Match Point Read online

  Alone in the elevator Jodi punched in the twelfth floor and enjoyed the sensation of her stomach dropping as it shot upward. She leaned her head against the cool mirrored glass and looked into her own eyes, searching through the earthy brown color for something within. She saw tiredness, but she also saw elation, and something else. Relief. She still had the knack; she could still pull the power serves, the smashes at the net and her trademark backhand, unofficially dubbed “the Richards slice.” Miraculously, five years away from the court hadn’t left her too old or too unfit, too staid to play the game. She still had her edge. Her fitness would come up, and she needed to keep working on her game, but she was holding her own and she was so damn relieved.

  As she swiped herself into her suite, her cell phone buzzed from deep within her gym bag. She dug through the bag, spilling the contents out onto the floor.

  “Ally!” she answered, seeing her sister’s name on the screen.

  “Sis! Congratulations.” Ally’s voice cheered down the line. “I wanted to stick around after the match but I knew you’d take ages talking to all those people. How are you? How are you feeling?”

  “Starving.” Jodi bundled up her gym bag and moved through the entrance hall, dumping it on the couch in the living room as she headed for the kitchen. “Starving, but awesome,” she added.

  “I’m so proud of you! I still can’t believe you’re doing this. God it’s great to see you out there again.”

  “Aw, thanks sis. Thanks for being there today, it was super cool knowing you were in the crowd.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have missed it! So what happens now? I’m confused. You’ve got the finals for this tournament and then what? How are we getting into the US Open again? Please tell me I don’t need to buy tickets!”

  Jodi laughed and opened the fridge, pulling out last night’s quinoa and tofu salad from Whole Foods. She perched on the counter to eat and chat. “So you know I need to play this tournament, and then there are two others that I’ll have to win,” she said. “Those will give me the qualifying points I need to get the wild card entry into the Open…if I win them, that is. Basically I’ve just got to put my head down and keep playing all the other tournaments in between—get my points and my skills up as high as I can.”

  “You’ll win,” her sister said confidently. “You have to win. I didn’t buy tickets to the Open this year on purpose. I’m counting on you to get me in!”

  “Well, okay then.” Jodi laughed. “I guess I have no choice. I wouldn’t want to deprive my only sister of her yearly New York holiday at the US Open.”

  “Exactly. So do whatever mumbo jumbo you have to do to get your butt over the line and let’s go to New York, baby!”

  “Got it,” Jodi managed, smiling through a mouthful of food.

  “All right, I gotta go. Marty’s taking me to dinner at the new steakhouse on the bay for our anniversary tonight. I know your little pescetarian heart is appalled by that, but you know me, I love a good juicy steak!”

  “Lovely,” Jodi replied sarcastically. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Anyway,” Ally breezed, “now I need to squeeze myself into the kind of outfit I probably shouldn’t be wearing at my age, but that hopefully says ‘I know we’ve been married for fifteen years but with any luck you still find me the sexiest woman in the room,’ and that’s gonna take some work.” Ally took a deep breath.

  “Oh, as if he doesn’t think that already. Marty’s crazy about you. He has been since the moment you crashed your delivery van into his back fence.”

  “True! Okay, I think you’re ace. See you Saturday.”

  “And I think you’re fab,” Jodi said, finishing their ritual. She put her phone down and slid off the bench. It was time for the hot tub.

  Chapter Two

  Miranda swept her gaze across the line of young hopefuls in front of her. This group was her favorite. The cream of the crop. Her baby pro tennis players. Her eyes settled on one particularly lanky youth who appeared to be pretty much all arms and legs. Like a spider, Miranda thought with amusement, but a spider who was playing excellent tennis these days. His arms could reach out to connect with the ball with an almost elastic stretch and his legs carried him across the court in graceful bounds. Or perhaps a colt, Miranda thought, not a spider.

