‘Time.’
I’m out of my chair instantly, then force myself to walk calmly back onto the court. Potentially lethal levels of adrenaline are coursing through my body. I’m going to win this match or die trying.
I hear a collective gasp from the crowd, then a rumble of murmurs. Confused, I turn and look back towards the umpire’s chair.
And see Katie, lying in a heap beside it.
I don’t move. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never known this happen before.
She’s not getting up. She must have fainted. The umpire has got down from her chair and is kneeling next to her. A medic comes running onto the court. Katie seems to have come around. The three of them are speaking. Katie tries to sit up, then puts a hand to her head and flops down again.
Should I stay here? Go to her? Go sit back down?
Christ, when I said I would do anything to win, this wasn’t what I had in mind. I don’t wish her any harm. She seems very nice really.
The umpire climbs back onto her chair. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mrs. Carter is now receiving a medical time out.’
I know the drill for those. I go back to my chair, sip my drink and stare awkwardly at my prostrate opponent.
My heart is still pounding and the adrenaline rush hasn’t subsided, yet I sit still. I think this is how it would feel if you were hiding from a serial killer.
The medic is helping Katie to her feet and half holding her up. For the first time since we got on court, I focus on her face and realise how pale she looks. I don’t know how she made it through the set. She plainly isn’t fit to play.
She obviously concedes that, because after a quick word with the umpire she starts to make her way off court. The umpire leans forward to her microphone and announces, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mrs. Carter has withdrawn from the match. Game, set and match, Miss Bennett.’
There’s uncertain applause from the crowd. I’m through to the third round, but it doesn’t feel like a victory.
I gather my things in silence. As I walk off court there’s more applause and I raise my arm to half-mast. I sign a few autographs and head back to the locker room.
Straight to the TV once again.
‘... and we will let you have further news of her condition as we get it. I’m sure we all wish her a speedy recovery. However, it is good news for British tennis fans, as it means Lucy Bennett will now advance to the third round – the first time in three years she has done so – to face either Mira Marković of Serbia or Ana Fuelta of Spain on Friday. They are currently out on Court 4, with Marković leading 6-3 4-2. We’ll let you know the outcome of that match a little later on.’
Marković, huh? I hadn’t looked beyond Katie in the schedule. I didn’t realise I could face her.
The thing about Marković is that she’s been on the tour longer than I have. She’s thirty-one, good but not outstanding, and our record in previous matches currently stands at 11-7... to me.
On paper, I should beat her. I could conceivably make it into the fourth round of Wimbledon. For only the second time in my entire career.
‘Meanwhile, we’re going to move over to Court 1, where the other defending champion Sam Pennington is out on court against Spain's Carlos Valencia. Pennington has won the first set 6-1 and the score is currently 4 all in the second.’
I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s going well. No panicking required and plenty of time for me to take a shower.
As soon as I’m out and decent, I check again and I’m horrified to see that Sam is now down 6-1 6-7 2-4. See, that’s the trouble with tie-breaks. Valencia has just sneaked a victory in the second set and now the momentum’s carrying him through the third.
Sam cannot lose this match. Second round. An unseeded player. His last Wimbledon. It’s too horrible to contemplate.
I watch obsessively, ignoring the looks from other players. My hair drips down my back until my shirt is sodden. I just stare intently, convinced that if I don’t focus utterly on this match, he’ll lose.
He holds, 3-4. It’s on serve, 3-5, 4-5. If Valencia holds now, he’ll take the third set. Of course Sam could come back from two sets to one down, but he shouldn’t have to. It’s more pressure, more work – two things he doesn’t want at this point in the tournament.
Sam’s fighting, going for the break. His face is impassive, but I see steely determination in his eyes.
15-0, 15 all, 15-30, 15-40. Yes! Come on! 30-40. Just win the damn point! Deuce. Advantage Valencia. Set point. Oh, Christ. Deuce again. Thank Christ.
I try to send mental energy to Sam and fight the urge to hide my face in my towel. Come on, Sam, come on!
