Games People Play (34 page)

Rachel

It’s very strange, being back here, and I am getting rather tired of telling people the same things, as I hop on my crutches to and from the club toilets:

‘...Yes, I did it skiing.’

‘...Significant fracture of the tibial plateau...The top of the tibia, just under my kneecap.’

‘...On crutches for three months. A few more months after that till I can play again.’ (I can’t bear to admit that it might be longer; it might be never.)

‘...No, it doesn’t hurt much, not now.’

Then I take the leg brace off and pull up my tracky bottoms to show them my scar, the seven-inch line down the front of my knee, and that shuts them up.

The attention is nice in one way, but in another way it’s a bit overwhelming. I haven’t talked to so many people in one fell swoop for weeks; probably not since the Zurich tournament. Plus, I wonder if they are fussing over me so much because they feel more sorry for me about Dad. Nobody asks me about him, or how he is. It’s a relief – I’m not sure what I’d have said, anyway:

‘...On bail for child porn crimes, thanks for asking.’

‘...Downloading images from illegal websites.’

‘...I don’t know, really – six months in jail? We don’t even know when the trial is.’

I hate what he’s supposed to have done; hate it. But I’ll stand by him, of course, at least publicly. He is my family. That’s what families do, isn’t it? In my Fantasy Family, we all stick up for each other. (But of course in my Fantasy Family, there are no allegations of child porn, or divorces, or cancer. Probably the biggest problem we all might have would be trying to decide where to cycle to on our picnic, and what sort of fillings to put in our sandwiches...) I’d stand by Dad. What sort of daughter would I be, if I didn’t? Not that I’ve seen much of him since Anthea left. I can’t bear to ask him about Natasha Horvath, although I admit I’m curious. The only thing I can see them as having in common is their grumpiness, judging by that match she and I had.

All in all, I feel queasy with stress in case one of his Junior players’ parents, or one of Gordana’s friends, asks after him. They ask after Gordana, I notice, and that is easier to respond to: ‘She’s doing well, thanks.’

It was Kerry who persuaded me to come down to the club in the first place. I hadn’t wanted to, but I couldn’t really say no; not after I’ve been moaning so excessively to her about how bored I am. Besides, I’m meeting Mum for lunch in a restaurant down the road later, so it sort of makes sense to combine the two outings.

José is on holiday, Kerry said, and in his absence she needed some advice on her serve, which she claimed had ‘completely gone’. She asked one of the first team ladies’ players to give her a match, and she said she wanted me there to watch.

We haven’t talked much about Dad, and the charges, although of course she knows. I guess the squads are talking of little else, although nobody mentions it in my presence. I asked Kerry if there have been journalists or photographers down here, and she said she hadn’t seen any. The fact that I haven’t noticed any further reports in the newspapers seems to back this up.

It occurs to me that this will probably all change around the time of the trial; assuming there is a trial. There’s bound to be press interest then. The day is probably coming when people begin to look at me not as a tennis player, or an ex-tennis player, but as the daughter of a paedophile. It is more painful to me than my knee has ever been.

It is a cold December day. I can see my breath in the air, and frost is sparkling on the red fake-clay courts. I dressed with more care than usual this morning, in a proper matching tracksuit, and I even cleaned my trainers, washed my hair, and put on a bit of makeup. Just in case Mark is here. My leg-brace is on the outside of my tracky bottoms, partly so that it doesn’t press on the recently-healed wound, and partly out of vanity – it doesn’t make my leg look huge that way. I’m self-conscious enough as it is, knowing that I’ve gained so much weight in the past weeks. I’m eating almost the same amounts that I used to, but without burning off any of the energy.

Today, however, adrenaline is probably burning off quite a few calories for me: a weird, jittery feeling of discomfort at everyone’s knowledge of Dad’s alleged crime, and the necessity of pretending everything is OK.

Then there is the possibility of Mark being there, whom I haven’t heard from since the arrival of Jackson and my embarrassing sob-fest. I want him to see how much better I’m looking. Podgier, yes, but I know I have colour back in my cheeks, and I am practically leaping around on my crutches. I want him to see that he was wrong to write me off. I’ll be playing again in no time; far sooner than everyone thinks, especially Mark.

