amazingly, still like each other), which I guess just goes to show that you never can tell.

  I smile. I look happy and confident. I applaud Joe as he walks on court. I feel like a total fraud. Every time someone glances at me, I’m convinced that they know what’s been going on. After a while, I stop looking around and keep my eyes glued on the match.

  They make it to 4-2. Joe has just broken and is looking very comfortable. Then the heavens open. Not drizzle this time. Play has to stop. Joe looks mutinous, but has no choice except to grab his stuff and get off court before he’s trampled by ball boys pulling the cover across. The crowd puts up umbrellas, puts on raincoats and sips Pimms. Wimbledon spectators come prepared.

  The rain only lasts five minutes and soon afterwards the sun is shining and the sky is blue. Play resumes, but Joe has lost his momentum while steaming in the locker room and starts throwing away the set. He bounces a racquet and gets a warning. The umpire overrules on one of his shots and his opponent gets the point. Joe is incensed, but has no challenges left. ‘You cannot be serious!’ he yells. Now he thinks he’s John McEnroe. He c
ontinues to argue. Loudly. Pointlessly. He’s finally given another warning and stomps back to the baseline. Christ, I hate it when he gets like this. I always want to climb down and give him a good shake.

  He gets away with it though, because he’s so damn good. When Joe is in the zone, no player can touch him – not even Sam. You can never, ever count him out, no matter what the scoreboard says, until you hear those words ‘game, set and match’. I’ve seen him pull off miracles. And, I have to admit, I’ve been proud to be in his box then.

  Joe pulls himself together and takes the set 7-5. Then the next 6-2 and the third 6-1. Game, set and match, Harker.

  By then my applause is entirely sincere. But as a tennis fan, not as a girlfriend.

  My phone rings seconds after I turn it back on.

  ‘So, did you go?’ Adrienne demands.

  I look around quickly. Too many people. I duck into the ladies in the competitors' complex, which is blessedly empty.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, peering at my reflection, none too flattering under the lighting.

  ‘And?!’

  ‘We kissed,’ I whisper.

  ‘And?!’

  ‘That’s it. Just one kiss. But what a kiss.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do now?’

  I sigh. I ask my reflection, who isn’t much help. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Mon chou, this was supposed to make it easier!’

  ‘It did. It just made it harder.’

  A pause. ‘I officially have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  A burst of noise as someone pushes open the door and goes into a cubicle.

  ‘I can’t really talk now,’ I whisper. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  And I sneak out again.

  I feel emotionally drained by the time I get home. I can’t believe I have to play tomorrow. I haven’t even been near a practice court today. That’s unprecedented in my whole career.