After Wimbledon

by Roberts, Jennifer Gilby

  My phone rings again. I pick it up expecting Adrienne, but it’s Joe.

  ‘Do you want sex tonight?’ he asks, by way of greeting. ‘I thought I’d call first before I bother coming over there.’

  And they say romance is dead.

  ‘No,’ I say, although it’s not strictly true.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not sick?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it’s been three days!’

  ‘I’m playing tomorrow.'

  ‘That doesn’t usually stop you.’

  He has a point.

  Maybe I could tell him I have a sexually transmitted infection. Except then I’d have to explain where I got it. Would he believe me if I said a toilet seat?

  ‘Well, it does now,’ I snap. ‘I just don’t want to have sex. I’m entitled to say no once in a while.’

  ‘When will you want sex then?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do in the meantime?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ I shout down the phone. ‘Just go fuck a fan! There must be loads of them sniffing around you.’

  A pause.

  ‘If you say so,’ Joe replies. And hangs up.

  Does that mean he’s going to?

  Do I actually care?

  I don’t know what the hell I want.

  Yes I do, I want to get drunk. But I’m playing tomorrow.

  Tennis. Tennis, tennis, tennis.

  I should just forget about men altogether and focus on my game. It always used to serve me well. And it’s an important match tomorrow. Third round at Wimbledon and against someone I have a good chance of beating. It’s stupid to let emotional crap get in the way.

  After all, love means nothing in tennis.

  Chapter 7

  Friday. Week 1, Day 5 (Third Round, Top Half)

  ‘So, what’s the gossip?’ I ask, as Libby slides into the booth where Adrienne and I are having breakfast. I kick the bag of Wife Swap DVDs further under the table.

  ‘Well, it’s not definite,’ Libby whispers, stealing a slice of toast from the rack, ‘but rumour has it that the lovely Miss 4B is knocked up.’

  I choke on a mouthful of toast and cough violently. Libby thumps me helpfully on the back.

  ‘Katie’s pregnant?’ I whisper hoarsely. ‘That’s why she fainted?’

  ‘That’s what everyone’s saying. I mean, think about it. She fainted, she’s been looking and acting really tired lately and apparently someone heard her throwing up before the match on Wednesday. It all fits!’

  Life is just not fair. Katie’s beautiful and smart and has a stellar career, a gorgeous husband who plainly adores her and now a baby as well? Some girls have all the luck.

  Mind you, if I’d got pregnant at 23 I would have been horrified. You’d have found me breathing into a paper bag at the doctor’s office. I wasn’t ready and I was way too obsessed with tennis to make a good mother. But Katie’s married. And probably much more balanced. I’m sure she’ll do fine.

  ‘Yes, it fits,’ Adrienne says doubtfully. ‘But so could a lot of other things.’

  Libby pulls a face. ‘I know, but that’s still my favourite theory. Anyway, I have another little titbit. Romance. For a certain illustrious sportsman we all know with the initials SP.’

  I nearly drop my teacup. Christ, do they have cameras watching his house or something?

  Libby’s not looking at me though, which is weird.

  ‘He was seen hugging and kissing a very lovely looking woman in the lobby here last night,’ Libby says, wiggling her eyebrows. ‘And then they went off with their arms round each other up to his room.’

  I feel sick. My stomach contents are churning as if they're in a mixing bowl.

  I’ve been stupid, haven’t I? I’m nothing special to him. He’s probably had this girl around all along. So much for ‘I’ve never cheated.’ Kissing your rival’s girlfriend apparently doesn’t count.

  Rivals. That’s it! This is all some plot to throw Joe off his game by making me pull away from him. Christ, that scumbag! I knew all those sportsmanship awards were bogus. ‘They don’t know the real me’ – clearly!

  I’m trying to be angry. I really want to be angry. But, the truth is, I’m not. I just feel sad, hurt and small.

  Adrienne shoots me a concerned look.

  ‘What?’ Libby says. ‘What’s up? I figured you’d be intrigued.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘Indigestion. That’s... great. Good for him. Just hope it doesn’t put him off his match today. I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes if he lost.’

