'How are you doing?' I ask hesitantly.
He shrugs. 'I'm still breathing.'
'No word from Mum?'
'Nothing.'
'What about the Club? Has she been down there?'
He stares at his teacup. 'I don't know. I haven't been since she left.'
I bite my lip while I try to think of something positive to say.
'I tried, you know,' he says dully. 'I tried to be a good husband. I tried to make her happy. I took care of you so she could coach, and do anything else she wanted to do. For 28 years I've put her first and this is what I get in return.'
I'm not old enough for this role reversal.
'I'm sure she'll come back.'
He heaves a sigh. 'Yes. Of course. How goes things at your end?'
'Good,' I say, remembering this morning. 'Sam and I managed to get things sorted out and I'm seeing him tonight.'
'That's good,' Dad nods. 'I've always thought he was a good man. You make sure he treats you right. And treat him right in return.'
'I will.'
Dad looks around the kitchen. 'I'm too old to start again. And I don't want to. I love her. I want her to come back.'
He drops his head into his hands. 'What did I do wrong?' he gasps.
And then my dad, the calm one, is sobbing away onto the table. If Mum were here... But she isn't. That's the whole point.
I pull my chair around and hug him, feeling helpless. I want to comfort him, but I don't have the faintest clue what to say or do. How can words help when all he wants is for Mum to come back?
That's it then. I'm going to go see Mum and try to talk sense into her.
The Club is full of people enjoying a morning's play before settling down to watch this afternoon's matches. An endless stream of people commiserate with me about my own exit and ask if I think Sam can really win us the title. It takes a while before I can make it to Mum's office and even then I have to wait for her to finish with someone else before I can go in.
I don't know the man who eventually walks out. For an older guy, he's pretty cute. Tall, dark. Reminds me a little of Colin Firth. I wonder what he's doing here.
Something grabs my insides and squeezes them. Oh no. That's not it, is it? Mum can't be having an affair.
'Aunty June,' I hiss, as soon as he's left, 'who's that guy?'
'Who, dear?'
'The one who was with Mum?'
She gazes vaguely in the direction he's gone. 'Oh, I'm not sure dear. Ask your mother. I think he's a friend of hers.'
This is bad. Aunty June knows everyone. It can't be innocent if Mum's keeping secrets.
Unlike Dad, Mum looks normal. She's sitting behind her desk in pristine tennis whites and reading glasses, studying a letter. She puts it down and takes the glasses off when she sees me.
'What brings you down here today?' she asks, sitting rigidly upright and clasping her hands together on the desk. 'I hope you've reconsidered your retirement?'
Christ, you'd think nothing had happened.
'I haven't actually.' What with one thing and another, I've hardly thought about it over the last couple of days. 'And I've come to talk about Dad.'
'What about him?'
I drop into a chair across from her and lean on the desk. 'What do you mean, "What about him?"?' You've broken his heart. When are you going to move back home?'
She stiffens. 'That's not your concern.'
'Of course it is,' I snap. 'You're my parents!'
'You have no right to tell me what to do.'
'You tell me what to do all the time.'
'I'm your mother.'
'And I'm 27!' I start picking my nails. 'Dad's miserable. Can't you at least call him?'
'And say what?'
'I don't know!' I slump back in my chair. 'I'm sorry? I'll come back and we can talk about this? Anything along those lines.'
She purses her lips. 'I've already said everything I have to say.'
I stare at her, looking for any sign of upset or indecision on her face. Nothing.
'So that's it, then? You're just going to walk out on 28 years of marriage without a second thought?'
'As I said, it's none of your concern.'
I lean forward. 'Are you having an affair?'
She flinches. 'What?'
'Are you having an affair?' I repeat. 'That guy who just walked out of here, is he your lover? Is that why you're leaving Dad?'
Mum stares at me for a second. Then she slaps me hard across the face. My cheek smarts.
'How dare you?' she spits. 'How dare you? I would never do such a thing. My daughter may have turned out to be a slut, but I'm not.'
I sit back, winded. 'I'm not a slut,' I whisper.
