I wander aimlessly around the practice courts. Few people recognise me out of uniform. It’s as if I’m a whole other person.
I find myself watching a girl practising serves. I know her, I’m sure I do. One of our up and coming juniors. Jane something. Supposedly very promising. Nice technique. Needs a little more power, but that will probably come in time. But is she mentally tough enough?
She notices me. ‘Hey,’ she says, coming over. ‘Excuse me, but aren’t you Lucy Bennett?’
‘That’s me.’
She shuffles her feet. ‘I have a poster of you on my wall,’ she says. ‘I’m going to be a tennis player. I mean, I am one, but I turn pro next year. When I finish school. Mum and Dad won’t let me until then.’
Mum would have had me on the tour at 13 like Jennifer Capriati. Younger even. But Dad insisted on my having a 'normal' life and staying at school until I was 16. I’m glad now, though I wasn’t at the time.
‘I’ll be sure to watch your matches,’ I say, and I mean it too. ‘It’s Jane, isn’t it?’
She nods. ‘Jane Filer.’
I knew it was something beginning with an F.
‘Jane Filer,’ I repeat. ‘Wimbledon Champion.'
She fiddles with her earrings. ‘I don’t know about that,’ she says. ‘There are so many incredible players.’
‘Everybody’s beatable,’ I say, realising as I do that I’m quoting Sam. ‘And even the top players are far less incredible than they seem. You have to believe in yourself. That you can take them down. The best advice I can give you is to start practising self-belief along with your serves, because you need both to succeed.’
She nods. I hope she listens to me.
‘What day are you starting?’
‘Saturday’
‘I’ll come and cheer if I can,’ I promise. ‘Just... fight for every point. Believe you can win. Because that’s the only way you will.’
She smiles. ‘Okay.’
She spins her racquet. ‘Mum and I have tickets for Centre tomorrow.’
I wince. Me versus Katie Carter. I’d almost driven it out of my mind.
‘You can beat her, right?’
I really must learn to advise only things that I actually do myself. But then, how many people do that?
The number three seed. The defending champion. The woman who has won every match we’ve ever played.
‘I can beat her,’ I say, without much conviction.
Jane looks at me, disappointment in her eyes.
You know what? Maybe I can. Didn’t Sam say she was off her game in Birmingham? And before she won here last year, her Wimbledon record really wasn’t that good. And we’ve never met on grass before. And the entire Centre Court crowd is going to be right behind me. And everybody’s beatable.
If I retire, tomorrow’s match could be my last ever on Centre. I’m not going down without a fight.
‘I can beat her,’ I say again. And this time I mean it.
I find a quiet spot and call Joe. A compromise between desire and duty.
‘Fucking journalists,’ is his greeting. ‘All asking if I mind you supporting fucking Pennington!’
I wish I hadn’t called.
‘And what did you say?’
‘No comment,’ Joe growls, like a bear with a toothache.
Fantastic, because that didn’t give anything away.
‘Why do they have to ask about that shit?’ he demands. ‘I’m a tennis player, so ask me about tennis. But no, they have to interfere.’
In our case, that’s all too true. The story of how Joe and I got together is not, as all those shippers probably imagine, an idyllic fairy tale involving stars, candles and a moment when we just knew. It was, in fact, the result of journalistic intervention.
The plain fact of the matter is that we shagged each other accidentally while drunk and decided there was no reason to stop, since the sex was good and neither of us wanted anything more than a Relationship Extra Light. So for several months we had sex when we were together, barely thought about each other when we were apart and were quite happy.
Then a journalist snapped a photo of us groping each other and, since I didn’t want the whole world (especially Mum and Dad) to hear the truth, I let them think we were dating. Joe wasn't particularly bothered, so it seemed fine. But then we kept being asked why we didn't go to each other's matches etc., so to keep them quiet we started essentially playing a role.
I sigh. ‘Bloody journalists.’
‘And since when do you just vanish after a match?’
‘Sorry,’ I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. ‘Had to sort some stuff. Women’s troubles.’
