They Met In the Queue For Wimbledon

This is an excerpt from Love Thirty, a romantic comedy novel I am working on:

They hardly exchanged two words as Amy followed Max around the lake. Max was striding ahead, face up to the heavens, wondering or marvelling at the rich canopy of stars that the lack of light pollution in the park afforded his gaze. Amy was still a bit pissed off. Not only that he had left her belongings in the care of someone else, but also because that someone else was a woman.

She realised she had no jurisdiction over him, but she felt, in her bones, that they had made a connection and was sure there was some attraction between them, yet in an hour and a half, he had dumped her for someone called Angela!

I mean, “Angela”! She sounds like someone’s great-aunt. Who calls their kids Angela nowadays? She tripped over a guy rope and fell into Max’s back.

 ‘Are you okay, darling,’ he said.

But he didn’t pronounce the “darling” like she was some kind of cockney sparrow, it sounded more like “darling” as might be found in a Barbara Cartland novel.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she sighed.

‘Good, ‘cos we’re here. Amy, let me introduce you to Angela. Although you have already met, I’m not sure you exchanged pleasantries last time.’

Amy looked up into the face of the austere, septuagenarian lady who had been standing in front of them all day, in the queue.

‘Oh! You're Angela?’ she said. The relief in her tone was palpable. ‘Umm… well, thank you for looking after my…’

‘That’s perfectly all right, my dear,’ Angela cut in. ‘He has been a complete gentleman.’

‘No, I didn’t mean…’

‘Sit yourself down, dear. I’ll put the kettle on, and your husband can put up your tent.’

Husband! What has he been telling her? She flashed a look at Max. His mouth was wide open looking like a squirrel who had lost his nut.

‘I’d better do as I’m told,’ he said and turned his back on her as he bent to open his tent bag.

‘How are your flows, my dear? Dashed bad timing on the eve of the match, what? I hope you're not suffering too much.’ Angela handed Amy a tiny, folding stool and Amy sat down. Angela stayed on her feet, filling a kettle from an Evian water bottle and placing it onto a small camping stove beside her. She then rummaged in her picnic hamper, but obviously couldn’t find what she was looking for.

‘Darling,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘You did pack the cups and saucers, didn’t you?’

‘No, Auntie Angela, I thought you said you were doing the packing?’ A young woman of about twenty-two stuck her head out of a nearby tent. In the dark, it was difficult to see exactly what she looked like, but when Max turned around and shined his torch on the tent, Amy nearly fell off her stool. The girl was stunning! And Amy should know, she had been a bit bi-curious when she was at college, so could spot a fit bird as well as the next man.

‘Tut, you youngsters.’ Angela shook her head. ‘Angel, come out here and meet Amy. I’m sure you two have lots in common.

‘My great-niece is called Angela too; a family tradition.’ Angela whispered to Amy. ‘I call her Angel, so we don’t get mixed up, but I don’t think she really likes me shortening it.’

‘Here, try these.’ Max handed Amy his white enamelled mugs.

‘Angela?’ She looked deep into Max’s eyes. He switched off the torch and looked away.

‘I would have offered you some sausages.’ Angela broke into Amy’s thoughts. ‘But it would appear we didn’t pack them either.’ There was a bite in her tone.

‘That’s quite all right,’ Amy replied. ‘Max and I are both vegetarians.’

‘Ooh! That’s interesting,’ chirped Angel as she swept out of the tent and sat, cross-legged on the ground. ‘I went veggie for a day once. Don’t you miss bacon? I did. It was the smell of frying bacon that broke me. I think I would have been quite happy to be a veggie if it wasn’t for bacon sarnies. With lashings of red sauce and melted butter, of course.’

Even though her legs were crossed, they still seemed to go on forever. They were slender and tanned and ended in a cute little bum, squashed tightly into a handkerchief of frayed, blue denim that was shorter than those worn by Chris Waddle in the 1986 World Cup. Her perfectly round, inny-button, sat just above them in her smooth, blemish-free belly, before her cropped, ragged white T-shirt bulged out over her pert, young breasts that would be a handful for even Amy’s delicate hands. And Amy was drawn towards them. Angel’s long, straight, blonde hair fell over her shoulders and halfway down her back and framed her beautiful, super-model face. Amy hated her.

When the kettle had boiled Angela made the tea. ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Just sugar, please.’ Max and Amy said together.

‘Oh, yes, of course. I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on. Urgh, I don’t know how you can drink tea without milk.’

‘I can’t,’ said Max. ‘But luckily, I have some condensed oat milk in my rucksack. Would you like some, Amy?’

‘Go on then, I’ve never tried condensed oat milk. I usually just drink it with nothing on.’

Max squeezed a hefty dollop into each mug and stirred them with the blade of his Swiss army knife. They both picked up their steaming mugs from the groundsheet and blew on them in identical fashion. Then they each took a small sip and swigged their tea down in two large gulps.