'Oh no?' Mum's lips have gone thin. 'I think the millions of readers who heard about your exploits may disagree with you on that.'
I gaze at her in disbelief. 'How can you say that to me? You're my mother.'
'Unfortunately, yes.'
It's a few seconds before I can move. In the meantime, Mum has picked up her letter again. I'm dismissed. What else could I say anyway?
I scramble to my feet and stumble out of the room.
'She actually said that?'
Maddy looks appalled. She pushes a cup of tea into one of my hands and a biscuit into the other.
'Yup.' I sip my tea, though I can hardly hold the cup steady. 'My own mother. And maybe she's right. I mean, you've had one lover in your entire life and I've had...' I start counting, but quit when I get to fifteen, '...quite a lot. You would never sleep with a guy on the first date and I've done it with pretty much all of them.'
'Well, I married young,' Maddy points out, 'so I didn't really have time for any more. And you've known Sam for years. And as for the others... well, just because it's not how I do things doesn't mean it's wrong. If it doesn't hurt anyone, you can do what you like. That doesn't make you a slut.'
'Thanks,' I say gratefully. 'And even if I was before, I'm now definitely not. I'm a one-man woman. And that man is Sam. Hopefully. If nothing else manages to put him off.'
I drain my tea cup. 'I don't think Mum's coming back,' I confess. 'I mean, Dad's a mess and she's acting like nothing has happened. She's probably been thinking about this for ages.'
Maddy smiles sadly. 'Yes, she probably has.'
'Maybe you could talk to Dad? As someone who's been there, I mean. He's always liked you.'
She looks doubtful. 'Well... I suppose I could try, if you think it would help. He is family after all, however distant.'
'Thanks. I don't know if it will help, but I hate seeing him like this. And until Mum comes to her senses - if she does - it's my best idea.'
'I'll see what I can do.'
I feel at a loose end when I leave Maddy's. I'd like to call Sam to talk about what's happened. But I don't know. I feel insecure, I suppose. It's so early on. And he has a match to think about.
I start thinking about retirement again as I head back to Wimbledon. Going over the same tracks in my mind, now worn into impressive ruts through over use. No new inspiration comes, no new thought makes it all obvious.
Staying on the tour would mean separation from Sam, for weeks at a time. He can't follow me around if he's coaching here. And anyway, I wouldn't ask him to. Even to suggest he went from world number one to trailing boyfriend would be cruel.
I want to be with him, but I can't stay for him. First, because we might break up. And second, because I don't want to risk ending up like Mum.
I have to leave him out of it. Make the decision just about me.
I head into Wimbledon, with a vague thought of finding Adrienne. Or Libby. Or just sitting in a bar to watch the coverage. My brain is like the homepage of my website. There's a countdown to tonight, a load of headlines ('Bennett's a Slut,' says Mother, Bennett's Parents Separate, Bennett and Pennington - New Couple, etc.) and a poll (Should Lucy Retire This Year?). Plus there's a slide show of pictures of Sam. Too much going on at once.
As it is
I find Joe, surrounded by adoring fans. He swaggers over to talk to me. The fans peer curiously at us and whisper. He's probably been telling them what a bitch I am.
'Hello, Joe,' I say in a friendly tone, determined not to give them anything else to gossip about. 'Good match yesterday. Well played.'
He smirks. 'No match for me. Easy victory. Unlike Pennington, who had to fight like fuck to stay in it. Wore him out totally, I bet. Poor Lucy.'
I try not to roll my eyes.
'Seriously,' Joe says, running a hand down my arm. I grit my teeth. 'I know what you're like. You must be frustrated. You know where I am. I won't tell him.'
Yeah, right. He'd probably sky-write it over Centre Court during Sam's next match.
'Shut up, Joe,' I say through my teeth. 'That's over. As I'm sure you've told all your fans.'
He glances over his shoulder and winks at the huddle. They titter amongst themselves.
'Oh yeah,' he says, grinning. 'I told them the whole story. They all seem to think you're a heartless bitch to chuck me halfway through Wimbledon. And a bit of a tart to boot.'
