…’ His words trailed off into a deep, satisfied sigh. ‘Where are you right now?’
I gulped and tucked my hair behind my ears.
‘On a bench outside a tennis club in Worcester Park.’
‘I wish you were here.’ Patrick’s breathing, the sound of a zip, a body moving on soft sheets. ‘I wish you were doing what I’m doing right now.’
I stared at the grass in front of my feet, face hot, palms sweaty.
‘What would you do?’ he asked. His voice was slightly hoarse. ‘If you were here right now?’
‘Patrick, I’m at my dad’s tennis club,’ I whispered.
‘Go into the ladies’ room,’ he instructed. ‘Go into the ladies’ room and do exactly what I tell you.’
I stood up without hesitation, only thinking about one thing.
‘Watch out!’
Which meant I was not thinking about low-flying tennis balls.
‘Oh, shit!’ I wailed, dropping my phone and clutching my face. ‘Shit bugger bollocks ow.’
‘Goodness, I am sorry,’ the elderly gentleman from the men’s changing room tottered over. Clearly all his strength was in his backhand. ‘Are you all right? Should I get the first aider?’
‘Ros?’
Patrick’s voice echoed out my phone speaker from the ground. ‘Ros, are you there? What happened?’
I gave my assailant a pleasant smile and a thumbs up as my head throbbed. Trying not to pass out, I bent over and picked up my scratched but not shattered new phone.
‘Ros?’
‘I’m OK, I got hit in the head by a tennis ball,’ I said, wandering back towards the rose garden, a little dazed and very sore. ‘Give me a minute?’
‘I think the moment’s gone,’ Patrick replied, clearing his throat. ‘I might give today’s pages another once-over if you really can’t tear yourself away.’
‘Sorry,’ I told him, wincing as I poked my fingers into my new injury. Fantastic. What this week needed was a black eye from a septuagenarian tennis player.
‘Can’t be helped,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow,’ I agreed. His first scheduled visit Chez Shed. ‘Maybe you should think about what you’d like me to do for you then.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said with a soft promise.
‘Rosalind, what the bloody hell happened to your face?’ Mum asked, practically running across the club as I ended the call. ‘You’ve been gone two minutes.’
‘Stray ball.’ I pulled my head out of her hands, turning away from her inspection. ‘It’s fine.’
‘It’s going to bruise,’ she replied. ‘We need to put some ice on that.’
‘We usually have ice packs but I just defrosted the freezer,’ rugby shirt said. ‘Ice cream van should be around in a minute, we could stick a Mister Whippy on it?’
‘Let’s get you home,’ Mum said, tenderly brushing my hair back from my forehead. ‘I’ve got some arnica gel, that’ll help.’
‘Thanks for the tour,’ Dad said to our host. ‘Apologies, can’t take this one anywhere.’
Rugby shirt looked me up and down and scoffed. ‘I thought she was supposed to be some sort of genius?’ he guffawed.
‘That’s the other one,’ Dad explained, clapping me hard on the back before giving his friend a sharp salute. It hurt almost as much as my eye.
‘Home, James,’ Dad said, striding off towards the car. ‘And don’t spare the horses.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
By the time Friday evening rolled around, I was prepared to call the working week, tennis-ball assaults aside, a success. I had Snazz’s first podcast guests confirmed, the art department was working on the logo and the marketing team was shouting about our live recording at WESC (which I now knew stood for the World E-Sports Championships) reaching even the deepest, darkest little corners of the internet. Basement-dwellers would be risking the outside world from far and wide to get a glimpse at Snazzlechuff, live and in person. Even I had found myself wondering if he’d get a new mask made. There was a minor bump in the road when I tried to get Veronica to schedule in some rehearsal time but she insisted that he didn’t need it, that too much prep would ‘fucking ruin the magic’. When I raised it with Ted, he advised me that the magician works in mysterious ways and so, I had left it alone. It had been such a long time since I’d felt good about myself at work, knowing I was killing it was such a high.
At exactly five thirty, I switched my casual Friday Converse for a pair of black patent heels, checked my concealer, closed up my computer and bolted for the door. Patrick had rented some obscure French movie from his very cool video club and we