After Wimbledon

by Roberts, Jennifer Gilby

  ‘It’ll be Sam versus Joe in the final,’ my mother declares, heaping salad onto Dad’s plate. ‘They’re both so strong on grass.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dad says thoughtfully. ‘Joe could face Deschenes in the third round and they’ve got a pretty even record on grass. But it depends if Baer’s shoulder holds up, because if it does he might well take out Deschenes in the second round and Joe’s…what, 5-1 against him?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s all on hard and clay. They’ve never met on grass before and Baer would definitely have the edge. But even so, I think Joe will go through. And Sam too, so long as Trenkov isn’t having one of his flashes of brilliance when they meet in the quarters. But that’s only a worry if he gets through Trinkett in the third, which isn’t likely and…’

  Normally, I’d join in. I love tennis, I always have done. Playing, practising, teaching, watching – all of it. But right now, I wish we could talk about something else. I want to get up and yell, ‘There’s more to life than tennis!’

  Mind you, in this house it would be like standing up in a Bible study group and shouting, ‘God doesn’t exist!’

  I study my parents across the table, still debating what ifs about the next fortnight. Both, as ever, dressed head-to-toe in sports gear. Both tall, slim and remarkably fit for their ages. Mum is pretty much an older version of me. Same bushy brown hair, same grey eyes, same harmless-looking face. We’re the kind of people who always get asked for directions and who weirdos sit next to on the bus. Mum, however, can freeze you with a look if you’re annoying her. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit that gene. Dad is the looker of the family. I think he looks a bit like Harrison Ford.

  Mum played professionally between 16 and 22. Dad was her coach for three years, her boyfriend for one and ultimately her downfall when he got her pregnant with me. They retired gracefully, got married, moved back here and quietly took over the running of the Club.

  It is possible to keep playing with a family, although even now it’s rare on the WTA tour. It’s just really hard work and my grandparents were dead against it.

  I sometimes wonder if they wish I’d never been born. After all, if they really wanted children they’d have had another, surely?

  ‘Guess what,’ I say, when the discussion pauses momentarily, ‘I’ve decided to retire after Wimbledon.’

  It’s as if I’ve pressed the pause button on my life. A spoonful of soup is halfway to my dad’s mouth, which is open. Soup drips from it onto the tablecloth. Mum is poised to pick up the wine bottle, hand grasping thin air.

  The grandfather clock in the hall starts chiming the hour. I count the chimes and then check my watch. Only wrong by two hours and thirty-eight minutes, a new record. One of these days we’ll actually get it fixed.

  Mum unfreezes first and grabs the bottle. Hands shaking just a little, she pours two glasses and then sets it down again on the Andre Agassi coaster. She takes a deep breath and looks calmly at me. I start picking at my nails. I know that face. It’s her ‘stupid umpire’ face. It means she’s trying not to lose it.

  ‘Why?’ she asks. Dad puts down his spoon and looks expectant.

  She sounds just like Joe. Why is this so shocking? I’ve been living out of a suitcase for most of the last 12 years. I go to the airport as often as everyone else goes to the supermarket. I want to get off this treadmill. Why is that so hard to understand?

  ‘Because I’ve had enough of life on the tour and I’m ready to settle down,’ I say, twisting my hands under the table.

  Mum and Dad exchange glances.

  ‘Are you pregnant?’ Mum asks.

  ‘No,’ I say crossly. ‘I’m not.’

  Why do they assume this decision has been forced?

  ‘But you and Joe are thinking about getting married and starting a family, right?’ Dad prompts.

  ‘Me and Joe? Of course not! We're not going to do that. I don’t want to marry him.'

  What is wrong with my tongue? It keeps saying things I don’t mean it to. Terrible things. True things.

  I don’t want to marry Joe. I don’t even want him to come back with me. When my tennis career ends, so will our relationship. We got together because we were both married to tennis and now tennis and I are divorcing (amicably, we’ll remain good friends), there’s no reason to stay together.

  I don’t love him. Our relationship is based entirely on sex and tennis. We’re what…fuck buddies? Except we’re not even really friends. It’s virtually a business arrangement.

  Christ, what does that make me then?

