by Fox Brison
“Well that was very touching,” my mother mocked
My Dad looked at her with an expression on his face I don’t think I’d ever seen before. I knew there wasn’t a violent bone in his body, but in that second split second I can honestly say the thought crossed his mind.
But my Dad was enough of a man to control the impulse.
“I can’t believe you did this to us. You ruined Georgia’s career for what? A cuckold husband… ah no,” he chuckled, contemptuously, “you needed my business experience and contacts. If Georgia was aware I knew and didn’t care she would replace you as coach. If I was aware she knew and didn’t care, I would quit team Maskel. Jesus, Georgia’s right, you really are a manipulative bitch. Get out of my house.”
“What? Peter? Where will I go? You can’t mean it!” Helen Maskel was shocked. For the first time in her life, her husband and daughter were standing as one.
Against her.
“I do. Maybe you should call Tom, or Dick, or Harry, or any of the other men you’ve had affairs with over the last twenty years. I’m sure one of them will be accommodating.”
Helen Maskel picked up her handbag and stormed from the room.
“Dad, are you okay?” He rubbed his chest and took a bottle of pills from his pocket.
“Yes, nothing to worry about. I have a touch of angina. One of these little beauties and I’ll be fine. You’ll stay for a few days? We can catch up. Your room is exactly how you left it, your mother-”
Please, Dad, call her Helen. She’s no mother,” I interrupted.
“Helen wanted to use it as her office. I’d lost you, but sitting up there amongst your things, I don’t know, it helped keep the memories fresh. I missed you, Georgia.”
“I missed you too, and I love you, Dad.” My heart seemed to heal in that one moment. I was whole again.
And then I thought of Emma.
Almost whole again, I whispered to myself.
Chapter 47
Georgia
“David, are we ready?”
“Yes. I can’t believe you’re the same player who squandered three match points in Peterborough. Third round Marrakesh, fourth round Rome, quarters Madrid. And last week. Jesus, Maskel. Winning Nuremburg.”
“And now the big one.”
“I have your ranking here. Do you want to see it?”
“Good or bad?” My Dad grinned at my question. He’d quit as Laura’s manager and now he and David were working together, both on my team and at David’s academy in Norwich.
I’d never seen my Dad so happy and relaxed; he looked ten years younger.
“Good for you, bad for me. Congratulations, George, I knew you could do it.” David’s smile was like the sun coming up after a long winter of darkness – well needed and a relief.
“Top one hundred?”
“Even better. Top eighty. Seventy-nine in fact. Depending on how you do here and at Eastbourne, you could go to Wimbledon as the British number two.”
“That’s great.” My face belied the positive answer.
“George, aren’t you pleased? You should be, your game has come on leaps and bounds. You’re only twenty-six and have loads of time to achieve everything you ever wanted.”
“I know David,” I shrugged and looked down at the piece of paper once again. I had returned to the circuit for all the wrong reasons, and was finally succeeding for all the right, yet something was still missing.
“But you’re still not happy,” my Dad called it, even though I didn’t particularly want to admit it to him. I didn’t want to worry him, I’d already given him enough to worry about to last five lifetimes.
“I am, I am, I’m just,” I pulled on my hair, then flattened it. “I’m fine. Just thinking though. This is the real test, isn’t it?” I wasn’t thinking that at all; I was thinking I wish Emma were here to share in this moment. David waited as I looked off into the distance. “This is where the truth shall out. Was it worth it? Is it worth it? Sorry.” I laughed at his expression, which was both amused and bemused. “I’m meeting Julia for lunch is that okay? Would you two like to join us?”
“Yes, that’s fine, and no thanks, your Dad and I have plans. Here,” He passed me a bunch of complimentary passes. “For your friends. Your Dad already has his.”
“Wait there’s five here, I only need four for tomorrow.”
“You know my French isn’t the best. I probably filled the form out wrong.”
“David six in French is the same as in English you do know how to speak English right?” I teased and he shook his head.
“You’re a blast today. The main thing is we have enough. If you’d only had three then we’d have a problem. I’ve booked the practice court for eight in the morning, do not be late. I’ll see you there.”
***
“George. Is good to see you again.” I froze, it was like time stood still, or turned back, or went into slow motion. I turned to see Anastasia staring at me. She looked hungry, a look I recognised.
“Ana. How are you doing? It’s been a while.”
“Da. Dubai. I tried calling you, but your house in England, you never answered.”
“I travelled a bit when I left the tour.” This was a little surreal. I didn’t quite know what was going on. She stepped closer.
“We could have dinner. Catch up. I live in States now. My sponsor is Nike.”
