by Voss, Louise
I must confess, I was terribly disappointed when Ivan didn’t succeed as a professional tennis player. He looks so dashing on court, so tall and handsome, and I was so proud of him. I really thought he could be the British Number One. I used to dream of him holding up the Wimbledon trophy and blowing me a kiss from where he’d be standing, next to the Duchess of Kent.
I’d think of my cousins back in Korčula, in their ill-fitting nylon dresses, drinking their bitter coffees and watching my gorgeous son win Wimbledon on a wall-mounted television in an austere café on the square.
I had even planned out in my head the letter I’d write to them, alerting them to the fact that the very same Ivan Anderson who was through to the quarter-finals was my own boy: Ivanovic Korolija’s grandson.
I wouldn’t want to tempt fate, so I wouldn’t post the letter until he got to the quarter-finals, and then I’d have to send it Next Day Delivery, to make sure they didn’t miss the semi or the final. I’d address it to Sabrina Franulovic; from what I heard she was still the town gossip. I’d pretend that I was merely being solicitous, enquiring about the wellbeing of her and her family, then I’d drop in the part about Ivan being through to the quarter-finals, hotly tipped as the winner. I would have to get somebody to check my Croatian though, it’s got very rusty since Mama died.
I imagine us going back to visit, with Ivan, walking triumphantly into their dreary cafés and their dreary lives, probably unchanged since we were last there, when Ivan was just five years old.
Mama used to tell me how shocked they all were when she and Papa brought me over to England, and how they sucked their teeth and told each other we’d never survive in this big noisy country with no family around us, but they were wrong. We did. If those cousins could see the house Ted and I live in now, they’d think it was Buckingham Palace.
I don’t believe this is just because I married a rich man, either. Ted wouldn’t be as rich as he’s become if it weren’t for me. I taught him to make more out of his money. I would never let one penny go to waste. It’s our money. Our house.
Chapter 3
Rachel
Tennis, tennis, bloody tennis. Even my social life revolves around it. Sometimes I feel so bored by it that I can hardly bear to pick up a racket, and the sight of those damn endless balls makes my heart sink.
Not always, though. It’s great when I’m winning, of course, and I love the challenge of it. Most of the time I feel grateful that at least there’s something I’m really good at – and I am really good.
Too good to give up…but not yet good enough to give up, either.
It’s just that I sometimes wonder if perhaps everyone could talk about something else for a change? Not much chance of that in my family, though: Dad – ex-British hopeful, coach, my business manager, Mr flaming Ambitious; my grandmother, Gordana – even more ambitious than Dad, if such a thing were possible. Only my mother doesn’t seem afflicted by this particular sporting obsession; she escaped nine years ago to live in the back end of nowhere in mid America.
So, because trying to imagine my family not talking about tennis is too much of a stretch, I try and imagine a different family altogether. A mum and dad in safe white collar jobs, home at six every night for dinner; siblings; regular family outings to Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty; queues for the bathroom, bickering; hugging; laughing conspiratorially…I hate being an only child.
It’s really hot in here. When Dad took over and revamped this place, a bit of airconditioning wouldn’t have gone amiss. I wish I was out in the cold night air, participating in the men’s training session, under the sickly yellow glow of the floodlights. Instead I’m squashed up at one of five trestle tables occupied by forty club members, mostly female and of a certain age. They’re all chatting loudly about house prices and school fees, their burgundy cheeks and shiny foreheads signalling that they’re as hot as I am. The lady opposite me, Margery, delves into her handbag and rather ostentatiously pulls out a silver compact. As she powders her nose, I see the compact is engraved with the words ‘Runner Up, the Winnie Wainthrop Midweek Trophy 2004’.
I’m sandwiched between my grandmother, Gordana, and another of the old club stalwarts, Elsie, and I wish I was pretty much anywhere else at all. I only agreed to come because Mark is training outside, but with Dad bound to turn up at any moment, I think it’s unlikely I’ll even get the chance to talk to Mark after his practice finishes.
