After Wimbledon

by Roberts, Jennifer Gilby

  ‘You want to know what I’m really like?’ he asks. ‘I sing cheesy pop songs in the shower – really, really badly. I drink milk straight from the carton. I feed the mice in my loft. I’m completely addicted to fried egg chilli chutney sandwiches. The only reason I haven’t seen every episode of Wife Swap – and I mean the screwed up US version, by the way, not the British one – is because my Sky box hates me and will only record one episode in ten. And I get rid of cold callers by offering to talk to them about Jesus. It works a treat. And that’s just the clean version of the list.'

  ‘You want to know what I’m really like?’ I counter. ‘I drink juice straight from the carton. I tell cold callers I need to check with my husband and then leave the phone off the hook until they hang up. I also love cheesy pop music. And I do have every episode of Wife Swap. US version. Worse still, I’ve put them in a box set of wildlife documentaries so no one will know.’

  Christ, that was an over share. Isn’t there something in The Rules about restricting this kind of information? Not that I’ve ever followed them before.

  ‘Can I borrow your documentaries, please?’

  I start to smile. ‘You know, I’m quite good with Sky boxes. I could probably have a go at sorting yours out.’

  ‘I’ll make sure I have some juice ready.’

  I grin. ‘I’ll bring some food for the mice.’

  ‘You can actually get special mouse treats from the pet shop.’

  I laugh. ‘You’re just a sad lunatic, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say. ‘So am I.’

  This is starting to feel more and more like the beginning of something. But what? An affair? A new relationship? What would Joe say if he were listening in on this conversation? Do I care?

  ‘Are you really British now?’

  ‘Hmm, debatable. Officially, yes, I am a British Citizen. But I think it’s like with Greg Rusedski: I’ll be British if I win and a Kiwi if I lose. I can live with that. I mean to stay here though, so my kids will be Brits. Pardon me, they’ll be English. An important distinction, so I’m told.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you have done this last year?’ I moan, only half joking. ‘I mean, you won!’

  ‘Well, I didn’t know then if I’d be staying for good. It was up in the air for a while.’

  ‘Because of Julia?’ I ask, then bite my tongue. Too late as ever.

  A brief pause. ‘Yeah, because of Julia. She wasn’t keen on the idea, wanted to go home. I didn’t apply until after we’d split.’

  I really want to ask for details.

  ‘I hope you win it this year,’ I say.

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘I would mean such a lot,’ I go on. ‘To so many people. I don’t know if you could understand how much. And I meant it, you know. I’ll clap and cheer like mad, even if you play Joe.’

  Another pause. ‘How are things... between you and Joe?’

  How do I answer that? Well, Joe is currently pissed off with me and I do understand why, but I won’t back down. We don't love each other. I’d like to be with you instead, but I don’t know if I’m reading things all wrong and you don’t feel the same. I don’t even know if things would work between us.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sam says, when I’ve been silent for a while. ‘That’s none of my business.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I mean, it’s all right. I don’t really know. It’s all a bit... you know, up in the air.’

  ‘Been there.’

  Has he? Did he and Julia go through this?

  ‘I should probably go,’ I say, afraid of where this conversation will end up. I’m not sure what would be scarier – finding he didn’t want me or finding he did. Either way, uncharted territory.

  ‘Lucy...’

  ‘What?’ I clutch my mobile so hard it hurts.

  ‘Good luck tomorrow.’

  ‘You too,’ I say. And hang up.

  I call Joe. A duty call.

  ‘Stopped fawning over your new favourite player?’

  I sigh, instantly irritated. ‘I was not fawning. I was happy, it was spontaneous, I got carried away. I’m sorry.’

  I don’t think I am.

  ‘Are you still going to support him?’

  ‘He’s playing for us. I have to.’

  ‘Even against me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If that’s the way you want it,’ Joe says and hangs up.

  I make a trip to the pet shop in town to check on my kitten. He’s still there, awake and lively. I put my fingers against the glass and he stands on his hind legs and presses his paws against the other side. Big blue eyes stare back at me. I want to take him home with me right now.

