by Fox Brison
“I lost it. Not just a little, I mean, it was the meltdown of the century.”
“And how did that make you feel.”
I don’t know if Emma expected my next answer, but her eyes widened a little when I gave it. I picked up a small paperweight from her desk and inspected it closely, trying to find the words. “It made me feel good. Actually, that’s wrong… Dubai just made me feel something…
Chapter 21
Georgia,
Dubai, 2011
…The tournaments were coming thick and fast, giving me little or no time to breathe in between each one, for which I was actually quite thankful. Time to breathe was time to think.
And time to think was time to realise what a train wreck my life had become.
“Fuck! That’s bollocks!” I screamed at the top of my voice as another winner passed me by like a bullet. “Fuck!” I screamed again and smashed my racket onto the court. Well that felt good, I thought with a strangled chuckle. So I did it again. And again. And once more for good measure.
The crowd was silent and my opponent, Melissa Knight, was incredulous. She’d witnessed players lose it on court before, we both had, but nothing quite like this! The racket wasn’t just broken, it was in smithereens, and little pieces of fluorescent yellow plastic littered the green court like daisies on a lawn.
“Code warning Ms Maskel,” the chair umpire’s voice reverberated around the stadium. I scowled and stalked back to my seat without once breaking eye contact with the Ukrainian dictator, notorious for being a stickler for the rules, especially time penalties. I deliberately reached into my bag and with a rasp, Excalibur was drawn from the stone. Slowly, I unfastened the elastic band around the handle and removed the clear plastic covering the head, my eyes never leaving the umpire in silent challenge.
The umpire stared back.
The next racket hit the ground, hard.
And the next.
By the time the fourth racket had been destroyed, I’d forfeited the match and, by the looks of it, my sanity. I was surprised it was security waiting to escort me off court and not the men in white coats.
***
“Cited. By the WTA. Christ, Georgy, no one is ever cited by the WTA,” I listened to Julia’s voice on the other end of the phone. I’d hardly spoken to her since Melbourne but I needed to hear a friendly voice.
I was so sick of feeling alone.
Julia, as usual, kept everything light-hearted, the polar opposite to my mother’s explosive reactions. “And certainly not for racket abuse,” I added dryly.
“I bet that’s one record Frau Dictator didn’t expect you to break, pun definitely intended.”
“I heard it’s gone viral.”
“Yep, it’s taken a mental breakdown but finally you’re trending, Maskel.”
“Ha ha! Hash tag fuck off, Ryan.”
“So what did mommy dearest say?”
“I have the pleasure of hearing her melodic tones berating me in about forty-five minutes. I’ve been summoned.”
“Duh, duh, duuuuuuuh,” Julia sounded like an organ in the background of a B horror movie. “Well good luck, sweetie, and if you need me I’m on the first plane, you know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks.”
“Look, I’m really sorry, but I have to scoot. I’m heading to Twickenham for an interview with a flight attendant who plays korfball in her spare time.”
“Okay, thanks again Jules... Wait. Korfball?”
“Don’t ask. I’m sure my editor does it on purpose. I betcha he sits in his office and thinks to himself, ‘what random sport can I get Julia to research this week?’”
“Ouch, being an intern sucks.”
“Preaching to the choir, baby, preaching to the choir.”
***
I made my way swiftly through the Aviation Club, the home of the Dubai Duty Free Tennis Championships; I kept my head down as a wave of whispers followed me through the complex. The hospitality areas were first first class, and I thought it a strange location for what I was sure was going to be a vitriolic debrief by my mother, but what did I know, I gave up second guessing her years earlier.
My pace eventually slowed when I reached a long hallway constructed entirely of glass walls, my steps shortening with each office passed until I arrived at a small one towards the far end of the corridor. My hand faltered as I placed it on the handle, and I hesitantly drew it back. The tremble I felt on court was back; it had made gripping the racket difficult.