Why did I ever sleep with this man?
'I agreed.'
'Thanks.'
'You're welcome.' He looks me up and down. 'You fucking him tonight?'
This time I do roll my eyes. 'No comment.'
'Meaning yes.'
'Meaning it's none of your business.'
He shrugs. 'I wouldn't bother acting the prude. No one will believe you. Just be sure to wear him out for me.'
And he saunters back to his gaggle of fan-girls.
That man is unbelievable.
I'm so glad I have a good one now.
I watch the Wimbledon coverage mostly to fill in the day. The ladies' final will be Diana Ivanova against Hélène Echelle, as I suspected. I hope Diana wins. That way I can say the eventual champion knocked me out. Amazingly, Jane Filer wins her quarter-final and makes it through to the semi-finals of the girls' tournament.
A day has never passed so slowly.
Six thirty at the latest, the man said. At four, I'm in the shower, where I scrub and shave. Then I sit on the toilet seat and trim, pluck, massage and moisturise. I haven't put this much effort into my looks... well, ever.
I force myself to eat. Then I brush, floss and rinse. I pop a breath mint for good measure.
I put on my new underwear. I swap outfits several times, even though my wardrobe's pretty much all the same and he probably won't notice what I'm wearing anyway. I add lashings of deodorant and even some perfume.
All through this process, I get steadily more and more nervous. I tell myself frequently that this is insane. I'm hardly an innocent. When it comes to men, I've seen it all. Big ones, small ones, ones that bend in odd directions, pierced ones, tattooed ones, roundheads, cavaliers and even one with a worrying rash that I declined to have near me unless its owner produced a doctor's certificate. It is highly unlikely that Sam will surprise me.
But the difference is that I never really cared about any of them. I really want tonight to go well. I mean, what do I do if he's terrible in bed? Before, I just wouldn't bother with the guy again. How do you go about telling a man that without actually saying it? What if it never gets better?
And making love's different to sex. Or so I've heard. More intimate, more emotional. I've never had that before. What if I can't handle it? What if I freak out and mess things up?
At some point, I spy the bottle of wine I bought for tonight. It occurs to me that a drink might be a good idea. Just a small one, to settle my nerves. So I have a teacup full, lying on the sofa. And then another. And another.
Sometime later, there's a knock at the door. I flop my head over to see the clock. It's 6:15. Show time!
Funny how I don't feel nervous now. Not even a tiny bit.
I sit up. The world swirls alarmingly and I have to hold on tight to the sofa cushions to keep from being thrown onto the floor. I wait for it to stop moving and then get up off the sofa.
The floor is awfully far away. Vertigo kicks in. I drop down to my hands and knees. That's better, although I still have to grip tightly to keep from falling off. I slowly crawl towards the door, careful not to lose my grip.
The knock comes again. 'I'm coming!' I shout. Then I start to giggle. Christ, this is funny.
I eventually reach the door. I look up at the door handle. It seems a very long way up. Especially when it's so hard to balance on this patch of floor.
I make a grab for it, get my hands on it and start to pull the door open. I shuffle backwards on my knees, holding on for dear life.
Sam smiles at thin air above me. He's wearing a navy blue shirt tonight. Christ, he looks hot in it. I gaze up at him. He frowns and then looks down at me, on my knees in front of him.
'Do you usually answer the door like this or are you just pleased to see me?'
I giggle. Then I giggle some more. Tears start running down my face. Sam starts to look worried. He steps in and kneels beside me. He gets a whiff of my breath and recoils.
'You are drunk as a lord,' he says, shaking his head. He peels my fingers off the door handle and puts my hands behind his neck. Then he slowly pulls me to my feet and shuts the door. I hold on tight and lean on him as he leads me into the front room.
'Did you drink that whole bottle by yourself?'
Ummm...
'Yes,' I announce finally, when my brain has processed this complex query.
He settles us both on the sofa and holds me back a little way so he can see me. My head is so heavy I rest my forehead against his. 'Why?' he asks.
'I was...' What was I? I can't remember what it's called.