  I suppose that, if I keep playing, I’ll have to let Sam have him. I wonder if he’d really let me visit? Will it sound like a pick-up line if I arrive on his doorstep and ask if I can stroke his pussy?

  I suppose it would be a whole lot worse if he were saying that to me.

  I bid Oscar (it just suits him) a fond farewell and head home.

  To prepare for Wimbledon.

  Chapter 3

  Monday. Week 1, Day 1 (First Round, Top Half)

  'And the Wimbledon Championships get under way today. Defending champions, new Brit Sam Pennington and American Katie Carter will both be out on court, along with our own Lucy Bennett. The number two seeds, the United States' Joe Harker and French number one Hélène Echelle will play tomorrow.'

  I wake up feeling distinctly nauseous. Normally this would be a worrying sign, but for the first day of Wimbledon it’s completely normal. The nerves kick in like a pissed off kangaroo.

  Just don’t let me go out in the first round. Anything but that. And to a sixteen-year-old first-timer? She’d have to win the tournament for me to hold my head up.

  But she’s an unknown quantity. I’ve never even seen her play, let alone played against her. I don’t know what her weak spots are or where she shines. This is when I really wish I still had a coach. What tactics should I use?

  I’ll soon find out.

  I glance at my opponent as we wait to go out on court. Jeanette Antoine is smaller than I am and lighter in frame – probably very fast. She looks horribly confident. She also looks about 12. I suddenly feel incredibly old.

  ‘Good luck,’ I say to her.

  ‘Bonne chance.’

  We walk out and the crowd applauds. Well, we’re on Court 10, so crowd is an overstatement. It's in the middle of a block of other courts, separated by low canvas barriers and a few rows of spectators on either side from the others. Sounds from the other courts are clearly audible. No roof for if it rains and no electronic sensors for challenges. It's a far cry from Centre Court. But it's still Wimbledon. And the grass court is pristine.

  I settle my bags by my chair and glance around. A few union flags around and one sign that says, 'Gordon Bennett!' Nice.

  Sam’s out there now as well, on Centre Court. The rest of the British fans will either be there or watching his match on the big screen on Henman Hill. I don’t blame them. I hope they cheer themselves hoarse for him.

  Racquets at the ready, we warm up. I’m not sure about her service technique; the landing looks off balance. Mind you, if she were crap she wouldn’t be here.

  I win the toss and elect to serve. If possible, I need to intimidate her. Make her think she can’t possibly win against such a strong, experienced player.

  The nerves have faded now, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. This is me, where I belong, doing what I was born to do. Am I really ready to give this up? Is Sam thinking the same thing?

  Quiet. Need to focus. It’s time to begin.

  My first serve goes into the net. Perfect start. My second serve lands in, but the ball flies back at me like a bullet. I hammer it back. She gets her racquet to it, but it goes into the net. The first point is mine. The crowd applauds. 15-0.

  You know how big tennis courts look on TV? They’re bigger. You know how hard it looks
like we hit the ball? It’s harder. A lot harder. You would not want to be hit by a speeding tennis ball. The women are strong enough; the men could probably do permanent damage.

  I serve again as the applause dies down. This time my first serve goes in but is slammed back, just clipping the outside line. Lovely shot. Point to her. 15 all.

  I hit my next serve down the line and make it spin away from her. For once, it does exactly what I wanted. She can’t reach it. Ace. 30-15.

  Practically no wind today, which helps. It’s cloudy, so the sun won’t be in our eyes. It’s hot though, and muggy. Rain is on its way. I just hope it won’t get here until later.

  The next two serves misbehave. Double fault. The crowd groan. Inwardly so do I, but I stay calm. 30 all.

  Another double fault. What is wrong with me? I’ve been fine in practice. The nerves try to tiptoe back in, but I kick them out as hard as I can. 30-40, break point.

  I cannot be broken in the first game. Least of all because of my double faults. I must hold serve.