That was until it came time to grind them into dust, I thought ironically. Then my grip was like an iron vice.
The second I entered the room I knew the meeting wasn’t a result of my racquet rage. My mother was not alone; Catherine Murphy, stalwart of the WTA for decades, was also there, as was another woman I didn’t recognise at all. However, the apologetic expression in her eyes gave me fair warning that her presence was not good.
My mother was stony faced and didn’t bother looking at me. She hadn’t even glanced up when I timidly knocked on the door and it was Catherine who’d called out a sombre, “Come in, George.”
“What the hell have you done now?” My mother snapped before anyone could offer a welcome or an introduction.
I remained tight-lipped. A strange, almost eerie calm descended and I felt all of the tension drift from my muscles. I’d spent the past seven weeks in an emotional torture chamber, bungee jumping between shame, disgust, anger, humiliation.
Dread.
However, as the third woman began withdrawing document after document from a tan leather briefcase, the only thing I felt was relief.
Relief it was coming to an end.
“Mrs Maskel, Ms Maskel, my name is Lauren Cote and I’m from the ITF. We have received a report from WADA informing us that on Monday the twenty-fourth of January, 2011, Georgia Maskel failed a routine drugs test taken after her fourth round loss at the Australian Open. The sample contained traces of cocaine and in accordance with standard procedures, we are hereby giving notice that Georgia is provisionally suspended from the tour until this matter is fully investigated and a final decision can be reached.”
I’d always wondered what it meant by the phrase you could hear a pin drop, because, quite frankly, my world was never silent, there was always too much sensory information that needed processing. But in that heartbeat after Lauren’s announcement, the silence enveloped the room and if a pin made of feathers fell onto a floor made of foam, it would have sounded like cymbals crashing at the end of the 1812 Overture.
I snuck a nervous glance at my mother.
Yep, it was only the calm before the storm. Hurricane Helen was about to let rip.
“There has been a mistake,” she said coldly, as if that would make everything right. Her word was law and the ITF should recognise it as such. I would have laughed at the situation, one which was so far out of my mother’s control it was ridiculous, but that would have only started a whole new howling gale of condemnation. I knew what I was about to say would be enough to raise the winds another few hundred miles per hour.
“There has been no error on our part, Mrs Maskel,” Lauren said, keeping her tone polite.
“I’m telling you now,” Mum leapt from her seat and began pacing, “heads will roll for this, people will be out of their jobs. Do you think I’m going to just lie down and-”
“Mum,” my voice was a wavering call for help in the dark.
“And take this as read,” she didn’t listen, she simply talked right over me; she knew this wasn’t the first time my off court antics had garnered the attention of the WTA, but she was sure the dominance she held over me was so strong I would never have risked doing something so undeniably stupid.
But she was wrong, oh so very, very wrong.
“I’ve worked my whole life to get my daughter to where she is-”she continued angrily.
“I did it!” There was no tremor now in my tone, it was forceful and direct. I looked my mother in the eyes. “Mum, it’
s true, I did it, I took the drugs. There’s no need for further investigation. Ms Cote,” I bowed my head, “I admit I took cocaine the night before my match with Jess Arnez.”
“You did what? Have you completely lost your fucking mind? Just stop talking, Georgia, stop talking now.” My mother turned back to the ITF representative. “Don’t listen to my daughter, she’s been under a lot of stress and is experiencing a psychotic break. I mean, you did see her on court today?”
“Coach,” I interrupted for the third time, “enough. It’s like you said, I have to take responsibility for my actions.” Then I turned my back on my mother, something I don’t think I’d ever done before, and I confessed all to Ms Cote. “I was at a party and had been drinking. I couldn’t even remember what I’d done until the next day. I should have owned up there and then but I was scared and ashamed. I panicked and stuck my head in the sand. Please don’t ask me for any more details, because I won’t name names.”