‘Can’t we get some fresh air in here?’ I say, forgetting my alternative family daydream (we’d all be sitting down to shepherd’s pie and carrots about now, perhaps planning a holiday for next year, even though we should by rights all have grown out of the desire to go on holiday with our parents. They’d tease us, and make jokes, ‘When are we ever going to get rid of you all?’ but we’d know they were delighted we want to be included…)
I fan myself with a copy of the fixtures list. Through the stubbornly closed window, I watch Mark execute a perfect slice backhand on Court One, spreading both his arms wide after the shot as if he could take flight. The sight of him out there, his face ruddy with exertion, makes me feel even hotter.
‘And let all that warm air go to waste?’ Elsie frowns at me. ‘Do you have any idea how expensive it is to heat a place like this? No wonder our subscriptions are so high, with people like you going round opening windows willy nilly!’
Elsie is probably the same age as Gordana, early sixties, but behaves as if she is from a completely different generation. Gordana wears a nifty Nike ensemble on court: a tightish skirt and blue and white top which she absolutely still has the figure for, and in which, at a distance, she could pass for a woman in her forties. Elsie, on the other hand, plays in a hideous navy garment circa 1952, with about five million pleats in it to enable it to encompass her enormously wide hips. It rides up at the back to expose buttocks drooping in Billy Jean King frilly tennis knickers, and perfectly accentuates her Delta map of matching blue varicose veins and blancmangey legs.
She hates what’s happened to the club since Dad took it over. She hates having all these young, fit people around. I wonder why she still comes? Habit I suppose. She doesn’t even seem to enjoy her tennis any more. She has so many stipulations to be fulfilled before she’ll set foot on a court that it hardly seems worth it: she will only play on one of the two red courts and not on any of the green ones (too slippery), using Wilson balls, not Slazenger (I have no idea why); she refuses to play with men (too aggressive); she won’t stand for anybody chewing gum on court (too uncouth); and has a problem playing with anybody under forty (because they soon realize that she’s got a gammy leg and therefore can only hit the ball if it lands right at her feet).
When the conditions are acceptable for her to play, she’s a nightmare on court. Although she can’t run, can’t serve, can’t volley or lob, she finds it necessary to give ‘constructive’ criticism to whoever has the misfortune to partner her in doubles: ‘Don’t swing at your volleys!’ ‘That should have landed inside the baseline!’ I sometimes watch her out of the corner of my eye when I’m training on the next court with José, and I can’t believe some of the things she comes out with. Plus she’s a horrendous gossip, and nobody likes her. She lives in our street, which makes it worse: she’s always trying to cadge lifts off Dad, and he can’t stand her.
I gulp down half a glass of tepid white wine, and try to stop myself looking at my watch yet again. Only a few minutes till the men’s training finishes, and then perhaps there’ll be a chance of a furtive kiss with Mark before he goes off to the pub with the rest of his team. Providing Dad doesn’t turn up.
‘Where is Ivan?’ Gordana asks me, reading my mind.
There is an empty seat at the head of our table, and an expectant air to the other women around me. They all adore Dad.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I haven’t seen him all day. But I went to the gym at six this morning, and I haven’t been home since.’ My muscles ache as if reminding me of this, and I think longingly
of my cool, firm mattress.
Bang on time, somebody switches off the floodlights, and the courts outside are plunged into pitch darkness. A few moments later six sweaty men burst through the door, shouting and laughing, causing a momentary hush in the chat of the women inside as we turn as one, some disapprovingly (Elsie: ugh, men); and some admiringly (Gordana and I).
‘Coming to join us, boys?’ calls Gordana in her husky voice, waving her wine glass merrily at them.
Her English is still slightly imperfect at times, even though she’s lived in this country since childhood. I am convinced she cultivates a Croatian accent for added sex appeal.
Mark smiles at me, but manages to make it look as if he is actually smiling at my grandmother. ‘Sorry, Gordana. Tempting, but we’ve got pints with our names on them waiting for us. Thanks anyway.’
