Jane is broken back. Sam and I curse in unison. He links our little fingers and says, 'Jinx.' I smile at him. It's hard to let go.
The match goes on serve. Sam stretches and shifts position. Our knees are touching. Bare flesh against bare flesh. I had no idea that knees were so sensitive.
I wish it were him I’m seeing tonight.
It could be. I could go to Sam’s room instead. I know which one it is.
Except that, I’d still have to face Joe in the morning. And he’d be furious. With good reason, to be fair.
And Sam might well turn me down. He’s made his feelings clear. Even if he forgot them tonight, he’d remember in the morning. He’d be ashamed of himself and would probably think less of me. That’s not how I want to start things.
The set goes to a tie-break. I force my mind back onto tennis and sit there on the edge of my seat as Jane battles through.
She's done it!
I hug Sam, deliberately spontaneously. He hugs me back. As we pull back, I catch his eye and momentarily forget where we are and that there's anyone else around. I feel myself start to lean in...
I catch myself and quickly turn away, busying my hands by clapping and keeping my eyes strictly off him.
I really hope no one noticed that.
Joe’s match is torture. I’m sure people are whispering about me. ‘You’d think she could manage a smile,’ ‘Lovers' tiff, probably,’ ‘Well, I heard they had a fight this morning. Right out in the street!’
I want to go home.
I debate what to do tonight until my head aches and I’m no longer sure of anything. I get nowhere and achieve nothing except probably to convince all the spectators that I’m a lousy girlfriend with no interest in her boyfriend’s match. And I can’t really argue with that.
Joe throws a tantrum halfway through the second set and earns himself another warning for racquet abuse. I can’t be bothered to keep my expression neutral.
He pulls it together and wins the set, and much of the third. Then he has another wobble. He screws up the set, throws another tantrum and breaks a racquet over his chair. He gets yet another warning.
I’ve had enough. Ignoring the stares and whispers, I grab my bag and leave.
I watch the end of the match on TV in the players' lounge, just to know when it ends. He comes through in five sets, by the skin of his teeth. He might be tired. He’ll certainly be angry with himself. It’s not a good combination.
Maybe I’m worrying over nothing. Probably all he’ll do is apologise and blame it on nervous tension.
Yeah, right. Anyone who saw five minutes of his match today can see that he’s not exactly in a mellow mood.
My mobile beeps. New text message from Joe Harker. How ridiculous is it that I still have his full name in my contacts list and yet my latest addition is simply down as ‘Sam.’
‘Done. Come to my hotel. Now.’
He clearly hasn’t forgotten.
I could go home instead and hope he doesn’t come find me.
I could go to Adrienne’s room and sleep on her sofa.
I could go to Sam’s room and sleep... somewhere.
I could go over there and dump him.
I grab my bag and go. I’ll figure out the rest on the way.
Except I don’t. I reach Joe’s door, sick with nerves and indecision. On the third attempt, I knock. Immediately, I want to run away. But there’s no way I could escape into the lift before he gets to the door.
It opens long before I’m ready. Joe stands in front of me. His eyes are flashing and his jaw is set. Instinctively, I back away.
‘Oh, no you don’t.’ He goes to grab my arm.
I jump back. ‘Forget it, Joe. I’m not coming in. Not when you’re obviously angry.’
‘We made a deal!’ he snaps.
‘No, you gave an order!’ I snap back, my heart beating furiously. ‘You don’t have any right to do that. This is supposed to be mutual and right now it isn’t. All you’re doing is scaring me. I came here to see if you could be reasonable, but clearly you can’t, so I’m going.’
I turn away. Joe makes a grab for me. I jump away, stumble, fall and slam my cheekbone on a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall. Pain slices through me.
‘Fuck. Lucy, are you okay?’ Joe makes a move towards me.
‘Leave me alone!’ I struggle to my feet, shaking off Joe’s hand.
‘You know that was an accident, right?’ He sounds slightly panicky.
