The crazy thing is, I actually mean it.
Incredibly, the good mood lasts. Far from being sick with nerves, I feel relaxed yet invigorated. I can’t wait to get onto court. The rain has started up again, but we're on Centre and these days they can just close the roof so it won't interfere with our match at all.
Diana and I walk out onto court and the applause crashes out. I raise one arm to the crowd. I look around. All these people and the vast majority of them will be cheering for me. Amazing.
I head over to my chair and settle myself. I sit and gaze at the scenery, as if I’m on holiday and sitting on a beach somewhere. No sun-drenched shore lapped by turquoise waters could ever be more beautiful than Centre Court. Not to me.
We get up for the warm up. Diana is a player who likes to start intimidating you right from the start. A few neat little shots in the warm up, a couple of cross-court winners and the doubts kick in for her opponent. Normally it would get to me, but today it doesn’t. I feel like I’m in a bubble. I smile at her over the net.
Who knows? Miracles happen. And this might be the last time I’ll play here, so I’m damn well going to play my best.
I win the toss and decide to serve. I want to start us off.
We pose for a photo together. I smile sincerely. I want a nice shot. Maybe it’ll end up on Mum’s wall.
‘Time’.
The crowd clap and yell ‘Come on, Lucy!’ and other encouraging things. I’m totally calm. Centre Court will always be my happy place. No matter what happens today.
By the time she breaks me, in the tenth game, I know two things. One, I’m playing the best tennis I have in years – possibly my entire career. Second, Diana is still playing better. Some of her shots are so beautiful that even I want to applaud. I can’t break her back and so she takes the first set.
Yet, strangely, when I walk back to my chair I don’t feel discouraged. I’m really enjoying the match and can’t wait to get back out there. After all, she’s only broken me once. That’s not much, considering our previous record. And I’m playing really well. If I could only dig a little deeper...
I dig and strike gold. In the next set, after five deuces and any number of break points, I manage to break her. The crowd is going crazy and I’m on a high. It’s 6-5 and now I must serve for the set. Hold once again and the match is equalised.
My first serve is perfect. An ace, surely? But no. Back it comes, perfectly positioned. 0-15.
The next is again fast and neat, but she gets to it. Then she wins the ensuing rally with a beautiful cross-court shot that clips the line with the very bristles on the ball. I know, because I challenge it. I shake my head in wonder at the image on the screen. Incredible. 0-30.
I take a chance on serve and volley. I execute it perfectly and get an impeccable passing shot back by way of congratulations. 0-40. Three break points.
I save the first capably and the second by luck.
I serve. A bullet return. A punishing rally, ending when her ball clips the net and falls back onto her side. Deuce.
I manage an ace. My first of the match – not because my service has been poor, but because her returns have been so unbelievably good. It’s as if she can read my mind and knows exactly where each serve is going.
‘Advantage, Miss Bennett.’
I try for another, but she doesn’t allow it. Her return streaks past me and bounces off the baseline.
‘Deuce.’
She does it again.
‘Advantage, Miss Ivanova.’
I can save this point.
I put everything into it. All my years of experience and training. Every drop of skill and talent I possess.
‘Game, Miss Ivanova.’
It isn’t enough.
‘Six games all. Tie-break.’
I still don’t give up. My shoulders don’t slump and my energy doesn’t fade away. I still feel good. I’m still happy to be here. I’m not even intimidated by her, though Christ knows I have every reason to be. It’s a crazy feeling, but wonderful. I've never heard of someone being in the zone while they're losing before.
Tie-breaks mean you’re even. She hasn’t won. I could still take this set.
One mini-break, one point taken from my serve – claimed with an outright winner from her – and it’s match point. On her serve.
It’s not over yet. My standard hasn’t dropped at all and it hasn’t ever been this high before. I should win this set. I deserve to win this set. It’s Wimbledon and I’m British. Come on!
She serves. Hard, fast, perfectly positioned. And I can’t get to it. Ace.
She’s won.
‘Game, set and match, Miss Ivanova.’
