For the Love of Tennis | ✅

Chapter 10

When I come home, Mum has a plan set out.

“This week you’re coming to work with me.”

I place my racquet on the stairs ready to carry up later.

“You’re coming to the salon,” she says as though I didn’t hear. “I don’t like the idea of you cooped up in this house by yourself all day.”

I can see where she’s coming from. Ever since my father died, she’s been on edge about security even though it was only a freak accident. As much as she tries to hide it and give me a good life, it’s always there in the back of her mind.

“What about my school work?” I ask, not because I want to get out of going to work with her, but because I’m genuinely concerned about my education.

“You can bring it with you.” Then, with a small, guilty smile she says, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No.”

“You can help by sweeping up hair and little things like that. It’ll certainly make Andre happy.”

My mother has been working as a hairdresser at the same salon for over fifteen years. She’s been getting the same pay for that long too. She hadn’t really minded it – my Dad gained most of the money anyway. But then, again, when he passed away, Mum realised there wasn’t enough money to go round so she asked for a pay rise. Her employer, Andre, said no and, after three years, they’ve been fighting about it ever since.

It does no good that Andre is also Megan’s father – that was how Megan and I became friends in the first place – and now he’s being even stingier since I raced Megan for Dayson.

“Just leave,” I’ve told Mum on many occasions.

“How, Chandy?” she said one time, tone desperate. “How the actual fuck... how?”

She swore a lot, but I didn’t mind.

“It’ll make Andre very happy,” I say now, dryly, “seeing your daughter tagging along. The daughter that attacked his daughter. I bet you he’s got a lot on his hands right now. Like arguing with you.”

“Chandy, please.” Her tone, like that last time, is desperate. There’s something in her eyes that I can’t seem to work out. And then it hits me.

Fear.

Mum’s terrified of him, I realise.

I set my jaw, grit my teeth.

“I’m coming,” I say. “I’m absolutely going with you.”

* * *

“You’re starting tomorrow,” she tells me. And then, as though to prevent me from backing out she goes, “I already called them and they said yes.”

The next day, I know what I have to do. When I get there, I’m going to have a good old talk with him and Mum’s getting the pay rise and that will be it.

We leave promptly. Mum closes the door, swinging her car keys on her finger. It’s a common habit but it eases me.

We ride there in silence. Looking out of the window, I suddenly realise how ugly London is. Not the bright lights by the river or the majestic Big Ben and glorious walks through Hyde Park. I mean the backroads, the side-streets, and the gum spotting the tarmac. It’s all grey.

When we arrive, the car park is almost empty. Mum clicks off the engine and the car is silent.

“I get it you’re mad at him,” says Mum, “but he’s my employer. So don’t do anything rash.”