  Liar.

  ‘Too right,’ Libby agrees, grabbing another piece of toast. ‘Hope she hasn’t worn him out! Mind you, I wouldn’t blame her if she had. Lord, but that man is fine! I hope she’s in his box today. I want to get a look at the lucky bitch.’

  ‘Oh, me too,’ I agree, putting my cup down. ‘I’ve just remembered I have to deliver something. See you guys later.’

  I deliver the DVDs to Sam’s hotel reception. I’m tempted to leave a note with them saying, ‘For you and your girlfriend to enjoy,’ but I don’t.

  Then I see them enter the lobby and duck behind a pot plant to watch. Arm in arm, coming down for a late breakfast. Bold as brass.

  Libby was right; she's beautiful. My heart is sinking so fast that before long it’ll probably have reached Australia. Long blond hair, blue eyes, effortlessly sexy. A little shorter than him, a little younger maybe. A perfect figure. And great legs.

  If I ran into Joe right now, I’d sleep with him. Not because I want to. Not because I think it would ease this crushing pain in my chest. But just... to feel wanted.

  We get on court at 1.30pm. The rain and sun have called a cease-fire, but it’s precarious and could end at any time.

  Normally, even on Court 4 - which is like Court 10, only at the end of a row - I’d feel fired up by now. It’s Wimbledon! It’s the third round! I could beat her! Instead, I feel numb on the outside and sore on the inside. It’s a struggle to get my mind on tennis, let alone keep it there. What I want more than anything is to be home under my duvet.

  She wins the toss and elects to receive. Just what I need.

  I serve three double faults and put a return into the net for no good reason. Broken already. And it only gets worse. The more I lose, the worse I feel and the worse I play. I hand her the set, 6-0.

  I sit in my chair between sets and sip my drink. I glance around at the crowd. They look glum. I don’t blame them. I’ve been playing well and now I’m throwing away a perfectly winnable match.

  I look up at the sky. Dark clouds are gathering. Please, let it rain. Even for ten minutes. I need to go somewhere and slap myself around the head until I start doing my job.

  It’s my serve to start the next set. Applause is muted as we walk back onto court. I need to hold. One game, at the very least. She’s not even playing that well. I have to take something back.

  I serve, putting everything I have into it.

  ‘Out!’

  Christ, give me a break.

  Second serve. I get this one in at least, but it’s too cautious. She slams it back. I can’t get to it. 0-15.

  Rain, dammit, rain!

  I serve again, in this time. Her return is hard and fast, but I reach it somehow. Her next shot is out. 15 all.

  Rain. Please.

  I feel the first drop hit me as I serve. The ball hits the net, but lands in. A let. Stroke of luck.

  Again. In, but my next shot is wide. My touch is all wrong. 15-30.

  Incredibly, I produce an ace. My first of the match. 30 all.

  I win the next point. Unforced error on her part. 40-30.

  More drops.

  I serve down the line. Her return clips the net and drops just over. I run in to meet it and, amazingly, I get there, before skidding on the grass. My knee twinges, but I’m okay. I won the game. I’m on the scoreboard.

  A roll of thunder i
n the distance. Drops start to fall freely. It’s raining. Thank Christ.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, play is suspended.’

  We all run for cover.

  I really do slap myself in the locker room. Several times. I get some strange looks, but ignore them. I also dunk my face in a basin of cold water. Then I grip the edge of the sink with both hands and stare at my reflection.

  ‘You have got to pull yourself together,’ I tell myself. ‘This is the third round of Wimbledon. Wimbledon! You can win this match. You should win this match.’

  I lean forward and glare at my reflection. ‘I don’t give a crap what’s going on in your life right now,’ I hiss. ‘You have a job to do. It may not be the traditional way to serve your country, but it’s an important one none the less. Any other tournament you can screw up, but not this one. Get out there and win the bloody match!’

  I feel the shift in myself as I walk back onto court and I pray that it’ll last. It has to. I need to win this.