For a moment, it all seems surreal. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen. There was supposed to be a miracle.
I walk over and shake Diana’s hand. I add a sincere, ‘Congratulations, well deserved.’ With form like that, my money’s on her for the title. I pity her next opponent.
I go to my chair and pack up my things. By the murmurs in the crowd, they’re pretty disappointed. They wanted to see me win. So did I. But there’s no stab of agony. For some reason, I still feel good.
I gather up my things, wait for Diana to be ready and walk off court with her. I wave to the crowd. I even stop to sign a couple of autographs. A little girl with her hair in pigtails gives me a bright smile. ‘See you next year!’ she calls, as I leave the court.
I wave, but don’t answer. Suddenly, knowledge fills my whole being. This is the last time I will walk off Centre Court. I'm not coming back into Narnia. I am getting too old.
I haven’t struggled to keep my mind on tennis because of Sam or Joe or anything else. They’ve just been excuses. The plain fact is that my heart’s just not in it anymore. Oh, I still love tennis. And Wimbledon. But not the way a champion does. And not the way I used to.
What’s held me back was the lingering dream of the Wimbledon title. But today I played the absolute best I’m capable of and it still wasn’t enough. A true champion beat me. The dream is not going to become a reality for me. And I think I can accept that. I can hold my head up and say that I gave it everything I have.
In the locker room, I try it out in front of the mirror. ‘I’m retired,’ I say. ‘I am an ex tennis pro.’
It hasn’t quite sunk in yet. I guess I can’t get over 12 years – well, not-quite-28, if I’m honest – in half an hour. I suppose it would be worrying if I could.
For the rest of my life, there’ll be no more tour. No more running around the world. No more training schedules. No more tournaments. And, until I start coaching, nothing much I have to do at all. What am I going to do with all that free time?
I guess... anything I want.
And it’s not as though I’ll never play another tennis game in my life. I belong to a club full of players. Not to mention one former pro, who I’m sure would be willing to play with me. Day or night.
I think I might go out tonight. I may well eat something with vast amounts of fat in it. Perhaps I'll stay up all night. I might even drink more than is good for me.
I’m retired.
I’m finished.
I’m done.
I meet Dad, Adrienne and Henri on the way to the interview room.
‘Mon chou, I’m so sorry,’ Adrienne says, giving me a hug. ‘You were playing so wonderfully.’
‘Terrible luck facing her at this stage,’ Dad adds, taking his turn with the hugs. ‘Spectacular form. No one could have beaten her today.’
Henri gives me a hearty handshake. ‘There’s always next year.’
‘Actually, there won’t be,’ I say, and smile at them. ‘That was my last match. I’m now officially retired.’
Dad and Adrienne exchange looks.
‘Mon chou, are you sure about this?’ Adrienne asks. ‘I mean, you’ve only just come off court after going out of Wimbledon. You’re bound to be upset right now. Maybe you should think it over again once the disappointment wears off. Just
to be sure.’
‘Adrienne is right, sweetheart. It’s a very big decision to make at a time when you’re probably not thinking clearly.’
‘I feel fine.’ I point at my eyes. ‘See? Happy. I feel good. I played a terrific match, gave it my all and it wasn’t enough. I see that now and I’m fine with it.’
They don’t look convinced.
Adrienne tucks some unruly strands of hair behind her ear. ‘I know it wasn’t today, but play like that could take you far in the future. Diana played exceptionally well today, even for her. You could still win some big titles if you can continue that form – even Wimbledon another year.’
The doubts start chewing. My resolve has woodworm.
‘But I don’t normally play like that either. I’ll probably never play that well again.’
Dad frowns. ‘Well, you won’t know if you don’t try.’
How can you argue with that? Damn them for being logical.
‘Just don’t announce it today,’ Dad suggests. ‘Give it 24 hours for your mood to settle before you make your final decision.’
I sigh inwardly. The feeling of certainty I had on the court is fading. I can’t deny that they have a point. I did just go out of Wimbledon. Normally I’d be feeling terrible. Maybe I’ll have a delayed reaction.