This response guarantees that Joe will ask no more questions.
He grunts instead. ‘Well, I’m meeting some people tonight,’ he says. ‘Be back late-ish. Will you be there?’
‘Don’t think so. First up tomorrow. I need to sleep.’
I switch my mobile to the other ear. ‘Are you coming to the match tomorrow?’
‘Maybe,’ Joe replies. ‘Who are you playing?’
Sometimes I wonder if he listens to a word I say.
‘Katie Carter,’ I say. ‘You know, Miss 4B.’
‘Ohhh. Probably, yeah.’
This is what it comes down to. I go to Joe’s matches so as not to be criticised and he goes to mine to watch the Boston Bombshell’s tits bounce.
‘Have to go. See you later, babe.’
I hate it when he calls me that.
I meet Adrienne in the bar at her hotel for an early drink and we come across Libby, who joins us. They sample various cocktails with rude names and get a bit giggly. I drink lemonade and get a bit gassy.
I recount the bare bones of my last conversation with Joe.
‘Men!’ Libby declares, as if that says it all.
‘Men!’ Adrienne and I echo, because it does.
‘At least you two are married,’ I say, stealing the little paper umbrella out of Adrienne’s cocktail. It’s blue and sparkly. I like it. ‘You can complain more once you’re married, because it’s harder for them to leave.’
‘Ah, but,’ Libby says, gesturing with her own umbrella, ‘we have more to complain about. You don’t really find out what a man is like until you marry him. Even if you live together first, he will have saved a few dodgy habits to surprise you with once you’ve signed your life away.'
Adrienne nods like her neck muscles have gone spongy. ‘Absolument. Plus, you have to be all understanding even when you really want to complain, because you’re stuck with them.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Stop shattering all my illusions. I’m too young and innocent to be hearing this stuff.’
They snort in unison, down their drinks and get another round in. I notice Libby eyeing up a French player named Michel while she’s at the bar.
‘I love my job,’ Libby breathes as she slides back into her seat. ‘Being surrounded every day by men. Gorgeous, tanned, fit men, with tons of stamina...’
‘...who you’re not allowed to touch because you’re married.’
‘Yeah.’ She stirs her cocktail. ‘Not that I’d go behind Kenny's back, but I sometimes wish I’d played the field a bit more before I got hitched. Would you believe I only had one other lover? With all the gorgeous men out there? I think the bad girls had more fun.’
Adrienne sniggers. ‘Oh, we did,’ she replies, wiggling her eyebrows. ‘Of course now we’re respectable one-man women.’
I feel myself flush and contemplate my glass.
‘But for a couple of years there...’ Adrienne continues, smirking. ‘We were a couple of bad girls. Do you remember Jacques?’
Christ, how could I forget?
Libby leans forward, her eyes glinting. ‘Tell! What was he like?’
‘Rampant!’
‘Insatiable.’
‘A master craftsman.’
‘And a great inventor.’
Libby looks from me to Adrienne and back. ‘And you both know this be
cause...?’
‘Like I said,’ Adrienne winks at Libby over her glass, ‘we were bad girls.’
‘All right,’ I say, sliding Adrienne’s drink across the table towards me. 'I think that’s a sign that you’ve had enough. You’re making it sound like we had a threesome. Which we didn’t,’ I add hastily, mindful that Libby’s a journalist. ‘We just... had similar tastes.’
‘Not fair,’ Adrienne protests, leaning across me. ‘I’m not drunk.’
She collapses with her head in my lap and starts to giggle.
‘I’m going to return you to your husband,’ I say, helping her up. ‘My days of holding your hair back while you throw up are over. I’m sure there’s something in the wedding vows about it.’
‘That would be “in sickness and in health,”’ Libby says.
Back at home I shower, pack for the morning and sit on the bed watching Today at Wimbledon.
‘The number two seed, Joe Harker of the United States, is also through, despite a wobble in the second set making the score 6-4 3-6 6-4 6-2. Apart from this lapse, the American looks in fine form and will probably prove himself a tough opponent when he faces France's Michel Delaine in the second round.’
