After Wimbledon

by Roberts, Jennifer Gilby

  Is it wrong to think of that? I wouldn’t class myself as a gold-digger. I don’t demand (or even expect) expensive gifts and he doesn’t support me. I didn’t become his girlfriend because he was rich. It's just a bonus.

  All right, he’s a bit temperamental at times. He can be the perfect boyfriend when he wants to be.

  ‘Joe,’ I venture. ‘Do you ever think about retiring? About what you’re going to do after that?’

  I feel him shrug. ‘Not really,’ he says, kissing my neck in just the right spot. ‘What with the winnings, the adverts and the clothing line, I’ll be able to do pretty much whatever I want.’

  Joe has his own clothing line. I try not to think about this too much, because it just seems bizarre. Particularly when his taste in outfits, on and off the court, has always seemed pretty ghastly to me. And I can’t see any of the adverts he’s done and keep a straight face. Particularly the one where he’s looking all suave and sophisticated.

  I made a brief foray into advertising, for a new brand of deodorant. I had to say, ‘When the heat is on, you need an antiperspirant you can trust. That’s why I depend on ___.' (Incidentally, I tried it and it was useless.) Every time I saw or heard that advert, I cringed. Much to my bank manager’s disappointment, I politely declined all further offers. Including one invitation to appear in a special sports edition of Playboy, which I publicly complained about but was secretly rather flattered by.

  Joe laughs at the film and kisses my neck again. I feel a stab of resentment. He never seems to think about anything not related to tennis. I wish I didn’t.

  'Well, what if I retire?' I press. 'What will we do then?'

  Joe drags his eyes from the TV. 'What'd you mean?'

  'Well, will you come visit me?'

  He shifts. 'Well... yeah, I guess. I'll be here for Queens and Wimbledon.'

  'What about the rest of the year?'

  'Well, I'll be busy, won't I? You can fly out if you want.'

  'Right,' I murmur. 'Of course.'

  'Is that all? Because I want to watch the movie.'

  I check a sigh. 'That's all.'

  I lean back in his arms and try to get back to feeling good.

  After the film has finished, my phone rings while Joe is in the bathroom. I sit on the bed and stare at my bag for several rings. This'll be Maddy, reporting on her date with Sam. Can I face answering?

  May as well get it over with.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, feigning cheerfulness. ‘How did it go?’

  Silence for a moment. ‘It went okay.'

  ‘Only okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wasn't he friendly?’

  It seems hard to believe.

  I can almost hear Maddy shaking her head. ‘No, he was lovely. Checked what I wanted to do, made conversation, asked me about myself, paid the bill and even put me in a taxi at the end of the night. Faultless.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘He just... wasn’t what I expected.'

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, we don’t have anything in common! I thought he’d be quite... you know, sophisticated. Instead I find myself sitting across from a man who’s confessing to watching Wife Swap!’

  I don’t blame him; it’s strangely addictive.

  ‘And he told me he likes karaoke!’

  ‘Really?’

  I don’t mean to brag, but I have a mean singing voice. I doubt you’ll be seeing me on X-Factor, but I’ve graced a good few karaoke bars with my presence over the years and gained a fair bit of applause and quite a few compliments. I never thought Sam would be into it though.

  ‘Really. And it was just more of the same. I like classical music; he’s got tickets to Status Quo next month.’

  Will he take me with him?

  ‘He loves Chinese food.’

  Who doesn’t? Oh right, Maddy.

  ‘He doesn't like skiing.’

  I’ve never been big on any sport that involves having things attached to your feet. Mine are big enough already.

  ‘He doesn’t even like the theatre.’

  Well, they always spoil it by bringing the actors out at the end. What sort of make-believe is that?

  ‘I see what you mean,’ I say, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘It doesn’t sound like you and Sam have a lot in common.'

  Sam and I, on the other hand...

  'Never mind. It’s only your first post-divorce date. I’m sure the next guy you like will suit you better.’

  When we've hung up, I suppress the urge to dance around the room and flop back on the bed instead.

  No Maddy and Sam. Hurrah!

