The last one concerned him.
“I don’t know what’s going on, Andre. This is odd behavior. You don’t answer my calls, you don’t return my calls. I can’t help but wonder if something else is on your mind. Please call me.”
Andre wanted to see her again. He didn’t want to leave. He would push the trip out by a day. He’d call the client directly and work something out.
His phone chimed. A text message from Gemma.
“You can call me with surprises. This is my mobile. Sleep well.”
After she sent the text, Gemma sank into her bed, thinking of Andre and what he had in mind for the next day. She knew she wanted to be with him, but they were moving too fast, too soon. What would be the appropriate time to wait, she wondered. A day? Two?
Her mobile rang. Andre? She grabbed it and studied the display. Tish? At this hour?
“Isn’t it early in London?” Gemma said.
“She’s alive! Bloody hell, Gemma. We’ve been trying to find you all day. Where have you been?”
“I’ve been about,” she said, disturbed at how quickly the day’s freedom disappeared with just one call. With one question, her dream day was replaced by her other life. She felt stuck between two worlds. “What now?”
“You need to get back to London ASAP. We dropped the ball fantastically. Your agency arranged for your appearance with Johnny for the UK premiere of Triton Warriors. It’s on Wednesday night. You need to come back.”
“No! No fuckin’ way. The agency screwed up. Let them find some other imbecile who’ll smile for the cameras. I’m in LA and can’t leave.”
“G, be reasonable. You’ve never broken a commitment. They can’t just send anyone. Johnny’s expecting you. This was the plan, remember? You both agreed you would keep up appearances of friendship and not let the media create alternate interpretations of what happened.”
Silence. Of course she remembered the plan. After she broke it off, the false rumors spread. Who dumped whom? Who cheated on whom? Wesley had advised them to maintain their “friends” story so that no one lost face in the chaos that followed. This premiere was part of the plan.
“Even the prime minister will be there. His people have asked us to set up a meet and greet. And let’s not forget you’re in the film, after all. You should be there.”
“This is ridiculous. Can I have some time for myself? Any consideration for what I may have been planning? You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Believe me, this will be a disaster if we don’t correct it now. I am absolutely looking out for you.”
She wanted to scream, yell, and curse.
“G?”
“Arrange the goddamn flight.” And although tears shimmered in her eyes, her voice did not falter. “Then on Thursday morning I want Wesley to show me all the planned appearances, so I can cancel as many as I can get my hands on. Good night.” She hung up and nearly threw her mobile against the wall.
Gemma squeezed her fists into her eyes and cried. She cried because she did not value her personal life as much as she valued her career. She cried because she wanted to see Andre again, and she cried because when the moment of truth came between her two worlds, she knew which one would win–which one had to win. It was this fact she held on to. She reminded herself if she pursued anything with Andre, it would always lose to tennis.
She wiped her tears and picked up her mobile.
Andre was pulling into his parking lot when his phone chimed again. A new text message from Gemma. “Bad news. Must go to UK asap. I leave tomorrow morning. I’m sorry. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
He froze. Read and re-read the text. After a few moments, he sent a text to Roger.
“The next point―that’s all you must think about.”
~Rod Laver
ndre arrived at the departure gate with less than an hour to spare. His head was full of scattered thoughts and a headache. He was supposed to simplify his world, not complicate it. What was happening with Gemma was an improbable relationship, and he had gotten what he deserved–she’d blown him off within thirty minutes of accepting his invitation.
He needed to cool things down with her and stay focused on the task at hand. If she wasn’t going to make an effort, then neither would he. He had nearly postponed a client engagement, which would have immediately alerted M&T to his lack of commitment to the future. Six months and you’re free. Get your house in order first.
On second thought, the first thing he wanted to do was hear her voice. He found a quiet spot and called her. One ring, two, three. He was about to hang up when she answered.
“Andre, can I ring you right back? I’m leaving for the airport now.”
“Of course.”
“Cheers,” she said, then the line disconnected.
That confirmed it. She was definitely trying to create distance and he wasn’t getting the message. Too much, too soon. He leaned against the wall and tried to remember how he had gotten in this mess. It was her fault. She had come to his home. She did that–not him. Yes, he had asked her to go to the beach and then conned her into going to Dina’s house, but she’s the one who had first kissed him. Man, what a kiss.
Andre’s headache deepened, inching its way into his skull. He needed his meds. He dropped his bags and just as he sat, his phone rang. It was her.
“Hi, Gem.”
“Ooh, I love that nickname. Sorry about earlier. Didn’t mean to brush you off. It’s been crazy.”
“Don’t sweat it. Are you on your way to the airport now?” He rubbed his temple.
“Yes. Where are you? The beach?”
“LAX, waiting for my flight to D.C.”
“What? You’re leaving on a trip as well? I didn’t know.”
“I wasn’t, but when you sent me your travel update, I decided to take the customer’s call.”
Silence. “Well, at least now I won’t miss out.”
“Miss out?” He closed his eyes and shoved a fist into his neck.