‘All right,' I concede. 'I’ll put it off until tomorrow.’
They smile, their shoulders settle and their posture relaxes. Meanwhile, I feel tense again.
‘Good girl.’
Girl? I’m 27.
But then, I guess the jury’s still out on whether I’ve grown up yet.
'We should go out!' Adrienne says. 'Have a girl's night. Forget it all.'
'Yeah... maybe,' I say. 'It depends on how I feel later.'
And what Sam's doing tonight.
I haven’t made it out of the All England Club before I meet Sam. He’s frowning and looking troubled until he spots me, then his eyes light up the way my heart does every time I see him.
‘That was the most appalling luck,’ he says, giving me a hug. My eyes flicker closed momentarily as we hold each other. I wish we didn’t have to let go.
‘You were playing amazingly. Nine times out of ten, you’d have won. Diana was just on fire today.’
I shrug. ‘It’s okay. I did my best. I felt really good actually. I even felt I was ready to retire. And then Dad and Adrienne started talking about disappointment and not making decisions while upset. Now I’m confused again.’
Sam runs a hand over his hair. ‘I suppose they have a point.’
A lump appears in my throat. ‘I thought you were in favour of me retiring.’
‘I am,’ Sam says softly, glancing around us, ‘but purely for selfish reasons. It would be foolish of me to encourage you to quit if you wanted to carry on, because that would only make you unhappy. And I hope you realise that I don't want that.'
I smile at him. Our eyes lock and my heart skips a beat.
‘Want to go out tonight?’ I ask.
‘Sure. Although I suspect I may be playing tomorrow morning, so you’ll have to have me home at a reasonable hour. I’m supposed to be third on Court 1, but the weather’s not looking promising. Anything specific in mind?’
Nothing I’m allowed to do.
‘You could show off your karaoke prowess,' he suggests. 'I’d love to hear you sing.’
‘It’s a date,’ I say. ‘I mean... a meeting between friends. Six? We could get some dinner first.’
He grins. ‘I know a place where we could combine the two. That is, if good old-fashioned pub food is your thing?’
‘Definitely.’ I instantly start fantasising about a plate of steak and chips.
‘I’ll bring a taxi round to your place. Please don’t wear anything too attractive, I’m trying to be good.’
I find myself actually flicking my hair back. ‘Well, I can’t promise anything.’
What has got into me lately?
The look in Sam’s eyes suggests he’d rather like to. He clears his throat. ‘See you later then,’ he says, and slowly walks away.
I watch him go longer than propriety allows, but eventually I turn and head off in the opposite direction.
I head home to find something to wear tonight. Despite what Sam said, I want something ravishing. Or rather, I want to look like someone he would want to ravish. Over and over again.
However, here we have a problem. My wardrobe consists of sports gear, an odd couple of formal dresses worn for family weddings and the like, and various jeans, T-shirts and sweatshirts. There is a distinct lack of clothes suitable for dates.
Not that this is one, of course.
I stare at my mobile. I know someone who could help with this problem, but she’ll never agree if she knows I’m going out with Sam.
I could always not tell her. Sam and Joe are such similar names, in that... they both have three letters. I could accidentally say the wrong one. These slips happen. Often you don’t even notice them...
I grab the phone and dial, crossing my fingers behind my back.
‘So, what’s the occasion?’ Maddy asks, as she attacks my hair with some kind of tongs and a bottle like those you use to water plants. ‘It’s not your anniversary, is it?’
‘No.’ I wince as she pulls a little too hard. ‘That was a few weeks ago.’
Yes, Joe and I began halfway through a tournament (specifically, Roland Garros). We both went out on the same day, drowned our sorrows propped up by the same bar and ended up in the same bed. Who says fairy tales don’t come true?
‘I just felt like getting dressed up for once.’
I know it’s wrong of me and unfair on him, but I want Sam to want me. I want him looking at my legs and imagining them wrapped around him.
Here I go, walking straight into the path of temptation once again.
‘There! You can look now.’
