Is the perfect man confined to the pages of a novel?

We’re in the middle of the Covid-19 pandemic when the government suddenly decides we can play sport socially, as long as it’s outside. My mum suddenly decides to leave the comfort of her bum-shaped groove and drag me to the local tennis club. I grumble, protest and argue. Eventually, I reluctantly go and find my racquet hidden in the recesses of the garage.

‘Come on, stop moping, come on. You might enjoy it.’ I give a lukewarm smile and grudgingly get in the car. The car rumbles into action as we embark on the short journey to the tennis club.

Prior to Covid, sofa-surfing was my mum’s sport of choice, but being imprisoned for relentless months seemed to give her the bug for wanting to move from her chair of choice. When she told me that it was called ‘Rusty Rackets’, I started to envisage purple-rinsed OAPs called Barbara, Evelyn or Deidre ballooning the ball into the air like they’re playing swing-ball in the 1980s! Or worse still, conversations involving Antique’s Road Show and water thin ham from Marks and Spencer’s.

Rounding the corner of the tennis club, I can almost smell the Anais Anais and Imperial Leather talcum powder. However, opening the gate of the tennis club gives me a feeling I had never prepared myself for. The sun is blazing down on the artificial grass; the clouds are drifting aimlessly across the blue sky and George is standing there: a bronzed Adonis surrounded by a gaggle of old grannies. George, the tennis coach, was perfection and he smelt like a Johnny Depp aftershave advertisement.

I go and join the grannies on the court, racquet in hand, swooning at his muscular shoulders and chiselled jawline. Seeing him was my Mr Darcy moment. Thunder bolts descended from the azure, blue sky. ‘Did my heart love til now?’

Could reality resemble fiction? Could I turn a chance encounter into an epic romance? George – the tennis coach – was invading my heart and monopolising my mind. Clad in Nike dri-fit and tennis shoes, not the usual billowy shirt and breeches, his effortless charm and easy manner captivated me. It resembled the moment in Pride and Prejudice where Lizzy Bennett sees Fitzwilliam Darcy for the first time. There was something; it was a definite, palpable moment. Physical attraction or love at first sight? Physically, he embodied perfection: a Byronic jaw line, dark head of hair and abs that could feature on the front page of Men’s Health. Suddenly, tennis became a sport that I just might enjoy.

Back hand. Forehand. 40 – love. George showed me the ways on the court. Taking each stroke, I became increasingly breathless! Turning into a pathetic giggly girl, I was competing for his attention, ruthlessly shoving the cauliflower permed geriatrics aside.

‘How do I hold the racket, George? Is this right? Where do I stand?’

I attend private lessons. I decide to take tennis further. I want to see him more and more. I’m addicted! He is attentive, kind, thoughtful. He’s keen to teach me one-to-one. I’m keen to see him one-to-one. I’m in love with my tennis coach. It’s ridiculous. I have to see him again. I bake him cakes worthy of the Bake-Off final. I wear the shortest possible tennis skirts, resembling the iconic 1970s tennis player, flashing a bit of buttock cheek. Anything for his attention.

But like every romance novel, there’s always an ending. I decide to tell George how I feel. Sadly, he was a work of fiction himself. My Mr Darcy had more in common with Jekyll and Hyde. I soon learned that my very own George Knightley would not know how to behave towards women if I hit him over the head with my hardback edition of ‘Emma’.

After picking myself up from the disappointment of my tennis defeat, I realised that love was not to be found on the courts of Blackburn Tennis Club. Weeks later, I saw him again, arguing with an old lady on the forecourt of a petrol station. The magic evaporated into the stench of engine oil. He was just a man. A man wrapped in an impenetrable ego.

So, is my literary suitor trapped in the print of a book? Is he confined to the pages of a Jane Austen novel? And am I destined to become a purple haired spinster who gets her kicks watching Antiques Road Show?

I don’t know…

But I’m not one to give up, I’m still holding out for my literary hero, in the manner of Elizabeth Bennett.

And Mr Darcy, or Mr Knightley, I’m not picky, if you’re out there please get in touch. Tennis coaches need not apply!