A telephone rings. It is late evening on a day in January. Canberra, Australia. Blisteringly hot, a fan ruffles a pile of press cuttings of Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer. The writer (serious type, in her 20s) grabs at the receiver, never taking her eyes off the television.WRITER (distractedly): Mm?
FRIEND: Sarina? Is that you? It’s May.
WRITER (breathlessly and without punctuation): Oh May hi how are you gosh I’m so busy can’t breathe up to my teeth in work writing an important story on surviving the Australian bush poor Brits always getting eaten by alligators and snakes terribly inconvenient for our emergency services.
FRIEND (suspiciously): Are you watching the tennis?
WRITER: What, me, tennis? No, I’m just, er, making some popcorn. Pop, pop, ha ha.
There is a pause and then the distinctive noise of “Pock, pock, applause, 15 love”.
FRIEND (quietly): I thought you hated tennis. When we were in London and I had tickets to Wimbledon you said you’d rather listen to a concerto for nails on blackboards.
WRITER (innocently): Did I? It must have been Jo. I adore tennis. Always have.
FRIEND (struggling to curb enthusiasm): Well. Never mind. How exciting is this match? I can’t believe Federer won the first two sets so easily.
WRITER: Yes, but that Roddick, cheeky bugger. All those brilliant drop shots that had all sorts of sidespin ha ha. And last night’s match, Nadal’s serve is something to watch isn’t it, 200km/h, out of this world, and his forehand, amazing to think he’s a left-hander. He’s got nice hands, doesn’t he? Yes, yes, nice hands.
FRIEND: Er, yes. Did you watch Dokic? So sad, but gosh she came so close.
WRITER: Who?
FRIEND (exasperated): Are you even watching any of the women’s tennis?
WRITER (confused): There’s women’s tennis?
FRIEND: Oh, Sarina, give it up.
WRITER: What are you talking about?
FRIEND: Just give it up.
WRITER (voice rising to a squeal): I can’t. I’m a serious writer. What will people think?
FRIEND: Just give it up.
WRITER (blithering): Wimbledon, French Open, tie-break, linesmen, seventh seed, 12 straight points, lob and stop-volley, chair umpire, advantage point, foot-fault¸ fancy racquets, remarkable isn’t it that Federer never breaks a string, and what about that Nadal, 6-2 in the first game against Simon –
FRIEND: You mean set. He won 6-2 in the first set.
WRITER: That’s what I said.
FRIEND: No, you said game.
WRITER: Ba humbug, points, games, sets, matches, same thing.
FRIEND: Not quite.
The friend takes a deep breath, as if suddenly deciding something.
FRIEND: Actually, I quite liked that Tsonga. I was sad when he left.
WRITER: A bit too chunky for my liking. Cute accent though. And so funny when he was joking with the commentator, pointing to his head. (Hastily) But I mean, didn’t he keep Nadal on the back foot, and his forehand in particular struck with enormous power, while his touch at the net was a sheer delight.
FRIEND (casually): By the way I rang up Seven and complained about the lack of close-ups of Nadal’s arms.
WRITER: Well, yes, I mean, as a tennis player, I can understand your need to look at his arms to examine the, er, muscle definition. It’s just, they’re so brown and strong and – and –
The writer’s voice suddenly becomes dry and she can no longer speak.
FRIEND: You know, we can’t tell anyone about this conversation. I play tennis, for heaven’s sake. You only watch it.
WRITER (defensively): I play badminton. But yes, you’re right.
There is a comfortable, contented silence.
FRIEND: What on earth are we going to do when the World Cup comes around?
WRITER (gulping): You mean the soccer? All those men in little shorts…
The writer faints and later blames it on the heat.