After Wimbledon

by Roberts, Jennifer Gilby

  He’s grinning back. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he says. ‘I’ll buy him and you can come visit.’

  ‘How about I buy him and you visit?’

  ‘My house is bigger than yours.’

  He knows where I live?

  ‘He’s a cat!’ I protest. ‘All he needs is a cushion and he'll be happy.’

  'He’s still mine.’

  ‘Not if I buy him first!’

  Adrienne clears her throat and I jump. Somehow, I’d forgotten she was there. She doesn’t look mad though. Quite the opposite.

  ‘We’d better get some food,’ she says. ‘The resto's about to close.’

  Food, right. That’s what I came here for.

  Sam checks his watch. ‘And I have an appointment to keep. See you both later.’

  ‘Don’t forget,’ I say as he gets up, suddenly feeling a little shy again. ‘He’s mine.’

  ‘Kitten stealer,’ he replies, winks and strolls off.

  I look at Adrienne. She raises an eyebrow at me.

  ‘What?’ I say, a trifle defensively, as we get up and head to the buffet.

  ‘Look at you, flirting away,’ she whispers.

  ‘I wasn’t flirting,’ I protest weakly. ‘I was just being friendly.’

  Adrienne shoots me a look of disbelief. ‘You were flirting. So was he. And I didn’t need to finish school to recognise chemistry when I see it.’

  'Do you really think?'

  'Absolument.'

  Not that I was flirting. I don’t do that. I have a boyfriend.

  But, I have to admit, he's not the one who's put the smile on my face.

  On the way back through the lobby, I get collared. It’s not so bad though, because it’s by a stalwart fan and reporter, Libby Daniels.

  ‘Hi, Lucy,’ she says, whipping out a dictaphone from some hitherto secret pocket. ‘All ready? Can you believe it’s that time of year again already?’

  Already? It feels like a decade since last time.

  ‘Crazy how time flies when you’re having fun,’ I say, dredging up my perky press smile once again.

  ‘Might this be your year, do you think?’

  Not likely.

  ‘Well, you never know! It would be great to go out on a high,’ I say, then curse myself.

  ‘Go out?’ she asks, green eyes wide. ‘You’re retiring?’

  All right, damage limitation.

  I shrug. ‘It’s a possibility,’ I admit, ‘but it’s not definite. It depends how... things... go.’

  Libby nods encouragingly, strawberry curls bouncing. I’m so jealous of her hair.

  ‘Is there a specific reason for it?’ she presses. ‘Like, is there any exciting news on the romance front?’

  I look blankly at her.

  She wiggles the fingers of her left hand in front of my face, so her wedding ring catches the light. I catch on and exhibit my ringless hand.

  ‘You’ll be the first to know.'

  I’ve been saying that to journalists practically since Joe and I got together. They all got very excited about us for some reason. We laughed about it once, back in the days when marriage wasn’t an issue for either of us.

  ‘There won’t be a woman alive who doesn’t envy you,’ Libby tells me, laughing. ‘So, what’s your prediction for the men’s championship? As if I need to ask!’

  ‘Yes, Sam will win it again,’ I say without thinking.

  ‘You think so? I thought you’d put your money on Joe.’

  ‘Oh well,’ I say hastily. ‘Of course I think Joe’s good enough to win. It’s just that grass suits Sam better. Please don’t quote me.’

  Libby puts a hand over her heart for a second. ‘You don’t think we could see an upset then? Have a British Champion?

  'Not unless we can persuade Sam or Joe to come over and play for us. Still, I think there are some players coming through in the juniors who could do well with a bit more experience. So maybe in a few years it’ll be a different story.’

  1936 saw the last British men's champion. We've been waiting a long time.

  Libby smiles sadly. ‘I wish it could be this year,’ she says, taking back the dictaphone.

  'Yeah,' I say. 'Me too.'

  My phone rings as I go to leave.

  ‘What’s all this I hear about you having breakfast with Pennington?’ Joe hisses.

  I instantly feel guilty, even though I haven’t done anything wrong. ‘I wasn’t having breakfast with him,’ I protest, trying to be quiet and emphatic simultaneously. Not easy. ‘I had breakfast with Adrienne. Sam just happened to be chatting to her when I arrived. He only stayed a few minutes.’

