Page 17 of Falling for You
And with that, the door swings shut.
Great.
‘Right, I’ll take this one slow, mate.’
‘Thanks, man, I just …’
All the words leave my body as the ball smacks against the wall and shoots past my left ear before I’d even taken an intake of breath.
I stare at Remy open-mouthed as he chortles to himself.
‘God, you’re worse than I thought you’d be.’
It’s Saturday, and after a week of going into the office every day and trying to befriend my new colleagues, I was ready to spend the day locked in my bedroom with the lights off, scraping any remnants of social energy off the floor and putting them back in my body, ready to do it all again on Monday. Stevie was gigging all day, and apart from a call with Mom I was fairly content at the idea of hibernating. And then I got a message from Remy.
What are your plans tomorrow, lad?
We’d exchanged numbers after spending the majority of the evening chatting at the pub, but I wasn’t expecting to actually hear from him.
I certainly wasn’t expecting him to ask me to play squash with him. A sport which, up until about forty minutes ago, I’d never even heard of.
‘I told you, I’m not a sports guy!’ I say, leaning my back against the wall as Remy retrieves the ball. He’s wearing loose shorts and a white T-shirt, with matching sweatband across his forehead. His eyes glint every time he picks up the ball and it’s making me wonder whether he only invited me along for an ego boost.
‘Right,’ Remy bounces the ball a few times on the floor. ‘Ready?’
We’re at a leisure centre in Primrose Hill. It’s a characterlessbuilding with a strong smell of chlorine and several retired people milling around with towels round their necks.
Although I shouldn’t underestimate them. Remy’s in his late fifties and is absolutely caning me.
I bend my knees, my fingers clasped around my racket as I lock eyes onto the ball.
Right, I can hit one. It’s not that hard.
Remy flicks the ball into the air and taps it with his racket. A surge of adrenaline rushes through me as I lurch forward, thwacking the ball with all my might. It ricochets off the wall and I turn towards Remy to celebrate, while he immediately hits it back and it sails past me. I may as well not even be there.
‘I was about to say that was pretty good,’ Remy grins at me, flicking open the top of his Lucozade Sport and tipping the orange liquid down his throat.
‘I’ll take that,’ I laugh, rolling my eyes.
‘So,’ he says, bouncing the ball against his racket. ‘How’s all that family stuff going then?’
I snort. ‘Still pretty shit!’ I say.
He gives me a questioning look but doesn’t say any more. Usually at this point I’d change the subject, but there is something about Remy that feels so far removed from my ordinary life that it feels all right to talk to him.
‘My mom isn’t well,’ I say, dropping onto the bench as Remy starts tapping the ball to himself against the floor (much lighter than he was hammering it to me).
‘Oh?’
I bend down and lean my elbows on my knees. ‘Early onset dementia.’
God, I hate saying that. Every time I say those words they fly out of my mouth like they don’t belong there. I want to wrestle that horrible phrase down and launch it out the window.
Remy catches the ball and turns to me. ‘I’m sorry, lad. That’s fucking horrible.’
I shrug. ‘My brother lives over here but he hardly ever comes home, and she has a sister who lives in London.’
‘Oh yeah? Whereabouts?’