They all jostle into the men’s changing room, and the chat in the room resumes, although the wistful looks on some of the ladies’ faces suggests that their minds are more on the fit, naked male bodies not ten feet away in the shower, rather than who is responsible for laundering the clubhouse curtains. There are some compensations for having their club overrun by youngsters…
I’m not at all surprised that Mark and his friends declined Gordana’s invitation. The Ivan Anderson Tennis Academy’s Autumn Social supper isn’t exactly a riveting social occasion if you’re under fifty. I am the youngest person here by a good fifteen years. Dad and I are the living breathing trophies of the I.A.T.A., the club’s crowning glories – well, so Gordana believes, anyway. Ivan got to the last sixteen at Wimbledon once or twice in his heyday, and I’m currently ranked five hundredth in the world; tenth in Britain.
Since we moved back here from Kansas when I was a baby, this clubhouse has been a second home to me. I’ve grown up here; I learned to play tennis here. Despite the often petty squabbles and small-mindedness inevitably found in any collective, committee-run organization, the place and people give me a level of stability crucial to my nomadic existence. I’m glad that Gordana made Dad keep things the same when he took over – well, as much the same as possible. I’m travelling to tournaments around the world thirty-five weeks a year, so any stable community, however flawed, would feel like a blessing.
Five minutes later, two beeps on my mobile phone alert me to the arrival of a text message, and earns me a frown from Elsie. The text is from Mark: ‘MEET ME AT THE BACK OF COURT 4, SEXY BEAST’.
I grin hesitantly, although my body is already responding to the mental image of him, freshly showered, running his large hands over me. We’ve not actually gone all the way yet, although we’ve talked about it, and he keeps teasing me. I do really, really fancy him. It took me quite a long time to pluck up courage to tell him that I’m still a virgin, and he was surprised. I don’t know why – I mean, he lives the same life as I do; he knows how hard it is to maintain a relationship when tennis has to be the focus of everything. He hasn’t had many serious relationships either, although I guess that, unlike me, he’s managed to find opportunities to have sex. But he’s never had Dad breathing down his neck, forcing him to ‘concentrate on his career’ instead of going out to meet potential partners.
Much as I want him, though, I’m not going to be pressured into it. I don’t want to get hurt. But right now, I think how nice some fresh air would be …
I stand up. ‘Just got to go and make a phone call outside,’ I say to Elsie, who disapproves of mobile phones.
The men, including Mark, emerge from the changing room and leave the clubhouse in pungent wafts of aftershave and spray-on deodorant, heading for the pub in the next street.
I’m glad Dad’s not here yet. He’d have a fit if he saw me slipping out behind them. Although it’s bound to get back to him – I see Elsie’s eyes narrowing – what can he do about it? I’m twenty-three tomorrow, for heaven’s sake, he can hardly lock me in my bedroom to prevent me from having any contact with Mark.
He and Mark clashed, horribly, a couple of years ago, back before I was with José, when Dad was still coaching me. He took Mark on too, and the relationship lasted about three months until their regular shouting matches and ego clashes proved too much for them both, and Mark fired him. Dad hasn’t spoken to Mark since, but the way that Mark stood up to him served only to intensify my long-standing crush on him. I couldn’t believe it when he finally asked me out.
I leave the clubhouse, pretending to dial a number on my phone. The air is cold on my hot cheeks as I walk along the verandah, doubling back on myself once I’m sure I can’t be seen from inside. I creep underneath the windows until I get to the end court, silent in my trainers. I have a sudden fear that Mark has gone to the pub after all, having not received a reply to his text, and I’ll be standing around on an empty tennis court in the dark, feeling like a prat. The gate is slightly open, and I go inside, holding my breath with anticipation. There’s no sign of him, and so I am relieved when I think I can faintly smell his aftershave.
‘Pssst,’ I hear from a distant corner. ‘Over here!’
‘Where?’ My eyes are still adjusting to the darkness. There is a pause, and then a hand suddenly grabs mine, making me jump.
‘Hi, sexy,’ Mark says, pulling me towards him. ‘Are you a naughty girl?’
I laugh softly and kiss him. He smells of tennis balls and shower gel, and lust courses through my body. It’s such a physical sensation, like the feeling of an icy drink travelling down my oesophagus to my belly.
‘Me? Not at all. It was your idea.’
