Page 7 of Game, Set, Match
‘O . . . K . . .’ said Hannah, trying to hide her scepticism whilst silently reminding herself that she could beat every one of these women on the tennis court. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Well, hopefully it will be the other way round, actually,’ said Jess. She had one of those sing-song cheerful voices that made her sound like a kids’ TV presenter. ‘Can you meet us for a drink after?’
‘Who’s us?’
‘Me, Gaynor, Trish. We’ve got a proposition for you.’ Trish nodded in agreement, dragging her attention away from Noah, who was squatting down in very tight white shorts as he re-tied his shoelace.
‘What kind of proposition?’
Jess gave a tinkly laugh. ‘That would be telling.’
Hannah sighed. ‘Is it tennis-related?’ She wasn’t sure she could handle any more revelations about Graham. For all she knew he’d been having sex with his PA, his dry cleaner and half the Woking Women’s Institute.
‘Yes, absolutely,’ said Jess. ‘Nothing bad, I promise.’
‘Fine,’ Hannah said resignedly, rationalising that she had absolutely nothing to go home to.
‘We can go for a wine at the Black Stag,’ said Jess, nodding towards the pub that backed onto the courts. ‘Or a coffee, if you like.’ Hannah was known for not being a drinker; another old family habit that died hard, like sensible knickers and not swearing.
‘I’ll be half an hour,’ she said, hating herself for being a tiny bit curious. She watched them whisper to each other as they sashayed towards the clubhouse, Jess’s racquet bag bouncing in time to her chestnut ponytail as men on adjacent courts took a moment to towel off so they could track their progress with slack jaws and hungry eyes. Hannah had no idea what the Bitches of Westwick could possibly want with her, but there wasn’t room in her brain to think about it right now.
‘Ready?’ said Noah.
‘Yeah.’ Hannah straightened her bandana, then headed back to the baseline.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘So listen, here’s the thing,’ said Jess, who was clearly leading the ambush. Even though it was April, there was a bitter wind that firmly belonged in January, so they had bagged the table in the bay window by the wood burner before the Friday-night rush started in the Black Stag. ‘We were just—’
‘Drinks,’ said the barman, cutting across Jess as he placed an ice bucket containing a bottle of Pinot Grigio and four glasses on the table. He unscrewed the cap and poured an inch of it into each glass, while Jess impatiently drummed her fingernails on the arm of her chair. Her hair and make-up were immaculate, even after an hour of tennis drills. Did the woman never sweat?
‘As I was saying,’ she said once the barman had retreated to eavesdrop from behind the bar. ‘We were wondering if you’d like to come on a girls’ tennis holiday with us.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘The three of us.’ Jess looked between Gaynor and Trish, who were flanking Hannah on either side. ‘We’re looking for a fourth.’
‘What happened to Carla?’
‘Can I say?’ Jess directed her question at the other two. They both shrugged.
‘She’s just found out she’s expecting twins,’ said Jess. ‘But that’s not common knowledge, so don’t tell anyone. She’s pushing forty so it’s kind of a big deal.’
‘IVF,’ mouthed Trish, like Carla only had herself to blame.
Hannah nodded. ‘Right. So why are you asking me?’
‘What do you mean?’ replied Jess.
Hannah cleared her throat. ‘Well, it’s not like we’re all the best of friends or anything.’
Jess looked at Gaynor, who smiled weakly and gamely picked up the baton. ‘Right, but we’re not NOT friends. We play tennis together all the time.’
Hannah laughed. ‘Gaynor, I’ve been a member at Westwick since I was eight years old. We’ve played ladies’ doubles together for a decade, we’ve spent hundreds of hours at the club, and this is the first time any of you have ever asked me out for a drink.’
They looked at each other awkwardly, until Trish continued, ‘Yeah, OK. Look, it’s not that we don’tlikeyou or anything, it’s just that we’re all quite . . .’ She looked helplessly at the others for an appropriate adjective.
‘. . . different?’ concluded Gaynor, though it sounded more like a question. ‘Like, you’ve never done much of the social stuff at the club, we don’t see you on the school run. You don’t really drink. We haven’t had the chance to get to know you, I guess.’