Double Fault

  Lionel Shriver is a novelist whose books include Orange Prize winner We Need to Talk About Kevin, So Much for That, The Post-Birthday World, A Perfectly Good Family, Game Control, Double Fault, The Female of the Species, Checker and the Derailleurs, and Ordinary Decent Criminals. She is widely published as a journalist, writing features, columns, op-eds, and book reviews for the Guardian, New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Financial Times, Economist, Marie Claire, and many other publications. She is frequently interviewed on television, radio, and in print media. She lives in London and Brooklyn, NY.

  Praise for Double Fault

  “A brilliant tale of doomed love” Observer

  “With prose as taut as a well-strung racquet, you’ll be captivated” Marie Claire

  “That Shriver refuses to avert her gaze, much less sweeten the pill, is what makes her such an interesting writer. She does not coax, or wheedle: she challenges. She makes you think” Daily Telegraph

  “Shriver is a truly remarkable star in the literary firmament. She has an uncanny sense of the way women subject themselves to secret, inward torture, weighing themselves down with passionate feelings they believe socially unacceptable to bring out in the open… I doubt there is any thoughtful woman who does not recognise herself somewhere in Shriver’s writing” Lisa Jardine, Financial Times

  “The characters and situation are utterly convincing and the level of detail in the narrative provides a ghastly gossipy pleasure” Lesley Glaister

  “Shriver doesn’t care whether her characters are likeable or not: they play off one another’s strengths and weaknesses in a mesmerizing grudge match” Saga Magazine

  “The scenes between Willy and Eric are terrific pieces of writing: the dialogue crackles with rage, frustration and bitterness” Independent

  “Her writing is as precise and devastating as a Federer forehand” Belfast Telegraph

  “When feminism has become the politics that dare not speak its name, it is refreshing to find an author who will bring such renewed vigour to the gender wars” Guardian

  “Her exploration of her characters is so fearless that although readers may not sympathise with her, they’ll understand why she’s driven to destroy what she loves” Metro

  Praise for We Need to Talk About Kevin winner of the Orange Prize for Fiction 2005

  “An elegant psychological and philosophical investigation of culpability with a brilliant denoument… although (Eva’s) reliability as a narrator becomes increasingly questionable as she oscillates between anger, self-pity and regret, her search for answers becomes just as compulsive for the reader” Observer

  “Explores but gives no simplistic solutions to the horrors of copycat killings, the choices before women combining careers with rearing children, or whether evil can be innate” Times Literary Supplement

  “One of the most striking works of fiction to be published this year. It is Desperate Housewives as written by Euripides… A powerful, gripping and original meditation on evil” New Statesman

  “[A] powerful, painful novel… The ending Shriver chooses will shock many readers in these politically correct times that take for granted the innocence of children and the corrupting culpability of adults. There are true, terrible things said here about family life that most of us would leave unspoken” Saga Magazine

  “[Shriver’s] detailed depiction of a marriage and a family torn apart by silence is disarmingly direct… Shriver’s novel is a timely one… maybe we all need to talk about Kevin… Nature or nurture? Shriver leaves it to the reader to decide in this powerful cautionary tale” Belfast Telegraph

  “Pitch-perfect, devastating and utterly convincing” Geoff Dyer “An awesomely smart, stylish and pitiless achievement. Franz Kafka wrote that a book should be the ice-pick that breaks open the frozen seas inside us, because the books that make us happy we could write ourselves. Shriver has wielded Kafka’s axe with devastating force” Boyd Tonkin, Independent

  “My beach novel of choice… tense account of a mother who gives birth to a child she unapologetically dislikes from the start” Judy Rumbold, Guardian

  “A great read with horrifying twists and turns” Marie Claire

  “A chilling yet compulsive book that’ll keep you hooked until the very end” Yorkshire Post

  “A deeply shocking but mesmerising novel” Herald

  “The most excruciating, thought-provoking book I’ve read in years” Sunday Telegraph

  “This book asks the question many women are afraid to ask: does maternal instinct really exist… A good read for all women who have struggled with the loss of self that often comes with motherhood” Big Issue

  “A true literary achievement… Read it. Pass it on. We need to talk about this book” Irish Sunday Independent

  double

  fault

  LIONEL SHRIVER

  A complete catalogue record for this book can

  be obtained from the British Library on request

  The right of Lionel Shriver to be identified as the author of this

  work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Copyright © 1997 by Lionel Shriver

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by

  any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or

  otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  First published in the USA in 1997 by Doubleday, New York

  First published in the UK in 2006 by Serpent’s Tail,

  an imprint of Profile Books Ltd

  3A Exmouth House

  Pine Street

  London EC1R 0JH

  www.serpentstail.com

  ISBN 978 1 84668 847 8

  Printed in the UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  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.

  AUTHOR’S 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.

  “Rarely do you get something if you want it too much.

  There isn’t a tennis player in the world who

  can’t tell when an opponent is frightened.”

  —TED TINLING

  ONE

  AT THE TOP OF the toss, the ball paused, weightless. Willy’s 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 ball’s circumference, etching a ring on Willy’s retina that would blind-spot the rest of the point.

  Thwack. Little matter, about the sun. The serve sang down the middle and sped, unmolested, to ching into a diamond of the chain-link 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 Willy’s gaze outside the fence to her left. Because the ball’s flaming corona was still burned into her vision, the stranger’s 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 Randy’s 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 wasn’t 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; he’d demonstrated the western grip on the first changeover.

  She’d smiled attentively. Now up 4–0, Willy was still smiling.