“I see that. Congratulations?” She didn’t actually look that happy about it.
“It is relief. I can be myself.”
Ah.
“I’m pleased Ana.” And I was, very, perhaps Ana wasn’t the only one who had been unfair. We had both been young and finding our way. “Is there someone special in your life?”
“Net. I was shamed, after you and I split.”
She wasn’t so shamed she couldn’t share a bed with Laura Hargreaves. But I didn’t hold any ill will towards her, I just didn’t love her anymore. “Water under the bridge, Ana. You take care.” She reached out but I walked away.
This time on my terms.
***
“What time is Dana’s flight?” I was tucking into salad and steamed fish. The waiter looked appalled when I ordered, but after explaining, in stuttering school yard French that I was here for the tennis, he nodded and gibbered in quick French his acceptance, I assumed.
“In a couple of hours.” Julia didn’t have the same culinary restrictions and her coq au vin looked and smelled, to die for.
I was tempted to lean over and inhale deeply to add a bit of flavour to my dish. I speared a piece of courgette, the tines of the fork clinking against the plate. There was nervous frustration building as my match drew ever nearer and I was taking it out on a helpless vegetable and limp piece of sole. “Are you going to meet her?”
“Nah. I’m spending the afternoon watching movies with you.”
“And my Dad and David.” I reminded her.
“Yeah, so I guess ‘Blue is the Warmest Colour’ is out?”
“My Dad has angina, what do you think?” I raised my eyebrows and she chuckled. I missed this the first time round. Many other players had friends and family travelling with them, supporting them and it wasn’t until now that I realised just how much my mother wanted me isolated
She wanted me to be that island.
Julia touched my arm and brought me back to the present once again. I wondered how long it would be until I no longer thought of my mother in such a negative way. Deep down inside I wanted to forgive her, but it was too soon and too fresh, the wound still inflamed and bloody.
“Think David will let me have the remote?” She waggled her eyebrows in hope.
“Not a chance. You don’t have to-”
“No I don’t, but I’m doing an expose on Britain’s rising star. A no holds barred type of thing. Watching you leering over that Spanish bird you’re playing will make a nice segue.” Julia was in a teasing mood.
“Eejit.”
“True. Have you got the passes for tomorrow?”
“I have.” I handed over the wallet which contained my family passes for Roland Garros. “You… you don’t have to….”
“I want to. So does Dana. And afterwards, when you’ve won, we’re going back to the hotel to celebrate with French champagne, the good stuff. Well me and Dana will be supping, not you, obviously.”
“All champagne is French, you numpty. And don’t give me that. You haven’t seen Dana for two days. We’ll be going back to the hotel for you and her to shag each other’s brains out.” I said wryly.
***
“Hey cutie pie,” Julia spoke into her phone. “Yep, room 214. Huh huh. Okay. I’ll see you soon. Yeah. You too.”
“That was Dana I assume?” I sipped on my sports drink. I loathed them, but it was hot and I had a lot of electrolytes to replace.
“It was. She’s going to unpack and grab forty winks. She was up late last night.”
“Everything alright?”
“Yeah… yeah.”
“What aren’t you telling me Jules? Is it Emma? Is everything okay?”
“Woah, easy tiger. I’m sure Emma is fine. Believe it or not, myself and Dana do talk about other things apart from you and Emma.”
“Fucking hell, did you see that backhand?”
“Glad to see you two are still with me,” David said. “It’s her most potent weapon. You know how to deal with weapons like that.”
“Oh yeah,” my eyes lit up. This was why I hadn’t crumbled when I gave Emma the ultimatum, this was why I didn’t fold and give up my career again. “I’m going to send her backhand into next week.”
Now I wanted to win, but knew that if I didn’t the world wouldn’t come to an end.
***
The weather was stifling and I waited impatiently by the net. I was desperate to get the match underway, to see if the progress I’d made extended into a grand slam. Glancing up at the stands, I saw Julia waving furiously at me. I grinned. I grinned even wider when I saw my box filled, probably for the first time ever. Dad, Sean and Caroline were also there. Julia’s parents, Kathleen and Sean senior, had come over from Ireland for the holidays, so they were watching Patrick. I didn’t see Dana but maybe she was getting a drink or in the loo. I couldn’t believe how calm I was.
This was it.
The glorious red clay of Phillipe Chatrier.
The French Open.
My worst surface.
And yet I was in the form of my life. My aggression was honed, my technique was crisp. I was climbing the rankings and the only thing holding me back was?
Nothing.
Finally, nothing was holding me back. I had a plan, a tenuous one, but one which needed an injection of capital. Five more years giving it all I could on the circuit and then that would be it. I could start my own tennis academy.