‘Yeah,’ I say. I touch my cheek. I’m going to have a nasty bruise. ‘An accident. I’m going, Joe.’
‘You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?’ he calls after me as I pelt away.
I start crying before I reach the stairs. I can’t go in the lift; I might meet someone.
I get into the stairwell, walk down one flight and then stop. How am I supposed to walk into the lobby like this? Joe is staying here and I’m not. There’ll be other players and journalists staying here and they’ll realise I’ve just come from seeing him. With red eyes and a rapidly forming bruise on my cheek.
I slump down onto a step and just sit there, letting the tears drip down. How do I get out of here? Going out the fire exit will set the alarms off. There must be a staff entrance, but where? And someone could still easily recognise me.
I get out my mobile. There's a text from Joe apologising and asking me not to tell anyone. I text back and say I won't. Then I ring Sam.
‘Hi.’
‘I need your help.’
‘Of course. What?’
‘A taxi, some dark glasses, a wig if possible, but a hat or a scarf will do. I’m in the stairwell of Joe’s hotel and I need to get out without being recognised.’
'Are you okay?'
'Yes.'
A brief pause. 'You haven't killed him, have you?'
I laugh despite myself. 'No.'
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.'
Ten minutes later, I hear the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. I hastily wipe my eyes on the back of my hand and pretend to be engrossed in a text message, in case it isn’t Sam.
It is. He sits down beside me, puts an arm round me and holds me close. I breathe in the scent of him. Tears drop onto his T-shirt. ‘What happened?’ he asks.
I look up at him and he flinches. ‘What the hell did that bastard do?!’
‘Strictly speaking, he didn’t,’ I say, wiping my eyes on the tissue he offers. ‘He tried to grab me; I tripped and fell against a fire extinguisher.’
Sam stiffens. ‘What room is he in?’
‘You can’t help. You’re the last person he’d talk to.’
‘Who said anything about talking? I was thinking more in terms of a tub of concrete and a lake.’
I smile despite myself. ‘Well, it would certainly solve the problem,’ I admit. ‘But I don’t want you going to jail on my account. On any account.’
He pulls me closer. ‘Lucy, I think you should go to the police.’
I reel back. ‘Christ, no. Look, it was an accident. I mean, he was angry but I don’t think he meant that to happen. He was sorry and I’m not really hurt. Let’s just... forget it. I’ll cover it up with makeup. I've got some good camouflage stuff I use for injuries.’
He doesn’t move. ‘I’m not happy with that.’
‘Please?’ I beg. ‘It would be splashed across the papers. He’d never forgive me.’
‘I’d like to see him dragged over the coals. It’s what he deserves.’
‘But they’d drag me along too! You know they would. People have been talking about us – you and me, I mean. Joe and I have been seen fighting and I walked out of his match earlier today. I can’t cope with the fallout. It just isn’t worth it. Please let it go.’
Your past always comes out in stories like this. And there’s definitely a story in mine.
He nods slowly. ‘If that’s really what you want. I don’t want you to suffer. But if he tries anything else, I’m frogmarching you to the police
station. Deal?’
‘Deal. I won’t go near him again.’
‘Okay.’ He holds up a carrier bag. ‘Hat and sunglasses, courtesy of Kathy. You owe me for this, by the way. I wasn't sure what I could tell her, so now she thinks I’ve taken up cross-dressing.’
I manage a smile and put them on.
‘Where do you want to go now?’
I tell the truth. ‘With you.’
I’m surprised the minute I walk through the door of his room.
‘Why haven’t you got a suite?’ I ask, perplexed. ‘You're not going to tell me you can’t afford one?’
He smiles. ‘I can, but just a room is enough. Especially for Wimbledon, when I can pop home anytime. This in itself is an extravagance really, given that I could commute perfectly well, but I love the atmosphere in the Village so I treat myself.’
‘Didn’t you used to have some huge mansion in New Zealand and ten cars or something?’
He winces. ‘Okay, I know. But it’s been a few years since then.’