  ‘To flirt with you.’

  ‘He wasn’t flirting,’ I hiss back. ‘We were just being polite to each other.’

  ‘You don’t need to be polite to him. He’s the enemy.’

  I roll my eyes. I can’t help it. ‘We belong to the same club. I can’t refuse to speak to him just because he’s your rival. You’re making mountains out of molehills, Joe, so stop it.’

  ‘I just don’t like him hanging around you,’ Joe says. ‘Keep an eye on him.’

  ‘I will. I promise.’

  I mean it too. It’ll be a pleasure.

  I drag Adrienne along to Sam's press conference after lunch, leaving her husband Henri to pick up the bill.

  Libby signals us as we go in and we shimmy our way through the throng of journalists. Libby’s wearing a T-shirt that says ‘Write Here, Write Now’ and a rabidly curious expression.

  ‘Any thoughts on what he’s going to say?’ she asks, waving her dictaphone in front of us like a weapon.

  Adrienne and I shrug simultaneously and turn our attention to the front of the room. I have to say that Sam is making quite a fuss about this. I figured he’d just announce his retirement after the first round. Mind you, I guess when you’re world number one you can do what you like. And the press like Sam. He could hold a conference in the Arctic and still get a good turnout.

  Sam enters, along with his coach and manager, who sit on either side of him. He’s in trademark blue, which he rarely deviates from other than at Wimbledon (where mostly white is the rule).

  There’s an expectant rustle in the room, as a sea of dictaphones are brought out. Everyone instinctively presses forward an extra inch. Libby bites her lip.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Sam says into the microphone. It screeches slightly and he moves it a fraction further away. ‘Thank you all for coming and listening to me ramble on. I’ll try to keep it brief.’

  ‘Thank you!’ one wag calls from the back of the room and there’s a general chuckle. Sam smiles easily. ‘You’re welcome,’ he says.

  He lays his arms on the table and leans forward. ‘I’ve got two announcements to make today, which will hopefully be of some interest. I’ll also answer questions, should there be any, after each one.’

  He pauses. The room waits silently.

  ‘The first,’ he says, ‘is that, regardless of the outcome of this tournament, my exit from Wimbledon this year will mark the end of my professional tennis career. That is, I’ll be retiring as soon as I’m out of the Championships.’

  A moment’s silence, then a sudden burst of chatter as everyone turns to their neighbour to check they heard him right. Looks of disbelief twist many faces. Like me, they expected this would be years off.

  Journalists are beginning to raise their hands to ask questions, as they emerge from their momentary stunned stupor. Sam nods to one over to my right. ‘Riley, you first.’

  It figures he knows them by name.

  ‘What prompted this decision?

  ‘It’s something I’ve been considering for some time,’ Sam is saying, the picture of calm. ‘I’m happy with what I’ve achieved in my career and I’m contemplating new challenges. Primarily, what I want at this stage of my life is a more settled existence and, with luck, a family.’

  ‘Is that imminent?’ another journalist asks. He’s a tall, skinny man with an adam’s apple l
ike a ball cock. ‘Is there someone waiting for you? Are you leaving for love?’

  I roll my eyes. Why is that man a sports journalist? All he ever asks about are love affairs and scandals; he doesn’t seem interested in tennis at all.

  Sam doesn’t smile at him. ‘No,’ he says. ‘To all the above.’

  More questions, more answers. What are your future plans? When did you make this decision? Will you win the title this year? How do you think your rival Joe Harker will take the news? ‘Pretty well, I should think,’ Sam answers, eliciting wry chuckles from his audience.

  Then someone asks, ‘Where will home be now, Sam? Will you return to New Zealand once you’ve retired?’

  Sam sits up straighter. ‘I’m glad you asked me that question,’ he says, and takes a sip of water, ‘because it brings me to my second announcement. You see, a while back I applied to change my nationality.’

  Dead silence. Someone drops a pencil and their curse is heard by all.

  ‘I’ve kept it quiet,’ Sam continues, still looking perfectly calm, ‘since I didn’t know if or when it would come through. Now it has.’

