After Wimbledon

by Roberts, Jennifer Gilby

  ‘He said that?!’

  I shrug. ‘Those weren’t his exact words, but that’s what he meant. In any case, he told me it was over.’

  The tears start to well up. ‘It hurts,’ I choke.

  Adrienne hugs me and I cry into her shoulder. She makes soothing noises. Eventually, I quieten down. Not because it hurts less, but just because it doesn’t seem to help. All I’ve gained is a headache and most likely a nose like Rudolph’s.

  ‘Didn’t you explain to him what really happened?’

  I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. ‘I tried, but he wouldn’t let me. All I managed was “yes, but...” Then he started saying how he’d had me all wrong and he didn’t want to be screwed around. By then I couldn’t speak at all. Meanwhile, the whole country – and before long the world no doubt – think I’m some evil whore who’s been stringing them both along for years. What am I supposed to do now? If I go out I’ll probably get rotten fruit thrown at me.’

  ‘You can put out an official response.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I start picking my nails. ‘But you know it won’t do any good. And I’m hardly blameless. Some of the stuff they wrote is true. I haven’t exactly been an angel.’

  ‘That is not the point,’ Adrienne says sternly. ‘There is no crime in having a few different lovers in your lifetime. And apart from that thing with Jack, no one got hurt. It was just good dirty fun between consenting adults. Nothing wrong with that.’

  I sniff and then blow my nose again. ‘Yet I’m still the bad guy. Meanwhile, Joe has been fucking anyone who takes his fancy over the past four years. Did you know we had an open relationship? Because I didn’t.’

  Adrienne squirms. ‘I did once hear Joe telling someone that.’

  ‘Let me guess, a woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great!’ I flop back onto the bed. ‘The last to know.’

  ‘I don't think so. I’ve never heard it from anyone else. I just thought he was being a cheating bâtard. I should have said something, but I didn’t want to cause trouble if it was a one off. It was wrong of me.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say dully. ‘Doesn’t really matter now. No boyfriend, no worries, right?’

  ‘Don’t give up on Sam yet. Give him a chance to come to his senses.’

  I shake my head. ‘He didn’t even care enough to wait for an explanation. So forget him. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone.’

  I guess I don’t. But I should really, really like to have him all the same.

  I don’t leave Adrienne’s room. She brings me whatever I need and Henri generously doesn’t complain. I compose an official statement. It denies infidelity to anyone, states that Sam and I are friends only and that the stories from my past have been misrepresented. What I actually want to say is unprintable.

  When coverage starts, I turn on Wimbledon. Sam and Joe are both playing this morning, casualties of yesterday’s rain. On the bright side, I don’t have to go to Joe’s matches anymore. As my Aunt Gladys always says, there’s no great loss without some small gain.

  You’d think I’d want both of them to crash out. Actually, the reverse is true. They both have to go through today. Because if they don’t, guess who’ll get the blame?

  I start watching Sam's match, but it hurts too much. After a game, I switch to Joe's.

  He looks pissed. I strongly suspect he’s imagining the ball is my head. Or Sam’s. He’s smacking it with tremendous force, even for him. According to the commentators, he’s already broken his record for the fastest ever serve and he’s only been playing for six minutes.

  What he isn’t doing, I’m relieved to see, is wobbling. Although by the fourth round things should be getting tough, and his opponent is no pushover, Joe is firmly in control. In minutes, it’s 5-0. His opponent doesn’t know what’s hit him. By the sound of it, the commentators are pretty stunned as well.

  I keep watching, because this is amazing tennis. Joe is using every weapon in his arsenal – and he certainly has a few – to totally annihilate the poor man floundering on the other side of the net.

  He takes the first set 6-0 and keeps going, rapidly running away with the second. And then the third. I start wondering what the record is for the shortest ever match at Wimbledon, because this looks all set to break it.

  In the third set, his opponent manages to hold serve once. The audience practically gives him a standing ovation.

  After 43 minutes, Joe Harker advances to the quarter-finals and bathes in a hot spring of applause. He waves and claps himself enthusiastically.

