Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [83]
“With whom?” I ask, instantly regretting it, trying to retract my suspicious question with a guileless smile.
It seems to work, although he still hesitates in a way that stabs my heart. I look at him, knowing I will replay this second of silence and the blank look on his face, just as I will replay the way he stumbles on his next words, “Oh, I don’t... I don’t know. . . Maybe alone ...”
His voice trails off as I nervously fill the awkward gap. “I’ll call Carolyn and see if she’s free,” I say, the word enabler springing to mind.
Then I turn and take my new shoes upstairs, thinking that if my husband is on the verge of cheating on me, at least he’s not very good at it.
***
On Thursday morning, April convinces me to fill in for her usual doubles partner, who is home with a stomach bug, in a practice match against Romy and her longtime partner, Mary Catherine—known in tennis circles as MC because she occasionally bursts out with “Hammer Time!” when acing her opponents. In short, all three women take their tennis very seriously, and I am sure that my high school tennis team prowess won’t live up to their religious ten hours a week of dedication to the game. And I’m even more sure when I see Romy and MC strut onto the indoor tennis court at Dedham Golf & Polo with their all-business, full-makeup game faces, and perfectly coordinated outfits, down to their matching wrist bands and sneakers—Romy in powder blue, MC in lavender.
“Hello, ladies,” MC says in her husky voice. She removes her warm-up jacket and shakes out her arms, her biceps rippling like an Olympic swimmer’s.
“Sorry we’re late,” Romy says, slipping her short blond hair into a nubby ponytail and then stretching her hamstrings. “Nightmare of a morning. Grayson had another meltdown on the way to school. My decorator showed up thirty minutes late with positively loathsome fabric samples. And I spilled a bottle of nail polish remover all over our brand-new bathroom throw rug. I knew I shouldn’t try to give myself a manicure!”
“Oh, honey! That sounds dreadful,” April says, her tone changing as it always does when she gets around Romy. It’s as if she wants to impress her or win her approval—which I find odd given that April seems smarter and more interesting than her friend.
“So, Tessa. April says you’re a great player,” MC says, cutting to the chase. She is the matriarch and captain of their tennis team, and apparently looking to fill one spot in their spring lineup. In other words, I am clearly auditioning today. “You played in college?”
“No!” I say, appalled with the misrepresentation.
“Yes you did,” April says, running her hand across her newly restrung racket and then opening a can of balls.
“No, I didn’t. I played in high school. And I didn’t touch a racket for years until I quit my job last year,” I say, setting the record straight and lowering everyone’s expectations, including my own. Still, I feel a surprising current of competitiveness, something I haven’t experienced in a long time. I want to be good today. I need to be good today. Or at least competent.
For the next few minutes, the four of us make small talk and warm up, hitting ground strokes as I replay my tennis instructor’s advice from a recent lesson—keep my feet moving, my grip tight, approach the net on second serve returns. But as soon as we begin the match, all my competency melts away, and thanks to my inability to hold serve or win a point on my return side, April and I quickly find ourselves down a set and three-love.
“Sorry,” I mumble after one particularly embarrassing return, an easy shot that I hit directly into the net. I am speaking mostly to April, but to Romy and MC, too, as I know I’m doing nothing to help hone their skills or elevate their level of play.
“No worries!” Romy shouts, barely winded, her makeup still perfect. “You’re doing fine!” Her tone is patronizing, but encouraging.
Meanwhile, I gasp for air and wipe my face with