  I hold my breath. He doesn’t mean...? He can’t mean...?

  ‘So I’m delighted to announce,’ he says, with a flicker of a smile, ‘that in this, my last ever Wimbledon, I’ll be playing for Great Britain.’

  For a second, no one says a word.

  Then everyone’s talking at once. The whole room is white noise.

  At the back of the room, someone starts to clap. Then someone else joins in and soon we’re all clapping. All the Brits that is. Libby is jumping up and down on the spot and hugging Adrienne, who doesn’t really care but is squealing anyway. And me, I’m speechless.

  Sam, playing for Great Britain. Sam, the world number one. Sam, who’s already won the Wimbledon title four times.

  Maybe I won’t win. But Sam... Sam could win. Sam should win.

  A British Wimbledon champion. Not born and bred, but still.

  Then I’m applauding. So hard my hands hurt. I’m yelling too, although I don’t know what. Tears are pricking my eyes. It could really happen! It really could!

  I’m so full of adrenaline back in the lobby that if Wimbledon started now I swear I could wipe the court with anyone. It could really happen!

  Sam finally escapes from the swarm of journalists and steps into the lobby. And I’m so ecstatic that, before I have time to think, I run to him. I throw my arms around him, kiss him hard on the mouth and start repeating ‘thank you, thank you, thank you’ to him.

  He hugs me back, but I barely notice. My heart has leapt so high that the rest of my body has gone numb. I just take a breath and carry on with the ‘thank you, thank you, thank you.’

  A flash brings me approximately to my senses, though it still takes a minute to realise that someone’s taken a picture of me hugging Sam. Slightly sheepish, but too happy to really care, I release him and bounce quietly at a respectable distance.

  He laughs quietly at me. ‘Anyone would think you were pleased.’

  ‘A British Champion,’ I almost sob, still grinning all over my face. ‘At last!’

  ‘Only if I win,’ he points out, rubbing the back of his neck.

  ‘You will win,’ I insist. ‘You have to win. We’ll all cheer so hard. I’ll clap and whistle and yell and wave flags and everything.’

  He smiles. ‘Even if Joe’s playing against me?’

  ‘Screw Joe!’ I say, at this moment only vaguely remembering who he is. ‘Go Sam!’

  Quite a few people exchange looks, nudges and smirks and I realise I’ve spoken rather louder than I intended. I’m still past caring though.

  ‘You have to win,’ I repeat, gazing earnestly at him. ‘And thank you so, so much.’

  ‘I’m glad to have the chance,’ Sam says softly, ‘and I’ll do my best. But that’s all I can promise, so don’t get your hopes up too high.’

  Too late.

  At full volume he says, ‘Well, I’ve got preparation to do. See you all later.’

  I just can’t believe it.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ I say to Libby, when we’re safely ensconced in a corner of the bar. I’m knocking back my drink as if I’m trying to break a world record, so it’s just as well that it’s only lemonade.

  ‘I know,’ Libby says, staring at her dictaphone in wonder. She rewinds the tape and we listen to Sam’s words once again.

  ‘I can see it now,’ she says, waving her hand. ‘The crowds, the scoreboard, that glorious moment when he lifts the trophy. I’d die happy if it could just be this year.’

  ‘I know,’ I say fervently.

  We lapse into silence.

  ‘So,’ she says, ‘it could be Joe versus Sam in the final, you know. Divided loyalties and all that. Who will you cheer for?’

  ‘Sam,’ I say, without hesitation.

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Hi, Joe,’ Libby says, looking very uncomfortable. ‘Have you heard the news?’

  Joe glowers at me. ‘I’ve heard about your complete lack of loyalty. You cheer for me. Got that?’

  ‘But he’s playing for Britain,’ I plead, staring up at him.

  ‘I don’t care if he’s one of the fucking Royal Family,’ Joe hisses at me. ‘You’re my girlfriend and you’ll sit in my box at the final and support me. End of discussion.’

  Sit there in front of every spectator on Centre Court and Henman Hill and watching at home and not cheer for the British player?

  ‘I can’t do that,’ I hiss back. ‘That’s practically treason. How could I hold my head up? And it’s only the one year. You can always win it next year. Sam’ll be gone then.’

