Is the perfect man confined to the pages of a novel?
We’re in the middle of the Covid-19 pandemic when the government suddenly decides we
can play sport socially, as long as it’s outside! My mum suddenly decides to leave the
comfort of her bum-shaped groove and drag me to the local tennis club. I grumble, protest
and argue. Eventually, I reluctantly go and find my racquet hidden in the recesses of the
garage.
‘Come on, stop moping, come on. You might enjoy it.’ I give a lukewarm smile and
grudgingly get in the car. The car rumbles into action.
Prior to Covid, sofa-surfing was my mum’s sport of choice, but being imprisoned for
relentless months seemed to give her the bug for wanting to move from her chair of choice.
When she told me that it was called ‘Rusty Rackets’, I started to envisage purple-rinsed
OAPs called Barbara and Evelyn ballooning the ball into the air like they’re playing swing-ball
in the 1980s! Or worse still, conversations involving Antique’s Road Show, Bargain Hunt and
water thin ham from Marks and Spencer’s!
Rounding the corner of the tennis club, I can almost smell the Anais Anais and Imperial
Leather talcum powder. However, opening the gate of the tennis club gives me a feeling I
had never prepared myself for. The sun is blazing down on the artificial grass; the clouds are
drifting aimlessly across the blue sky and George is standing there: a bronzed Adonis
surrounded by a gaggle of old grannies. George, the tennis coach, was perfection and he
smelt like a Johnny Depp aftershave advertisement.
I go and join the grannies on the court, racquet in hand, swooning at his muscular shoulders
and chiselled jawline. Seeing him was my Mr Darcy moment. Thunder bolts descended from
the azure blue sky. I felt like Bella, from Twilight, inhabiting a dull grey town and having my
heart kick-started into life by the brooding vampire, Edward. ‘Did my heart love til now?’
Could reality resemble fiction? Could I turn a chance encounter into an epic romance?
George – the tennis coach – was invading my heart and monopolising my mind. Clad in Nike
dri-fit and tennis shoes, not the usual billowy shirt and breeches, his effortless charm and
easy manner captivated me. It resembled the moment in Pride and Prejudice where Lizzy
Bennett sees Fitzwilliam Darcy for the first time. There was something; it was a definite,
palpable moment. Physical attraction or love at first sight? Physically, he embodied
perfection: a Byronic jaw line, dark head of hair and abs that could feature on the front page
of Men’s Health. Suddenly, tennis became a sport that I just might enjoy.
Back hand. Forehand. 40 – love. George showed me the ways on the court. Taking each
stroke, I became increasingly breathless! Turning into a pathetic giggly girl, I was competing
for his attention, ruthlessly shoving the cauliflower permed geriatrics aside.
‘How do I hold the racket, George? Is this right? Where do I stand?’
, I attend private lessons. I decide to take tennis further. I want to see him more and more.
I’m addicted! He is attentive, kind, thoughtful. He’s keen to teach me one-to-one. I’m keen
to see him one-to-one. I’m in love with my tennis coach. It’s ridiculous. I have to see him
again. I bake him cakes worthy of the Bake-Off final. I wear the shortest possible tennis
skirts, resembling the iconic 1970s tennis player, flashing a bit of buttock cheek. Anything
for his attention!
But like every romance novel, there’s always an ending. I decide to tell George how I feel.
Sadly, he was a work of fiction himself. My Mr Darcy had more in common with Jekyll and
Hyde. I soon learned that my very own George Knightley would not know how to behave
towards women if I hit him over the head with my hardback edition of ‘Emma’.
After picking myself up from the disappointment of my tennis defeat, I realised that love
was not to be found on the courts of Blackburn Tennis Club. Weeks later, I saw him again,
arguing with an old lady on the forecourt of a petrol station. The magic evaporated into the
stench of engine oil. He was just a man.
So, is my literary suitor trapped in the print of a book? Is he confined to the pages of a Jane
Austen novel? And am I destined to become a purple haired spinster who gets her kicks
watching Antiques Road Show?
I don’t know…
But I’m not one to give up, I’m still holding out for my literary hero, in the manner of Emma,
Bella and Lizzy.
And Mr Darcy, or Mr Knightley, I’m not picky, if you’re out there please get in touch. Tennis
coaches need not apply!
