Game of Love

by Ara Grigorian

  “Are you okay?” He stopped drying her hair.

  She stepped into him, placed her hands behind his neck, and lowered his head. As their lips came together, electricity ran through her spine. A humming sensation washed through her legs. When he grabbed her hips, her body arched and pressed into his. Their breathing shortened, and their lips parted in acceptance. Their wet bodies came together, attached, molded to each other’s contours.

  The rain pelted the windows as she reached for his belt.

  Then a repeated sound. Thud. Thud.

  Her eyes opened. So did his.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  “Ma’am, it’s Glen.” A voice from outside.

  Her eyes widened. They stopped, out of breath. Her body wavered.

  “I was in the lobby when you arrived. I received your earlier calls. I wouldn’t have disturbed, but it seems people in the lobby saw you.”

  Gemma blinked. “One moment,” she said. She leaned in close to Andre’s mouth. “I’m sorry. I have to leave,” she whispered.

  “No,” he said, “stay with me.”

  “I can’t.” She pulled away. “That was careless of me. The hotel staff and guests saw me. They’ll need to see me leave.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  She took the towel off the floor, threw it on her head and stepped backward to the door.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, opened the door, then left.

  He took a shower, then changed, intent on finding a solution to these games. How long did she plan to keep their relationship a secret? Until a couple of weeks ago, Andre had been focused on achieving financial independence. Now he understood independence without the right person to share life with would be incomplete, a sham. Did she feel the same?

  This cycle had to stop. Maybe the cell phone virus would help. He powered up his laptop then monitored the status of the web service. Forty-five percent penetration by his virus and patterns were already emerging.

  The headache knocked on his skull. He closed his laptop and decided to go downstairs for a late dinner before the kitchen closed.

  As he stepped out of his room, he saw his stalker from a few days earlier. The stalker came to an abrupt halt, eyes wide. Andre strolled toward the man, pretending he didn’t recognize him, but the stalker spun and sprinted down the hall.

  “Stop!” Andre yelled, then broke into a sprint.

  The stalker had thirty yards on him and was a few feet from the elevator. Andre’s adrenaline catapulted him forward. The elevator door opened. The stalker slid in. Only fifteen yards to go and the door began to close. Andre saw the stalker’s face in perfect detail. He jumped toward the closing door, but was too late. He slammed a fist against the closed doors.

  He spun, searching for the stairwell. For fourteen flights he ran, leaping from landing to landing. Sweat dripped from his face.

  When he reached the first floor, he slammed the door open and stumbled into the lobby. He spun around, looking. Nothing. He sprinted to the porter. “Did you just see a twenty-five-year-old male, five-foot-seven, black curly hair, red rain jacket?”

  “He just ran out. Nearly shattered the door. Turned west onto Kensington.”

  Andre ran into the unforgiving rain. With no visibility, all colors faded. He could not make out anyone in red. He turned back.

  “Have you seen him before?” he asked the porter.

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  “Do you have security cameras on the fourteenth floor?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Please make sure all security footage is saved. I’m calling Detective Chief Inspector Whitby. We will need those tapes.”

  After one hour with the DCI, Andre returned to his room. They had enough to launch an investigation, but why was he being tailed? Was the stalker related to past work, as he had suspected, or was this about Project Sunrise? Had his involvement been compromised? My contract.

  The DCI was concerned for Andre’s safety. Andre didn’t share the concern, confident that Whitby would find something. He was one of the best.

  Andre studied his cell phone, a message from Gemma. He listened to the voicemail. “Sorry. I hope you’re not mad. Please call me.”

  He wasn’t mad. He was confused. Did she really have to leave? Would the hotel staff say something to the press? And so what if it leaked? He was new to this domain. So he would have to follow her lead, for now.

  He grabbed a beer from the minibar and collapsed on the couch. He needed to settle before returning her call. He turned on the TV and flipped the channels. The volume was low, but the picture stopped him cold. He sat up and increased the volume.

  The talking head announced, “Gemma Lennon has been seen with someone new. Who is this mystery man? Is it really over with Johnny?”

  They had pictures of them. Pictures from the day at Maurice’s and others showing Andre in a tux, entering her limousine. None of the pictures proved they were together. But if they were followed tonight, there would be pictures of them holding, embracing, kissing.

  Was the stalker involved?

  If so, then the media blitz was about to go on a feeding frenzy. But that didn’t make sense. The first time Andre had seen the stalker was at the airport. Gemma had not been there. This was about him, not her.

  He downed the beer while watching the program, amazed at the amount of drivel that could be generated from nothing. Looking back, it was fortunate she had left when she did. She was right, the hotel staff would have probably sold the story, if they hadn’t already. But how did the press know about them? He was beginning to see patterns and possible answers from his virus, but nothing conclusive.

  His phone rang. It was Gemma.

  “Are you upset?” she asked.

  “They have our pictures, Gem.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “TV. They’re talking about us.”

  “They what? How the hell? Channel, please.”

  They listened to the talking heads in silence. He elected to not mention his stalker. No sense in worrying her further. This was his problem. She already had plenty on her mind.