I go into the en suite and start splashing my face with cold water, leaving the door open.
‘How did you go from mansions, supercars and five star suites to this? You haven’t gambled all your winnings away, have you?’ I tease.
‘Not quite.’
‘Honestly!’ I stick my arm out the door and wag my finger at him. ‘What would your poor mother say?’
‘She’d tell me that too much money isn’t good for a man anyway and that I'm not too big to put over her knee.’ He chuckles. ‘I love my mum.’
He comes to stand by the open door. ‘The truth is,’ he says, ‘when the money started rolling in it went to my head a bit. Suddenly I could buy pretty much anything I wanted. And everything I thought a successful tennis pro ought to have. So I did. Then one day I got back from the US Open having lost a five-set final, so I wasn’t in the best frame of mind. I arrive at my front door and think, “Why the hell am I living here?” I started thinking about my life and realised that I had five tons of crap that I didn’t even want and none of the stuff I did. So I sold up, bought a smaller place that I liked much better and tried to get back to being me. I’ve got pretty simple tastes really.’
‘Thanks a lot!’
He steps into the en suite and puts his arms around me from behind. ‘I didn’t mean you.’
We both stare at our reflection in the mirror. We look like a couple. A happy couple.
Sam removes his arms and steps away for good measure. ‘Sorry,’ he says, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Forgot for a second. Anyway...’ He leaves the en suite again. ‘... I’m much more comfortable now. I’ve got enough put away that I won’t starve, one car, a house that I hope to fill in time and, all things considered, a pretty good life. There are still a few things that would make it better, though.'
I stare at my reflection. She’s smiling.
When one man makes you happy and the other miserable, it’s an obvious choice, isn’t it? All I need to do is end it. So what’s holding me back?
Somehow, I’m still afraid.
Chapter 9
Middle Sunday (Rest Day)
Today I'm staying home and not thinking about men.
I go round to my parents' house after breakfast and find Dad washing up in the kitchen, wearing an apron that says ‘Kiss the Chef.’ I grab a tea towel with pictures of London on it and start drying up. I keep telling them to buy a dishwasher, but they don't listen.
‘Committee met yesterday,’ he says, scrubbing methodically at a charred saucepan. ‘The letters will go out Monday, I expect.’
I’m suddenly nervous. What if they turned me down?
‘And?’ I prompt.
Dad turns to look at me, surprise registering on his deeply tanned face. He never will put on sun cream.
‘Sweetheart, you didn’t imagine that anyone would vote against you? The job’s yours whenever you want it. You’ll start in September, I expect, if you retire now. Good timing really, what with Carol moving away then. It was the Tennis Tots you wanted, wasn't it?’
'Yes.' I busy myself drying the cheese grater. ‘What about Sam?’
Dad chuckles. ‘When a player of his calibre wants to coach at your club, you say yes. And I dare say he’ll do fine. He managed all right when we did the open day. Seems a bit of a waste though, if you ask me.’
The open day was fun. We invited everyone from miles around to ‘Come Try Tennis’. It felt like they all turned up too. I showed hoards of under-tens how to hold a racquet, how to bounce a ball on it, how to serve and how to follow through. Some of them did pretty well. In fact, that’s what made me feel I’d like to coach. I guess it must have been the same for Sam.
‘Training the next generation is hardly a waste,’ I point out. ‘Maybe he’ll help the Club produce a British Wimbledon champion at long last.’
‘We haven’t given up on you, you know.’
I rub a baking tray viciously. ‘It’s not going to happen, Dad. I’m too old and I’m not good enough. Maybe Mum would have,’ I add, ‘if it hadn't been for me.’
‘If it hadn't been for me,’ Dad says. ‘I don’t remember you asking to be born. And I don't know that she would have. Her game never really suited grass and, in my professional opinion, you’re the better player.’
‘Better not tell Mum that. She’d probably consider it grounds for divorce.’
Dad chuckles. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he says. ‘Mum and I will never divorce.’