  Joe comes out of the bathroom and sees me lying on the bed. He narrows his eyes at me. ‘You tired?’

  I assess my body. ‘Not too bad. I can stay awake for a while.’

  ‘Good,’ he says, advancing on the bed. ‘I’m horny. Let’s have sex.’

  Seduction? I’ve heard of it.

  Later that night finds me lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. Beside me, Joe is snoring away. He’s also drooling a bit. Did I find that cute once upon a time? Or was I just always asleep by the time he started?

  Joe makes a noise I’ve never before heard outside the Discovery Channel and turns over, away from me.

  Having sex with someone you know you want to split up with is a bit... what’s the word? Sordid is a bit strong, I suppose. I’d rather like to get up, have a shower and go home. Would he care if I did?

  I’ve fantasised about other men in the past few years. I don’t think that’s wrong. It’s not as if I’ve done anything, although I’ll admit to being tempted when Joe and I were apart for long stretches. Tonight though was the first time I’ve thought about another man while we were actually having sex. I do feel a bit guilty about that.

  I really have to get over this stupid crush.

  Chapter 2

  Sunday. One day until Wimbledon starts.

  I head for the courts at the Club first. I’m still not serving right. Trying to protect my ankle is throwing my balance out. It’s fine now; I need to adjust.

  Half an hour I spend serving. It’s starting to feel better. Will it be good enough? Depends who I’m up against.

  My first round opponent is an unknown. Sixteen, first Grand Slam, never played her. We’ll be on one of the outside courts with hardly anyone watching. I have the experience she lacks, she'll have less wear and tear on her body. I should make it through.

  Second round, however, will (almost certainly) be Katie Carter, the defending champion. She will slaughter me. It’s not worth looking past that.

  ‘How’s the serve coming?’

  I look up to see Sam walking towards me, dressed for practice. Somehow, he never looks like himself when he's not wearing sports clothes. I saw him once in a tuxedo and he just looked... wrong.

  ‘Getting there,’ I say, shielding my eyes from the sun with one hand as I turn to look at him. Butterflies start fluttering in my stomach. I tell them firmly to feck off and die. They ignore me.

  ‘Have you broken the news to your parents yet?'

  I sigh before I can check it.

  ‘It didn’t go well, then?’

  ‘They told me to reconsider,’ I say. It feels slightly surreal to be having this conversation with him. ‘And that I should stay on longer or I might regret it later.’

  ‘Mine said the same thing.’

  I smile wryly. ‘Yes, but yours are further away.’

  Sam laughs. It sounds soft and warm. 'True.'

  ‘Maybe I should move to New Zealand,’ I joke.

  ‘I’m sure we’d all prefer that you stayed here.'

  Does that 'we' include him? In a friend way or a romantic one?

  Honestly, what am I thinking? There is no way that Sam is interested in me.

  I wish he were.

  ‘Do you really like karaoke?’ I hear myself ask.

  He raises an eyebrow. I’ve always wanted to be able to do that.

  I stare at his ear. He has a frec
kle on his left ear lobe. ‘Well, you know, Maddy and I were chatting. I like karaoke. Adrienne and I used to go quite a bit. I’m good,’ I say, then regret it. ‘Well, decent anyway.’

  ‘I’m terrible,’ Sam says, smiling, ‘but I like it anyway.’

  There’s that modesty again. I bet he’s terrific.

  ‘And Status Quo?’

  ‘Yes, next month. I’ve seen them before, of course.’

  ‘You lucky thing,’ I say enviously. ‘I’ve never managed it. Somehow we’re never in the same place at the same time.’

  ‘Well, there are two tickets and only one of me. You’re welcome to come.’ He drops his gaze briefly. ‘That is, if Joe won’t object to you fraternising with the enemy?’

  Joe would do his nut.

  ‘I’m sure he’d be fine with it.’

  ‘We’ll swap numbers back in the clubhouse, then. I haven't got my phone on me.’

  'Okay.'

  Sam spins his racquet. ‘I’m giving a press conference later on. Two o’clock at Cannizaro House. You might want to be there.’