“If you did something fun and I wasn’t there, I’d feel a bit left out.”
“When will you return to LA?”
“I don’t know. No specific plans as of yet.”
“We’ll just have to plan on that paella some other time then,” he said, wondering when that day would come. “What dragged you back so soon?”
“That’s how my world is sometimes. My agency made commitments without realizing I was out of the country.”
“Something fun?”
“Something dreadful.”
“We are now boarding priority–” the intercom announced.
“My flight’s boarding. Text me when you land. Let’s talk once you’ve settled in.”
“That’ll be lovely.”
They hung up and Andre made his way toward the gate. He reached inside his bag for his headache meds, but paused. The tension, the tearing sensation of the headache was nearly gone. His shoulders were loose, his neck muscles were no longer tight. It was her voice. It had to be.
In about four weeks Project Sunrise would start, and for three to four months he would not be back home. He wanted to see her again before that project. He had to see her again.
Gemma slid on her sunglasses and leaned back as Xavi drove her to the airport. She liked predictability and discipline in her life. What she was experiencing right now was a roller coaster. Roller coasters made her vomit.
With all the rumors printed about her, one could have naturally assumed she was well-experienced and would one day write a how-to book. But she wasn’t experienced, not really. Yes, she had dated a handful of people, which made for exciting articles, but truth be told, she trusted very few and had only been intimate twice before. The first could not count, and the other had been years later with Johnny.
With Johnny, she thought she had been in love. But when they finally made love, it became evident he was not a lover. He was an animal claiming his possession. Johnny was not someone who could understand the fear and inadequacy she
experienced when with another. So she never told him of her scars from years earlier. Now she understood she had been going through the motions of a relationship with him. In retrospect, the incident in Australia may have been heaven-sent; a gift from her father.
With Andre, she was experiencing a unique emotion. Trust. And passion. Maybe one day she could possibly tell him everything, because on some level she thought he’d understand without judgment. How could she really know after this brief friendship? She needed more time with Andre, but she also understood duty, responsibility, and sacrifice.
Maybe it was for the best. Distance and time provided perspective. She could get this stupid appearance out of her way, closing the chapter on the whole Flauto mess. Then she’d go to Birmingham to prepare for the Aegon tournament.
Objectively, this getaway had been perfect. She had gone to LA hoping for time to get her mind off the French Open. Done, with Andre’s help and that of his friends. Now, she had to focus on the work ahead, because that’s what mattered. So then why did her thoughts continue to drift back to Andre?
What did she think would come of it? Dating? A relationship? They both had to appease very demanding gods. She scolded herself for allowing her feelings to blossom for him. She couldn’t afford another media circus.
Then why had she messed it all up by kissing him? She melted at the memory, at the tenderness he had shown when he kissed her. In retrospect, and if she was going to be honest, her only regret was pulling back.
Her heart beat with an irregular cadence. She rubbed her face. For now, she had to remind herself her objective was the game. In four or five weeks, after Wimbledon, maybe she could think of other matters. One thing was for sure: she couldn’t drop another Grand Slam.
“The trouble with the rat race is that even if you win you’re still a rat.”
~Lily Tomlin
>s soon as the plane lifted off, Gemma popped sleeping pills, reclined her seat flat, and snoozed on the makeshift bed. A seasoned traveler.
When she awoke, she was groggy, her head heavy and her mouth dry. She dragged herself to the restroom and washed her face. Inches away from the mirror, she analyzed her eyes–the crystal blue eyes that had hooked Andre.
My mother’s eyes. A mother she had never met.
She collapsed on her seat and sighed. She missed Andre. For that, she hated him. How had he, in such a brief period of time, hooked his talons so deep? She could not dwell on that. Not now.
When she landed at Heathrow, the press, paparazzi, and fans waited for her. How the hell did they always know? Where was her team? She took a tentative step forward.
The overlapping questions and cheers were like simultaneous slaps. Did they honestly think she could understand a word they said?
Just then, a diaper was shoved into her chest.
“Can you sign this? It’s clean!”
She let it drop to the floor and kept walking.
“Bitch!” someone said. There was no winning this game.
She reconsidered her earlier thought. No, the paparazzi did not always know where she was. While in LA with Andre, no one had found her. She was shielded from the madness.
The crowd of people suddenly flew apart as her security detail fought their way to her.
“Sorry, ma’am,” her lead said.
She was practically lifted off her feet until her car appeared in front of her. As she slid in, her mobile chimed. A text message from Bedric. She braced herself.
“Dearest Gemma, we must speak.”
Each word spoke volumes. He was not happy. She would have to call him. Later, definitely later.
She was taken to her Chelsea home, although the word “home” may have been an understatement. Like her place in Malibu, this mansion was built for a family of twenty. Maybe one day she’d visit all the rooms.
When she had purchased it less than a year ago, she knew she had made the big time. Chelsea was where the who’s-who in London lived–from Russian oil tycoons to rock legends. And now she lived in a place that could be confused with an empty hotel.
She stepped in and was greeted by a lavish arrangement of flowers. She read the card. “Looking forward to tonight - Johnny.”
