‘I’m seeing my mate after school today, actually; he went to school here with me and now we play tennis together. I’ve been thinking about talking to him …’
Ethan keeps his eyes on Seb. ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ he says.
Seb nods his agreement slowly, thoughtfully.
‘I know what you’re trying to do, by the way.’ Ethan narrows his eyes at Seb, cynicism back in place.
He wants to laugh, thinks,
‘I’m honestly not trying to do anything, Ethan. Trust me, I know how hard it can be to talk about feelings. Just know, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here if anything changes and you want to talk.’
Ethan nods, shoving his rucksack back on his shoulders. ‘So, I can go now?’
Seb nods. Wishes he could swap places with this kid who can just walk so easily away from his troubles.
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
Ethan dips his head towards Seb, but before he opens the door, he stops. ‘I’ll bring my coursework in the day after tomorrow.’
‘That’d be good.’
He nods again and before he leaves Seb asks, ‘Ethan, don’t tell anyone what I said, will you?’
Ethan turns to look back directly at Seb, his eyes surprised, but there’s a small smile on his lips as he replies quietly, ‘Course I won’t.’
The court floodlights switch on as Seb sits on the bench outside Court Five and waits for Eddy. They try to play at least twice a week – always on Wednesday and Friday – more when their schedules allow. They’ve been playing tennis together since they were twelve and they think of Court Five at Waverly Tennis Club as ‘their court’. Eddy always says when he writes his memoir he’ll call it
This seventy-eight-by-twenty-seven-foot tarmac rectangle has been a silent, constant witness to their friendship. It was on Court Five that Seb finally broke down after his dad died. It was on Court Five that they asked each other to be godfather to brand-new Blake and then, a few years later, to Sylvie. And it was on Court Five, a couple of years ago, that Eddy told Seb that he’d cheated on Anna. Of all the memories, Seb thinks about that one the most.
Eddy’s game was off that day. He’d got two double faults in a row, which was unlike him. During a break Seb put his hand on the back of his friend’s neck and asked, ‘Ed, you OK?’
Seb couldn’t have known, but the combination of that touch, those words in that exact moment made Eddy crumple. They hadn’t played a second set; instead, Seb held Eddy, tried to make his arms strong, capable, like those of the fathers they both missed. Underneath the humour, the piss-taking and bravado, Eddy was as soft as a peach.
From the bench, Seb watches Eddy arrive in his black gear, socks pulled up his calves, waving to a couple of other players they know, rolling his shoulders, swinging his new racquet, already warming up. What, Seb wonders, would happen if Eddy put his hand on the back of Seb’s neck – just like Seb did a couple of years ago – and asked him if he was OK?
Would he collapse into the truth, just like Eddy did that day, or grit his teeth and cling on to his lie that everything was fine?
No. He won’t say anything. Eddy is the talker – not Seb. In the fifteen years they’ve been together, he’s never had a reason to talk about his relationship with Rosie in any detail with anyone. What would he even say? That his body feels as if he is slowly starving to death from lack of touch? That he’s terrified Rosie will never desire him again? That on some subtle, mystical level she’s discovered the truth? That Seb is disgusting, unlovable, that he’s tricked the whole world into believing he is something else, something good? Even if he did share any of this, then how could he possibly ever come back? Eddy would know too much for everything to stay the same. As a kid, Seb never excelled at any one thing, so he made his goodness his superpower. He’d always offer himself up to be in goal when no one else wanted to be or he would accept the smallest ice cream. He’d smooth arguments between friends and as a teen clear up the bathroom after Eddy had puked stolen spirits everywhere.
‘The Slazenger’s maiden battle,’ Eddy says by way of greeting, kissing his new racquet before jabbing it gently into Seb’s ribs. ‘Ready for a battering, Sebbo?’
Eddy doesn’t notice Seb’s unsmiling eyes, the panic fluttering up his spine, down his limbs, so what can Seb do? He stretches out his quads briefly before putting a couple of balls in his pocket, ignoring the wild hammering in his chest as he jogs on to the court.
After they’ve warmed up, they break for some water and Eddy looks closer at his friend.