“I guess it’s a different game these days,” he said quietly.
“Yes. I’ve seen old footage of Martina and Chrissy back in the day. They’re absolute legends, but they probably wouldn’t be able to keep up with the players today. Martina won her first tournament when she was downright fat! Can you even imagine?”
They were quiet the remainder of the ride. When the car pulled up in front of Le Meurice, Jake was waiting for them on the sidewalk. He looked adorable in a fitted Moncler puffer vest over a chunky ribbed long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. The cashmere beanie he wore was the exact shade of blue as his eyes, and for the thousandth time Charlie wondered why he wasn’t dating anyone. He was handsome and put together, and seemingly confident. She’d met a handful of his dates in the past, and they were all a lot like him: neither overly effeminate nor hyper buff gym Nazis whose arms and chests could barely be contained. Charlie knew Jake had had a slutty period in his early twenties when, according to him, he’d “gone on a tear of gay bars and clubs straight through Hell’s Kitchen, Chelsea, and Brooklyn,” but a hepatitis close call had scared him back to serial monogamy. Now, as far as she could tell, Jake would only date one person at a time—and after insisting on the full battery of tests—but none of them seemed to last longer than a couple of months. Only one Thanksgiving had he brought someone home, a frustrated electrical engineer named Jack, who spent his nights trying to break into the stand-up comedy circuit and had cracked them all up with smart, irreverent jokes about politics, current events, and his own unfortunate red hair. Mr. Silver had surprised them both by being relaxed and welcoming; Charlie raved on about how much she loved Ginger Jack, how cute “Jake & Jack” would look on a wedding invitation, how they could name their firstborn Jon or Jill, or Jamie if they were feeling oppressed by gender stereotyping. Yet when Christmas rolled around, Jake showed up alone, and with the exception of a few murmurs about “schedules” and “priorities,” they’d never heard another word about Jack.
Her father and Jake wrapped their arms tightly and unabashedly around each other and remained that way for some time. When they finally broke apart, Jake examined Mr. Silver as though he were a lost son who had finally returned home after a long and arduous journey.
“What’s going on here?” she asked, staring at them both.
Mr. Silver smiled, but it was forced. “Nothing, sweetheart. I’m just always happy to see you two.”
“Seriously, you’re looking at each other like someone died. What am I missing?”
Identical expressions washed over both Jake’s and her father’s faces, but Charlie couldn’t identify the emotion before Jake grabbed her arm. “Come on, you’ve got an interview with French Elle right now. Dad, do you want to go to the room or join us?”
“What do you think?” her father asked with a grin and followed them. Charlie felt guilty for wishing he would have chosen otherwise.
“Shouldn’t I change? I thought the deal was I had to have at least some visible bedazzling for all interviews.”
Charlie nearly had to run to keep up with Jake as he traversed the marble lobby. She heard at least three people stage whisper her name to their companions as they passed.
“Here,” Jake said, handing her a crystal-encrusted cosmetic bag with her initials in black rhinestones. He pushed her toward the ladies’ room. “Pick a few things from there. We’ll meet you in the hospitality suite on the second floor in five. Go!”
She walked into the carpeted bathroom with intricate wood paneling and a three-wick Diptyque candle wafting out the most delicious fig scent. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed the dark under-eye circles and the dry, peeling lips she already felt. Her usually shiny hair looked dull and heavy; her complexion managed to appear waxy under her omnipresent tan. No wonder her father was so concerned: she looked like shit.
Digging though the duffel-sized cosmetic bag, she pulled out a round brush, her favorite Oscar Blandi dry shampoo, a cordless flat iron, a bronzer, some mascara, and two lip glosses. Natalya’s traveling hair and makeup people were finally understandable. It took close to ten minutes, during which Jake texted her five times, but she definitely made improvements. There was an entire entourage set up in the hospitality suite when she entered: Jake, Todd, her father, an impossibly chic French woman who must have been the reporter, a photographer, his assistant, and a twentysomething guy they introduced as the translator.