  Yes, obviously this man is heartbroken.

  I breathe a little easier and switch channels.

  The players are sitting down for change of ends. It takes me a while to register the score line, because I don’t believe it. When I finally process it, my heart crashes to the floor along with my jaw. Sam is losing, 4-6 2-6 0-1.

  Oh, Christ.

  This is a disaster. He has to win this match. If he doesn’t, the whole country will hate me forever.

  ‘Well, we’re now going to see if Sam can dig deep and get into this match,’ John Barrett’s voice says. ‘This is the shakiest performance we’ve seen from him in a long time.’

  ‘Dare I say it, since Roland Garros last year,’ John McEnroe puts in. ‘Hopefully he can pull himself together in this next set, or his hopes of a fifth Wimbledon title will be gone. And Britain’s with them.’

  I watch Sam get up and walk to the baseline. He looks calm as ever. I wish I’d seen the last two sets to know if this is an improvement. His body language isn’t too negative. That look of steely determination is back in his eyes. Please let that mean he’s going to fight.

  I wish I were there, cheering for him. But I’d probably make things worse.

  By the time a few games have passed, it’s obvious he’s working to get back into it. But his opponent has a two set lead and is playing well. It’s going on serve. There's going to be a tie-break.

  Please Christ, I will do anything you want if you’ll just let him win.

  The tie-break goes on serve too. Sam’s holding steady, but he needs to break. If he loses this set, it’s all over.

  Even on the TV, you can tell the crowd is tense. 15,000 people are biting nails, wringing hands and praying to deities they may or may not ordinarily claim to believe in. A silent plea: let him win.

  At 5-5 his opponent breaks him. A pain-filled gasp fills the stadium. It gets to match point and it isn’t even his serve.

  I clutch a pillow to me and fight the desire to hide my eyes. I sit there chanting, ‘please, please, please.’ He has to break back. He just has to. It can’t end like this.

  His opponent serves. Straight down the centre line.

  And Sam doesn’t get to it.

  Oh, Christ no.

  The crowd tries to applaud the victory, but this peters out as Sam signals the umpire. He’s challenging the serve.

  All of Britain has their eyes glued on Hawk-Eye’s display. No sound effects from the audience. They can’t breathe, anymore than I can. It lands and it’s... out.

  The crowd goes nuts. I crush my pillow to my chest and stamp my feet, heart leaping.

  But that just makes it a second serve. It’s still match point.

  Inevitably, the second serve is slower. Sam’s return is faultless.

  He breaks back and they’re even again. But not for long. Sam breaks on the next point after a long rally and then produces an ace to hold serve. The third set is his.

  The sheer relief is overwhelming. But it’s not over yet.

  ‘Now this is the Sam Pennington we’re used to seeing,’ John McEnroe tells the viewers as Sam takes control of the fourth set. ‘Whatever pep talk he’s given himself has obviously worked and now we’ve really got a match on our hands.’

  His opponent isn’t going down without a fight. This will be no easy victory. The tension doesn’t dissipate. I get so wound up I find myself pacing the room between points. I can’t sit still. I
don’t know how the people in the stadium can.

  Sam manages to break in the fourth and takes the set 7-5. The fifth goes on serve. No tie-break here. One of them has to break.

  It’s his opponent, but then Sam breaks back. Even again.

  At 7 all, Sam breaks again. He’ll serve for the match. I’m afraid to look away. Back and forth and back again. Over and over.

  40-30. Match point.

  And he’s done it!

  I fling my pillow into the air and hammer the mattress with my fists, screaming, ‘He won, he won!’ On screen, the crowd goes bananas.

  ‘And Sam Pennington, world number one, advances to the quarter-finals. He gave us a scare, but British hopes for the title are still alive.’

  The euphoria doesn’t last long. It fades into relief. Then I remember all that’s happened and sink back into misery again.

  Does he wish he’d given me a chance to explain? Might he come back and ask me to?

  Probably not. I should be realistic. He went out last night, slept badly and woke up feeling off colour. A bad day on court resulted, but, being the champion he is, he managed to claw back victory. That’s all. That’s safer to believe.