‘You look great!’ exclaims Kerry, swallowing surprise when Pops drops me off at the club. Despite the well-wishers quizzing me about my knee, it is still quieter than usual. There are a couple of squads training on the far courts; a quartet of elderly men playing a sedate set on Court One; and a bored-looking coach I don’t recognize giving a beginner a private lesson. I am simultaneously relieved and disappointed that Mark isn’t there.

‘Thanks, Kerry.’ I’d like to have added, ‘So do you’, but as usual, Kerry’s hair is unkempt and unwashed, and her mismatched sweatpants and WTA sweatshirt have weird reddish stains down the front, which she later confesses to be old Ribena. I give her a hug. I haven’t seen much of her at all since I’ve been staying out at Gordana’s; she’s been on the tournament circuit as usual, and it has been hard to find time to meet up more than once or twice.

‘Wish you were playing with me,’ she says as her partner, Zoe, approaches, stubbing out a cigarette on the path and waving cheerily. Zoe is a huge orange-haired freckly girl who chain-smokes and looks like a turkey when she runs, but she is a very useful player, with a superb eye for the ball. Kerry of course will thrash her, but at least she’ll get a decent game out of it. ‘Me too,’ I say, doing up my puffa jacket as I get settled with my leg stretched out on the bench nearest their court. I watch with envy as they warm up, smacking the ball up and down. It’s so reassuring, to be able to control the ball the way we all could. In fact, there’s nothing else in my life that I can control, I think to myself. I can’t control Gordana’s cancer, or the happiness of either of my parents. I certainly can’t control Dad or Mark; and at the moment, I can’t even control my own career. But once I’m playing again, I’ll be able to control that little yellow ball. However many months I am away from this game, I know that, nine times out of ten, I will still be able to make it go where I want it to go, over that net, into one corner or another, high, low, fast, slow ...
If
I want it to, of course.

But perhaps controlling the damn ball doesn’t even matter any more. Just because I can doesn’t mean that I have to. Perhaps I’d derive more satisfaction from training to be a...I can’t think of anything. What would I train to be? Not a tennis coach. Not a TV commentator, like Dad wanted to be, until they told him that he mumbled too badly to be trusted with a commentary. I don’t mumble, but I’m not exactly articulate in front of a microphone either. A physio?

I’ve had so much physiotherapy since the accident that I could probably qualify automatically. But I don’t really fancy the three or four year degree.

As usual, my thoughts on the subject go round in circles, until I realize that I’m not going to reach a conclusion, and knock them on the head. I’d like to talk to Mum or Gordana about it, just to broach the subject of me doing something else other than playing tennis – but every time I think about it, I chicken out.

When Kerry is at five games to three in the second set, a black cab chugs up to the gates of the club and a man gets out. I don’t pay him any attention at first, until he comes and sits on the bench next to me. I glance across at him and he smiles. He looks vaguely familiar; cute, too – burly and blond. He doesn’t say anything, though, until Kerry has polished off the final game with no difficulties. Zoe, disgruntled (although surely she couldn’t have hoped to beat her), stomps off court and lights a cigarette, and Kerry bounds over to me.

‘Rachel,’ the man says then, holding out his hand and smiling.

‘Um, hi?’ I reply, reciprocating with a question in my voice. Kerry and I exchange wary looks.
Journalist
, I think.

‘You don’t remember me, do you? I am Karl, from the hotel in Italy. Last time I saw you, you were in the hospital.’

‘Oh. Oh! Yes. Of course. How embarrassing...!’

‘Why?’ ask Kerry and Karl in unison.

‘Well . . .’ I remember my woolly concussed state after the accident, lying burbling in a bed, probably with my nightdress twisted up around my armpits. I could cope with my nearest and dearest seeing me in a state of disarray, but not really the van driver from the hotel. ‘I must have been a right state.’

Karl shrugs. ‘No. They gave you drugs; you looked peaceful. Your mother was more in a state than you were. I think she needed some of your medications.’

‘I remember now. You brought me flowers. Mum did tell me that you were over, and that you two had dinner,’ I say, feeling better. ‘But what are you doing here?’

Karl looks around him, almost as if he is also surprised to find himself here. ‘I am meeting Susie for lunch. She said she might invite you also, since she knew you would be here this morning. I found that I was too early, and I saw the signpost to the club. So I thought I would come and say hi. And to ask if you are going to join us for lunch?’

