Free Games People Play by Louise Voss Page A

even though the sleep clears from my eyes and my brain slowly unfogs, I still can’t shake off the impression of being under attack from those balls. They smacked into my forehead, but the sound it made was the sound of balls hitting a wire fence.
    We had some hail yesterday, but today it’s downgraded to rain, which is hurling itself at the window, rattling the glass, and I think sourly how it always seems to rain on my birthday. The trouble with being born in October.
    I open my bedroom door, noticing that Anthea hasn’t touched the snack I left out for her. The milk has gained a textured patina of dust on its surface, and the edges of the sandwich have curled into a dry sneer.
    At that moment, I hear the sound of footsteps in the gravel of the front path and – even in the current crisis – I automatically do some nimble crossovers sideways along the landing and down the staircase to see if it’s the postman. My right hand is holding an imaginary racket high above my head, as if I’ve just been lobbed from the top of the stairs. (After a recent, particularly galling defeat at a challenge in Miami, Dad and José went into a lengthy confab, the result of which was that they decided it was my on-court movement which was to blame. As a result, they encourage me to execute crossover steps practically everywhere I go.)
    I get to the bottom and wait expectantly by the letterbox, realizing that I’m not old enough to be completely blasé about birthdays just yet. For a moment I wonder if perhaps this was the reason for my sleepless night, rather than pre-tournament nerves, or worrying about Dad, but then I decide surely not. I’d be announcing that I still believed in Father Christmas next. But I could remember it well: that breathless anticipation of gifts and attention, candles and cards.
    I wonder what Mark will give me?
    A few envelopes thud on to the tiled floor, but right away I can see that they are mostly circulars and bills. I pounce on a plain white envelope, and a square yellow one, and leave the rest of the post on the hall table. Nothing from Mum – she is usually late with my present. The yellow envelope contains a card from my friend Kerry, and the white, one from Gordana and Ted – I recognize Gordana’s neat writing. When I rip it open a voucher flutters out: fifty pounds, for the big art shop in the local shopping centre! I am delighted.
    Gordana knows how much I love to draw, and she’s always encouraging me, although I always say that I never have time for it. This is not strictly true: there are endless hours of spare time at tournaments, waiting around for matches, or, if I’ve been knocked out, for the rest of the squad to finish so we can fly home again. I keep meaning to take a sketchpad and pencils in my hand luggage, so I can use the time constructively, but the truth is I’d feel embarrassed suddenly to whip out a pad and crayons. It would seem...pretentious, I suppose.
    I realize this is daft, and vow to be braver. Drawing is the thing I enjoy most (after playing tennis), so why not? I hear Gordana’s voice in my head: ‘Who cares what anyone else thinks?’ and I know she’s right. Although the thought of my fellow players squinting critically over my shoulder makes me cringe…
    I put the voucher into my purse just as Dad appears on the landing in his dressing gown; his hair is sticking up, and his big yellow toenails loom down at me over the lip of the top stair. He looks grey and shattered, closer to sixty than his forty-four years. He comes slowly downstairs, ruffling my hair wordlessly as he passes, and I notice that he smells strange: of sickness perhaps, although it feels more like fear and fatigue; anxiety trapped like stale sweat.
    ‘Is your migraine better, Daddy?’ I ask, following him into the kitchen. I haven’t called him Daddy for years.
    ‘Mmmm,’ he says, more like a grunt, and fills the kettle.
    ‘We missed you at the party last night. Gordana was really