  The Italian’s 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, Willy’s 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 appeal … Ignoring 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 mustn’t slum with guttersnipes and so learn to talk trash. But Willy felt that amateurs kept you on your toes. They were full of surprises—inadvertently nasty dinks from misconnected volleys, or wild lobs off the frame. And many of Riverside’s 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 split-second 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 lizard’s tracking a fly. He was distracting. When the man aped “Ran-dee!” as the Italian mishit another drive, Willy’s return smacked the tape.

  “You threw me off,” she said sharply.

  “It shouldn’t be so easy.” The onlooker’s 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.

  Emerging from his towel, Randy grumbled, “I’ve been hustled.”

  “There was no money on the line,” she chided.

  “There’s always something on the line,” he said brusquely, “or you don’t play.”

  Leaning for his racket case, Randy grabbed his spine. “Oooh, geez! Threw my back last week. Afraid I’m a pale shadow …” Zipping up, he explained that his racket had “frame fatigue”; not much better than a baseball bat, capisce?

  Her coach Max often observed, When boys win, they boast; when girls win, they apologize. “I was in good form today,” Willy offered. “And you got some pretty vile bounces.”

  “How about a beer?” Randy proposed. “Make it up to me.”

  “No, I’ll … stick around, practice my serve.”

  “What’s left for you to practice, hitting it out?” Randy stalked off with his gear.

  Willy lingered to adjust the bandanna binding her flyaway blond hair. The man behind the fence threw a sports bag over the sag in the chain-link at the far end and leapt after it.

  “That was the most gutless demonstration I’ve ever seen,” he announced.

  “Oh, men always make excuses,” said Willy. “Beaten by a girl.”

  “I didn’t mean he was gutless. I meant you.”

  She flushed. “Pardon?”

  “Your playing that meatball is like a pit bull taking on a Chihuahua. Is that how you get your rocks off?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have rocks.”

  The lanky man clucked. “I think you do.”

  While Randy looked sexy from a court away and disillusioning face to face, this interloper appeared gawky and ungainly at a distance, his nose lumpy and outsized, his brow overhung, his figure stringy. But close up the drastic outlines gave way to a subtler, teasing smile, and elusive, restless eyes. Though his torso narrowed to a spindly waist, his calves and forearms widened with veiny muscle.

  “Somebody’s got to put loudmouths in their place,” she snapped.

  “Other loudmouths. You tired?”

  Willy glanced at her dry tank top. “If I were, I wouldn’t admit it.”

  “Then how about a real game?” He spun his racket, a solid make. He was cocky, but Willy Novinsky hadn’t turned down the offer of a tennis game for eighteen years.

  At the first crack of the ball, Willy realized how lazily she’d been playing with Randy. She botched the first three warm-up rallies before reaching into her head and twisting a dial. Once it was adjusted up a notch, threads of the bedraggled net sharpened; scuffled paint at her feet flushed to a more vivid green. White demarcations lifted and seemed to hover. Fissures went blacker and more treacherous, and as it hurtled toward her the ball loomed larger and came from a more particular place.

  She played guardedly at first, taking the measure of her opponent. His strokes were unorthodox; some replies came across as dumb luck. His form was in shambles; he scooped up one last-minute ball with what she could swear was a golf swing. But he lunged for everything. When she passed him his racket was always stabbing nearby, and though many a down-the-line drive was too much for him, she never caught him flat-footed on his T just glooming at it.

  And there were no Ran-dee!’s. He never apologized or swore. He didn’t mutter Get it together, Jack! or, for that matter, Good shot. When her serve was long he raised his finger; at an ace he flattened his palm. In fact, he didn’t say one word for the whole match.

  The game was over too soon at 6—0, 6—2. Willy strolled regretfully to the net, promising herself not to hand him excuses, but also not to gloat. Despite the lopsided score, they’d had some long, lovely points, and she hoped he would play her again. Before she’d formulated a remark striking just the right gracious yet unrepentant note, he reached across the tape, grasped Willy’s waist, and lifted her to the sky.

  “You’re so light!” he extolled, lowering her gently to the court. “And unbelievably fucking powerful.” He wiped his palm on his s
opping T-shirt, and formally extended his hand. “Eric Oberdorf.”

  They shook. “Willy Novinsky.”

  She’d been braced for the usual grumpy terseness, or an affected breeziness as if the contest were mere bagatelle, expressed in an overwillingness to discuss other matters. But grinning ear to ear, he talked only of tennis.

  “So your father dangled a Dunlop-5 over your crib, right? Dragged you from the Junior Open to the Orange Bowl while the rest of us were reading ‘Spot is on TV.’ And don’t tell me—Dad’s on his way here. Since even now you’re nineteen, he still tucks you in at ten sharp. His little gold mine needs her rest.”

  That she was already twenty-three was such a sore point that she couldn’t bear correcting him. “Don’t hold your breath. Daddy’s in New Jersey, waiting for me to put away childish things. Like my tennis racket.”

  Which was just what she was doing, when Eric stayed her arm. “Unwind with a few rallies?”

  Willy glanced at the sky, the light waning. She’d been playing a good four hours, the limit on an ordinary day. But the air as it eased from rose to gray evoked afterwork games with her father, when he’d announce that Mommy would have supper ready and Willy would plead for a few points more. On occasion, he’d relented. She was not about to become the grown-up who insists it’s time to quit. “A few minutes,” she supposed.

  Eric volleyed. Tentatively she suggested, “Your backswing—take it no farther than your right shoulder.”

  In five minutes, Eric had trimmed his backswing by three inches. She eyed him appreciatively. Unlike the average amateur, whose quantity of how-to books and costly half-hour sessions with burned-out pros was inversely related to his capacity to apply their advice, Eric had promptly installed her passing observation like new software. She felt cautious about coaching if it manifested itself in minutes, for turning words into motion was a rare knack. With such a trusting, able student she could sabotage him if she liked, feeding him bad habits like poisoned steak to a dog.