  Joe glares. ‘Well, it’s good to find out where your loyalties lie,’ he says, and stomps off.

  I watch him go. Christ, he can really be stroppy sometimes. All right, I know he should get my support, but this is a special case. That’s what he gets for dating someone from another country.

  I guess he just can’t understand how important this is to me.

  ‘Sorry,’ Libby whispers. ‘I didn’t see him there.’

  I shrug. ‘It doesn’t matter. He’ll get over it.’

  Actually, I’m not sure he will.

  And, in all honesty, I’m not sure I care. Maybe he’ll get so upset about it that he’ll dump me. Then maybe Sam will comfort me.

  ‘I hope so,’ Libby says, running a hand over her curls. ‘God, I don’t want to be the one who splits you two up. I’d be lynched! What would all your shippers say?’

  I stare blankly at her.

  ‘Relationshippers,’ Libby explains, seeing my expression. ‘Fans of you two. As a couple.’

  I goggle at her. ‘We have couple fans?’

  ‘Of course you do! Stacks. There’s a website devoted to you, with pictures of you together and stuff. I think it’s lucyandjoe.com. Something like that – just google it.’

  This is seriously weird. I didn’t realise we were famous enough for stuff like that. I mean, we both have official websites (that I’ve always been amazed to find people actually look at). But a couple one? Are they serious?

  I can’t resist checking out the website when I get home. It’s bizarre. According to their poll, 69% think we will tie the knot next year. Based on what?

  What if Joe did propose to me? What if all that ‘I’m not the marrying type’ stuff was just an act so I’d be surprised?

  I start to sweat. What if he proposed in front of everyone? What if he climbed up to the player’s box after the final and pulled out a ring? How could I say no on global television?

  I blank the thought and look at Sam’s website instead. It's incredibly uninformative. I guess he's following the principle that if it isn't for everyone, you shouldn't put it out there.

  I should go and see Joe. Have a mature discussion. Try to explain my position. Reassure him that he’ll always have my support.

  Wimbledon starts tomorrow. I should block out all distractions, relax and prepare for
a good night’s sleep.

  I pick up the phone and dial Sam’s number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi. It’s Lucy. Bennett.’

  ‘Hi. What’s up?’

  I don’t know. I’m still working that part out.

  ‘Ummm... I just wanted to apologise for earlier. In the lobby. I got a little carried away.’

  He laughs. ‘A little? If that was just for me switching nationalities, what will you do if I win?’

  ‘Christ knows,’ I say, laughing back. ‘Fall to my knees and worship you?’

  There’s a brief silence on the line, during which I realise what I've just said and curse myself.

  Sam clears his throat. ‘That sounds like fun. I'd better win then.’

  I think we’re flirting again. Funny, I never used to be that good at it.

  ‘What rugby team do you support?’ I blurt out.

  ‘All Blacks,’ he says. ‘Unless they’re playing England, then I stay neutral. And anyone playing Australia. Why?’

  ‘I was looking at your website.’ I cringe. ‘Just checking something. And I realised it doesn’t really say anything. About you, I mean. Like what team you support, or what you do with friends. It’s all so... general. And mine’s the same, you know? Like it doesn’t say I read Terry Pratchett on the loo, just that I like reading. So I just wanted to find out about the real you. If that makes sense?’

  What the hell am I blathering about? I can’t believe I just told him about reading on the loo. Even Joe doesn’t know I do that.

  ‘That makes perfect sense,’ Sam says quietly. ‘Most people don’t really care about all that stuff. I have this... I don’t know... superhuman image or something. Top player, top sportsman, role model. People act as if I’m perfect and I’m not. The worst part is, one foot out of line and I get bollocked. Everyone kicks up a fuss about how I’m letting everyone down and I’m not acting myself and is it a sign that I’m losing my touch and going into decline? Meanwhile, Harker can throw a tantrum, break a racquet, barely touch his opponent’s hand after a match and it hardly gets a mention. It’s just typical behaviour for him.’

  I hear him take a breath. ‘Sorry, I know I shouldn’t talk about him to you.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ I’ve thought the same plenty of times.