  I serve. This time it’s in. It comes back and suddenly we’re in our first rally. I was right, she’s fast... and strong. It’s tough getting to the ball, harder to get it back. Hitting an outright winner is near impossible. What do I do?

  She goes for a drop shot, pushing the ball just over the net. I start to run forward, knowing I won’t make it in time.

  She misses. The ball hits the net on her side.

  Clearly, someone up there likes me. 40-40. Deuce.

  I serve and her reply goes into the net.

  ‘Advantage, Miss Bennett.’

  One more point for the first game.

  I serve. She sends the ball back, skimming over the net. I slam it out wide. She just gets her racquet on it and it flies up into the air. I take it out of mid-air in a lob shot that just touches the baseline. Faultless. The crowd applauds.

  The first game is mine. But there’s a long way to go.

  The first set goes on serve. I can hold, but I can’t seem to break her. That off-balance serve certainly seems to work for her; she’s barely missed one.

  It’s 5-4 to me. Her serve. If I’m going to break, now’s the time. I don’t want it to go to a tie-break. I hate them and my record’s never been good.

  Her first double fault. Nerves, most likely. That’s good news for me, if I can stay cool. 0-15.

  My gut instinct is that she’s about to serve out wide. I take a chance and it pays off. My return is too far across-court for her to reach. 0-30.

  Two more points to break.

  I misread her next serve and only just reach it. My return is much too high. She’s got all the time in the world. She’ll lob back, but which side?

  By some miracle, I get it right and return it over her head. It’s too close to the baseline – in or out? I think it’s in.

  It is.

  Three break points. Convert just one and I serve for the set. Win the first set and the momentum’s on my side for the second. Win that and the match is mine. I’m through to the second round.

  Stop it. Focus on this point.

  She serves. Too fast, too well-placed. I can’t reach it. Ace. 15-40.

  Again, it’s all I can do to return the ball. She flings it out wide. I just reach it. She returns it short and I hurtle in to meet it. I reach it and volley it just over the net. Incredibly, she gets to it. The ball flies past me. 30-40.

  The crowd groan. Come on, come on! I need to win this next point.

  She serves. I react on instinct. The ball shoots back over the net and lands... in.

  ‘Game, and the first set, Miss Bennett.’

  The crowd cheer. Flags are waved. A few people yell out encouraging-sounding things. Reluctantly I make my way back to my chair for the change of ends. I don’t want to stop now. The adrenaline’s starting in earnest. I want to play on! This kid’s nothing - I know I can take her. Give it your best shot, schoolgirl; you’re no match for me.

  ‘Time,’ says the umpire. The second set is about to begin.

  Bring it on.

  The second set is one-sided. I break her in the first game and by the time I raise my head and look around it’s 5-1. In tennis terms, I’ve been 'in the zone.' And let me tell you, there’s no better place to be. I feel invincible and every shot goes in. All the doubts, niggles, aches, insecurities and anxieties have gone. It’s magic.

  Her serves are slower now and more predictable, or so they seem. I slam them back. Cross-court return. A mini-rally ended with a sneaky drop shot that hugs the net. A volley. 0-40.

  Match point. I hardly realise it. Perfect focus.

  She serves. I slam it back. Her return goes out wide and I run for it. I get there. She sends it back down the other side. I reach that too. She aims for the back corner of the court...

  ‘Out!’

  Yes! My heart leaps and the crowd cheer.

  ‘Game, set and match, Miss Bennett, 6-4 6-1.’

  I’m through to the second round!

  Back in the locker room (the All England Club likes to call them dressing rooms, which sounds too much like a theatre to me), I join a couple of other players in checking the TV to see where Sam's match is at.

  He bounces the ball, throws it up in the air and serves. His opponent can’t get near it. Ace. Thunderous applause from the Centre Court crowd.

  ‘Pennington’s fourth ace in this set,’ commentator and ex-British No.1 Tim Henman tells the audience at home, ‘bringing his total to nine so far. That’s against Huntley’s one.’