“To catch all my mistakes,” laughed Sandrine, the reporter, in what sounded like flawless English.
Charlie greeted everyone and tried not to feel nervous: she still wasn’t accustomed to interviews much beyond the usual post-match Q&A about point play and mental focus. But Elle didn’t really care about her strategy going into the French Open. Not with the current headlines about Zeke Leighton and Marco Vallejo.
“Darling, sit where you are comfortable,” Sandrine said, waving her elegant manicure toward the suite’s living room. “We will talk and then take the photos. Oui?”
Charlie nodded and settled into one of the tufted armchairs. She forced herself to smile when really all she wanted was to check into her room, take a hot shower, and order an early dinner. The next few days of training were going to be more intense than they usually were at the start of a Grand Slam, and she needed to start focusing on her routine.
There was a knock at the door and a small commotion as a waiter wheeled in a tea service. With great flourish he placed plates of intricate pastries and delicate teacups and saucers on the table between Charlie and Sandrine, and when he poured the tea from a heavy silver pot, he quietly assured Charlie that it was “sans caffeine.” When Charlie thanked him, he bowed and murmured, “Mademoiselle.”
“Charlotte, darling,” Sandrine said, managing to make Charlie’s name sound chicly French. “Tell me how it feels to be a favorite for the Roland-Garros this year?” She pronounced “favorite” like “fah-vo-reet.”
She hesitated and out of the corner of her eye she saw Todd twitch like some character in a horror movie. “It feels fantastic. I’ve worked a long time for this opportunity, and I’m feeling really good about my chances.”
“Do you think you can win here en Fr-ahn-say?”
Charlie wanted to talk about the confidence she felt playing on clay, how it was rare for an American to be so comfortable on the surface but she’d grown up on Birchwood’s Har-Tru courts and had learned how to use the slide and the slower pace to her advantage. She may have even mentioned her new fitness regimen and how working with Todd was giving her an edge, but another glance in his direction revealed more twitching, so instead she said, “Yes. I know I can win. Now I just have to get out there and do it.”
You won’t be winning any awards for articulation, that’s for sure, Charlie thought, but she was pleased to see that Todd’s twitching had been replaced by a satisfied smirk.
“What do you think has changed? Less than one year ago you were injured in the first round at Wimbledon—and some even claim that was a . . . how do you say it? A questionable injury. How do you explain your return to the top?” Sandrine pursed her perfect pink lips in a way that make Charlie want to pinch them. Not nicely.
“Questionable injury?” Charlie turned to the translator, thinking there must have been some misunderstanding, but he merely nodded his confirmation. “I tore my Achilles’ tendon and broke my left wrist. The foot injury required surgery and months of rehab. I’m not sure how that qualifies as a ‘questionable injury,’ if that’s what you’re suggesting . . .”
Sandrine waved, as though these were the silliest of details. “Yes, you are right, of course.” Wide, sharky smile. “Let’s talk about more fun things, yes? Romance! I know all our readers would love to hear about your trysts with various beautiful men, oui? Tell me, is it Zeke or Marco? Or both?” Sandrine’s laugh rang out in the suddenly silent room.
“Ms. Bisset, as you undoubtedly remember, we agreed be
fore the interview that Charlotte’s personal life beyond the details of her travel and training schedule would not be discussed.” Jake’s voice was firm, but Charlie could detect concern.
Sandrine laughed again but her gaze remained fixed on Charlie. “Charlotte, darling, surely you don’t mind clarifying a bit for us, do you? Women the world over—myself included, of course—would love to share the bed of just one of these men. And to think you have had them both. Well, we cannot just ignore it, can we?”
Jake jumped to his feet. “Ms. Bisset, I think that’s quite enough.”
“Well, it is true, no?” She had the self-satisfied look of a cat who’d just devoured a helpless baby bird.