‘Right. I’m going for a walk,’ Max announced as he stood up and stretched his sinewy limbs.

‘Can I come?’ Amy asked, hesitantly.

‘Of course.’

‘Wait a tick, I’ll join you.’ Angel arose in one graceful movement and shook her mane like a prize pony. ‘I just need to put on some lippy.’

Amy’s tut was supposed to be silent.

Angel’s tick was a solid ten minutes. Even in the dark, Amy could read Max’s body language. He strutted around like a mother hen, flicking his head left and right and when he thought no one was watching, he’d dip down, like he was pecking something off the ground, to see if he could see what was going on in Angel’s tent. Then he would jump up again, and start switching his torch on and off, going through the sequence of “on”, "flashing”, “pulsing” and “off”. And when it was on, he would swing the beam around and point it at the ground and at the sky and at Angel’s tent, where he would linger for a second or two, hoping that the light might hasten her preparedness.

But, of course, nothing would make Angel move faster, and he knew it. He had lived with Chlöe long enough to know that the time taken for a woman to get ready was inversely proportional to the length of outing they were going on. He looked at Amy.

‘Don’t you need to put your make-up on too?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ she replied. ‘No one’s going to see us in the dark. Besides, I don’t really do make-up.’

‘Oh!’ Max switched the torch on again and swung it over towards the lake.

‘Shall we just go?’ asked Amy.

‘Come on, then.’ Max smiled and strode off in the direction his torch was pointing. Amy skipped along beside him, dancing over her still-rolled-up tent and around Max’s massive overnight bag.

A festive atmosphere pervaded the tented village, the majority of the gathered patrons were here to see some tennis, and the air vibrated with the excited expectation of tomorrow. But some had just come to party. The prosecco vendors of southwest London were probably sleeping soundly in their beds by now, but their products were just waking up. The sound of exploding corks filled the air like a giant popcorn oven at full tilt. Interspersed with the sound of chinking glasses and fevered conversation, the shrill cries of high-pitched laughing violated the air space.

‘Nothing can be that funny,’ Max said to Amy.

‘Ooh, you're an old grump, aren’t you? Let people enjoy themselves.’

‘No, you're right. I guess I’m just a bit jealous if the truth be told. I’d love to be able to just let myself go and have fun, but that’s not really me, I’m afraid.’

‘I love to party, but I know what you mean. Sometimes it’s nice just to have some quiet time to yourself.’

‘Oh, I hope you don’t think…’

‘No, of course not. You wouldn’t have invited me along if you wanted to be alone.’

‘Actually, I didn’t invite you, you just tagged along. But I’m glad you did. I don’t know why, but I find you easy to talk to. I’m usually hopeless with girls.’

‘I’m twenty-eight. I’d hardly call myself a girl.’

‘You know what I mean. I never know what to call people anymore. You call someone a woman and they get all offended. “I’m a person with a vagina, don’t you know?”’ he mimicked a haughty, offended female voice. ‘And as for gender, it’s a flaming minefield.’

Amy laughed. ‘Well, you don’t have to worry about me, I’m ninety-nine per cent, heterosexual woman.’

‘Ninety-nine per cent?’

‘Yes. Sometimes I do toy with the idea of waking up with another woman in my bed.’

It was Max’s turn to laugh. ‘I know what you mean. I’ve got to a point now if I wake up with a floppy dick, I wonder if I’m turning gay.’

They approached a tent where the epicentre of the partying appeared to be. Max tried to tiptoe past quietly, but they had been spotted.

‘Are yous the bastard that made wor Amy cry?’ Shandy stood before him with one hand on her hip and the other gripped tightly around the neck of a bottle.

‘What? Who are you?’ Max bristled.

‘Friends iv Amy’s’ Shandy replied. ‘Wor met her in the bog, ballin’ her eyes oot. Have yous got nay sense, ya big lummox?’

‘Guilty, I’m afraid,’ said Max. ‘But I still don’t know why she got so distressed.’

‘She?’ Amy squealed. ‘Who’s “she”? The cat’s mother? I do have a name you know?’

‘Sorry, Amy…’

‘Typical bloke,’ said Shandy. ‘Nay manners. They think they can treat us alls like their own personal servants. An’ they never listens to ought we have t’say. Did yous even think before you blurted out about her fella?’

‘All I said was…’

‘Divvint say it again, you knobhead. Amy divvint want remindin’ all the teem about her deed bloke.’

‘Dead!’ Max cried. ‘She didn’t tell me he was dead.’

‘“She”,’ Amy screamed. ‘I am still here you know?’

‘Oh! Dear.’ Max sighed. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t seem to be able to open my mouth without putting my damned foot in it. But at least now I know why you were so upset.’ He put an arm around her shoulder.

