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I’m not trying to avoid him, but I also don’t mind skipping the guilt that surges through me every time I look into his eyes.
So ultimately, Marie’s undeniable request for me to be her tennis partner is a blessing in disguise. I can barely think about Rhett when balls are flying at me with the fury of a nuclear explosion.
And they have nothing on the fury of my partner.
“Come on, Liz,” Marie barks. “Get your head in the game.”
I flail wildly at a ball that soars over my head and lands just within our lines. I must look like a baby stork attempting to take flight.
I’m a pretty competitive person so sucking this hard in front of Marie is not a fun time. Additionally, if I’m going to lose, I’d rather lose to just about anyone other than Tiff and the blonde celebrity whose name I still don’t know.
Neither of them are any friendlier than they were last night, but they certainly are loving my complete ineptitude on the court.
They high five and whoop it up at their latest point, leaving me to awkwardly grin at Marie.
“Not much of a tennis player,” I say, like it isn’t completely obvious.
Marie doesn’t acknowledge me, pulling out her phone and shooting off a quick text.
I’m about to head for my side of the court when Marie advises under her breath, “Just keep smiling.”
I turn, not sure I heard her correctly.
Marie waves for me to go on. “Don’t get upset with them. It doesn’t matter how you do. Actually, it’s better if you’re bad.”
Well, that’s a weight off at least. As humiliating as it is, at least I know I’m not disappointing Marie. So for another hour I make a fool of myself on the court, grinning ear-to-ear the entire time.
At last, around eleven, we break for brunch, sitting on the patio furniture in the seating area beside the tennis courts.
Before we’ve even settled in, the staff brings out a spread of lox and bagels, mini omelets, fruits, and bacon folded like origami into little pigs. On tap is a flight of four small mimosas made with different juice mixtures.
Tiff and the Blonde Stranger nod approvingly after sipping the mimosas, but they barely acknowledge how the food tastes. I’m personally in awe over the bacon pigs. How do you even get bacon to fold like this without snapping?
“Where did you learn to play tennis, Liz?” Blonde Stranger asks me, a smile barely disguised in her words.
“A better question is where did you learn?” I ask. I’m definitely not telling these women that I picked up all my tricks after school at the “Y”.
“St. Edwards,” Blonde Stranger says. Her tone implies that I know what St. Edwards is, though unlike with her identity I can at least guess that it’s some exclusive boarding school rich people send their kids to so they don’t have to discipline them. Rhett has regaled me with plenty of stories from his prep school years. It sounds dire.
“You’re very good,” I schmooze. “You should play professionally.” I immediately hope that she isn’t an actual tennis star. That would be awkward.
“Don’t have the time,” she says. “With so much on my plate I can barely handle my commitments now.”
We both ignore the fact that she’s about fifteen years too old to play any type of sport professionally other than eight-ball or maybe darts.
Tiff has had her nose in her phone and she throws it to the side with a groan, grabbing a blueberry-flavored mimosa, and draining it in one gulp. “Okay, I am never traveling with Dudley again,” she says.
“What is it now?” Marie asks. She can barely contain her enthusiasm.
“The same shit as always. He can’t keep his vow of silence and now the monks are going to need payment and his dad just extended his allowance to cover the trip we’re taking to Ibiza. I told him that the Grand Master won’t know he broke the vow but apparently I ‘don’t get it’,” she says, making air quotes with her beautifully manicured hands. “And of course because he said all that out loud now his punishment will be even worse.”
“How does the Grand Master find out?” I ask. I know I shouldn’t feed into this high-class insanity, but it’s both disturbing and hilarious, kinda like my reality shows back at home. In fact, with the mimosas starting to pleasantly bubble in my head, I can almost pretend that I’m sitting on my couch watching the Kardashians.
“That’s what I said!” Tiff says. “It’s like, Dudley, come on. Grand Master only finds out about this because you tell him. But then he’s all ‘the punishment will be worse if I don’t confess’. And then he accuses me of being a bad girlfriend. I mean, of course I want him to achieve nirvana but I also want to go to Ibiza. Is that so selfish of me?”
“Of course not,” Blonde Stranger soothes. “Take my Bradley.” She pauses after the name and gives a half-smile, like she’s embarrassed to name-drop. I’m still completely lost.
“Poor Bradley has gotten so into this African water thing. It’s astounding how much time and effort he puts into it.” She throws up her hands. “He’s there now! Instead of coming here! What could he possibly be getting out of sleeping in a mud hut in the middle of god knows where? And it’s not like digging a well is going to do anything. Oh that’s terrible of me to say, but sorry. Am I such a bad person to point out that if they were going to find a cure for dehydration they would have when Bono was the one in charge?”
