Nick’s serve landed exactly where he had planned, springing wide over the tramlines, but not with as much pace as he had intended. His opponent, a seasoned club member in his early forties, was on top of it in seconds, firing a low cross-court drive and racing up to the net in preparation to administer the obvious volley winner. Nick arrived late to the ball but managed a last-minute flick of the wrist as he struck it so that instead of shooting back on the obvious trajectory, it sailed high over his adversary’s head, landing an inch inside the baseline and securing him the crucial five–three lead he had been hoping for. It was the final set. He had only to break serve again, or hold his own, and victory would be his.
Nick glanced at the stands where his daughters and Donna had based themselves, only slightly disappointed, and not remotely surprised, to see that they were empty. The three of them had been popping in and out regularly during the course of the final, for snacks and toilet breaks, and to watch Mike Scammell, their neighbour, who happened to be playing as a doubles guest on the next-door court. Nick was deeply touched that his family had bothered to come at all, even if two lame horses had been the reason. The tennis club ran so many tournaments and he often did well in them, so it was hardly a momentous occasion. In addition to which, the April weather was blowy, not ideal for sitting out in.
As they changed ends, Nick paused to swig from his water bottle. Through the fencing behind the stands, he glimpsed Donna’s red jacket and a smudge of blue that was probably Nat’s denim one. Sasha was in her old grey hoody, but he couldn’t see her. Doubles was always more fun to watch, but as a player Nick preferred singles, the focus it required, the absolute responsibility it demanded. To concentrate completely on something – anything – was a form of relaxation, as he had found himself trying to explain to Kat when he eventually got around to writing a proper email back to her, latching onto the subject both because it interested him and because it seemed to fulfil her somewhat curious stipulations. No raking up of the past. Nothing personal. Whatever did that even mean anyway? How could one write to an old acquaintance without being ‘personal’? And Kat had, for a couple of years anyway, been integral to his past, so that didn’t make much sense either. Brooding on such questions after what had proved a very pleasant evening with Donna’s relatives, Nick had resolved not to bother with a proper reply.
During the ensuing days, however, the matter kept pestering him, like a loose tooth. Soon, Kat’s stipulations began to feel like a challenge from which he had shied away. Possible subjects began to present themselves, including the art of tennis. His response, when he got to it, became something of an essay, a relaxing act of concentration in itself. He crafted and reworked several versions before eventually sending it on its way. When there was no immediate response, Nick wondered if Kat had suffered similar doubts and changed her mind.
But then, after a week, a witty email arrived, describing the tribe of humanity – of which Kat claimed to be an affiliate – mysteriously incapable of making contact with any moving sporting objects. Nick had replied in the same light-hearted vein, asking if she had ever considered tiddlywinks or poker as alternative pastimes. A series of amusing and enjoyable exchanges had ensued, covering the degree of hand-eye coordination required for firing plastic counters and whether gambling could ever be regarded as a sport.
Next it had been clouds – had Nick heard of the Cloud Appreciation Society? (he hadn’t); then theories as to why pet owners grew to resemble their pets; then some joint musings as to the reasons jazz music sent some people into ecstasy and others crawling up the wall. And so it had gone on, sporadic, harmless, left-of-centre exchanges which invariably made Nick chuckle, or stop and think, and then be eager for more. There was such clarity and colour in her language, and yet an alluring down-to-earth-ness too. If ever – rarely – he caught her out on some detail, she was only too happy to retreat and apologise, usually with a joke at her own expense.
Kat, can I say how much I am enjoying our communications, he had ventured in a recent missive, it makes me wonder what we talked about when we were together. What the hell DID we ever talk about??
I’ve no idea, and it doesn’t matter, she had shot back, and you are breaking the cardinal rule. The olden days and private stuff are out of bounds, remember?
It took a while for Nick to realise that the tennis match was slipping from his grasp. Not only had his opponent managed to hold his service game but had done so with such ease that he was now attacking Nick’s with new and dangerous self-belief. The man’s first two returns had been clear winners and he was now springing round on the balls of his feet, eager to slam the third. Nick took a deep breath. At a certain level, sport was always a battle of minds. He had let his concentration drift, that was the trouble, done exactly the opposite of what he had told Kat he was good at. He had allowed himself to believe that the work of winning was done when it was still all to do. He might write to Kat about that too, one day.
Nick took his time assembling himself to serve again. The girls were back in their seats, although there was no sign of Donna. Natalie was on her phone, but her younger sister was watching him intently, looking faintly troubled. An ace, Nick told himself, straight down the middle, shaving the outer edge of the line. He shot Sasha a wink and began to bounce the ball. He bounced it seven times, slowly, rhythmically, shutting out not just his daughter but the whole world, making his opponent wait, making the moment his.