  She serves and I slam it back. It goes where I aimed it. That’s better. 0-15.

  In the next rally, I hit a clear winner. Even better. 0-30.

  She throws the next point away. Unforced error. 0-40.

  An ace from her. I don't let it rattle me. 15-40.

  Her first serve hits the net. Second serve is way too slow. I send the ball streaking back. She just reaches it, but I’m ready. I volley it sideways. She has no chance. Game, me.

  The crowd has started to wake up, now that I’m not letting myself be slaughtered. The adrenaline is beginning to flow in my veins. The tide is turning. I can feel it in my bones.

  I win that set 6-2. By then, the spectators are cheering and I’m on top of the world.

  She fights hard in the third. I can’t break her. It gets to 4 all. I’m still feeling good, though. I’ll get her next game.

  But the dark clouds are gathering once again. I don’t want to stop now. I don’t want to give her a chance to regroup. Please, Christ, don’t let it rain.

  An ace, 15-0.

  I feel the first drop on my shoulder.

  A neat lob. 15 all.

  Another one on my arm.

  An unforced error, 30-15.

  A weaker second serve and a clean return straight down the line. 30 all.

  More drops.

  Serve and volley. 40-30.

  Any minute play will be suspended. I need to win this game.

  Another ace. 5-4 to me.

  Just in time to run off court again.

  I do everything I can think of to keep myself fired up while I’m waiting. One game, that’s all. Just break her once and it’s over. I can’t let this slip away.

  Thank Christ it’s another short shower. The sky is blue and the clouds fluffy white cotton balls once again. You wouldn’t think that it was hammering it down five minutes ago.

  British summertime. Nothing compares.

  Play resumes.

  I can’t break her. I’ll have to hold serve and try again.

  I double fault at 15-40. She breaks me. Crud.

  If she holds serve, she wins the match. I have to break her. Now.

  I fight like hell to deuce. She wants to win; I can’t bear to lose.

  ‘Advantage, Miss Bennett.’

  One more point.

  Deuce two. Crud.

  ‘Advantage, Miss Marković.’

  Match point. Double crud.

  ‘Out!’

  Deuce three.

  ‘Advantage, Miss Bennett.’

  Please, please, please.

  ‘Game, Miss Bennett.’

  Thank God, I’ve survived. 6 all.

  No tie-breaks in the final set. One of us must break to win the match.

  The score reaches 8-7 and she’s serving. I’m up 0-40. I have to break now.

  Return in the net. 15-40.

  Ball goes long. 30-40.

  Please!

  A rally. We’re hurtling back and forth over the court, both just trying to reach each other’s shots. Do I try for a winner? Or hope she makes a mistake?

  I choose the former and return down the line.

  Crud, I think it’s going wide.

  ‘Out!’

  Feck. Deuce.

  No, wait. That call came from the crowd. The linesman hasn’t moved.

  ‘Game, Miss Bennett.’

  The crowd begins to applaud. I’ll serve for the match.

  Except that Mira is signalling the umpire. A challenge. I guess I can’t blame her.

  I watch the screen for Hawk-Eye's verdict, insides taut as the crowd adds sound effects to the ball's flight.

  It’s in. Just. But that’s all it needs to be.

  Hold serve and the match is mine.

  Then I start to think. The fourth round of Wimbledon. I’ve only been there once before. If I could get there again...

  This takes my mind away from the game, where it needs to be. I go down 0-30 before I bring it back. The crowd groans. The spectators think I’m doing a Henman.

  15-30.

  15-40. Two break points.

  30-40.

  Deuce.

  Advantage her.

  Deuce two.

  Advantage me.

  I force every non-tennis thought out of my head and serve. She lunges for it... and doesn’t reach it. Ace.

  I’ve won!

  I’m through to the fourth round!

  I squeal. I jump up and down. I fling my arms above my head and dance.

  What feeling could ever compare to this?

  A wise person observed that what goes up must come down. Admittedly, they were referring to the effects of gravity, but it applies to emotions just as well.