  I watch some of the women's coverage. Diana has gone through to the semis. My guess is the final will be her versus Hélène Echelle. If Diana's playing the way she was on Monday, she'll win. If not... well, Hélène is no pushover. Should be a good match.

  Joe has a dream of a draw; he should go through tomorrow no problem. Sam's match is trickier. Trenkov did make it through to face him. He's unpredictable, but he's capable of tremendous play and he's beaten Sam several times before. I'll just have to pray that tomorrow is one of his off days.

  With some help from Adrienne (including a blond wig, a trouser suit that feels very strange and a bit of flirting on her part), I escape through the staff entrance under cover of darkness and go back home.

  There’s something so bizarre about sneaking into your own house. Particularly when you’re the only one who lives there. But I don’t want Mum and Dad to realise I’m back. If they’ve seen the article – and I’ve had my phone off all day so I don’t know – they’ll definitely have a few words to say about it. Or Mum will anyway.

  I’ll face them in the morning.

  I trudge upstairs, hide under my bed covers and fall asleep imagining that Sam is there with me, and today went the way it was supposed to have done.

  Chapter 12

  Wednesday. Week 2, Day 3 (Men’s Quarter-finals)

  Dreams are funny things. Most of them are so random that if you actually remembered them for more than a minute after you woke up, you’d be scratching your head over them all day. Every now and again, though, you have a dream that’s so very real that when you wake up it takes a while to realise that it didn’t actually happen.

  For about thirty seconds this morning, yesterday went the way I planned and I was waking up beside Sam, tired and happy. Then a wave of reality crashed over me and shattered my illusion. I was not impressed. I liked my illusion.

  Instead, it’s breakfast for one. Again.

  I wait until I hear noises next door and head over. May as well get it over with.

  Dad opens the door. He hasn't shaved yet this morning and there are dark circles under his eyes. Mum's probably kept him up all night ranting.

  'Morning, sweetheart,' he says, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. 'I thought I heard you moving next door, but I didn't say anything to your mother. Mrs. Winterson next door passed that article over the back fence yesterday morning and she hasn't left the house since. She's called you about 20 times.'

  'Great,' I mutter. 'Kitchen?'

  'Mmmm.'

  I square my shoulders and step into the kitchen. Mum is sitting at the table in her dressing gown. It's bottle green with purple trim - Wimbledon colours. Her lips go thin when she sees me.

  'Well, what have you got to say for yourself?'

  I shrug. 'The guy who wrote that article is a real arsehole?'

  She rounds on me. 'Have you no pride? It's bad enough you would do these things, but to have them printed so that the entire world can read about them: the Club, our neighbours, all our friends! You've brought shame on the family name.'

  'It's a good thing it's only Bennett, then. It's hardly unique to us.'

  'That's not the point!'

  'Then what is?!' I snap. 'I'm the one who's had my sex life printed in the papers - incorrectly, I might add. Would it kill you to offer some support?'

  'I'll offer it when you deserve it,' Mum snaps back. Face-to-face we're the same height and her eyes bore into mine. 'What were you thinking about to cheat on Joe? Least of all in the middle of Wimbledon! And with Sam?! That's just asking for the press to find out.' Her eyes narrow. 'Or was that the idea?'

  'Obviously.' I glare back at her. 'I've always wanted to be a famous cheating slut and when I saw my chance, I just had to go for it.'

  'This is not funny.'

  'Who's laughing?'

  I turn away from her and swing into a chair at the breakfast table. I butter myself a piece of toast. She watches me, arms folded. Dad slides back in and into another seat. He quietly pours us all a cup of tea.

  'What do I have to do to make you take this seriously?'

  'Try asking me about it and listening to what I have to say,' I say calmly, adding jam to my toast.

  'All right.' Her voice and carriage are stiff as she sits down opposite me. 'Talk.'

  'Firstly, most of that article isn't true and what is has been twisted. Like that stuff about Sam and I having been carrying on for years. Two weeks ago, we'd barely shared a conversation. Our bodily fluids were strictly separate.'