‘I don’t hear you complaining,’ he says, dragging me over to the back of the court. I glance uneasily towards the lit-up clubhouse. Through the window I can see Gordana holding forth to her entourage, gesticulating wildly at her own table; the queen of clubs; a big fish in a pond she and Dad both wish was a lot larger.
‘By the way…’ Mark whispers, sliding his hands under my T-shirt.
‘What?’
‘… I love you soooo much,’ he says, and his breath is warm on my throat and my ear and in my heart. ‘You are just so beautiful. You make my heart jump, you know.’
This is a different Mark to the cocky player on court, the bad loser, the racket-thrower, the stroppy muttering curser. This is my Mark: sweet and romantic and passionate. Nobody else has ever made me feel like this, not ever. Mark is in a whole different league. I hug him hard, my chin fitting perfectly into a bespoke notch at the side of his neck. ‘I love you too. I love you!’ We kiss.
‘What are you doing after this?’ I whisper. It would be so easy to go home with him, to continue what we kept starting but never concluded. Perhaps I am ready. Perhaps it’s time.
‘Pub with the lads,’ he replies, stroking my breasts gently. I wait for him to invite me to come with him, but he doesn’t. ‘They’re waiting for me.’
‘Can I come?’
For a moment his hands stop moving, then continue, like a missed frame of film in a movie. ‘Oh babe, aren’t you wanted in there? Ivan’ll throw a fit if he shows up and you’ve disappeared.’
Not for the first time, I wish he and Dad hadn’t fallen out. Then Mark could come with me, sit next to me, and everyone would know without a doubt that we were an item, rather than having to gossip and speculate about it. But then I swallow down a needling worry that it wouldn’t make any difference; that Mark would still do exactly what he wanted, even if Dad weren’t a problem.
‘Let’s concentrate on what we’re doing right now, shall we, instead of worrying about what we’re doing later?’
He pushes himself against me, a master of distraction, hard beneath the soft fleecy fabric of his sweatpants.
I look nervously again at the lit-up clubhouse, and pull away from him a little. It scares me when he does that.
‘Oh Rach, Rach, you drive me mad. I want you so much,’ he moans. He’s kissing my neck now, and my skin feels so alive and sensitive it’s as if I can feel every tiny cell of his lips brushing against it.
Gooseflesh sweep
s up and down my back, although I’m not at all cold.
‘Sorry. I’m not trying to tease you or anything, it’s just -’
‘What?’
‘Soon,’ I mutter, ‘I know I’ll be ready soon.’ And I really think I will be, as he pinions me against the fence, and the green wire presses honeycomb patterns into my back. I wrap one leg around his hard thigh, and forget about Dad. After all, twenty-three is ludicrously old to still be a virgin, tennis career or no tennis career. And Mark isn’t going to wait for me forever…
‘Just not yet, OK?’
He sighs, and kisses me again.
Fifteen minutes later, and rather sheepishly, I creep back underneath the windows to the clubhouse, hoping I don’t appear too obviously ravished. Mark got his own way and I allowed him go off to the pub without a murmur, in an attempt to compensate for not letting him go all the way. Anyway, he was right. Dad would have gone up the wall if I’d absconded from the dinner so early. I plan to slink back to my seat, still clutching my mobile as if the call had just finished; and I am concentrating so hard on looking innocent that for a few moments I fail to register the utter change in atmosphere inside the pavilion.
Whereas before the room had been filled with breathy chat and the tinkle and hoot of laughter, I am greeted with complete silence. At first, I think that somehow they’d all managed to see Mark and me snogging on Court Four, and I instantly blush a deep, panicky scarlet. But they aren’t looking at me. All eyes are turned in the direction of Gordana and Elsie, who are standing up, actually eyeballing one another like two cartoon bulldogs. Gordana, usually so composed, looks as if she is going to punch Elsie on the nose.
I run over to the table. ‘What’s going on?’ I hiss at my grandmother, as the entire room follows the exchange with rapt attention. A couple of the kinder souls attempt to rekindle the conversation at their respective tables, but are indiscreetly shushed – this is clearly the most exciting thing to happen at the tennis club since the near punch up at the last AGM over allocation of court time for the lowly Intermediate members.