  I’m still bubbling with excitement in the interview room. I answer every question cheerily and beam at everyone. Then it happens.

  ‘So, Lucy, how do you feel about your next opponent?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue who it is,’ I laugh.

  ‘They just finished on Centre Court. You’re facing the number one seed, Diana Ivanova.’

  Oh, feck.

  Christ, I think I said that out loud.

  ‘Is that a quote for me?’ he asks. Several other journalists laugh.

  Even if someone wanted to burst my bubble, this is overkill. Like using napalm to destroy a patch of weeds.

  ‘Well...’ I say, as I struggle for something positive to say, ‘... it’ll be a wonderful chance to test myself and I hope it’ll be a very enjoyable and entertaining match.’

  I’ve stopped smiling. I’ve stopped bubbling. Yes, I’ve made it to the fourth round, but I won’t be going any further. I’ll never get past her.

  It’s a big achievement, I know. Plenty of players never make it this far. But it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

  Not at Wimbledon.

  I watch tennis alone at home for hours. I even watch Sam’s match, although it feels like someone’s poured concrete into my chest. Every now and again, they flash to his player’s box for a reaction shot. She’s there, front row. Whenever they show her, I immediately stuff my fingers into my ears. I can’t stand to hear the words ‘Sam’ and ‘girlfriend’ in the same sentence. At least, not unless it also includes the word ‘Lucy.’

  She claps enthusiastically and, from what I can see, yells encouraging things. Genuinely supportive. Great.

  Otherwise, it’s an uneventful match. Whatever got his opponent this far isn’t in evidence today. He’s no match for Sam. Straight sets win, 6-4 6-3 6-3.

  Still, I can’t seem to generate much enthusiasm. Two British players in the fourth round and still I feel like crying, just because some guy has a girlfriend? I need to get my head together.

  I call Maddy.

  ‘You were right,’ I sob when she picks up. ‘You were so right. I should have stayed away from him, because now I’ve just made things worse.’

  And I burst into tears.

  ‘I’ll be right over.'

  ‘I hate men,’ I sob, when I’ve explained what�
��s happened. ‘Hate them. All of them. Why aren’t I a lesbian? It’s not fair!’

  Maddy sits beside me and rubs my back soothingly. ‘I suspect that wouldn’t make much difference,’ she says. ‘I have a friend who is and she’s always moaning about how she wishes she were straight. And not all men are bastards. Just... lots of them.’

  ‘Was Robert a bastard?’

  She considers this. ‘Not always.’

  ‘Joe is a bastard,’ I tell her. ‘He keeps wanting to have sex with me.’

  Maddy blinks a few times. ‘Well, men generally do.’

  ‘But if he keeps it up, eventually I’ll have to say yes,’ I explain. ‘And then I’ll feel horrible. I don’t want to have sex with him anymore.’

  I rub a hand across my eyes. ‘You know what? This is all Sam’s fault. I was perfectly happy and then he started talking to me and messed it all up.’

  Maddy sighs. ‘Darling, as much as I want to agree with you, that is complete and utter nonsense. You’ve been getting progressively less happy over the last year, at least. Sam’s just brought it to a head; because he represents everything you want but don’t have. And even if he does have a girlfriend – which I have to say seems a bit strange to me – I think he’s done you a service by helping you realise that your priorities have changed.’

  ‘You think she might not be his girlfriend?’

  ‘I think you should get confirmation before you believe a rumour.’

  I slump back onto the sofa. ‘They were seen going up to his room. And I saw them coming down for breakfast myself.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean they spent the night together. They might just be staying in the same hotel.’

  ‘But they had their arms around each other. And she was in his box for the match.’

  Maddy nods. ‘So she's a close friend staying in the same hotel who likes tennis.’

  I consider this. ‘I suppose that’s possible.'

  ‘I would suggest that you give him a chance to explain. If you’re still interested in a relationship with him. For after you split up with Joe.’

  Which won’t be for another week, unless Joe goes out of Wimbledon early.