‘I have no idea,’ I replied. ‘Absolutely no idea.’

‘I remember you said we should leave and get a drink somewhere else.’

‘That was you!’ I exclaimed, ducking to the left as a stray tennis ball swooshed past me and bounced off the plastic window.

‘No, it was definitely you,’ Patrick laughed. ‘You asked me with your eyes, I translated it into words.’

My lips curved into a smile.

‘And then we got in that taxi and …’ 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.’