She crumpled the note. She didn’t want to see him, be with him, or talk to him. Why had she agreed to this plan?
She never should have gotten involved with him. At the time, the thought that someone as famous as Johnny would have been interested in her was flattering. Maybe she had been a little starstruck. Johnny was named one of the sexiest men alive, the most eligible bachelor, and his last three movies had been undisputed blockbusters.
She had been a blind child, yet again.
As was typical with most high-profile relationships, they had tried to keep things private. Also like with most high-profile relationships, rumors spread. With rumors came more paparazzi. They both had done a good job of calling their relationship, “a friendship.” But the press never bought it.
As for the other problem, she should have recognized the symptoms earlier in the relationship. Instead, when she kissed him and smelled alcohol on his breath, she pretended the smell and taste didn’t raise bile to her throat. Alcohol and Gemma did not mix. Never had.
Then Australia happened.
He had rented a private home. It should have been safe. But the pictures of her in a bikini, lip-locked with him in the hot tub proved nothing and nowhere was safe. The next day, the paparazzi barraged them.
She could still remember the smell of the burning tires. The song that played on the radio. The fast corners. The yelling and screaming. The accident. The bleeding.
He had overreacted. He had been drunk. Again.
The next evening, Sonia trounced her.
Minutes after the loss, she broke it off.
They had agreed to tell everyone they were still friends. Days later, word spread she had been dumped. Then the rumors evolved. She was accused of cheating on him. Although Johnny swore he had not been behind the rumors, she never trusted him again.
“Keep on making appearances together,” Wesley had advised. “Keep the friends thing going and the press will eventually back off. No drama, no interest.”
That had been months ago, and the ‘Triton Warrior’ premiere was the planned fixer event, to prove the existence of a friendship. Of course, Johnny was still interested in her and Wesley loved the idea. “It’s a match made in heaven. The publicity you two can generate will be unimaginable.”
That was the first time she had come close to punching Wesley. It would not be the last. She knew what Wesley wanted. He represented both of them and was always ready to find cross-promotional opportunities.
None of that mattered now, because they were done.
Her shoulders ached. A solid workout would do her good. She would stretch her limbs, get the blood flowing, and prepare for the circus that would be the main event of the night.
When she entered her home gym, she stopped cold. On the floor, a few hundred new tennis balls awaited her. Next to them, a table, a chair, and black markers. Was she supposed to autograph these?
She pressed the intercom bottom. “Who placed the tennis balls in my gym?”
“Wesley had them delivered yesterday.”
“I want them removed.”
“Very well, ma’am, but he did mention these are gifts for the Children’s Hospital.”
Silence. “Never mind.”
Typical Wesley. Exercise would have to wait.
Two hours later, her hand ached, but only a handful of balls remained. Her mobile rang. It was Wesley.
“What?” she said.
“Is that any way to talk to the person who’ll have your face on the front page of every newspaper?” Wesley was far too jovial, as if unaware of the personal sacrifice she had just made.
“Sorry. Let me try again. What do you want?”
“Well, aren’t we a bit pissy?” Silence. “Anyway, the promoter is sending a car to pick you up at 18:30 sharp. Also–�
��
“Wait. Will Johnny be in the car?”
“I think… umm. Well. Not sure. I think you’ll be taken to him.”
“Is he the princess? I’m picking him up, then? Fix it.”
“Not sure if I–”
“I know you can. Just fix it. Anything else?”
A beat. “An impeccable Donna Karan dress is being sent to you as we speak. Makeup and hair will be at your home by 14:00. Be your radiant self.”
“Fantastic, I can’t wait.”
“On the red carpet, be sure to mention Karan, Cartier, and Ferragamo. In that order.”
“If that’s all–”
“One more thing. At the theater, the prime minister and his wife want to meet you.”
“Does he know I didn’t vote for him?”
“Well, of course not, you silly thing. And he won’t find out either, because politics don’t sell commercials. We want to leverage national pride for Wimbledon.”
A walking billboard, that’s what she had become. No longer a tennis player, but a living, breathing advert.
She allowed herself to smile. Studying her reflection in the floor to ceiling mirror of her master bedroom, she had to admit she looked damn good. Her boyish figure was all-woman now. She wondered what Andre would think if he saw her.
Tish walked in. “Okay, gorgeous, Johnny is here. Ready?”
“I suppose so. Let’s get on with it.” But before Tish left, Gemma held her arm. “Tish, stay close to me, okay?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
Johnny and his crew waited in the entrance. “Hello, John,” Gemma said as she swept down the spiral staircase.
“Will you take a look at her?” Johnny said, his Hollywood smile unmistakable. “No one will notice me.” He strode up, held her hands, and gave her a peck on the cheek. He seemed hungry, like a wolf. “I’m glad you agreed to do this,” he whispered.
Her eyebrow rose when she picked up the scent of alcohol.
During the ride, Johnny recounted stories; all selected to impress her. She watched his lips move and wondered how much whiskey sloshed inside him. What a donkey.
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