That’s the guy Libby was eyeing up in the bar. Also a bit of a character. Should be an interesting match.
‘In the ladies’ competition, number one seed Diana Ivanova took just 58 minutes to dispatch fellow Russian Chava Polenska, who was making her début at the Championships.’
Another serious contender for the title. Diana is someone I don’t know much about, being a player of few words but many expressions. A former US Open champion and Wimbledon finalist, with a deadly serve and nerves of steel. She was out injured a lot of last year, but, by the look of the clips they’re playing, she’s back on form.
‘Tomorrow the defending champions are both out on court. New Brit Sam Pennington will take on Spain’s Carlos Valencia on Court One, while the United States’ Katie Carter comes up against our own Lucy Bennett on Centre.’
Don’t remind me.
I can beat her, I tell myself. I can. Her win last year was a fluke. She’s totally beatable.
I turn off the TV and stretch out on the bed. I think about Sam. I’d like to call him and say good luck. That and other things like, ‘I didn’t have sex with Joe tonight,’ ‘I really want to break up with him, but I’m scared’ and ‘I think I’m falling in love with you.'
Am I? Is this what it feels like? This whole can’t-stop-thinking-about-you-always-want-to-be-near-you-heart-leaps-whenever-I-see-you feeling? Whatever it is, it’s new. And scary.
I shouldn’t disturb him anyway. He might be an early-to-bed person. I don't want to be the one who messes up his routine with an ill-timed phone call.
I turn the lights off and eventually drift into sleep.
Chapter 5
Wednesday. Week 1, Day 3 (Second Round, Top Half)
The sick feeling is back when I wake up. I can’t taste breakfast; I can’t even tell you what I ate. I take my time getting ready and try to psych myself up.
In the locker room, my mobile rings just as I’m about to turn it off.
‘Just wanted to say good luck,’ Sam says quietly.
‘You too.’
‘Remember: you can beat her.’
I smile. ‘I can beat her.’
‘Kick her ass.’
I grin. ‘Make him beg for mercy.’
‘It’s a deal.'
Time to go play.
The stadium applauds as Katie and I walk onto Centre Court.
I try to look around without looking like a tourist. The sheer energy of this place makes me feel like someone’s just plugged me in and left me to charge. I’m sure there’s some law of physics that says energy can’t be created, but I swear it breeds in here. On a good day, the electricity could power the National Grid.
I glance up at my player’s box. Joe is there. He already looks bored and we haven’t even started playing yet. Mind you, I dare say that once Katie starts bouncing around he’ll be happy enough. Adrienne and Henri are there too, sitting with my dad. Henri is looking thoughtfully around, no doubt asking intelligent questions. Adrienne, meanwhile, claps wildly and yells, ‘Come on, Lucy!’ at the top of her lungs, despite the fact that play hasn’t started yet. I love that woman.
Mum is not there. Club business, no doubt. Officially, anyway. You’d think a woman so keen for me to stay on the tour would show up occasionally. Sometimes I wonder if she just can't bear to watch me doing what she wishes she could still do.
The warm up zips by like a dream. Actually, I have a recurring nightmare that starts a lot like this.
‘First set. Mrs. Carter to serve.’
I can do this. I can.
Her first missile blasts over the net and kicks out, away from me. I lunge, but can’t get near it. Ace. 15-0.
Christ, who was I kidding? I can’t beat this girl. She’s just plain better than I am.
Stop it. I can’t think like that. This is the home crowd. I can’t just give up.
Her next serve falls victim to a puff of wind and lands further in than intended. I reach it and slam it back out wide. She runs for it, but incredibly doesn’t get there. The ball hits the edge of her racquet and ricochets back into the net. 15 all. The crowd clap and whistle.
Her next serve goes into the net. Second serve is in, but slower and more conservative. I answer it. She answers back to the other side. I spin it over, just by the net. She runs, but it bounces twice before she reaches it. 15-30.
