Games People Play Read Free Page B

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