Games People Play (42 page)

‘Close your eyes,’ he commanded, and I obliged, smiling a languorous, post-coital smile, half expecting him to wipe my nose with the scrunched-up tissue. It was the best feeling in the world: to have Billy’s familiar warm voice in my ear and the imprint of his skin against mine, after thinking he was lost to me forever. But things were about to feel even better: he was still holding my left hand, and I felt the small cold slide of metal on my third finger. My eyes immediately popped open to the flash and gleam of my engagement ring, the opal greedily catching what meagre winter light was filtering through the trees on to it.

‘My ring,’ I said fondly, examining it like the face of an old friend, tilting my hand up and down to watch the colours change.

‘You want to wear it again?’ asked Billy anxiously. ‘I had to break into the house to get it. But I mended the window afterwards, don’t worry.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I want to wear it again. And I want us to go shopping for the wedding ring that’ll sit next to it, right there.’ I took his finger in my right hand and rubbed it gently on my own ring finger, just below the knuckle and just above the opal. ‘Tomorrow. I want to go shopping tomorrow, so we can take the ring back to Lawrence with us when we go.’

Billy nodded, speechless, leaning his forehead against mine.

‘Then we’ll book the register office. OK?’

He just nodded again, and I hugged him. Over his shoulder, I saw the opal flash pink and red and green and turquoise.

Six Months Later

Rachel

I haven’t been to the tennis club for months, not since the day that Karl turned up and we gatecrashed the Japanese party’s boat. The day our relationship began.

It’s nice to be back, in a bittersweet kind of way.

There is cheerful bunting draped in loops along the gutters around the pavilion, tubs of salmony-pink begonias and lurid fuchsia are in full bloom, and there is white surfinia in hanging baskets outside the clubhouse. It all looks somehow more technicolor and super-real than I remember. The Midweek ladies have been here all afternoon getting the place ready for the party. I should probably have offered to help, but I couldn’t quite face the prospect of several hours of being bossed around by Elsie and Gordana’s friends – and I didn’t think it fair to inflict that on Karl either.

Elsie herself seems to have mellowed quite a bit, though. Dad sees her going in and out of her house sometimes, and reported recently that she’s actually got a boyfriend. Turns out it’s one of the garden gnomes, a sweet white-haired old boy; the same one Gordana reported gleefully that Elsie wouldn’t speak to for years because she thought he fancied Valerie. His name is Humphrey. I didn’t know there were any Humphreys still alive; I thought they’d all died out with Colonialism.

When Karl and I arrive, the Midweek tournament is just finishing, and Elsie and Humphrey were coming off court after the Senior Mixed Doubles. They are wearing matching blue elastic knee supports – sweet! (I shouldn’t mock. I have to wear one myself, at least for the next few months.)

Elsie spots us and makes a beeline for me, actually hugging me. The sun visor perched on top of her perm knocks into my forehead as we embrace awkwardly.

I’ve known her since I was four, but that’s the first time I’ve ever had the dubious pleasure of physical contact.

‘Rachel dear,’ she said in a tone that, if I didn’t know her better, could only be described as nervous. I notice that her lipstick matches the begonias, and wonder if this is intentional. She looks round at Humphrey for support, who gives her an encouraging nod and a thumbs-up – she’s obviously been preparing this speech. ‘You look beautiful ...I just wanted to let you know that it’s very nice to see you up and about again, without the crutches. We miss you down here; the place isn’t the same without you all. And I’m really sorry for ...well, you know, the trouble I caused before over your father’s ...ahem ...problems. I ought to have kept my speculation to myself – even if it did turn out to be correct. I’ve made my peace with your grandmother already, but if Ivan’s going to be here later, I’d like to apologize to him too. He’s been through a terrible time. You all have.’

I’m touched, even though the entire speech appears to have been delivered to the top of one of the floodlights and not to me at all.

‘Thanks, Elsie, that’s really nice of you. No hard feelings.’

She hesitates, and looks at me for the first time. ‘I never did care for that Anthea, you know. She used to ignore me when she saw me in the street!’

As someone who has studiously ignored Elsie in all sorts of places on many occasions over the years, I blush slightly. ‘To be honest, we didn’t much like her either,’ I say.

‘Have you heard from her?’

I shake my head. ‘Oh no. We won’t do, either, I’m sure, not directly. The police are going to have her extradited to face charges, even though Dad said he would let it go. But they told him that the offences are too serious: downloading child porn
and
attempting to pervert the course of justice. They tracked her down at her mother’s retirement home in Portugal, although it took them a while. She confessed straight away.’