  My parents are now giving me funny looks and I realise that I must have directed my look of horror their way.

  ‘I don’t know quite what’s happening there,’ I say diplomatically. ‘But I’m coming home for good and Joe’s staying on the tour. I’d like to coach at the Club. And maybe join the committee. Or something.’

  Mum and Dad look at each other again. I suspect doctors in mental asylums must exchange similar glances.

  ‘Lucy,’ Mum says finally, ‘I don't think you've thought this through. You still have a few more good years in you. Chances to win the Wimbledon title. You shouldn't waste them.'

  For one moment, I slip back into fantasy and imagine lifting the Rosewater Dish. Then I shake my head and climb out. As fantastic as it would be, it’s not going to happen. I have too much wear and tear and not enough talent.

  ‘I’ve thought it through,’ I say, even though I’m now wondering whether I have. ‘I’m ready to bow out of the race. Maybe I’ll help train a future champion instead.’

  Dad picks up his spoon again. ‘I think you’d be wise to reconsider,’ he says. ‘As much as we’d love to have you at the Club, that will still be there a few years from now. Tennis careers are over quickly enough without cutting them short.’

  ‘Mum cut hers short,’ I retort. ‘And that turned out all right.’

  The silence that follows lasts a fraction too long.

  ‘Of course,’ Mum says crisply, ‘but I didn’t have a choice and you do. I wouldn’t like you to make a decision that you later come to regret.’

  She takes a sip of wine, looking hard at me. ‘Promise me you’ll give it some more thought before you make a final decision.’

  This isn’t going well. The only person I've told who isn’t convinced that I’m making a terrible mistake is Sam.

  Maybe he was just too polite to say so. Or, more likely, he doesn’t actually care what I do. I mean, why would he?

  Or maybe he’s the only one who understands.

  Things are a bit strained after that. Mum starts talking about my route to the final and tries to get me to join in. She still hasn’t given up on me taking the title.

  As soon as I can get away, I do. Dad follows me out and pulls the door closed behind him.

  ‘Promise me you’ll think about it,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s a big decision. Life changing.’

  That’s the whole point. I want my life to change.

  ‘Dad, does Mum regret having me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he says, too quickly. ‘It was just the timing was a little off, is all.’

  That roughly translates to a yes.

  ‘See you later, Dad,’ I say and head next door.

  You might think the fact that I live next door to my parents is a bit… well… insane. But, when I finally decided to buy a place of my own (with my winnings from my one and only Grand Slam title), hey presto a 'For Sale' sign went up here. And since I could serve and hit the Club from here, and I always liked our house, it seemed logical to buy it.

  I mean, it’s not as if they drop in all the time. The only thing I can’t really do is sunbathe naked in the garden, which I can’t say I’ve really felt moved to do anyway. Admittedly the walls are a bit thin, but they're not noisy.

  It's a nice, two-storey, two-bedroom red brick terraced house, with a small garden, cream walls and a lot of pine furniture. It's not my dream house, which belongs in an episode of Escape to the Country and
features vast amounts of exposed wood and a range cooker, but I can't afford that anyway.

  People have a tendency to think that all professional tennis players are loaded, but it's just not true. If you're right at the top, winning majors and sponsorship deals, you can make a mint, but you don't need to go far down the rankings to find the players who are barely getting by. And it's not much further to the ones who aren't - who borrow from their parents and sleep on people's sofas to afford to stay on the tour. Travel, accommodation, equipment, endless restrings, training facilities and the rest wipe out your winnings pretty fast. I don't even have a coach anymore. My old one, Kelly, gave me a discount and when she retired at the end of last season (her new client is called Oliver and is just learning to crawl), I couldn't afford anyone at full price. Actually, I couldn't really afford her, but we'd been together so long I couldn't bring myself to fire her.

  Joe never stays here when he’s in London, just as I never stay at his home in California. Two perfectly good houses and yet we stay in hotels. Why is that?

  The more I think about our relationship, the more I realise we don’t have one. Not really.

  I sit down in the front room with my laptop and compose my own letter to the committee, figuring that Sam’s right and I should do it properly. It’s a bizarre feeling to be writing a formal letter to your mother asking for a job.

