Croissant for Kay
Jumping up at the sound of the alarm at 7am was no hardship when a clear blue sky dotted with puffballs clouds was your welcome.
By 8.15 a.m. a line of Mercedes’, BMWs, Lexus’ and other luxury cars were scrambling for spots on the car park closet to the courts.
There were plenty of ‘hellos’ being exchanged, with many familiar faces that, as yet, had no names.
A crowd had gathered by the noticeboard with a lot of questions without any answers being exchanged outside the tennis shop.
“What is this?” I asked Tim.
“A Round Robin, and you are in it,” he said, and disappeared to interrogate other people.
The head pro came out to take questions and could only cope with the front row.
“Saturday at 11am, mixed men’s and ladies’ doubles. Sign up if you haven’t already!” He shouted.
My heart missed a beat and I felt a chill sweep up my neck.
Tim had signed us both up for this and I knew this would be my moment of utter public shame.
My mind raced as to what illness I could invent, what symptoms I needed to have, what limb I could blame, so I could become a spectator.
I would have to check myself into a clinic for a few days and actually get wired up, as he would have me play in a plaster cast.
Walking to Friday’s tennis clinic in a trance I was waiting for a brainwave. Saturday was tomorrow.
I asked all the girls in the clinic if they had also signed up, and they said ‘yes’ they had.
A very tall, thin, quaky woman in her forties whom had previously been friendly was my target. She had very thin flesh covering a strangely shaped skeleton and needed a bit more fat to cover it up. She was a bit confused about nothing in particular, and gave the impression of being a few seconds behind everything happening around her.
“Are you joining this thing on Saturday?” I asked disdainfully.
“What thing?” Only she could not understand the question.
“The round robin, square pigeon, long sparrow, whatever they call it,” I replied.
“Oh that…. you’re funny. I don’t know, as my daughter has a party. She needs a dress, so I should get her fitted.” I walked away, as this story could go on until Saturday and I only wanted a ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ so I approached short, darker, athletic women who seemed to talk to everyone.
“Oh sure it will be fun, someone has to lose and it may as well be us!” I liked her immediately, and no more than five foot four in height she radiated all the energy in the world.
“You’re from England aren’t you? I will be spending the summer in France, studying French. My boyfriend has a place in Monaco where his parents live. Do you speak French? Perhaps we can meet and all play tennis there?” She asked.
“Yes, we go to the south of France around June. My French is adequate, but my tennis is pretty poor,” I answered, my mind tingling at the thought of being asked to play tennis in France. I, the worst player in the club, had an invitation for tennis!
Only the Americans could extend such impractical invitations, from two bad players with three words of French between them, for the Cote d’Azur in the summer without even knowing each other’s surnames.
The blood pumped through my veins and I fingered the strings on my racquet, to give the air of a real player.
“So I will see you Saturday, and maybe we can be partners. My name is Kay,” she said, smiling.
It was my turn to be friendlier and I asked her why the tall thin lady seemed so confused.
“That’s because Randy’s husband has just walked out on her, giving her a two million dollar house fully paid for, and she doesn’t know what day of the week it is,” her eyes twinkled and her teeth gleamed with the glee and knowledge of such privileged information.
Glancing back at the tall, gawky, woman whose bones stuck out in all directions, she was still completely self-absorbed.
I didn’t need her to help through the Round Robin, as mentally, I was already playing in Monaco.
Funny how even the useless can emotionally move on.