'... nervous,' I manage, smiling proudly at having remembered such a difficult word.
'What of?'
'Tonight. You and me. You know, doing it.'
I try to give him a meaningful look, but my facial muscles seem to be working in shifts.
'Why?'
Ummm...
'Well,' I say, holding up several fingers. 'There were two things. Or maybe more.' I peer at my hand. Am I holding up three fingers? Four? They keep shifting in and out of focus. 'First, I thought you might be crap in bed and then I would have to tell you without telling you. Because I don't want to dump you like the other guys. No, I want to keep you and marry you and have babies with you.'
I gaze at him. 'And,' I say significantly, tapping my finger against his lips, 'maybe even a kitten.'
Sam's mouth is twitching. I don't think he believes me.
'I do! Because you're wonderful and I love you.'
I start to slip down and rest my forehead on his shoulder.
'What else?' he asks softly.
There was an else?
Else. Else.
'Oh,' I say, stabbing his other shoulder blade with my finger. 'I was scared because I've never done this before.'
I pull my head up. 'I mean, I've had sex,' I tell him, nodding. Then I nod some more. It's very hard to stop now I've started. Plus I'm seeing these really pretty patterns in the air. 'Loads of times. With loads of different men.'
Sam winces. I stop prodding him.
'But,' I say, gazing deep into his eyes, 'I have never made love to anyone. Ever. And it's scary.'
'Yeah,' Sam says. 'I can see that it would be.'
He picks me up. I wrap my arms around his neck as he carries me upstairs to bed and lays me down. The world stops moving. I breathe a sigh of relief.
The bed sinks a little as he lies down beside me. We're almost nose-to-nose.
'But,' I say, reaching out a hand and running it over his back, 'now I've had the wine, I'm not nervous! So it's all right.'
Sam takes my hand and brings it to his lips. 'Lucy, you're too drunk right now to really know what you're saying or doing and you certainly won't remember any of this in the morning. There's no way I'm going to do anything with you in this condition.'
'But I bought new underwear!' I protest. 'You can see everything right through it.
And it's blue!'
'I'd love to see it...'
'Great!' I reach for my T-shirt.
'... just not tonight.'
'But I want you!' I plead. 'And just think, if I won't remember anything tomorrow then you can do absolutely anything you want. Like...' I wrack my brain. It objects.
I grin triumphantly. 'Do you want to spank me?'
Sam blinks several times. 'I can't say it's the first thing that springs to mind.'
'Something else then?'
'No.'
I swallow. 'Not even kiss me?'
Sam moves closer and takes me in his arms. 'Now, that,' he whispers, 'I can do.'
Chapter 14
Friday. Week 2, Day 5 (Men's Semi-Finals)
Owww.
I open my eyes a crack. Light enters them. It hurts. I shut them again.
I'm never drinking again. Nothing. Ever.
I try again, keeping my hand over them. Slowly, I peel it away. Eventually, I can see.
I'm curled up fetal style on my bed. Curled round me, face inches away, is Sam. Still peacefully asleep.
It all comes flooding back. We were going to make love last night. I was nervous. I had some wine.
What happened then? When did he get here? What did we do?
I look us over. I'm wearing my new underwear and my top from last night. He's in boxer shorts and a T-shirt.
Oh, Christ. Our first ever time and I don't remember one thing about it. What kind of girlfriend forgets stuff like that? Any minute now he's going to wake up and murmur that last night was incredible. What am I supposed to say? 'Sorry, I don't remember it.'? That's a real ego boost.
I suppose I could just ask for a repeat performance.
That would be so much more appealing if I didn't feel like I've been repeatedly hit with a sledgehammer and then dragged through a swamp.
I look up to check his face. His eyes are open.
'Morning,' he murmurs sleepily.
'Morning,' I whisper back.
I'll just have to fake it. Pretend I remember and pray I get it right.
I snuggle closer, slide my arm around him and nuzzle his neck. 'Mmmm, last night was amazing.'
It takes him a few seconds to answer. He's probably still half-asleep.
After Wimbledon Page 18