  ‘Why?’

  He smiles. ‘You’ll see.’

  It must be to announce his retirement. But I already know about that. What else would he say to a room full of journalists that I’d need to hear first hand?’

  ‘Well, I’m having lunch with Adrienne and her husband, so I’ll try to stop by after that.’

  ‘Do,’ he says. ‘Ready to make a splash at your last appearance?’

  I shrug. ‘I think I’ve got a chance in the first, but not the second.’

  ‘I saw you got a tough draw,’ he says, nodding. ‘Don’t be so sure, though. I don’t know if you watched Katie play at Birmingham, but I saw some of the coverage and she’s definitely not 100%. And even if she were, everybody’s beatable.’

  ‘So says the champion,’ I reply. It’s meant to be a joke, but it comes out wrong. A silly, worshipful tone gets into my voice.

  He frowns briefly. ‘Like I said, everybody’s beatable. I get beaten. By your boyfriend, more often than not.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re such a good loser that it only enhances your reputation.’

  He’s studying me intently. ‘I’m not that good a loser.'

  Now I laugh. ‘That’s ridiculous! You always smile, you always congratulate your opponent, even when they’re smug bastards like J... some people. I mean - US Open the year before last. All you had to do to complete a Grand Slam that year was win the final. Four and a half hours and five sets – the first four gone to tie-breaks – and then Joe went and won 7-5. You must have been absolutely crushed and you were still the perfect gentleman. Half the guys on the tour don’t behave that well when they win! You’re just the embodiment of sportsmanship.’

  For a moment, I think I see irritation in his eyes. Then it’s gone and I decide I must have imagined it.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to say so,’ he says formally. ‘I do my best.’

  He looks down at his racquet. ‘I’d better let you get back to your practising,’ he says. ‘Best of luck.’

  ‘You too,’ I say and head down the court to collect the scattered balls, casting looks at him as he heads away.

  Not that good a loser! He’s far too modest.

  The Club’s receptionist (aka Aunty June) is on the phone, taking a court booking. This can be a lengthy process, since she knows everything about everyone who comes here and likes to chat. A two minute query can easily become an hour’s conversation.

  I catch her eye and point at Mum’s office, mouthing, ‘is Mum free?’ Aunty June nods and waves me in, all the time chatting about someone’s piles operation. I take a deep breath, knock and walk in.

  Mum is on the phone too, so I obediently sit in the chair she gestures at.

  I look around the office. The walls are covered in tennis memorabilia. One wall is tennis legends. The back one, behind her desk, is all Mum. Photos of her winning the US Open – like me, she never managed Wimbledon – along with trophies, signed T-shirts and what not. Then the wall by the door is me. Every time I win a new title, or there’s a good article about me, it goes on the wall. The photo of me holding the Australian Open trophy is blown up in the centre.

  Looking at it now, it feels like that person is someone else. Lucy Bennett the player, as opposed to Lucy Bennett the woman. They used to be the same person, but now they aren’t. I wonder if anyone’s noticed? I wonder when tennis stopped being my life and became my job?

  Mum hangs up the phone before I’m ready and looks expectantly at me. Nervously, I put the letter I’ve written in front of her and wait while she opens and reads it.

  ‘I thought we agreed that you would give this some more thought,’ she says stiffly.

  ‘I have,’ I say, picking at my nails under the desk. ‘And this is what I want to do.’

  I think.

  ‘You’re too young.’

  I give a most unladylike snort. ‘I’ll be 28 right after Wimbledon. In tennis terms, that’s old. You’d been retired five years by my age.’

  ‘I know.'

  She puts my letter down. ‘I had another one of these this morning,’ she remarks, tapping her fingers against the paper. ‘From someone who has similar intentions to yours. Do you know anything about that?’

  I shrug. ‘He mentioned it.’

  ‘That wouldn’t have anything to do with your decision, would it?’

  I stare at her for a minute. She doesn’t actually think..? Come on. I'd have to be completely delusional to leave the tour for Sam.