  I ponder Joe and I. Why are we still together? I mean, I know why I started dating him. Back then, we wanted the same things. When the ATP and WTA tours intersected, we met up and had sex. When did things change? When did I change?

  Looking back, I think it started when Adrienne left the tour. She and I turned pro the same year and were friends, training partners and doubles partners from then on. We celebrated the highs together and pulled each other through the tough times.

  Then, two years ago, she had a nasty foot injury and went home to recover. While she was there, she did the unforgivable: she fell in love. Not with a fellow player, or someone nicely portable like a physiotherapist, but with a settled, local man who had no desire to constantly circle the world. She came back, but she wasn’t the same. At the end of the year, she retired and went home to Montréal to marry him.

  With her gone, the many trials of life on tour became much harder to bear. And then, at her wedding, I looked at her and her husband and for the first time what I got from Joe wasn’t enough for me.

  But if anyone wrote a book on tennis dating etiquette, the first rule would have to be ‘Thou shalt not dump thy player right before a Grand Slam.' I doubt that Joe will be heartbroken, but even so. I’ll have to wait until Wimbledon’s over (for him, anyway) and then tell him. It’s only fair.

  I finish the letter and lie on the sofa for a few minutes while I debate what to do next. I need to get Maddy and Sam out of my head.

  I wish I could just shut down my thoughts at will. Sometimes I can manage it in the middle of a match - just block out everything except the point at hand - but it’s always a struggle.

  This is stupid. I’m too old for a schoolgirl crush and you can’t call it anything more. All right, so he’s nice-looking. That isn’t enough to get worked up about, surely?

  My mobile rings. ‘Hello stranger!’ comes an all-too familiar squeal.

  I immediately start grinning. ‘Adrienne!’ I (sort of) squeal back. I’m not a natural squealer, but she brings it out of you. ‘I haven’t heard from you in weeks. How are you?’

  ‘Sorry, mon chou, we’ve been out of the country. We’re both wonderful! Henri’s just been promoted! And guess what? I’m coaching!’

  ‘Really?’

  I sit up and grin to myself. Even down the telephone line, Adrienne radiates enthusiasm. It’s incredibly infectious. If she could bottle it, she’d make a fortune.

  ‘I’ve got the babies! They’re adorable! I want to take them all home with me, but their parents won’t let me. And I’m getting so horribly broody that Henri has to forcibly restrain me every time I walk past a baby store.’

  ‘No plans for a family yet then?’

  ‘I’m trying to convince him. But if he doesn’t agree soon, I think it may have to happen accidentally on purpose!’

  I laugh. It’s an empty threat. Adrienne isn’t one for underhand methods. Her overhand ones are far too effective.

  ‘I might be coaching too, soon. I’m probably retiring after Wimbledon.’

  ‘Merveilleux! What are your plans? Don't tell me Joe popped the question?’

  I have the perfect image in my head of Joe, down on one knee, rose between his teeth, diamond ring in hand. Of course, he’s wearing one of his horrible tennis outfits and has a racquet in the other one.

  ‘No way. Actually... I think I'm leaving him behind.'

  'Even better. He's not nearly good enough for you. He's like a tiger, mon chou. Breathtaking to watch, but you wouldn't want to own one.'

  'Not much good as pets.'

  'Exactly. Now, we absolutely have to meet up so you can tell me all the gossip.’

  I nod pointlessly. ‘Definitely. When are you next over here?’

  ‘I’m outside your door right now.’

  I shake my head. I should have guessed.

  A short time and a fair bit of squealing later, we’re settled on the sofa and talking as if it’s been a year since we last saw each other. Which is probably because it has been.

  For a tennis player, Adrienne is tiny, only 5’6”. She was frequently referred to as the fairy tale princess of tennis, but she’s more Fiona than Snow White. She has toffee-coloured hair, a ton of freckles and a cute girl next door look than won her legions of admirers. Hearts broke all over the world when she became Mrs. Henri Lessard.

  ‘I just don’t know,’ I muse, nerves starting to gnaw at me. ‘I mean, Joe's better than nothing. What if I don’t find anyone else?’