  “Okay guys. You’ve all worked really hard this week and I think we can all agree we’re seeing some real progress. Becca, your serve is really sharpening up. I love the way you’re dancing around the baseline and covering the whole court. Nick, excellent smash work today, and you’re really nailing that powerhouse forehand. Jessie, killer on the backhand. I think next week we’ll start to really focus on your footwork. Sarah and Nathan, those were some great rallies today, you really made each other work.” Her eyes traveled the group once more and her gaze came back to the elastic boy. “And Thomas, you’re player of the week,” she announced.

  Thomas’s face lit up in a handsome young grin.

  “You’ve shown consistent improvement and you’re obviously putting in the hard yards. It’s really showing in your game.” Miranda clapped Thomas on the shoulder and laughed as he blushed.

  “Excellent! Thanks, Coach,” he said.

  “You’ve earned it. You’re all doing brilliantly, and I’d say if you keep up this pace, you’re all on track for some big wins in the September junior tournament rounds. So go hit the showers and get some dinner. Have a great weekend and I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Thanks, Coach,” they chorused, turning to head for the clubhouse in a straggly, teenage bunch.

  “Ooh and wait, before I forget, Jodi Richards won the semi-final today which means she’s playing the final on Saturday. You should all come down! If anyone needs a ticket, pop in to see me before you leave tonight and I’ll get you an entry pass from the office.” She waved them off with a smile. “Now go get clean.”

  “You want some help picking up the balls, Coach?” Jessie flicked a stray tennis ball up into the air with her racket and caught it deftly.

  “I think I can get them today, Jessie. You go grab a shower before the hot water runs out! Great work today.”

  “Cool, well thanks again, Coach.” She tossed her ball into the ball bag and jogged backward toward the clubhouse. “It was a really fun day. I’ll come and grab one of those passes from you,” she called.

  “Great Jessie. It’s important to support our own!”

  Miranda strolled around the court, scooping up balls with her racket and hitting them lightly into the ball bag. She enjoyed this after-practice ritual. Usually she had the team help her tidy up the court so it would be done quickly, but this evening she was in no hurry and didn’t mind a little alone time.

  “Hey, Miranda!” her boss’s voice called out from the steps of the clubhouse.

  “Jase,” she said as she flicked her racket in a wave. “Congrats on today! Jodi must be stoked.”

  “She is. Hey listen, when you’re done there can you come in and see me in the office?” Jason shaded his eyes from the setting sun as he looked across the court at her.

  “Sure, Coach, I won’t be long. Give me five minutes to grab the rest of these balls and I’ll come up.”

  Jason disappeared back into the clubhouse. Just yesterday they’d spent an hour together, going over the junior team, tracking their progression, dividing up the coaching team and finalizing the game plan for September’s tournament preparation. She couldn’t imagine why he would want to see her again so soon. Probably something we missed, she thought and shrugged, jogging over to the back fence line to scoop up the remaining balls.

  Hefting the big bag up onto the ball trolley, Miranda pushed it down to the equipment shed at the back of the court. She deposited the balls and locked it up for the night. She was excited. Her team was really shaping up and she knew there was some real talent in those teenage bodies. Some of them reminded her of herself when she was sixteen: bursting out of her skin with energy, promise and passion for the game, keen t
o practice all day and talk tennis all night, staying up late to watch the international tournaments so she could study the moves of the pros and glean their tricks. She had been a fixture at her local club, heading straight from school to the courts each day to practice, working hard to qualify for the junior’s pro team and her first big Junior Tournament match. She had even won a training scholarship from her club—a welcome relief for Miranda, whose parents were keen to support her but had been talking about her getting an after-school job to finance the ongoing club fees.

  Each year she saved her pocket money for a weekend pass to the San Francisco City Open. She would catch the bus into San Francisco with her dad, where they would make a special father-daughter bonding weekend of it by staying with her dad’s sister, Aunt Louise. Each day they would arrive at the tennis center early to get the best seats, and stay to watch back-to-back matches until, hungry and tired, they would make their way back to give the ever patient Aunt Louise a blow-by-blow account of the day over Chinese takeout. Miranda still remembered those weekends fondly.