“Sorry?” my Mum ground out. “Sorry? Of all the…”
“It was a mistake, I-”
“A mistake that will cost you everything.”
I interrupted the story with a shake of my head, “She didn’t even look back when she left me sitting with two strangers trying to come to terms with the car crash that was my life. You know the adage be careful what you wish for? Well hell, that summed up that precise moment in time. It was then I knew I was now on my own.”
“So what happened next?” Emma asked.
“Funnily enough, that was my next question too.”
“What happens now?” I asked Lauren Cote.
“Be prepared, Georgia, this won’t be a slap on the wrist. There’s been too much adverse publicity regarding drugs in tennis recently, so don’t be surprised if the powers that be use you as an example.”
“I wasn’t expecting a personal visit... actually, I didn’t know what I was expecting, I thought it would be a letter, or an email.”
“That’s the usual modus operandi, but I worked for Canadian tennis before taking on this role with the ITF and a few years ago you were playing in Toronto when a young girl came over during one of your training session and she asked for your autograph. I remember your mother had a complete hissy fit, but you sat down next to a weeping eight year old and talked about the game. You then reached into your bag and gave her a racket. My daughter still tells that tale and has just won her first junior competition back home. With the racket you gave her. I have to get it restrung every five minutes. You wondered why the personal touch? I felt I owed it to you.”
“I remember, Christina wasn’t it? She’s still playing?”
“She sure is. Look, if there were extenuating circumstances anything that might help your defence you can go to the Court of Arbitration for Sport. They might show you some leniency.”
I thought about it for a moment. Sure that night I’d been upset, angry, confused… devastated, but my mother hadn’t held the hundred dollar bill to my nose, no I’d done that all by myself. It was time to step up to the plate.
Did I want to appeal? Lessen the ban? Jump back on the treadmill in a year’s time?
Like hell I did.
“I should have been upset, angry, but I wasn’t, I was actually relieved. I’d been on a hamster’s wheel for years and didn’t know how to get off. This gave me the opportunity and I grabbed it with both hands. But I always felt, I don’t know, not a failure… I felt like I’d left something unfinished, there was always this huge gap in my life and no amount of travel, women or the Birdcage ever really filled it.”
“I understand more than you think,” Emma said with a soft up turn of her lips. “It’s the nature of the beast. You give your whole life over to one thing and when it’s taken away from you, nothing ever fills the longing.”
“That’s exactly it. In some ways I wish I’d never come back, but in a million more I’m glad I did. I know it’s in me, the ability to push through and win. I just… I can’t explain why I fuck up on match points. And when I do, my game just goes completely.”
“Well, we’re going to do everything we can to solve the mystery. In the next session I thought we’d identify the symptoms of your collapse, what goes through your mind the moment you notice it’s match point. Then we’ll come up with a plan to, if not eradicate them from your game completely, furnish you with the skills to reduce the effect they have on your performance. It will take a bit of time but I honestly think we’ll be able to reduce those negative feelings you get on court. How does that sound?”
Emma closed her notebook and looked at me in such a way with those beautiful eyes that I felt like anything she said was possible.
Chapter 22
Georgia
It took a moment for me to catch my breath, because in all honesty, for the last few years, maybe even longer, I’d been a glass is half empty kinda gal. So the positive vibe I now felt was shocking – but in a totally good way.
“It sounds great, when do you want me next?” I asked, surprisingly full of optimism.
Emma took a quick glance at her computer. “Tomorrow. Usual time, four-thirty?” As soon as I acquiesced she flicked the lid of the laptop down, put it in her briefcase and placed a tan handbag over her shoulder. After performing the whole locking up rigmarole we left together, walking in silence for a few seconds and appreciating the view. Well at least I was. I might have told myself nothing could come of this crush, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t look. And I really enjoyed looking at Emma outside in the spring sunshine. The sunlight brought out the natural highlights in her hair and when she closed her eyes to glory in its warmth and smell the cherry blossom, it took all the strength I had not to turn around and do something incredibly stupid.
