No. She rallied. She would pop down to the mini-mart by the railway station and pick up some more. They always opened early.
Except Stan had the car and it would take forever to walk there.
She made a low growling sound of frustration.
Steffi, who was lying in her favourite cool spot by the back door, lifted her head enquiringly, her tail thumping against the floor.
‘I’m trying, Steffi,’ said Joy. ‘It’s just that he’s eaten all the apples and taken the car.’
Inspiration struck. She would change into shorts and ride her brand new bike to the mini-mart! So far she had only been for one little spin around the cul-de-sac. She loved the idea of the bike, but she was actually a bit nervous about traffic. She would face her fears! It was exhilarating to face your fears. Or so everyone said.
Half an hour later she stood on trembling legs in the mini-mart, plunking down the money for four overpriced Granny Smith apples. She was friendly as usual to the mini-mart man even though he scowled at her as usual （why did he hate her so?）。 She placed the apples in her wicker basket and began the ride home. She had to really work the pedals to get up the hill. In all the years she’d lived here she had never noticed the Mount Everest–like incline of this particular street.
Someone beeped their horn, making her heart leap. The bike swerved and the front wheel banged violently against the gutter. She straightened the handles, turned the corner, looked down and saw that the front tyre was completely flat.
‘For goodness sake, what next?’
She threw the bike to the ground, hard, like a child. She stood, hands on hips, breathing heavily, looking at the bike and the apples. She kicked one of the apples like a ball. It rolled a listless short distance. She was not going to make an apple crumble today. Or ever again.
So that was the end of that.
You can choose the right shot, you can have a good swing and good technique, you can do everything right, and it can still go wrong. No player, no matter how good, makes one hundred per cent of their shots.
Some days you lose. They’d drummed that into the children too. You can be number one in the world, you can win and win and win, but it’s inevitable: eventually you will lose.
She walked the rest of the way home, carrying her helmet by the strap. The car was in the driveway. She would go back and collect the bike once she’d calmed and cooled down. Inside, the house was silent, but she could feel the skulking, sulking presence of her husband. Her shirt stuck to her sweaty body and her mood flared as scratchy and hissy as Caro’s awful thieving cat. She went to the kitchen, got herself a glass of water and drank deeply.
‘You should probably read this.’
Stan’s voice, suddenly so deep and loud behind her, made her jump. The glass banged painfully against her teeth. She turned to look at him. He threw some kind of bound document onto the table.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘It’s Harry Haddad’s memoir,’ said Stan. ‘This is a preview copy, I think you call it. He’s sent it to us to read. I’m in it. We’re both in it.’
‘Right,’ she said.
She almost said, ‘Whatever,’ like a teenager. She’d forgotten all about that damned memoir. It didn’t matter now. The ugly little secret was out.
‘He admits he used to cheat when he played as a kid,’ said Stan. He tapped his finger on the document. She read the title: Game to Harry.
‘He admits it?’ She put the glass down and slowly sank into a chair at the table, pulling Harry’s life story towards her. If Harry was publicly admitting that he once cheated then it must have been more than a few bad calls.
‘Yes,’ said Stan. ‘It’s not that surprising –’
‘I beg your pardon?’ She looked up at him. She couldn’t believe he would say that. ‘What do you mean, it’s not surprising? You didn’t believe Troy. You accused him of lying.’
‘I did not,’ said Stan. ‘I never said he lied. I told him it was an unfortunate reality of the game. I told him he would sometimes face kids who made bad calls and that he shouldn’t focus on his opponent but on his own game.’
‘Rubbish!’ She wanted to grab the back of his head and force him to look in the right direction where he could see his past clearly. ‘You took Harry’s side! You didn’t support your own son!’
‘My son assaulted another player! Of course I didn’t support him. Are you crazy?’
‘Don’t you dare call me crazy.’ She was electrified with rage: against her husband, against those long-ago doctors who couldn’t help her daughters, against the rude mini-mart man. Her hair did not look nice right now, it was all flat and sweaty, and her legs still wobbled from that bike ride up Mount bloody Everest from her failed mission to get apples to make her horrible husband’s nasty mother’s apple crumble. ‘Troy lost his temper because he didn’t have your support!’