  Miranda’s passion for the sport had never left her. At the age of twenty-nine, she still stayed up late watching tennis across the globe, but her prospects of becoming a major league tennis player herself had promptly been erased when she was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin lymphoma (NHL) just after her seventeenth birthday.

  Suddenly she had been caught up in a whirlwind of doctors visits, scans, tests and hospital stays, and eventually surgery, followed by months of intermittent chemotherapy treatment. It was harsh and frightening and she had felt sick for months on end, but Miranda had tried hard to be brave and stay positive. She remembered the feeling of despair as she woke up to find a handful of her own blond hairs on the pillow, and the realization that she would no longer be a normal teenager. Her mom had come back from the store that same day with a shopping bag bulging with materials, dragged out the sewing machine and proceeded to sew up a bunch of bandanas from the patterns Miranda chose from the pile. They had all had fits of laughter when her dad had tried them on later that night, dancing around the house with his air guitar, pretending to be Axl Rose.

  A long and frustrating road led back to recovery and full health. She had missed half a year of school and had to work hard to catch up and graduate with her friends. And she’d missed the boat on tennis. Yes, that ship had well and truly sailed. But she had still wanted to stay involved, so as her health returned she eventually joined a local club for the occasional friendly weekend match.

  In Miranda’s early twenties, her best friend Enid had convinced her to come with her as a tennis coach on a summer camp run by the local club, and she found that she loved teaching and working with the younger kids. From there she applied for a permanent coaching position at the club and was ecstatic to be accepted. She stayed on at the club, learning the ropes, becoming a competent, sought-after coach, and the kids loved her.

  Three years ago, Enid had rung her in a tizz. “Meet me at Café Trioli after work,” Enid demanded.

  “I can’t tonight. I promised the kids that tomorrow I would show them that video I made ages ago of the best finals moments over the last ten years, and I’ve got to go to Mom and Dad’s and dig out the tape. Actually,” she paused, suddenly struck by a thought, “I don’t even know if the clubhouse has a video player! I really should upload that video to YouTube tonight.”

  “Miranda. Enough! Listen up, my friend. You need to meet me tonight, and I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll see you there at six sharp.”

  Miranda shook her head in bemusement. Enid was a firecracker, always full of wild ideas and schemes, not to mention her penchant for dramatic love affairs. She had no idea what Enid was locked into this time, but it was bound to be hare-brained in some way.

  At six that evening Miranda pushed open the door to Café Trioli and was surprised to see Enid already sitting at a table with two beers, her eyes shining.

  “Drink,” Enid said, her thick black curls bobbing around her face as she pushed one of the beers across the table to Miranda.

  “Hello to you too!” Miranda leaned across the table to kiss her friend on the cheek. “Now what’s so important that I had to drag my butt across town in this revolting peak-hour traffic?”

  “This.” Enid took a newspaper clipping out of her bag and slapped it down on the table in front of Miranda.

  Miranda picked it up and read it over. “Pathways to Pro Tennis Junior Coaching Team,” Miranda read aloud. “Join our dedicated coaching team at the Sacramento Tennis Club and mold the juniors of today into tomorrow’s pro tennis champions.” She looked up at Enid. “I can’t do that,” Miranda said, shaking her head emphatically.

  “What do you mean you can’t do that? You’ve got to go for it,” Enid rallied. “This is perfect for you.”

  “I’m a low-grade tennis coach at the local club, Enid. This is professional-standard, high-stakes tennis. I’m nowhere near their league.”

  “That’s crap and you know it,” Enid replied unceremoniously. She took a swig of her beer. “You’re a brilliant coach, wasting away in the suburbs with a bunch of tennis moms and pimply kids. You’re whiling away the days getting paid worse than a waitress when you could be focusing up and putting your talent to good use.”

  “But I—”

  “No buts, Miranda.” Enid cut her off, holding up her hand like a stop sign. “Definitely no more buts. You’ve got nothing to lose by going for this and it’s about time you stepped up to the plate. If you must continue to eat, sleep and breathe tennis, I at least want to know that you’re in the best place you can be to do that.”