Advantage Sam. Just one more point to break back.
‘Game, Pennington.’
I hug myself. He’s done it.
It’s still 5-5 though. He still hasn’t won the set.
I really need to go through to the interview room. I reluctantly finish getting dressed and drying my hair, keeping my eyes on the screen as much as humanly possible. Sam holds, 6-5. Break! Break!
He breaks!
'Third set Pennington, 7-5. Pennington leads, two sets to one.’
I want to stay and watch the rest, but I have to go. I just pray the interview won’t take long.
‘Well, obviously it’s not how I wanted to win,’ I say. ‘But I’m very glad to go through. I always enjoy playing against Katie and I’m sorry we couldn’t complete the match. I hope she makes a quick recovery.’
I take another question. In an act of shameless favouritism, I select Libby.
‘Lucy, you’re up against Mira Marković in the next round. What are your thoughts on that match?’ She looks all frowny and concentrate-y and not at all the same woman who was bemoaning her limited conquests over a glass of Sex on the Beach.
‘I’m looking forward to it. I’m playing well and my record against her is good. Obviously she’s a tough opponent, though, so I’ll have to play my best.’
Just once, I want to go into a conference and say, ‘I’m way better than her and I’m going to kick her arse.’ Tennis is such a polite game. I sometimes wish I’d gone into WWF wrestling instead. Then I could say anything I liked and beat people up.
Not that I have anger issues or anything.
Ahem.
‘Reaching the fourth round this year would equal your lifetime best performance at Wimbledon,’ the next journalist says.
Obviously I’d forgotten that.
‘Do you think you could go further this year?’
The quarter-finals of Wimbledon. How incredible would it be to make it that far in my last tournament?
‘I’m just taking it one round at a time,’ I say sagely. ‘I prefer not to think too far ahead.’
Liar.
As soon as I get free, I jog to the players' lounge to see the end of Sam’s match. It’s 3-1 to him in the fourth set. Hopefully that means Valencia’s moment of glory is long over and Sam is back in control.
It’s just going on serve, but that’s all it needs to. 5-4. Sam will serve for the match.
He’s a sight to behold, calm and in control. At moments like this, it must be impossible for his opponent to believe Sam can be beaten.
An ace. Another ace. Christ, no one should be that calm under pressure. You can see the other guy give up and his next return hits the net. Three match points.
He only needs one. His third ace this game. What a way to win a tennis match. Brilliant.
‘Game, set and match, Pennington, 6-1 6-7 7-5 6-4.’
He’s safely through to the third round.
I heave a sigh of relief.
I should go home. Instead, I hang around the players' lounge with Adrienne, watching the action on their big screen TV. Waiting for Sam.
My eyes immediately go to him when he walks in, even though everyone else’s are glued on the screen. A big upset may just be brewing. Beside me, Adrienne groans. I smile at Sam.
I find myself reacting on two levels. As a woman, my heart leap
s. As a player, I feel a wave of awe. This is the player I’ve idolised since I was a teenager. One who outclasses me in every way.
I’m beginning to understand, though, that he doesn’t want to be worshipped. When I give him adulation, I get courtesy. When I give friendship, it’s returned. I take a deep breath as he approaches in order to force my heart down out of my mouth.
‘You’re late, Pennington,’ I tease, as he comes to sit beside me. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘Well, you know,’ he shrugs. ‘Bit of shopping. Took in a movie. Wasn’t too keen on the middle, but the ending was good.’
He smiles at me. I smile back. My insides go gooey.
Sam shifts position. We’re not touching, but I’m aware of every inch of him. Christ, he smells good. Would anybody notice if I just...
I’m in a room full of fellow players and their guests. They’d not only notice, it would be back to Joe before you could say ‘cheating whore’. And no doubt someone would.
‘I dug out those DVDs you wanted to borrow,’ I murmur to Sam. ‘But I left them at home. Sorry.’
‘If you’re still going to have a go at fixing my Sky box, you could pop round with them tomorrow,’ Sam murmurs back, eyes still on the screen. ‘And I’d be pathetically grateful if you would. I hate not being able to record anything reliably. Especially with Top Gear starting again.’