  The score comes up on screen. Sam’s leading 6-0 6-3 1-1. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  ‘It goes without saying that you’d expect Sam to dominate this match,’ John McEnroe, the famously temperamental player turned commentator, says. ‘He’s ranked 97 places above Huntley and if you look at their previous matches you find that Huntley has never won a set against him in four encounters. But, even so, Sam’s putting on a very impressive show. If he can keep up this form, I think there’s a good chance of him taking the title once again.’

  I leave the TV as they go back to the next game, reassured enough not to watch every point. I take a shower and make myself presentable for the press.

  I check the score again on the way out. 5-2 to Sam in the third. He’s well in control, but I can’t make myself move until it’s finished, just in case. Another ace, a beautiful passing shot, an unforced error from his opponent, a neat drop shot and the match is his, 6-0 6-3 6-2. I can relax.

  I grab my bags and head to the interview room.

  It’s not an exciting conference. First round ones rarely are, unless a top player’s been knocked out. I tell them that I’m feeling strong (which right then I am), that my ankle injury has healed just fine and that I’m looking forward to playing in the next round. By the sound of it, Katie Carter’s match hasn’t finished yet. That’s surprising; her opponent must really be putting up a fight.

  ‘I think it’s fantastic,’ I say, when asked about Sam’s defection. ‘Obviously he’s a wonderful player and a great guy.’

  I remember our chat about Wife Swap and I can’t help grinning.

  ‘I really hope the home crowd gets behind him 100% and that he brings us the title we all want.’

  Another hand up. It’s that slimy man who’s always out for dirt. I’d like to ignore him, but I nod anyway.

  ‘Bit of a conflict of interest for you, isn’t there?’ he asks, stroking his adam’s apple. ‘Boyfriend on one side, British number one on the other. Who will you support if they face each other in the final?’

  I knew he’d ask that. What’s best to say? Truth, evasion or no comment? Any of them will get me into trouble with someone.

  ‘Like every British player I’ve grown up wanting to see another British Wimbledon champion,’ I reply. ‘Sam and every other British player have my support no matter who they play.’

  ‘Won’t that cause problems for you at home?’

  Feck off.

  ‘Joe and I are bot
h adults. Our relationship is separate from tennis. There’s no difficulty there.’

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  A more famous player arrives and saves me from any more questions. I’m glad to escape. I used to quite like interviews, until I learnt that anything you say (or don’t say) can come back to bite you.

  As the adrenaline dissipates and I come down off my high, I find myself more confused than ever. I didn’t say anything about retirement in the interview; it didn’t even cross my mind. And out on court I felt strong and happy. Happier than I’ve been in a long time. Can I really give this up?

  Maybe I should do another year on the tour. It’s not that long in the grand scheme of things. One more Wimbledon. Then I’ll quit.

  Christ, I sound like an addict.

  Maybe I am.

  That evening I leave Joe sleeping, wander out of his hotel and find a bench to sit on. There I watch people milling around Wimbledon Village.

  I’ve got so much to think about and yet I don’t want to start, because all I get is a headache and a terrible fear that I won’t be able to decide or I’ll get it wrong and ruin my life. That triggers panic and a desperate urge to hide in a corner and just go ‘I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know’ over and over again. Too many decisions. Too many unknowns. Too much at stake.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts.’

  I look up, feeling a mad rush of elation at just seeing Sam in front of me.

  ‘They’re not worth that much.’ I smile at him. He stands there, a knight in shining cotton. A Nike T-shirt. Aren’t his sponsors Adidas? I look closer. Beneath the logo it says ‘Just Did It.’ I grin.

  ‘Straight sets win,’ he says, settling himself beside me. ‘Way to go.’

  ‘You too, Mr. Defending Champion,’ I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him stretch his arm along the bench back. ‘The commentators were raving about you.’

  ‘Yeah well,’ he says. ‘Early days.’

  We lapse into silence.

  ‘So, Katie next then?’

  ‘Yup,’ I say, sliding my hands between my knees. ‘That should be fun.’