Games People Play Read Free Page A

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