I shouldn’t go. This is the exact opposite of avoiding each other. Maddy’s right, there’s no way I should be meeting any man other than Joe behind closed doors. Least of all when those doors lead to the other man’s house. A place with beds and sofas and kitchen tables and all sorts of tempting places.
‘You can always bring Adrienne as chaperone,’ Sam adds, as if he’s read my mind.
This is stupid. It’s not as if I have no self-control. I’ll pop in for ten minutes, that’s all. The only thing on the menu will be a cup of tea and perhaps a jammy dodger. Completely innocent.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘We’re two responsible adults. I don’t have your address though.’
‘I’ll give it to you later.’
Why does that sound like a promise?
‘What were you and Sam whispering about in the players' lounge?’ Adrienne asks, arching an eyebrow at me as we head out of the grounds.
‘We weren’t whispering,’ I say defensively. ‘We were talking. Quietly. So as not to disturb the other people watching the match.’
‘Fine,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘What were you talking quietly about?’
‘Oh, nothing much. I’ve said I’ll pop round tomorrow with some DVDs he wants to borrow, that’s all.’
Adrienne looks sideways at me. ‘You’re going to his house? Alone and unchaperoned? Within carrying distance of beds and sofas and...’
‘Shh,’ I hiss. ‘It’s not like that. I’m just going to drop off the DVDs. Nothing wrong with that.’
She just looks at me.
‘All right, so it’s a temptation,’ I admit. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m going to yield to it. I’ve been tempted before and said no.’
‘Yes...’
‘What?!’
She stops walking and clasps my upper arms. ‘This is not a reflection on you,’ she says. ‘I know you can say no. I just mean... you’ve been tempted with sex before. A man you’re falling for... that’s a different thing altogether. That’s a lot harder to resist.’
I look at my feet. ‘Is that what’s happening? I thought so, but I haven’t really been sure.’
‘It looks that way to me, mon chou. And I’m happy for you – or I will be once you get things sorted out. But, in the meantime, be careful. As much as I think you should pursue this, there are some lines it’s best not to cross.’
She grins up at me. ‘In short, have a taste by all means, but keep your legs crossed and your hands to yourself. D'accord?’
‘Agreed,’ I laugh. ‘But really, it’s fine. I’ll behave; he’ll behave. I’ll be in and out before you know it.’
‘Fine,’ Adrienne replies. ‘Just make sure he isn’t.’
Maddy calls while I'm on the train home.
‘I’ve made a decision.’
Despite myself, I smile. The sheer familiarity is comforting.
‘I want to apologise,’ she continues, ‘for how I spoke to you before. I was hasty. It was unfair.’
I shrug. ‘That’s all right.’
‘I stand by what I said, mind,’ she warns, ‘but not how I said it.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say again. ‘And nothing is going to happen with Sam. I’m not cheating on Joe at all. All I’m exchanging with Sam is friendly words in public places. Well, apart from tomorrow when I go to his house, but even then...’
‘You’re going to his house?!’
I cringe.
‘Just to drop off those DVDs he wanted to borrow,’ I say hastily. ‘Five minutes. In and out.’
I really have to stop using that expression.
‘Lucy, you have no business going to his house! It’s asking for trouble.’
‘It’s innocent! Nothing is going to happen. It’s absolutely, 100% above board.’
‘Have you told Joe you’re going?’
I cross my fingers. ‘Not yet.’
‘And will he be happy about it?’
Christ, no.
‘He gets upset over Sam on principle,’ I say. ‘Just because they’re rivals. He wouldn’t care about anyone else.’
‘Are you quite sure about that?’
No.
‘Well, maybe he might be a bit bothered,’ I admit. ‘But that’s just Joe being Joe – overreacting. That doesn’t make it cheating.’
‘Cheating is whatever your partner defines it as.’
I snort. ‘That’s ridiculous. If Joe defined cheating as looking at another man, would I have to go everywhere blindfolded?’