Christ, if I could break her in the first game...
Another ace pulls me out of my daydream. She won’t make it easy. If I want a break, I’ll have to earn it. Focus. 30 all.
Another fast serve. The rally that it starts is faster. I’m hurtling across the court as if it’s a ship on stormy seas. Left, right, left, right. It’s all I can do to get to the ball. She’s totally in control and... she’s won. Misdirection. The momentum was too much for me to overcome. 40-30.
Win the next point. Don’t let her take control.
It’s useless. Her serve is too strong and my return goes into the net.
‘Game, Mrs. Carter.’
Change of ends. I work hard to keep my head up as I walk round. It’s one game. There’s a long way to go yet. It was her serve; she had the advantage. You’d expect her to hold. Now I need to hold too.
‘Time.’
I give my first serve everything I have and impress myself. Ace. That’s the way to start. 15-0.
My next comes flying back past me.
‘Out!’
Katie signals the umpire. A challenge. Being on Centre, we have the benefit of the electronic sensors. Hawk-Eye (I love that name - makes me think of M*A*S*H) shows us the ball's flight. The crowd adds the obligatory sound effects.
And it lands... out. Fantastic. 30-0.
The next point brings a rally, but somehow this time I’m in control and she’s running. One stroke, two, three. On the sixth, she can’t get to it. 40-0.
Is it wishful thinking or is she not moving as well as normal? Sam did say... Christ, it may be poor sportsmanship but if she could really be ill... Nothing life threatening, just a cold. Anything to slow her down.
Just one point. Focus. Hold.
Once again, her reply screams past me. In this time. 40-15.
Hold. Hold. I have to hold.
I serve again, taking a chance on hitting to the very edge of the court. I get it right.
‘Game, Miss Bennett. One game all, first set.’
I can’t break, but I don’t get broken either. It goes on serve, until...
‘Game, Miss Bennett. Six games all. Tie-break.’
I hate tie-breaks.
This too goes on serve to 4 all. Then the next point yields a rally. I manage to get her on the run. By now, I’m positive she’s slowed down. I keep sending the balls wide, as close to the lines as I dare. Until she misses.
A mini-break. 5-4 to me.
If I can hold my two serves, I’ll take the set. I’ve never won a set against her before.
The crowd is roaring from somewhere far away. I take a deep breath and will the nerves away. Focus. Forget about the score.
I serve and her return hits the net. Wild applause. Not for the play, but for what it means. Set point.
It’s rush hour traffic in my mind. Thoughts bumper to bumper, honking and cursing at each other. Win this and I have the set. Then, with the momentum on my side, maybe the match. Even the Championships...
Quiet. Only this point exists.
I serve. It hits the net. I serve again. Ditto. 6-5.
The crowd groan. I guess I look calm, but I don’t feel it. To win now I’ll have to break her again. That’s if she doesn’t break me first.
Dear Christ, I will give absolutely anything to win this next point.
She serves. I hit it back. The ball goes deeper than I meant it to and for a horrible second I think it’s going long. No call though. Back and forth the ball flies, over and over again. I want out of this rally – I know she’s in control.
A drop shot. The instant it’s off my racquet I pray. It feels short. What was I thinking?
It just skims over the net. Katie races forward...
‘Game, and the first set, Miss Bennett. 7 games to 6.’
For a minute, I don’t move. I just stand there, while Katie walks back to her chair.
I won the set. My first ever against her. The crowd is cheering. Applauding. Singing even. Full of hope that maybe, just maybe, it might be this year. After all, if I can take out Katie...
I look up to my box. Adrienne is on her feet, punching the air and screaming ‘Yeah, baby!’ like a drug-crazed Austin Powers. Dad is cheering. Joe is applauding perfunctorily. Feck him.
I nearly skip back to my chair. I can beat her. I really, truly can. And I’m damn well going to. For my family, for my supporters, for my country and, most of all, for me.
After Wimbledon Page 7