“Either we’ll have to redirect the conversation back to Charlotte’s upcoming French Open appearance or that will—”
“Are you asking me which one is better in bed?” Charlie innocently batted her eyelashes. “Or just who I prefer in general? I’d like to better understand your question.”
“Charlie!” The way Jake barked her name instantly reminded her of her mother: the surprise hurt, the emphasis on the second syllable when most people stressed the first. In that instant, she was transported back in time twenty years. Perhaps it reminded her father as well. He was so appalled by the interview’s turn that he strode out the suite’s door without a word to anyone.
Sandrine returned Charlie’s steady gaze, and Charlie saw a newfound respect in the woman’s expression. The reporter reached over to choose a biscotti from the plate, but when she placed it next to her teacup without taking a single bite, Charlie knew she was just buying time.
“Well, either topic is most interesting, darling. Please share whatever it is you’re thinking.”
“Charlotte . . .” The warning came from Todd now. Charlie glanced toward him and was surprised to see Dan sitting to his right, staring at his feet. When had he sneaked in?
“Whatever it is I’m thinking . . . hmm, let’s see. I’m thinking that I have never felt better prepared for a tournament in my entire life. As you know, I came up playing primarily clay courts, so I’m super comfortable with the surface. Thanks to my incredible team”—she stopped here and waved in Todd and Dan’s general direction—“I’m fitter than ever and confident in my new approach. My injuries are healed entirely. I’ve never felt better.”
If Sandrine noticed that Charlie had redirected the interview, she didn’t let on. “What do you say to the folks out there who point out that you’ve never won a Grand Slam? Actually . . . wait, I think I have it right here.” Sandrine rifled through her notes. “Natalya Ivanov was quoted last week as saying, ‘Charlotte has shown great improvement over the last few months. Of course she has good strokes and an overall strong game. But I think everyone knows you’re really just an amateur until you win a Slam.’ What do you respond to that?”
Charlie forced herself to laugh, but she really wanted to leap out of her chair and snatch the notes away from Sandrine. Natalya had said that? When? “What would I say to that? I actually don’t have to say anything to that. I think my win here in two weeks will speak for itself.”
“So you’re feeling confident?”
“Very. And until then, I have nothing more to say. It sounds like Natalya wouldn’t agree, but words don’t mean much: wins do.” Charlie stood up, clearly catching Sandrine off guard, and reached over to shake her hand. How many interviews had she sat passively for, enduring probing and offensive question after question, always too timid or insecure or polite to do anything but suffer through it? No longer, she thought, turning her attention to the camera crew. “I’m hoping fifteen minutes will be enough to get the right shot? I’m afraid with my schedule today, it’s all I can spare.”
Charlie glanced over at her entourage while the translator addressed the camera crew. Jake and Todd wore dumbfounded expressions, but Dan was grinning at her. When she caught his eye, he gave her a subtle thumbs up. As Jake chatted with Sandrine, making sure she was happy, Charlie scrolled through her news alerts. It was amazing how good it felt to control the interview. So long as she didn’t wonder how she’d feel when it was in print.
• • •
The first two days of practice in the Stade Roland-Garros were textbook. Charlie moved through her fitness and hitting sessions like a machine, taking care to stretch both before and after every workout and to carefully follow the tournament physio’s instructions on how to continue strength training without depleting energy. Todd had arranged for Skype sessions with a prominent nutritionist who specialized in professional athletes (while only using the phrase “big girl” once, which Charlie felt was a noted improvement), and although none of the information the woman shared with Charlie was earth-shattering, it felt good to have someone making recommendations for each meal. The ratios of carbohydrates, protein, and fat were complicated and important: when you burned a few thousand calories every day merely doing your job, it was crucial to refuel properly. She was supposed to eat every two hours, so after finishing her final practice on the second day, Charlie turned to Dan.
“Want to come to player dining? I’m supposed to get a protein smoothie and some yogurt parfait thing that apparently the French do better than anyone else, surprise, surprise.”