I obediently move to the mirror. And wonder who I’m looking at.
My outfit isn’t that fancy, really, just a skirt and top. But it’s not sportswear for once. I’m wearing make-up (beyond the camouflage to hide the bruise - Maddy got a highly edited explanation) and jewellery. My hair has been straightened. The overall effect is just... wow.
‘That’s fantastic, Maddy,’ I say, turning this way and that to see my reflection. ‘You’ve done an amazing job. I look hot!’
‘Of course you do,’ Maddy beams, sitting on the bed to admire her handiwork. ‘You are hot! Joe’s a lucky man.’
Debatable.
I’m pacing the hall by quarter to six, trying not to pick at my newly-manicured nails. I haven’t had polish on them since... Maddy did them the last time. I think I was fifteen.
I peek out the spy hole at ten to and realise that Sam is already there and standing in the garden. Apparently he hasn’t read The Rules either. I open the door.
He looks up and does a double take. ‘Wow.’
I try to control a creeping smile. ‘I felt like dressing up a bit. Does this make it difficult to be a good boy?’
‘It certainly makes being a bad one a lot more appealing.’ He rubs the back of his neck. ‘We’d better get going.’
Sam takes me to what he refers to as his local, even though it isn’t. It’s a street corner pub called 'The Four-Leaf Clover' with a chalkboard outside, on which is scribbled, 'When Irish eyes are shining, someone just shouted "Free Guinness!"' I think I’m going to like it here.
Many people greet Sam, with smiles and exclamations of, ‘Oh no, not you again!’ The brassy barmaid hands him a piece of paper from behind the bar and gives him a wink. Something stabs me in the chest.
We settle into a corner, a few feet from the karaoke equipment. Sam sips his drink and unfolds his paper. He angles it so I can see it too. ‘This is the list of songs I’m allowed to sing,’ he says, grinning. ‘I’m so crap they restrict me to songs that everybody hates’.
I read the list. ‘I quite like "Barbie Girl."’
‘Good. You can sing it
with me. I need a Ken.’
I laugh. ‘You’re going to sing Barbie?’
‘I am very secure in my masculinity,’ he says solemnly. ‘I am therefore quite happy to instruct the patrons of this establishment that they can "brush my hair and undress me anywhere". They won’t do it; they’ll be too busy throwing peanuts at me.’
I laugh again and pick up my official song list. The trouble I have is picking a song that I can relate to, but that won’t get me into trouble. 'Gimme, Gimme, Gimme' is probably out.
I make my selection and Sam delivers our papers to what looks very much like the Hogwarts Sorting Hat. A chorus of groans goes up as he does so. He does a little bow, goes to the bar and brings me back a packet of peanuts.
‘I am not going to throw peanuts at you.’
‘But it’s tradition! And I’ll deserve it, I promise you.’
We get dinner. Steak and chips twice. Christ, it's gorgeous. I haven't had this in ages.
As we're finishing, the barmaid sashays out to the microphone and holds the Sorting Hat aloft. ‘It’s karaoke time!’ she yells. The patrons cheer lustily. She plunges her hand into the hat and pulls out a paper. ‘Drum roll, please.’
People stamp and beat the tables. Sam joins in enthusiastically.
‘We have a special treat tonight,’ she announces. ‘Our very own Sam...’
A chorus of groans again. ‘Why don’t you go yowl somewhere else, you menace!’ someone yells. But everyone is smiling.
‘- with some help from his lovely girlfriend, Lucy -’
That actually gets a cheer. I blush. I guess it’s a reasonable assumption. This isn’t a sports bar; probably no one here watches tennis. And therefore has no idea that I’m technically dating his rival.
‘... is going to slaughter "Barbie Girl" for us.’
Everyone cheers as Sam and I take to the microphones.
The music starts.
‘Hiya Barbie,’ I growl, trying not to laugh.
‘Hi Ken!’ Sam breathes, in such a horribly girly voice that I nearly miss my next line.
‘You wanna go for a ride?’
After Wimbledon Page 13