Piers, âlet me get you a drink by way of apology for my appalling tennis. What would you like?
âOh, just a Coke, please, thank you.â
âSure. And what about you ladies? Oenone . . .?â
âWallyâs getting drinks for us.â
âWhat a gentleman that Wally is.â Piers grinned ruefully at an approaching young man in a smart blue tracksuit. âSorry, George, my volleying was all over the shop this morning. Forgot everything you told me in that last lesson.â
The man grinned back. âCanât win âem all.â
âNo, winning some would be nice, though. George, must introduce you to a friend of mine. Jude, this is George Hazlitt, the clubâs senior pro.â
âNice to meet you.â
âYou too.â The professional smiled the smile of a man who had never doubted his attractiveness to women.
âGeorge used to be top five in the world,â said Piers.
âA while ago, mind.â This was said with a self-depreciating grin. Close to, George Hazlitt was older than he had first appeared, probably well into his forties. It was his extreme fitness that made him look young.
He moved away. âIâll take over the marking for this one, Ned,â he said. âYou go and get a cup of coffee.â
âThanks, George.â The younger pro slid off his bench. As he moved through the crowd, he came face to face with Tonya Grace. Jude noticed the two of them exchange a private grin. Then the girl blushed and turned away.
A new pair of doubles was now knocking up on court, so George Hazlittâs marking skills were not yet required. To Judeâs amazement she saw him pick up a bag from beside the bench where he was sitting and start sewing. Yes, no question about it. He had some pieces of yellow felt which he was sewing together with a large needle. His movements were practised, automatic; he hardly looked at what he was doing.
Jude nudged Oenone Playfair and nodded her head towards the Pro. âDoes he have a side line in embroidery?â she whispered.
The older woman grinned. âNo, heâs making balls.â Seeing Judeâs puzzlement, she went on, âReal tennis balls are handmade â and they donât last long. Itâs part of the professionalâs job to keep up the supply.â
âLadies, your drinks,â announced the marinated voice of Wally Edgington-Bewley. âNow, Jude, move along a bit, make room for me . . . and I will regale you with the complete history of the ancient game of real tennis . . .â
It must have been about half past twelve. Jude was on her third glass of Chardonnay and feeling no pain. From the club room area behind the dedans wafted intriguingly spicy smells. Piers had promised her that âthe lunches are always very good for the Secâs Cup â thereâs an Indian member who does these amazing curries on the Sunday.â The smells made her realize that she was very hungry. Sheâd only snatched a slice of toast by way of breakfast at Piersâ Bayswater flat. And that had been before seven oâclock.
Still, Jude was quite content. Though Wally Edgington-Bewley had continued to ply her with dates and statistics, she hadnât taken any of it in. She had remained sitting with Oenone Playfair, but their circle had widened as Piers introduced her to more of the real tennis fraternity. She was struck by how nice they all were. And a little surprised by how mixed. Though she heard a good few hyphenated names and cut-glass vowels, there were plenty of members whose voices suggested much humbler origins.
But the main thing that impressed Jude was how much they all seemed to like Piers Targett. The whirlwind of their romance over the previous few weeks had not involved much socializing with other people. But Piers had been committed to participating in the Secretaryâs Cup before theyâd met, so this was really the first time he had introduced