Dan shifted his weight between his feet. “Sorry, I can’t right now.”
“What? Don’t tell me you have a riverboat cruise reservation? No, we’ve been here two days, I’m sure you’ve done that already.”
He laughed.
“Private tour at the Louvre? A stroll through the Left Bank? No? You must be shopping then. Not that you strike me as an Hermès kind of guy. Don’t you just love a store that makes you stand in line for an hour before they’ll sell you a two-thousand-dollar wallet? I know I do.”
Dan reached into his racket bag and pulled out a tattered trifold wallet, made of vinyl and a strip of Velcro. “Hermès all the way, baby. The ladies love it.”
It was Charlie’s turn to laugh. “Come on, it’ll just be for a few minutes. I swear I won’t waste much of your sightseeing time.”
Dan clicked on his phone and stared at the time. He hesitated but then said, “Okay, I think I can do ten minutes. But only if we go right now.” He threw his racket bag over his shoulder and leaned over to pick up Charlie’s.
“What, have you got a hot date?” Charlie said teasingly, but she could see instantly by Dan’s red cheeks that she’d guessed right. “Oh my god, you do. You have a date! When on earth did you have time to pick someone up in Paris? We’ve been putting in twelve-hour days!”
“It’s nothing,” Dan said, his voice cracking just the tiniest bit. He coughed. “Just some girl from school. She’s traveling through right now and so am I. We’re meeting up for coffee later.”
“Sounds seriously sexy,” Charlie teased, nearly racing to keep up with him as he strode through the grounds on the way to the player area. They each showed their credentials and took the elevator up to player dining. “Nothing like coffee to say I want to sleep with you.”
“Classy,” Dan said.
“Dan’s getting some!”
She sang this refrain on repeat until he stopped in his tracks and turned around to face her. “Seriously?”
He waved toward an empty table that overlooked one exhibition courts. “What do you want? I’ll get it.”
“Will you get the wrong idea if I say coffee?” Charlie asked flirtatiously.
He returned with two yogurt parfaits plus an espresso for him and a green juice for Charlie. He slid into the booth across from her and devoured his parfait in three bites.
“Seriously, Dan. This girl is in town—in Paris!—for like one night and you’re taking her to coffee? Bad move. You can do better.”
“Ah, the Charlotte Silver school of romance. Where should I take her? Straight to my hotel room? No date required?”
Charlie must have visibly flinche
d, because Dan immediately looked repentant. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Don’t apologize. I haven’t exactly been a pillar of morality lately.”
“Well, it’s certainly none of my business.” Dan sipped his coffee cup and kept his eyes on the table.
“Do you realize that I spend more time with you on a daily basis than almost anyone else in my entire life? I think we’re pretty much each other’s business.”
Dan grinned. “Well, in that case, inquiring minds want to know . . .”
“What? Who’s better in bed? Zeke or Marco?”
“I was just going to ask what’s going on with either one of them, but hey, if you want to go there, consider me officially interested.”
Charlie sighed. “There’s really not much to report. Zeke was definitely a one-time thing. I’m going to put it in my scrapbook and look back on it when I’m old and decrepit. And in the meantime, try to remind myself that I have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Dan nodded and for a second she regretted her own honesty—who was he to judge?
There was a moment of silence before Dan asked, “And Marco?”
“Marco, Marco, Marco. It’s great having someone to hang out with at tournaments, someone who understands the lifestyle. But he was kind of a jerk before the whole Zeke/Nannygate drama even started, and since then, well . . . we haven’t really talked about it.”
Dan’s eyes widened. “You haven’t really talked about it? The entire world has talked about it and you two just haven’t bothered?”
“Not exactly.”
The first time Charlie and Marco had seen each other after the whole situation had been in the lobby of the Sofitel in Munich. He was on his way to practice and Charlie had been en route to her room.
“Hola, beautiful,” Marco had said with a kiss on her cheek, as though nothing had happened.
The Singles Game Page 24