  'That's something, I suppose, but it also rather implies that they aren't anymore.'

  'Actually they are,' I say, swallowing harder than my mouthful of toast warrants. 'Because you see, he also saw the article. And now he thinks I'm a two-faced whore and never wants to see me again. Isn't that great?'

  My parents exchange glances. 'And in between?' Dad prompts.

  'We talked. We found we liked each other. We kissed accidentally, talked some more, went out and then kissed again. I broke it off with Joe when he came to tackle me about the article. But by the time I got to Sam, he'd seen it too and it was over. Except it never really began.'

  I blink at my plate. 'So, in a nutshell, I'm now single, heartbroken and infamous. All in all, yesterday was not a good day.'

  There's silence. I continue to stare at my plate. One corner of my toast starts to get soggy from tears.

  'Are you in love with him?' Dad asks finally.

  'Well,' I choke, starting to pick at my nails. 'That's really the only thing that could make the situation worse, isn't it? So, of course, it happened. Yes.'

  I wipe my eyes on the sides of my hands. 'It finally happened,' I say, holding up my hands in a gesture of surrender. 'After 28 years of keeping my heart to myself, someone sneaked in there and stole it. The least sensible guy, at the least sensible time, in the least sensible way. And now, of course, it's all gone wrong. And it hurts.' I wipe away more tears. 'It hurts a lot.'

  Dad comes round so he can hug me. 'Shh,' he says soothingly. 'It'll be all right. You can sort it out.'

  I struggle to stop the tears and pull myself together. I just don't feel comfortable crying in front of Mum.

  Mum is silent. She sips tea and looks at us. Finally, she puts her cup down.

  'So this is why you want to retire. Because of a man. Because leaving the tour means you can stay home with him.'

  Christ, is that all she cares about?

  Why am I surprised? Of course it is.

  'Mum, since you obviously weren't listening, he doesn't want me,' I force out. 'So staying home would just be worse for me.'

  Every single day I'd see him. Maybe with another girl. Always thinking I'm no good.

  I can't deny that retirement suddenly seems a lot less attractive.

  'But that's what'
s put the idea into your head, isn't it? And if the two of you make up, that's what will dictate your decision.'

  'No it won't!' I surprise myself by how vehement I sound. 'Is it so hard to believe that I just don't want to play anymore? That I'm no longer hungry for victory? That I'm sick of the lifestyle and want a different one? That I want to quit for myself and no one else?'

  'I can't stand by and watch you throw away your career. And for what?'

  'Oh, I don't know,' I say, leaning back in my chair. 'Coaching, marriage, a family. Are you saying those things are worthless?'

  Mum says nothing. She stabs the butter.

  'That's what it all comes down to, doesn't it? You wish that Dad and I had never existed and you'd stayed on the tour and had all those shots at the Wimbledon title that you missed because of us.'

  She carries on buttering. 'That's not true,' she says tightly.

  'Oh no? Then why are you so desperate for me to keep playing, even though I've told you I'm unhappy, if not to win vicariously? You've never once tried to understand how I felt, you've just told me what to do. Well, it's my decision and all that matters is that I'm happy with it. It's my life and it's got nothing to do with you.'

  She slams down the knife. 'Nothing to do with us? After all the sacrifices we made for you?!'

  'You didn't make any sacrifices for me!' I shoot back. 'You wanted me to be a tennis player and you did everything possible to get your wish. Yes, I wanted it too, but if I hadn't you'd have done it anyway. Face it, you think my career is just an extension of yours. But you're wrong. It's mine. And it ends when I say it does.'

  'All I'm trying to do is give you the benefit of my experience and try to stop you making a mistake!'

  Dad clears his throat. 'Lucy is right, dear, it's her decision.'

  Mum points her knife at him. 'Stay out of this.'

  'Don't talk to Dad like that.'

  'It's none of his business.'

  'He's your bloody husband!'

  'And whose fault is that? I wouldn't have had to marry him if it weren't for you!'