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mum,’ I say, with a wry chuckle, ‘but it’s total coincidence. We’re just both at that stage of our lives, that’s all.’

  ‘I see.’ Mum puts the letter aside. ‘I’ll refer it to the committee next week,’ she says. ‘But strictly on the basis that your retirement is likely to be a way off. Give it some more thought.’

  ‘Mum…’ I start. Then I leave it. That’s probably the best I can hope for right now.

  I'm meeting Adrienne in her hotel restaurant for a late breakfast. When I get there, she’s sitting with a blond man with his back to me. At first I think it’s her husband, but then I remember he's dark-haired. Adrienne was a popular player - a rare thing - so it could be just about anyone.

  Including Sam Pennington. Who’s currently laughing at whatever Adrienne has just said.

  I suddenly feel horribly self-conscious. I'm wearing jeans and a T-shirt that says 'No Worries' on it, with smiley faces in the Os. Dressed like this I don’t even feel like a fellow player, just a fan in a silly top. What should I say to him?

  Adrienne beams at me as I approach. 'Look who I met. Turns out he's staying here too.'

  Sam turns and gives me a friendly smile. I feel flustered and quickly sit down, grateful that from here I don’t necessarily have to look at him.

  I look at Adrienne instead, just in time to see her eyes flick from me to Sam and back again.

  'So you’re planning to stay in England a while then, Sam?’ she asks.

  Sam sips his orange juice. ‘Permanently, is the plan.’

  ‘Vraiment? At the same place or will you move elsewhere?’

  ‘I’m happy where I am.’

  I look at the tablecloth to hide how wide my eyes are. He’s really going to stay? At home and at the Club? With me?

  Well not with me, obviously. Just... in the geographical sense.

  ‘That’s great!’ I say, a little more enthusiastically than I'd intended. ‘I mean... you know... for the Club. And the country and all.’

  I’m blushing. I’m sure I am.

  ‘Some of my family is here,’ Sam’s saying. ‘And I lived here for a while when I was a kid.’

  Did he? I never knew that.

  ‘And after three years it’s basically home.’

  ‘Intéressant.’ Adrienne smiles encouragingly at him. ‘So, apart from coaching, what’s the plan? Will you be producing the next generation of tennis champions?’
>
  Sam laughs and runs a hand over his hair. ‘Well, I don’t know if they’ll turn out to be tennis players, but yes kids are in the plan. Just need to find someone to have them with.’

  ‘It sounds so simple when you put it like that,’ I muse out loud. ‘Unlike in real life.’

  Tears suddenly prick my eyes, but I blink them away. Christ, what is wrong with me?

  ‘Do you want kids?’ Sam asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, without thinking, then wonder if it’s true. ‘I think so. Probably. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m thinking about it.’

  'Does Joe?' Adrienne asks innocently.

  I shoot her a warning look. 'It doesn't sound like it,' I say, trying to keep my tone light. 'At least, not while he's still playing, which could be a while.'

  'Ah,' she murmurs. 'Difficile.'

  There's an awkward silence.

  ‘Anyway,’ Sam says, making me profoundly grateful, ‘I’ve got heaps of plans. There's loads of stuff you can’t really do when you’re moving around all the time. I’m getting a pet, for starters.’

  I find myself nodding. ‘I've always wanted a kitten,’ I say. ‘A little fluffy one. Sometimes I go down to the pet shop in town to say hello to the animals and I nearly buy one.’

  ‘Me too,’ Sam confesses. ‘I’ve got my eye on the little tabby one with the white front paws.’

  ‘Forget it. He’s mine.’

  Sam grins at me. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a coin. ‘Heads or tails?’

  He can’t be serious. And he can’t have my kitten.

  ‘Really, I’d like it to have both.'

  He gives me a look.

  ‘Tails.’

  He tosses the coin and slaps it down on the table. We both look. It’s heads.

  I look up at him. ‘Best of three?’

  ‘No way,’ he says, folding his arms across his chest. ‘I won, fair and square. I get the kitten.’

  ‘But he’s mine!’ I protest, even though I’m grinning.