I have an interesting mental picture of Anthea in her Chanel velour tracksuit, pedalling her way around continental Europe on an exercise bike, a international fugitive from justice, stopping only for cans of Slim-Fast and manicures, until the constabulary catches up with her and she crumbles under the pressure of interrogation...Poor old Anthea.

Elsie’s eyes get bigger and rounder at the scandal, and she purses her lips. I decide not to add fuel to her fire of gossip by telling her that, despite Anthea’s act of treachery, Dad does feel bad towards his former girlfriend. She had only done what she had when she found out about Dad and Tasha’s on-off relationship.

Apparently, Anthea had discovered a letter from Tasha to Dad, and she’d downloaded the porn then, on the spur of the moment, to get her own back. She had to wait months for the police to discover the offence, but even after that, she wasn’t satisfied. That was when she tipped off the press.

None of us could really understand why she’d bothered to stay with Dad throughout all this if she hated him so much, but it seemed she couldn’t bear to let him go, either. It’s so sad. She was waiting for him to wake up and realize that he wanted her, not Tasha.

I don’t know how she could have kept silent for so long, knowing Dad had been in love with someone else, not knowing whether it was still going on...And not knowing which day would be the one the police came after him. Or, as it turned out, her. She hadn’t been aware of what Mum subsequently found out, and got Dad to tell his solicitor: that every command you perform on a computer, every file you download, has a time stamp to it.

After Anthea’s confession, the police took statements from José, Kerry and myself, all testifying that Dad was with us at a tournament on the dates in question. It took them a while to sift through the files on the computer and check the credit card statements, but eventually it all came together.

On a frosty February day, Dad, his solicitor, Gordana, Ted and Tasha had put on their smartest suits and attended Kingston Magistrates Court for the official announcement, surrounded by a phalanx of journalists and photographers, and even a crew from the local TV station. Despite Anthea’s best efforts, it was the first time that his case had attracted TV coverage – so it was an unbelievable relief for us all that Dad could emerge from the court and stand on the steps with an ear-to-ear beam, as his solicitor announced that he was fully exonerated of all charges, and that the CPS had dropped the case against him.

I smile at the memory of the celebrations we had on that day. It was the first time I’d met Natasha, properly, and I’d bitten my nails to the quick with nerves beforehand. I had this horrible image that she’d be glaring at me across the table like she had across the net on court that time. But when I met her, she had the sort of megawatt smile which lit up the whole room, and her hand rested on Dad’s arm almost the whole evening. She even apologized for her behaviour in our match. I don’t think she’ll ever be my closest friend or anything (heaven forbid: she might tell me about her sex life, eurgh), but I think we like each other.

And here we are now, at a different sort of party, just four months later ... Suddenly I feel a frown of emotion squeezing my forehead, and I have to take a deep breath. Time has gone so fast...

Karl sees, and reaches for my hand. Elsie of course doesn’t notice. ‘Well, it should be a jolly good bash tonight. Everyone’s coming, you know.’

‘Great,’ I said, managing to smile at her. ‘And yes, Dad said he was coming too.’

I hadn’t been at all sure that Dad would agree to attend the party. Of course he ought to be here, but Dad being something of a law unto himself, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d said no. It’s going to take a lot of courage for him to show up here tonight, after he was declared bankrupt in April. The club was on the market for a little while, until a collective of the old guard of members, mostly the wealthy Midweek ladies, decided to pool their resources and buy it out.

They’ve asked Ted to be club secretary, and he’s delighted. He and Jackson spend most of their time down here now, much to the disgust of Timothy the club cat.

Jackson’s even taken over Timmy’s favourite sleeping place, in the large cardboard box of lost property. I don’t think anyone ever reclaims anything which goes into that box: all the mislaid Tshirts and sweatshirts are covered with cat and dog hair now, and unappealing bits of dirt dropped from muddy paws. Timmy has been relegated to the club car park, where he sits on car bonnets hissing and hurling kitty insults at Jackson whenever he and Pops trot past.

Anyway, Dad is different now that all the charges have been dropped against him, and Tasha’s moved in with him. He seems to be able to handle things much better than he ever used to. The house is no cleaner than when Anthea lived with him, and neither of them can cook to save their lives, but he’s so much happier.

He’s no longer anyone’s business manager – who’d have him, with his track record? – and most of his squads train elsewhere now, except for Kerry’s and Mark’s, who stayed based here, because José still coaches them.