  “But I—”

  Enid waved her hand again, silencing Miranda. “I said no buts. I’ve known you since we were thirteen. I’ve never seen anything more perfect for you.” She stopped, tilting her head as she considered her friend. “Let me rephrase. I realize that perfect for you would have been to be a tennis pro. But seeing as you got sick and missed your chance,” she continued, matter-of-factly, “this is your new perfect. You can train the up-and-coming players of tomorrow. Now, drink up, my friend. We’ve got work to do.” Enid reached into her bag and hauled out her laptop. Catching the waitress as she walked past, Enid ordered some dips and bread. “We need sustenance. We’ve got a résumé and a job application to write.”

  They stayed at the café until late that night, compiling Miranda’s job history and writing her cover letter.

  “Right, I think that’s pretty much it,” Enid said. “This is as good as we’re going to get it. So, let’s email it off.”

  “What? Now?” Miranda was suddenly nervous. “Why don’t we leave it for a few days and think it over.”

  “No way, dude. The applications close in a few days. We don’t want you to look like you’re not organized enough to get your application in on time. We’re sending it now.” Enid fired up Gmail and passed the computer across to Miranda. “Log in,” she commanded.

  “Yes boss!” Miranda typed in her login details and together they wrote the email. As Miranda’s finger hovered over the send button, Enid pressed her finger down and the email whooshed away.

  They looked at each other, eyes wide.

  “Well, I guess that’s that,” Miranda said, taking a deep breath. “I’m sure they won’t call.”

  Miranda was thrilled to receive a phone call a week later inviting her to an interview at the Sacramento Tennis Club.

  “What the heck am I going to wear?” she ranted to Enid. “I mean, I’m a tennis coach. All I own are sweatpants and T-shirts. And shoes! Oh my God! Can I wear sneakers to a job interview?”

  “You know,” Enid began, sounding thoughtful, “if you’re ever going to get a girlfriend it might be time we invested in some clothes for you, interview or no interview. You can’t walk around in sweatpants for the rest of your life. It’s just not sexy.”

  “Well, I could wear jeans, I guess.”

  Enid’s mouth turned down in distaste. “Jeans are not a lot sexie
r than sweatpants, Miranda. You can’t rely on your good looks and charm forever, you know. I think we should go shopping.”

  “Oh no.” Miranda’s heart sank. She hated shopping.

  That Saturday she had traipsed around the mall with Enid, awkwardly trying on outfits and rejecting them all out of hand. “This stuff just isn’t me,” she finally sighed.

  “You know, you’re right.” Enid’s eyes lit up. “Let’s go to Berkley and find you something a bit more original! Let’s go have an adventure.”

  They jumped in Enid’s truck and headed down the interstate toward the Bay Area where it was easier to find something a bit more suited to Miranda’s sense of style. Three hours later, armed with a couple of nice blouses that set off her blue eyes and boyish blond bob, a stylish pair of pants and some retro boots, Miranda was starting to feel a bit more relaxed about her upcoming interview.

  The two were sitting in the window of a café watching the weekend’s afternoon crowds wander past. “Hey, let’s go play some pool at Dorothy’s,” Enid suggested, naming a popular lesbian bar. “Maybe we could find you a hot chick to go with that hot new outfit!”

  “Um, thanks, but I don’t think it would do me any favors to turn up to the interview with a hot chick on my arm. Anyway, wouldn’t…” Miranda paused, searching for the name of Enid’s latest love interest, “Dana? Diane? Darlene? be mad if you went to a gay bar without her?”

  “It’s Debbie,” Enid pouted. “And she actually seems to trust me. It’s weird. The more she trusts me, the more I want to act like I deserve her trust.”

  “Hello?” Miranda knocked on her friend’s arm, laughing. “Is Enid in there? What have you done with my friend?”

  “I know! I’m surprising myself. I’ve actually been considering falling in love with her.”

  “Er, I’m not sure you can consider whether or not to fall in love, can you? Isn’t it just supposed to happen?”

  “Maybe, I’m not quite sure if I’m ready to let it happen though. I’m going to hold off for as long as I can,” Enid said.