Kerry and I make eye contact again. This is a bit weird: why would he want me to come on their date with them? Mum had invited me for lunch, but she hadn’t mentioned anything about Karl. Perhaps she thought I wouldn’t want to come if he was going to be there. Perhaps she was right. But then I remember how she’d left me a message which had got cut off halfway through. I’d got the when and where bits, but evidently not the why. So she probably had told me.

‘I thought it would be nice to see you again,’ he repeats. ‘To check that you are now OK. It is nice to see you up and about, even with these...what are they called in English?’

‘Crutches. I’ve been using them since the accident. They wouldn’t let me leave hospital until I could go up a flight of stairs on them,’ I say, rather awkwardly, wondering what possible relevance that has to anything. I’m really not great at small talk. Flustered, I watch Kerry rub her sweaty face with a towel she takes out of her racket bag. It’s probably been in there for months – I can smell it from where I’m sitting. Her face is going to smell like that now, I think idly.

My mobile phone rings in my bag. ‘Excuse me.’ I fish it out. It’s Mum.

‘Rachel, hi, are you still at the club?’ she demands. She sounds stressed. ‘I’m really sorry, but there’s an accident on the A316 and I’m stuck in horrendous traffic. I don’t know how long I’m going to be. I’ve lost Karl’s number, so I can’t get hold of him. He’s probably on his way over.’

‘He’s here already,’ I say brightly and loudly, thinking it was just as well he’d turned up and explained that we were all having lunch, otherwise I wouldn’t have had a clue as to what she was talking about.

‘What, at the club? What’s he doing there? Anyway, could you take him off for a coffee? I’ll meet you in that place on the High Street; you know, the one with the grapevine in the conservatory. I’ll be about half an hour, probably.’

‘Mum!’

I don’t want to take a strange man out for coffee. I was looking forward to going for a drink with Kerry.

But just then a blue Mazda pulls into the club car park, and a tall blonde jumps out. It’s Mark’s new girlfriend, Sally-Anne. I grit my teeth; but worse is to follow.

‘Hiya, Kel!’ she honks. ‘Fancy a set or two? I absolutely have to work on my volleys. Oh...hello Rachel, long time no see. How’s the leg?’

‘I’m great, thanks, Sally-Anne,’ I say sweetly, managing not to add:
No thanks to you for nicking my
boyfriend
. But I suppose we had split up before they got together, so I can’t really accuse her of stealing him, tempting though it is. ‘You’ll come for a coffee with us, won’t you, Kerry?’

To my surprise, Kerry looks at me awkwardly, brushing her lank hair out of her eyes. She has the most amazing eyes: bright green and clear. But she never has much luck with men, either.

‘I wouldn’t mind another couple of sets here, actually,’ she says. ‘I don’t have fitness training till two o’clock.’

I make pleading faces with her behind Karl’s back, to no avail. Karl wanders over to the boards outside the clubhouse, where he skulks about, reading the names of all the members’ tags, up there on Dymo-embossed tape attached to metal tags and stuck on hooks.

One of my earliest memories is of Gordana letting me punch out labels for new members’ names myself, clicking the dial to each letter on the handheld Dymo machine as she dictated the name. I must only have been four or five. Many of those same labels still hang up there on the board, nearly twenty years later, their hardy owners playing regularly, battling on in all weathers through arthritis or sprains, middle-aged spread and back problems. Or, in Gordana’s case, cancer. I glance at the tag bearing her name, and my chest constricts.

‘Just a quick one?’ I ask Kerry again.

‘Nah, thanks, Rach, but I think I’ll stay here.’

Great, I think to myself. Sally-Anne’s got her claws into Mark
and
Kerry. It’s silly, but I am more hurt than I care to admit.

‘No problem,’ I say stiffly. ‘See you around, then. Karl, would you like to go and grab a coffee down the road?’

He rushes back over with alacrity and hands me my crutches. I notice Sally-Anne’s eyes widen to take in Karl’s good looks, so I decide not to mention Mum’s lateness until Sally-Anne is out of earshot. Excellent, I think, that’ll get back to Mark.

A couple of minutes later, we are sitting in the warm cappuccino fug of the coffee shop. I send Kerry a discreet text under the table: ‘
PLS DON’T TELL S.A. THAT KARL’S NOT MY BOYF
’, hoping that she can do this much for me. When I look up, Karl is watching me, and I feel uncomfortable. I’m never sure how to interpret that particular type of look, so loaded with unspoken words, as if it is trying to explain something I’d never in a million years understand. Why’s he looking at me that way when he fancies my mother?