  Adrienne slaps me lightly on the arm. ‘Mon chou, I absolutely forbid that line of argument. You are too good to waste on an inferior man and I have no doubt that the perfect one for you is out there. Is there no one local who’s caught your eye?’

  ‘Well... maybe. Sort of. There's someone at the Club who I quite like.’

  Adrienne eyes me suspiciously. ‘His initials wouldn’t be S.P., would they?’

  I blush. ‘Don’t tell me it’s stupid, I already know. How can it take more than a decade to grow out of a crush?’

  ‘Why is it stupid?’ Adrienne demands. ‘He’s a man who likes women; you’re a woman who likes men. You’ve known each other for years, you have lots in common and he’s conveniently located to boot. Sounds very promising to me.’

  ‘I think there’s a bit more to it than that,’ I say wryly. ‘He’d never be interested in me.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Well, I’m not pretty enough or successful enough or anything enough really. I mean, don’t you remember his last girlfriend?’

  ‘I don’t recall that she was particularly successful. Pretty, yes, but so what? That doesn’t mean he’ll only date models. Not to mention that you're much better-looking than you give yourself credit for. You're intelligent, kind and fun to be with. You are more than good enough for any man you choose.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ I say, ‘but I think he’s dating Maddy.’

  Adrienne stares at me. ‘How in the world did that happen?’

  I sigh. ‘She asked him out. They’re having dinner tonight.’

  ‘Mon chou, this is not good.’

  'And I'm helping her pick an outfit.'

  'That's even worse. What were you thinking?'

  I shrug. ‘She's my cousin, it's her first date since Robert and she has no idea that I like Sam. And he could have asked me out if he wanted.’

  ‘He knows that you have a boyfriend. And he may not even realise that you're interested in him.’

  ‘How could he not? Half the times I see him I end up sounding like a teenage fan girl.’

  Adrienne raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Which is en
tirely different to being a grown woman interested in a man,’ she says sternly. ‘Remember that Sam the player is only one part of Sam the man.’

  ‘Mmmm. But anyway, like you said, I have a boyfriend.'

  'For now. But soon you'll be retired and he'll be gone.'

  'Yes. Probably. I don't know. Maybe Mum and Dad are right and I should give it some more thought.'

  I stretch, feeling restless. 'Was it hard adapting to normal life when you left the tour?’

  ‘Yes. Harder than I expected. My feet got itchy and I missed the buzz of winning. I felt like I’d suddenly lost my identity, especially since I didn’t have another job lined up. I’m sure Henri wondered what he’d married a few times! But, in the end, I adapted. I promise you, you’ll be fine. If you’re tough enough to play pro tennis, you’re tough enough to stop. And you’ll be able to call and rant at me anytime you like.’

  'I just wonder if I can really let the title go,’ I say quietly. ‘Accept that I’ll never be Wimbledon champion. It was all I ever wanted.’

  ‘That will come in time.’

  ‘Even though I’ll be reminded of it for the rest of my life? When Mum complains about my early retirement? When every year the commentators talk about the next British champion?’

  ‘Fulfilling their hopes isn't your responsibility.’

  ‘I know that,’ I say, hugging my knees to my chest. ‘I just don’t know if I’ll ever fully believe it.’

  That evening, after I've played dress-up Maddy, Joe and I are sat on his bed watching Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, which (for reasons I'm not clear on) is one of Joe’s all time favourite films. Well, he’s watching. I’m just enjoying the cuddle. I don't get many of them. Practice clearly went well today. He’s mellow and almost affectionate.

  I'm having second thoughts about us splitting up. Why would I give up this feeling? And for what? A man who’d rather date my cousin? A hypothetical Mr. Right who may never come along? Even if I retire, I can still visit him. It wouldn't really be that different.

  There are certainly advantages to being Joe’s girlfriend. He's your classic tall, dark and handsome, with shoulder-length hair and stubble to give him a bad-boy look, and he’s considered quite a catch by most people, so I guess it’s a secret ego-boost. After a good few years at or near the top, he’s amassed a sizeable fortune and, when he’s in the mood, he’s pretty generous with it.