  “Do you think we were followed tonight?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said then thought about the stalker. “Maybe.”

  “If they got pictures of us… in the rain… this could be disastrous.”

  “Disastrous? Aren’t you being a bit dramatic?”

  “When you’ve lived twenty-four hours in my shoes, then feel free to lecture me. Otherwise trust me. This shit gets ugly fast. And I don’t want any part of this. I better ring Wesley. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Gem,” he said, but the line was already dead.

  “It is dangerous to let the public behind the scenes. They are easily disillusioned and then they are angry with you, for it was the illusion they loved.”

  ~W. Somerset Maugham

  ndre awoke to a blistering headache. The breakfast and double espresso at the hotel restaurant were starting to help when he caught a segment on the overhead television. He crept toward it.

  “Can you increase the volume?” he asked the waitress.

  Two toothy hosts smiled.

  “Is Gemma prancing around with an American? Sources tell us there is a special person in her life, and he’s here in London.”

  They cut to some of the same pictures he had seen the night before. Back to the co-host.

  “She doesn’t waste time, does she?”

  Laughter.

  “No, she doesn’t. Odd timing, wouldn’t you say? Wimbledon begins this weekend and with her injury, you’d think she’d want to be focused on her game.”

  “I’d say few tennis diehards will be surprised. She’s always been more interested in the celebrity side of her life than on the competition.”

  “A shame. She had a brilliant Aegon tournament, then this. It’s a questionable time to be playing Romeo and Juliet days before Wimbledon.”

  “Typical for her, I’m afraid.”


  “I’d venture to say the tennis gods don’t mind having a celebrity in their midst. She has drawn more new eyeballs to tennis than any other athlete. She may never win a Grand Slam, but she’ll have her rabid fans.”

  Andre spun to the waitress. “Another double espresso, please.”

  Why were they browbeating her? Was this typical? Also, how did they know he was an American? Who was their source? Multiple variables, but not impossible to solve. The emerging patterns from his virus were providing an interesting angle. If the data was right, Gemma would have to watch those around her carefully.

  After his meal, he took a stroll through Notting Hill. He breathed in the scents from the restaurants and bakeries. He thought of the invisible forces, the controlling puppet masters that hid in the shadows. She was the puppet, and everyone else was riding her to the bank.

  At the newsstand, he picked up the gossip paper. She was splashed on the cover.

  “Who is her mystery American lover?” A sub-heading wrote. “She’s ready to quit tennis for him.”

  He read another newspaper’s headline. “‘She cheated on me, again!’ Johnny confesses to a friend.”

  Andre laughed then clenched his fists. He bought all the papers at the newsstand then hurled them into a trashcan. “My contribution to eliminating pollution,” he told a gawking passer-by.

  Gemma stepped into physical therapy and was confronted by an anxious Wesley.

  “Why are you here?” Gemma asked.

  “Anything else you want to share with me?”

  “I’m here for therapy, and you’re not therapeutic.”

  “Haven’t you seen the damn headlines?”

  She frowned. “We talked about this last night–”

  “The new headlines. Gemma and her American lover. Those headlines.”

  Her jaw dropped. She had not read today’s newspaper yet. How did they know he was an American? She composed herself. “What’s your point?”

  “Five years ago you told me you wanted to be bigger than anyone else. I did that for you. What I expect is the truth. You owe me that much.”

  He was right. He’d been there for her when she’d thought her career was over before it’d even started. But she’d been a child then. So much had changed since. “He’s a friend, that’s all.” She wouldn’t–couldn’t–tell Wesley the truth. She didn’t need his lectures, nor did she completely trust him after the Johnny Flauto mess.

  “So how did this get out?”

  “Rubbish is fabricated every day. You should know, you’ve created plenty in your time. Let them say what they want. My personal life will not be addressed. Who I choose to befriend is my business.”

  “The word in the press and TV is you are not focused on Wimbledon–”

  “That’s nothing new. That’s their favorite tune.”

  “And you have confided to someone you will quit tennis for him. The sponsors are calling me, demanding an official position. Tell me that’s not true.”

  Her entire career they’d said the same thing about her. Time and again, her dedication to tennis had been questioned. They spoke about her dismissively, conceding she had the talent, but her actions were those of one who was more interested in landing an acting role rather than competing on the big stage. And she had gone and done just that with Triton Warriors. She wouldn’t give them one more reason to discredit her. She needed to show the world she was the real deal.

  “Where do they come up with this trash?” she asked.

  He held her shoulders. “Did you consider maybe it’s your new friend who spread that rumor? Trying to make some money off your friendship?”

  She laughed. “Bollocks! Solid crap!” She shrugged his hands off her shoulders.

  “Gemma, celebrities need to stay with celebrities. The average person can’t be trusted. They don’t get this world. It’s not their fault. They just don’t have the slightest clue of how this world works.”

  “So celebrities can be trusted? Say, like Johnny? Wesley, instead of second-guessing my ability to choose friends, why don’t you find out who’s spreading this shit? In fact, find out why the paparazzi always seem to know my whereabouts. Work on that and don’t worry about my priorities.”