‘You’re walking straight into the path of temptation.’
‘Which you just assume I can’t resist,’ I say angrily. ‘Christ, does no one have any faith in me? Some friends I’ve got!’
I cut her off before she can say anymore. Then I turn my phone off.
All this fuss over a few stupid DVDs.
I’m lying on my sofa staring blankly at the TV when someone pounds on my door. No prizes for guessing who.
‘Where the fuck have you been all day?’ Joe demands, as he strides in. To my house, my sanctuary. ‘And why is your phone turned off? How am I supposed to find you when I need you?'
He needs me? That’s a turn up for the books.
I’m backed against the wall and his hands start roaming. Ah, I should have guessed that’s what he meant. It’s been, what, 48 hours? That’s about his limit for celibacy.
He starts kissing my neck in just the right spot. I can’t deny that I’m tempted. I have needs as well and, for all his faults, he knows how to fulfil them. And, after all, he’s still my boyfriend. No one could say it’s wrong of me. All right, so I don’t love him. That never used to bother me.
His hands start pulling my sports top up and my shorts down. And I find myself thinking about Sam.
Christ, what am I doing?!
I grab Joe’s hands and pull them off me. It takes a few tries before he gets the message.
‘What?’ he demands, bracing himself against the wall with his hands. I can feel him, hard against me.
‘What do you mean, "What?"?’ I snap. ‘You just stroll in here and assume I want sex and I’m the one with the problem?’
He stares blankly at me. ‘What’s going on with you? Since when do you not want sex?’
‘Lovely, Joe,’ I say, ducking out from under his arms. ‘You make me sound like some kind of nymphomaniac.’
He pushes back from the wall. ‘Well, yeah,’ he says. ‘It’s your best feature. You always want sex when I want sex.’
‘Well, I don’t want sex tonight.’
‘You sick?’ Joe asks, scrutinising me. ‘Because if you give me anything du
ring Wimbledon I will fucking kill you.’
‘No, I’m not sick,’ I snap. ‘There's any number of reasons why a woman might not want sex.’
Joe scratches his head, by the look of it genuinely confused. ‘Like?’
Like, she’s in love with your arch-rival. Little things like that.
‘Like...’ I wrack my brains. ‘She could be tired, she might be stressed, she might be sore, she might have an infection, she could have just had a smear test, she might be pregnant...’
I stop there. Partly because I’ve run out of ideas and partly because Joe has gone the colour of cottage cheese.
He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a gurgle. He clasps a hand to his chest.
Christ, he’s not having a heart attack is he?
‘That’s not what this is about, is it?’ he squeaks. It sounds bizarre, like a tiger on helium.
‘No,’ I say crossly. ‘I’m not pregnant.’
He relaxes visibly, like a blow up doll with a puncture.
‘Thank fuck for that.’
‘I just don’t feel like sex,’ I say. ‘I’m tired and I want to sleep. Alone. Your hotel probably has pay per view porn if you’re desperate.’
Actually, I think the brief coronary has put paid to that problem.
‘Well,’ he says, looking thoroughly out of his element. 'Okay. I’ll just head off then.’
I feel a surge of triumph as I shut the door behind him.
Of course I can resist temptation! Piece of cake.
Maddy and Adrienne are worried over nothing.
Chapter 6
Thursday. Week 1, Day 4 (Second Round, Bottom Half)
Incredibly, three whole days of Wimbledon have passed without a single drop of rain. This, being contrary to all known laws of nature, couldn't last. Thursday dawns to a sullen greyness, that is soon accompanied by drizzle. The weather forecasters tell us to cross our fingers for a dry spell later on. Who says meteorology isn’t an exact science?
I can tell you exactly what Joe’s doing right now, because I’ve seen it before. He’s pacing up and down in his suite, muttering mutinously. Eventually he will yank the curtains closed again and shout, ‘This fucking country! Who said you could fucking rain?!’ Eight Wimbledon tournaments that man’s played and he still expects a fortnight’s fine weather.
After Wimbledon Page 8