Lionel Shriver - Double Fault

Double Fault

DOUBLE FAULT

A NOVEL

LIONEL SHRIVER

To Jonathan

Whose real name I may use so rarely to save it for special occasions. Dedicated in the fervent hope

that we will confine this plot to paper.

Rarely do you get something if you want it too much. There isnt a tennis player in the world who cant tell when an opponent is frightened. TED TINLING

Contents

iii Epigraph ix Authors NoteOne
AT THE TOP OF the toss, the ball paused, weightless. 1

Two
MAX UPCHURCH CALLED SWEETSPOT a School of Tennis, dismissing Nick 15

Three
SO, WHAT, UPCHUCKS BEEN schtuping you since you were twelve? 29

Four
THERE ENSUED A COURTSHIP in every sense. After Willy just 38

Five
IF TWENTY-THREE WAS YOUNG to marry for 1992, Willy did 53

Six
WHEN WILLY NEARED MONTCLAIR, New Jersey, she dwarfed, as if 69

Seven
CLAMOROUS SWEETSPOT STUDENTS HAVING sifted off to dinner, the weight 84

Eight
OF COURSE YOULL BE invited, Willy promised. But I was 103

Nine
WILLY HAD LEARNED THE relativity of success from her parents, 117

Ten
I DONT THINK SO. No, Tuesdays my wedding
anniversary, but 127

Eleven
FOR YOU, TENNIS, MAX barked, his voice echoing over the 136

Twelve
WHIPPING NUMBER TEN DIDNT make Eric number nine. But he 154

Thirteen
WILLY INSISTED ON ACCOMPANYING Eric to the victors reception, though 168

Fourteen
MAX? WILLY RASPED, HER face contorted and her breath shallow. 181 Fifteen
ERIC SQUINTED. YOU LOOK thin. 196

Sixteen
FOR THE NEXT SIX weeks, even with his students
returned, 207

Seventeen
A CAREER IN DECLINE, as opposed to ascent, rarely obliges 220

Eighteen
THOUGH AWARE SHE WAS changing, on no single day did 234

Nineteen
ERICS REDOUBLED SEARCH FOR remedies signaled a better appreciation for 248

Twenty
WILLY ALMOST SKIPPED BREAKFAST, but avoidance was delay. Which dictated 268

Twenty-One
BY THE NEXT MORNING Erics face had ballooned, his eye 283 Twenty-Two
YOULL BE PLEASED TO hear I lost the semis. Eric 298

AUTHORS NOTE

In the interests of storytelling, the tennis ranking system has been simplified in this novel. Readers curious about the complexities of national versus international rankings, or the WTA versus Virginia Slims computers, should consult the copious nonfiction on the subject. A few additional liberties have been taken, for

Double Fault is not so much about tennis as marriage, a slightly different sport.

ONE A

the toss, the ball paused, weightless. Willys arm dangled slack behind her back. The serve was into the sun, which at its apex the tennis ball perfectly eclipsed. A corona blazed on the balls circumference, etching a ring on Willys retina that would blind-spot the rest of the point. T THE TOP OF

Thwack . Little matter, about the sun. The serve sang down the middle and sped, unmolested, to ching into a diamond of the chainlink fence. Randy wrestled with the Penn-4. It gave him something to do.

Willy blinked. Never look at the sun had been a running admonition in her childhood. Typical, from her parents: avert your eyes from glory, shy from the bright and molten, as if you might melt.

A rustle of leaves drew Willys gaze outside the fence to her left. Because the balls flaming corona was still burned into her vision, the strangers face, when she found it, was surrounded by a purple ring, as if circled for her inspection with a violet marker. His fingers hooked the galvanized wire. He had predatory eyes and a bent smile of unnerving patience, like a lazy lion who would wait all day in the shade for supper to walk by. Though his hairline was receding, the lanky man was young, yet still too white to be one of the boys from nearby Harlem scavenging strays for stickball. He must have been searching the underbrush for his own errant ball; he had stopped to watch her play.

Willy gentled her next serve to Randys forehand. There was no purpose to a pick-up game in Riverside Park if she aced away the entire set. Reining in her strokes, Willy caressed the ball while Randy walloped it. As ever, she marveled at the way her feet made dozens of infinitesimal adjustments of their own accord. Enjoying the spontaneous conversation of comment and reply, Willy was disappointed when her loping backhand tempted Randy to show off.

Ppfft , into the net.

This late in the first set, she often gave a game away to keep the opposition pumped. But with that stranger still ogling their match from the woods, Willy resisted charity. And she wasnt sure how much more of this Randy Ravioli (or whatever, something Italian) she could take. He never shut up.

Ran-dee! echoed across all ten courts when his shot popped wide. Between points Randy counseled regulars in adjoining games: Bit too wristy, Bobby old boy! and Bend those knees, Alicia! Willy herself he commended: You pack quite a punch for a little lady. And the stocky hacker was a treasure trove of helpful advice; hed demonstrated the western grip on the first changeover.

Shed smiled attentively. Now up 40, Willy was still smiling. The Italians serve had a huge windup, but with a hitch at the end, so all that flourish contributed little to the effort. More, intent on blistering pace, Randy tended to overlook the nicety of landing it in the box. He double-faulted, twice.

As they switched ends again, Willys eyes darted to her left. That man was still leering from behind the fence. Damn it, one charm of throwaway games in Riverside was not to be scrutinized for a change. Then, he did have an offbeat, gangly appealIgnoring the passerby only betrayed her awareness that he was watching.
Newly self-conscious, Willy bounced the ball on the baseline six, seven times. If her coach knew she was here he would have her head, as if she were a purebred princess who mustnt slum with guttersnipes and so learn to talk trash. But Willy felt that amateurs kept you on your toes. They were full of surprisesinadvertently nasty dinks from misconnected volleys, or wild lobs off the frame. And many of Riversides motley crew exuded a nutritious exultation, losing with a shy loss for words or a torrent of gee-whiz . With Randy she was more likely to earn a huffy see ya , but she preferred honest injury to the desiccated well done and two-fingered handshake of Forest Hills.
Besides, Riverside Park was just across the street from her apartment, providing the sport a relaxing easy-come. The courts wretched repair recalled the shattered Montclair asphalt on which Willy first learned to play: crabgrass sprouted on the baseline, fissures crazed from the alley, and stray leaves flattened the odd return. The heaving undulation of courts four and seven approximated tennis on the open sea. Poor surface mimicked the sly spins and kick-serves of cannier pros, and made for good practice of splitsecond adjustment to gonzo bounces. Craters and flotsam added a touch of humor to the game, discouraging both parties from taking the outcome to heart. An occasional murder in this bosky northern end of the park ensured generously available play time.
In the second set Randy started to flail. Meanwhile their audience followed the ball, his eyes flicking like a lizards tracking a fly. He was distracting. When the man aped Ran-dee! as the Italian mishit another drive, Willys return smacked the tape.
You threw me off, she said sharply.
It shouldnt be so easy. The onlookers voice was deep and creamy.
Abruptly impatient, Willy finished Randy off in ten minutes. When they toweled down at the net post, Willy eyed her opponent with fresh dismay. From behind the baseline Randy could pass for handsome; this close up, he revealed the doughy, blurred features of a boozer.