Comforting.
‘Mind you,’ he adds, ‘there’s a spade in the garden shed that’s had my name on it for years.’
Less so.
An hour later, I walk over to the Club to visit Mum. She’s bent over a thick report. She's even wearing her reading glasses, though she takes them off as soon as I go in.
‘I suppose you want to know about the committee meeting,’ is her greeting.
‘Dad already said,’ I say, coming to sit in front of the desk. I forget and tread on the creaky floorboard. ‘I just thought I’d say hello.’
She looks slightly irritated – I assume at Dad. She likes to follow procedure.
‘I made it clear to the committee that your start date was uncertain and would probably be a long way off.'
Of course you did.
‘Mum,’ I ask, fiddling with her tennis ball clock, ‘if you had kept playing after I was born, do you think you’d have won Wimbledon?’
She turns away from me and starts filing papers in her R-Z drawer.
‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ she says, tone neutral. ‘You were a demanding child. A bad sleeper, very clingy and you picked up every germ going. I suspect that’s why you’re so rarely ill now – your immune system’s seen everything. I could never have given you the proper attention and played at that level.’
I look at the floor. ‘What about if I hadn’t been born? Hypothetically.’
She shuffles papers. ‘It’s pointless to think about it. There’s no way to know and it makes no difference anyway.’
‘Did you ever think about having more children?’
She finally looks up. ‘Your father and I decided that stopping at one would be best. What with lessons, equipment, travel to tournaments and so forth, the cost soon mounts up.’
‘So you always assumed that I would be a tennis player?’
‘It seemed a sensible basis to work on.’
It's not that I didn’t want to be one. On the contrary, I did. I can’t honestly say I’d have done things differently, even if I could go back in time. But what if I’d wanted to do something else? I mean, Mum and Dad decided I would learn tennis, not me.
‘And we were right,’ Mum adds. ‘If we’d had more children, we might not have been able to afford all your expenses. Then where would you be? We sacrificed a good deal for your tennis, as it is.’
‘I know, Mum,’ I say, guilt kneading my insides. ‘And I’m grateful.’
She steeples her hands together. My old headmistress us
ed to do that. ‘The best repayment would be for you to play until your career reaches a natural end. You have several more good years left in you. Think of the Club. Think of the country. Think of all we’ve invested in you.’
Call me crazy, but I thought that time investment came with parenthood anyway. And a natural end? That’s just silly. There’s nothing natural about it, unless you collapse and die on court. You play until you decide that either your body or your spirit can’t take it anymore.
‘I’ve given 12 years,’ I say shortly. ‘And I’m not suddenly going to become a champion. It’s been over a year since I won a title. That is a natural end.’
She looks at me for a few seconds.
‘Have it your way,’ she says and buries her nose in her report again.
I’m dismissed. So I go.
I go round to visit Kelly, my old coach, and join her in trying to convince her son that fruit is so much nicer to eat than cat food. We fail miserably.
Then I go home again and hide.
I’m playing tomorrow. Fourth round. Wimbledon. I’ve barely given it a thought all day. Not like last year. Joe’s right, my head’s all over the place. I’ll never win.
I have to try though. It’s my job, after all. So until the match is over tomorrow, I have to be all about tennis.
But I still fall asleep imagining Sam’s arms around me.
Chapter 10
Monday. Week 2, Day 1 (Fourth Round)
Today I go up against the world number one. I wake up feeling surprisingly good. The radio plays ‘Walking on Sunshine’ and I join in while I get dressed. The mood centre of my brain seems to have short-circuited.
I meet Sam on the practice courts and we hit together. Sam’s serve is lethal. Good. I hope he kills Joe with it.
Today’s plan is just to stay away from Joe. I don’t care what he says, I’m not going to see him alone again. I feel strong today. It feels good.
Libby grabs me for a quick interview. ‘I feel terrific,’ I tell her. ‘I’m really looking forward to the match.’
After Wimbledon Page 12