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Phoebe serves and Freyja returns. It’s long. Too long for me to intercept. I hear Phoebe’s shoes squeak along the baseline and wait for the sound of the ball hitting her racquet—
—but it doesn’t.
Instead of thethumpof ball on racquet, I hear Phoebe let out a shriek of pain.
I turn but my body feels sluggish, like I’m trying to walk in a swimming pool. Phoebe’s on the ground, clutching her knee. Tears stream down her face.
I run to her side, my racquet falling to the ground.
‘Gabi.’ Phoebe grips my forearm so tightly it hurts. Behind us, I can hear someone calling for the medic. ‘Gabi, I can’t get up.’
1
Noah
I’m running late.
Technically, I’m running on time, and it’s the trains that are late—delayed by the sweltering heat and the warping tracks—but Mark won’t accept that excuse.
Heat rolls off the ground in waves. It’s two in the afternoon and already more than thirty-eight degrees. Tomorrow, it’s supposed to be forty-two. They say if things continue the way they’re going, it won’t be long before Melbourne sees fifty-degree summer days. Fuck my life when that happens.
Further down the platform, two girls in short sundresses pass a water bottle between them. I’d bet my last dollar it doesn’t contain water. One has a beach bag slung over her shoulder, colourful towels spilling out of the top. A warm breeze pushes down the platform, ruffling the hems of their dresses. In contrast, I’m in black dress pants, black belt, black button-up shirt and shiny lace-up Oxfords.
One girl laughs at something the other said. They look around my age, but our lives are probably completely different. They’ll spend the afternoon lazing at the beach. I’m heading to a shitty job to make a shitty buck.
The train rolls in to Flinders Street Station and, after waiting for the passengers to disembark, I slide into a vacant window seat. Finally, sweet, sweet air conditioning.
As the train lurches forward, I rest my elbow on the window ledge and watch the station disappear.
‘This is a Frankston-bound train, stopping all stations to Frankston,’says a perky robotic woman over the loudspeaker.
The train slips into a tunnel—
‘The next stop is . . . Richmond.’
—and emerges again. To my right, Rod Laver Arena is awash with banners promoting the upcoming tennis tournament. Cleaners scour the grounds. A handful of staff are setting up a garden display in the shape of a tennis racquet by the large arched entrance.
As the train loiters at the station, I watch the electronic poster ads roll. First is a woman in mid-swing, her gaze determined.Two-time winner Phoebe Song, the poster reads.
The poster rolls again to reveal a fiercely attractive blond man leaping into the air in pursuit of the ball. His shirt rides up and gives just a tease of his well-defined stomach.Lukas Froebel. French Open Champion.
The final poster promotes a man named Pejo Auer. He stares down the camera with a playful smile, his thick arms crossed over his chest.World Number One.
The doors close again and the train lurches forward.
Across the carriage, a baby gurgles. I watch as the woman leans over her pram, making animated faces as the baby squirms with delight.
I wonder if my mum looked at me like that. It’s always been clear my dad didn’t want me, but I wonder how Mum felt when she found out she was pregnant. If she was happy. Excited, even. Or if she felt resigned to ‘figure it out’ like she seemed to do with everything else in her life.
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I scroll through my messages.
Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.
She sent that text message over two years ago. We haven’t spoken since.
‘The next stop is . . . South Yarra,’ the robot woman says over the intercom.
Putting my phone away, I push Mum from my mind. Gotta tackle one thing at a time.
