Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
My bottle pauses halfway to my mouth. Do I say anything? Next to John, these two dipsticks are my best mates. I look at John. He dips his head, peeking at me. “The plans for The Manor,” John says, probably thinking I won’t. He’s right. He knows me. And saying it out loud almost feels like admitting betrayal.
Both men walk calmly back into my office and sit on the couch opposite me. Both look concerned. “I have a meeting at four,” I say, biting at my lip.
“With?” Drew asks quietly, reluctantly.
“An acquisitions manager for a leisure corporation.”
Both men’s eyes widen a fraction. “Why?” Sam asks, and I fidget, uncomfortable.
“To hear what they’ve got to say.”
“Or offer,” Drew adds.
“Look, it’s just a fact-finding meeting, okay? He was sniffing around outside The Manor and gave me his card. I stuffed it in my pocket and thought no more of it.”
Drew stands, his face irritated. “But you’ve since found out you’ve got your wife pregnant on the sly, and suddenly you’re going to be a family man, so now you’re gonna sell The Manor?” His voice gets higher the more he rants on. “You get a wife, a kid, a happily ever after, and what the fuck do we get? Booted out?”
I explode, shocking myself, shooting up from the couch in a deranged fit of fury. “Yes, I get a fucking happily ever after, Drew,” I bellow, making him cower. “What’s the problem, don’t you think I deserve that?”
“Whoa,” Sam says, coming to me, rubbing soothing circles into my back with his palm. “Let’s all calm down, yeah?”
I shrug him off and get out of there before I sink my fist into one of my best mate’s faces, nearly taking the door off its hinges when I slam it. “Wanker,” I bark, going to the changing rooms and wrestling my way out of my suit. I pull on my shorts, a T-shirt, stuff my feet into my trainers, grab a racket and some balls, and fuck off to the tennis courts where I can take my anger out on an inanimate object rather than someone I love.
As I stomp my way moodily to the courts, I notice a few more things I haven’t seen before. A bird table nestled amongst two huge rhododendrons. A gold sphere at the base of an apple tree trunk. Further proof that my eyes are wide open. That I’m seeing things for the first time in nearly two decades. I’m thinking clearly. Of course I should listen to any business offers. It’s just a talk.
I let myself through the gate and start smacking balls over the net with force, until I’m out of balls and walking the length of the court to retrieve them and start again. I’ve done this five times when I see Drew and Sam walking down the cobbled path toward the courts. Both in gym gear. Both carrying rackets. I scuff my trainers on the grass, pouting down at them, swinging my racket as they let themselves in. Drew puts himself at the back, Sam comes to the net. They bend, rocking, swiveling their rackets.
Game. On.
I chuck a ball up and smack it with power.
Right at Drew’s head.
He ducks, looking back as it hits the caging, before slowly turning his narrowed, piercing blues back onto me. “First serve,” he grates, as Sam chuckles. I grin and toss another ball up, serving again. It hits the grass just inside the box and skims Drew’s racket.
“Ace,” I muse. “Fifteen love.”
“Okay, no more Mr. Nice Guy,” Drew says, bending, getting ready. “Let’s do this.”
“I’m ready,” Sam sings.
Yeah, I’m ready too.
For anything.
* * *
It goes to five sets. “Match point,” I yell, sweating like a beast, glancing at my Rolex. Fuck me, I’ve been running around this court for nearly five hours. I get low, anticipating Sam’s serve. Low and deep. But he surprises me and goes high and wide. I break to my left, reaching and returning, skidding across the lawn before spinning on the spot and racing back to the center, just in time for Drew’s return. The fucker goes short and low, tapping the ball so it lands just over the net. “Fuck,” I curse, running to the net, reaching with my racket, aiming for a connection rather than skill, finesse, or accuracy. I hit the ball into the net.
“Deuce,” Drew sings, wandering to the back line. I can only see the back of his head but I know the fucker is grinning.
I get ready, Sam serves, and I watch as the ball hits the chalk and sails past my shoulder.
“Ace!” Sam yells.
“Match point,” Drew declares.
For fuck’s sake.
Sam tosses the ball a few times, bounces it, his eyes squinting as I sway, wait, spin my racket. He throws it up, smacks it on a grunt, going safe, getting it a good few feet inside the line. “Pussy,” I yell, returning it with an accurate backhand.