‘You haven’t been in here before, have you?’ I ask Karl as we push open the door and go inside. It’s just as it was before, dusty-floored village hall adjoining the newer, smarter carpet-tiled bar area representing Dad’s failed investment. As per Gordana’s strict instructions, purple and green balloons are dangling all over the ceiling like small bunches of outsized grapes on a vine. They clash horribly with the yellow and red patterned curtains, but nobody seems bothered about that. A little stage has been set up in the corner and an elderly man in a shiny waistcoat is hunched over, tuning a guitar and testing microphones.

‘No. It’s very sweet,’ says Karl in an entirely unpatronizing voice, looking around him at the championship boards on the walls, dating back to the 1940s. The women’s board for the Seventies features Gordana’s name as Singles champion on several occasions, and mine crops up over and over again in the Nineties (every year, in fact, except ’97 when I was out with a hamstring injury). Dad’s name of course dominates the men’s board for the Seventies and Eighties. It’s a family thing, I think proudly. Funny how I can have won tournaments all round the world (albeit not many of them, and not big tournaments, but still....) and yet our names in gold letters on the little local club championship board inspires in me the most pride of all. My Fantasy Family may have good picnics and a harmonious home life, but even in my imagination I can’t picture any of them having half as much success as my real family has had. It’s the first time this thought has occurred to me, and suddenly the Fantasy Family seems a little...well...goody-goody and
wet
.

I lean back against the wall and survey the activity around me. Lots of ladies, many familiar, some not, are flapping around engaged in various activities: salad-mixing, window-cleaning, flower-arranging. Someone even appears to be checking that the name-tags on hooks on the membership board outside are all in the correct alphabetical order.

The folded and propped-up table-tennis table against the wall next to me has an A4 sheet Sellotaped to it reading: ‘
DANGER! DO
NOT
USE TABLE
!’

‘I wonder what sort of danger we would be in if we used the table?’ Karl asks reflectively, following my gaze.

‘Could ruin your forehand swing forever, perhaps?’I suggest. ‘Table tennis is almost as bad as squash for that.’

‘Mine is already ruined,’ Karl says, and I laugh. It’s true, he’s a terrible tennis player. I’ve only just started playing again myself – the leg brace came off at the end of January, but it was a good few more months before I could actually run – and Karl and I recently had a very gentle hit on the courts at my gym. I tried to give him a bit of coaching, but we gave up after an hour. I could tell right away he was an ex-squash player; he just wouldn’t stop whacking the ball straight out of the back of the court, and he had no service action whatsoever. It got a bit boring after a while, although at least he remained good natured about it.

I’m still doing regular physio on my knee, and am back at the gym three times a week. Obviously I don’t need to be as fit as I used to be, but I don’t feel right when I’m not exercising. I don’t sleep so well, and my digestion doesn’t function as efficiently. It also passes the time for me when Karl has to be away, working. He goes between here and France, Germany and Italy on a regular basis for his wine-importing business.

Needless to say, I’m not in any hurry to go skiing again, but we did go back and spend a wonderful weekend at his sister’s hotel. It was a bit weird, being back there, but lovely to get to know Karl’s family a bit better.

But mostly I’ve been trying to build up my portfolio. I’ve been accepted as a mature student on to the BA (Hons) Fine Art course at Kingston University, and I can’t wait. The walls of the flat Karl and I moved into last month are already covered with my flower paintings, and every time I look at them, I feel another thrill of satisfaction; much more tangible and lasting than the brief warm glow from applause, or a few points hike in ranking. And so much less hard work too! I’ve been going to art galleries, and reading tons of art history; I love the feeling of mental instead of physical stimulation (I have Karl to give me physical stimulation now – every night!). It’s such a new experience: facts and images jostling for position inside my head; the sensory blossoming which comes when I see colours combined in a certain way, or touch the smoothness of a cold marble sculpture. Karl’s body and mine together is like a work of art too, something which mingles and curves into a new sort of beauty, astonishing to me in its depth.

Mum and Billy went back to Kansas just after Christmas. They’ve finally set their wedding date, for this coming New Year. They’re getting married in Barbados, on the beach, and Karl and I are going to fly over as witnesses. I can’t wait. The only sad thing about it is that it means they couldn’t afford to come over again this year. I wish Mum could be here tonight, but it’s enough knowing that they’re happy.

Apparently Billy has stopped both smoking and selling pot; and Mum’s training to be a life coach. Billy’s keeping his mechanics business but cutting down on his hours, and they’re planning to set up a gallery together in Lawrence as well. I told her she could sell my paintings, and she didn’t even laugh.