Amy felt a warm shiver run right down her spine. ‘It’s okay. It’s my fault really, I should’ve told you about him. You weren’t to know. Shall we go?’

Max didn’t need asking.

‘Divvint let him get away that easy, lass…’ but Shandy’s voice was lost amidst a volley of shrill laughter as Hetty popped open another bottle of prosecco.

They carried on towards the lake, then walked around the edge until they found a quiet spot with a bench overlooking the water. The water was so still it looked like a vast black mirror. They were far enough away from the happy campers that the murmur of voices, carried softly on the humid, still air, did not disturb them. A family of Mallards slept under a nearby wayfaring bush and a line of seven swans swam past, in perfect silence.

They sat on the bench, Max at one end and Amy at the other. But it was not a large bench, not like Max’s thighs, and with his natural tendency towards manspreading, and Amy’s towards lounging, there was barely any space between them.

After a long pause, Amy broke the silence. It wasn’t an awkward silence, in fact, Max was slightly jolted out of his reverie when Amy began to speak. ‘Do you have a wife or a girlfriend?’

Max sat upright. ‘Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I don’t really know. I did have a girlfriend, but I think she left me. About three weeks ago. What is the mourning period on a relationship nowadays?’

‘Gregg was killed four months ago…’

‘Killed? What, like murdered? Oh, my God. I assumed it must have been cancer or something.’

‘Or something,’ Amy smiled. ‘No, he wasn’t murdered. He was knocked off his bike in Thistle Street. I don’t know how long I am supposed to mourn for, I just know I still miss him.’

Max moved closer to her and took her hand in his. Amy gripped it tight. A jolt of electricity passed between them, but neither let go and the current kept coursing. Amy lowered her head onto Max’s shoulder and her tears began to flow.

Max had always been quite inept with emotional females, but strangely, for him, he felt nothing but empathy. He placed his other hand gently on the side of her head, pulled her closer and let her cry.

He stared out across the lake. The distant lights of London shimmered on the broken horizon. Thousands of people would be out on the streets, laughing, crying, and throwing up. The bars and restaurants would be heaving, the music blaring, the traffic snarling, but none of it could intrude on his peace.

‘Ah! There you are.’ The high-toned voice of Angel pierced the night. ‘You didn’t wait for me.’

‘No,’ said Amy. ‘We thought you’d fallen asleep.’ There was anger in her words. She was not crying anymore.

Angel picked up a stone and threw it into the lake. Plop! She picked up another. A long, loud hiss from behind a bush made her drop it back onto the beach.

‘Whoa, what was that?’

‘I think it was a swan, warning you that if you throw any more stones into her lake, she’s gonna come up there and bite you,’ Max said.

‘Damn it!’ Angel squeaked. ‘I’ve chipped a nail. Look.’

She leant over the back of the bench and thrust her perfectly manicured hand into Max’s face. Max shined the torch onto it and the family of Mallards scurried out of their hiding place and skimmed across the water.

‘Now look what you’ve done.’ Amy protested. ‘Why don’t you go away and leave us alone?’

‘It wasn’t me.’ Angel said amidst a haughty giggle. ‘It was him. Wow! Did you see them go? Do it again Max, see if you can scare them over to the other side.’

Max turned his torch off. ‘What do you want, Angel?’

‘I just thought we could have a laugh. I’ve brought a bottle of Bollinger.’

‘If you want a laugh, why don’t you go back to the campsite?’ Amy’s voice was passively aggressive. ‘I have some friends, in the first tent you'll come to. Shandy and Hetty. They’ll see you right.’

‘But I thought…’

‘No, Angel,’ Max almost spat her name at her. ‘You didn’t think. Please. We want to be alone.’

‘Well, pardon me for breathing.’ And she tottered off on her high heels, back towards the tents.

‘Did you mean that?’ Amy retook Max’s hand. ‘Do you really want to be alone with me?’

Max stared into her dark eyes; they were still glistening with tears. He put his other hand onto the side of her face and pulled her towards him until their lips touched. Amy put up no resistance.

His mind went blank. The forces battling within him - the electrical synapses in his brain screaming he was being unfaithful to Chlöe versus the chemical reaction of his hormones coursing through his endocrine system - cancelled each other out.

Amy could no longer remember what Gregg even looked like. All she could see; all she could feel, was Max.

They stayed there, on the bench, interlocked in the kiss for what felt like an eternity. Max was the first to come up for air. He stood up, still holding her hand and looked down on her.

‘I don’t know if I am ready for this,’ he sighed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Amy whispered.

‘No, don’t be sorry. I wanted it. I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I picked you up from the ground. That’s not what I meant.’

‘Are you still in love with what’s-her-name?’

‘Chlöe? I don’t know. All I meant was, I didn’t come here looking for another relationship.’

‘Why did you come? You obviously know nothing about tennis.’