Like, I don’t know, kiss her senseless?
“Do you have anything planned for the rest of the day?” Emma asked when we finally reached the point where we would go our separate ways. It seemed to take an interminably long time, again not that I was complaining, because to my mind too long was never going to be long enough for me to get my fill.
“Nothing special. I should go for a run, but I’m not in the mood. I’ve an extra couple of sessions booked at the local courts this week, so I don’t feel too guilty about slacking. Me and Julia stayed up late last night watching movies, so I’m pretty tired. I missed Caroline’s Sunday lunch to see you, so she’s sending me a plate to nuke when I get home. She makes the most amazing roast potatoes.”
“Caroline?”
“Julia’s sister-in-law. She owns the organic farm where we get all of the Birdcage’s produce. Like I said, she gives us a great deal.”
“Nepotism?”
“I could argue it’s good business, but no, you’re right. It’s nepotism pure and simple. Although Caroline is benefitting from the association too. She has a stall in Market Square on a Sunday and many of the Birdcage regulars are her best customers. Anyway, just for a change I digress. Once I’ve nuked that I’ll probably just curl up in bed with a good book.” I smiled, shyly. “Totally boring I’m afraid.”
“Well I’m honoured you missed the perfect roast for me.”
Hell I’d miss pate de foie gras, lobster and caviar for you, was what I wanted to say, instead I answered with a grin, “You should be. Usually only a death in the family would stop me and even then it would depend on whom it was. My cousin Michelle… hmm… I’m not so sure.” Emma laughed and I noticed a small dimple that I hadn’t seen before. “Jules is off to Milton Keynes for work, so it’ll be a quiet night. What about you? Anything special planned?”
“The same, well not the bed part, I’m just going to relax, maybe with a bit of mindless television for company, something I don’t need to concentrate too hard on. I don’t often get the house to myself, so I’m making the most of the calm before the storm that is my son arrives back tomorrow. After that I’ll have teenagers running around eating me out of house and home.”
Okay so now I was confused. Why did it feel like I’d j
ust put a winning lottery ticket through the washing machine? And which letter did Emma classify herself as? L… B… or S?
“How old is your son?” I was on a mission to find out where on the Kinsey scale she lay.
“Fourteen, he’ll be fifteen later on in the year, however, some days I swear he’s only three!”
I did a quick calculation… which means she was twenty-one or two when she had him. Still at university. That must have been hard.
“I’ll see you Tuesday, George, enjoy your rest.” Emma woke me from my mental arithmetic and headed for her front door, pulling on her handbag which was slipping off her shoulder.
“Eyes front,” I whispered as I imagined my hand smoothing down that very shoulder instead of the handle of her bag. I climbed into Kermit and turned the key in the ignition but nothing happened, apart from a few clicks and metal groans of refusal. Weird. I pulled out the choke, something I only ever had to do when it was frosty and it most definitely wasn’t frosty. I tried again…again zilch. “You’re fucking kidding me,” I moaned and rested my head on the steering wheel. I looked out of the window and saw Emma hovering her front door half open and the key still in it. I tried the ignition once more. “C’mon, baby, you know you want to. Third time lucky?”
Not a chance.
The van was completely dead and my feet tap-danced on the floor in frustration. Emma began to walk over and I rolled down the window. “I’m sorry, Emma, it just won’t start.” I called, belabouring the obvious.
And at that point my stomach gave a growl that would have put a rabid badger to shame.
Chapter 23
Emma
The grating mechanical voice was a stark contrast to the mellifluous songs nature was singing, and I hesitated on my doorstep, the excruciating song of Kermit’s pain holding me in place.
Rock. Hard place. Me. I couldn’t leave Georgia sitting outside waiting for breakdown assistance; that would be incredibly rude. “Come on in, George. You can call someone to come and fix Kermit’s aches and pains,” I called back.