  “Gemma–” he said

  “Wesley, please leave. I need to prepare for Wimbledon.”

  “Call me. We need to discuss this. We made a commitment to each other. We need to work through this together.”

  When he left, she dropped to the bench. Why now?

  Hours later, Tish joined Gemma in her kitchen, huddled over a countertop littered with the day’s newspapers and online articles about Gemma’s new romance.

  “You’ve shaken the hornet’s nest,” Tish said.

  “How the hell did I manage to do that?”

  “By bringing him here. The press have gotten wind and now the word is out.”

  Gemma felt drained. Her therapy had been solid and her training even better. She would be ready for Wimbledon, and furthermore, for once, she was happy. Andre was hers. When she had stepped out after therapy, the larger than ever crowds, and the dozens of voice messages about the ‘American’ proved this time the media wanted answers.

  Now they knew his name. This thing was spinning out of control. From TV to Twitter to Facebook, the rumors were flying. They had taken some truths and combined them with lies, giving credibility to the story. She wanted this to go away.

  “And you invited him to tonight’s Nikon party. Might as well call it your official coming-out party. I bet the paparazzi will be clamoring for his picture now. G, you say you two are friends. This is a lot to put a friend through. If there’s more to you two, you need to tell Wesley so he can protect both of you.”

  “He’s a friend. That’s all.”

  “Just friends? Nothing more?”

  “Tennis is what matters. Tennis wins over everything and everyone.”

  She wanted to collapse. Already she was lying about him, to her best friend now. With each lie and deception, the walls closed in further. Could she trust anyone? Even with Tish, she had to be elusive.

  “I’ll call Andre. He’ll understand,” Gemma said.

  “You brought him here, and now you’re asking him to hide? Even if he only comes to the matches, he will be in your reserved seats, there for everyone to speculate.”

  Gemma’s shoulders sagged. She had not thought this through properly.

  “Furthermore,” Tish continued, “if we don’t do something to manage the stories, they’ll get worse. More lies will be added, and before you know it, the whole thing will implode around you. Look, I’ll admit Wesley is sometimes all over the place, but I honestly think we need his advice. He’ll come up with something.”

  Gemma begrudgingly agreed. When Wesley was called, he, as always, was eager to show he was a strategist. A smug one, but a competent one as well.

  “We need them to reconsider the credibility of the source,” Wesley said.

  “How?” Gemma asked.

  “They expect to see you with him, and you are planning to take him to the Nikon event. That’s perfect. At the event we will confirm that such a person is real, but he’s not your lover. Big misunderstanding. Yet again, the press misread the clues.”

  “And how do we pull that off?” Tish asked.

  “He’ll show up with someone else. He’s in Gemma’s circle, but not with Gemma. Natural confusion.”

  Silence. “But the damn event is tonight. Who can we trust? Conspiracies don’t last long,” Tish said.

  “How about you?” Wesley asked.

  “Me? Are you drunk?”

  “That would make for the most reasonable explanation. He knows Gemma through you. We don’t have to say he’s your lover. Just that he’s your friend.”

  Gemma rubbed her temples–a vise would have been preferable. “Won’t it be easier if we avoid the whole thing?”

  “Maybe for today,” Wesley said, “but it doesn’t give me the opportunity to redirect the
chatter and kill it off, allowing you to focus on the tournament. I don’t want to be a broken record, but the other question is, can we trust this Andre guy?”

  “Wesley, you are a broken record, and the tune you play gives me a bloody headache.”

  “Hear me out,” he said.

  “No, I’ve seen what your idea of a good pairing earns me.”

  Silence.

  Her heart was not in it, but over the years, Gemma had learned to follow Wesley’s instincts. She didn’t know if the plan would work, or how Andre would take it. He was a level-headed chap who solved complications, not created them.

  And what if she actually told the truth?

  No, this was not the right time. The press would zero in on her lack of focus. For once, she wanted the press to respect her. Once she won her first Grand Slam, then she could be free with everything else. She wouldn’t need to balance anything.

  “Tish, what do you think? What if we pretend he’s your guest?” Gemma asked.

  “What am I supposed to do, hold his bloody hand like we’re an item or something?” Tish asked.

  “Why not? Who’s it going to hurt?” Wesley asked.

  Who indeed. Silence stretched for a few moments.

  “Bloody shit, Gemma. Fine. I’ll do it. But I’ll remember this one when it’s time for my raise. The things I do for you.”

  “There are a terrible lot of lies going about the world, and the worst of it is that half of them are true.”

  ~Winston Churchill

  ndre’s face froze and his smile faltered. “I must have slept for a few days and missed something. I’m supposed to pretend what? And why?”

  They were in Gemma’s limo heading to the Nikon event. He scanned from Gemma to Tish and then back to Gemma again, searching for some clarity, but their faces gave him none. Tish’s phone rang. She answered it.

  “Wesley believes this is the most sensible approach,” Gemma said, her voice now low. “This way we get them off my back until Wimbledon is over.”

  “I see. I’m a great supporter of sensible ideas. I’m just struggling to find the sensible part of this plan.”