Besides, it was time.
The past was over and the future was here at the other end of a tennis court in an almost luminescent yellow tennis dress. “You’re going down,” I bounced the ball, the red dust clinging to the bright green fibres.
Thwack.
Two hours later and a monumental struggle was coming ever closer to the end. Neither of us had given any quarter, the first two sets settled in the tie break. Carmela Sanchez was serving for the match. Seeded twenty-four, I shouldn’t be ashamed to lose to her, or with my performance. But I was. If I won here, I would play the winner of the Knight/Dubois match and I knew I could take either of them. The third round was waiting.
But I was frustrated and I was tired and my legs were like rubber and I found it difficult, nigh on impossible, to focus on returning the ball. The first serve was in and my racket barely got to it. The ball hit the frame and skidded out.
Fifteen – love.
I took a breath. The next serve travelled towards me at ninety miles an hour. A quick return followed by a half volley at the net, Carmela sliding to return it. “Out!”
Fifteen all.
The game proceeded apace, rallies gaining in excitement as both of us glided from side to side, each one aware of the importance of this game. The crowd was loving it. Unlike the solemn sobriety of Wimbledon, the French Open was a melee of whoops and cries, even the odd boo shoved in for good measure.
Don’t look up.
Forty – thirty.
Don’t look up. Remember what Dr Sweeney said. Don’t give it ownership on your game. That was what your mother wanted.
Match point to Carmela Sanchez.
Don’t. Look. Up.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. For the first time since the match started I couldn’t help it, I looked towards my family.
I screwed up my eyes, shielding them from the sun. Was I hallucinating? Was I really that tired? Had it got to the point where I was seeing things? I shielded my eyes, ignoring the player at the other end of the court who was wiping herself down. I thought I could see Emma in the stands doing this weird thing with her hands. Seriously, is she doing the Macarena? No, wait… she was making a heart shape and pointing at her face… no her cheek… her cheek? No wait, her eye! Her eye you idiot. I was shite at Dingbats, give me a crossword any day. Eye heart…me…eye heart me. What the hell is she doing?
And then it hit me.
I love you. Adrenaline surged through my whole body and the calmness that followed allowed me to focus my energies on the ball flying towards me at eighty-seven miles an hour.
Deuce.
Carmela stood with her hands on her knees, shocked. The ball had rifled past her, the perfect return catching the line. She held her hands up and began talking in rapid Spanish to the chair umpire, who jumped down and made his way to the sharp, crisp white line dissecting the red clay. I waited. I ignored the scene at the other end of the court and stared into the stands.
And a soft smile played on my face.
The umpire indicated the mark on the clay, circling the air above it. Carmela pointed to a different mark, the umpire disagreed.
I waited.
The umpire gave his decision and headed back to his chair.
Twelve points later he called a final, “Game set and match Ms Maskel.”
***
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Emma replied. “I believe you said the ball was in my court, the next move was mine.” She was uncharacteristically hesitant and nervous. “Dana and Julia said…”
“I don’t care what they said. Kiss me.”
“What?
“Kiss me.”
“Wait, I have to say this, I have this whole speech ready.” I grinned. She was quite adorable, all six foot one inch of her. “I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life waking up next to you, holding you when we sleep, now-”
“I like being the big spoon,” I interrupted.
“You’re too short to be… okay, okay,” Emma laughed at my mock scowl, “you can hold me when we sleep. Now can I kiss you?
“You may.” We kissed, a sweet gentle loving kiss that said just about everything.
“I want to have our friends over for dinner,” she continued when she had caught her breath, “and drink wine whilst you and Julia argue over which is the best lesbian move of all time.”
“Imagine Me and You,” Julia called from the car.
“DEBS,” I argued from the bench.
“I want to listen to you play guitar and sing karaoke. I want to walk along the Backs with you and Lawrie and look at strange buildings. I want to go hiking in the Lake District and sleep in romantic cottages with log burners. I want to celebrate good times and hold you through bad times. I want to watch you play tennis, I want to watch you coach Lawrie.” Emma ran out of steam.
I leaned over and put my hand to her flushed cheek. “Lanky. I’ll coach Lanky.”
“And I still hate it when you call him that.”
“And I still know that. So.”
“So. How does forever sound?”
“Sounds damned near perfect.” I kissed Emma again to the whoops and catcalls of encouragement from the che
ap seats.
***
I didn’t win the French Open, but I didn’t mind because I won the heart of the woman I loved. I made it to the quarter finals though, and everyone back home was hailing me as the next big thing in British tennis.
Again.
Julia wrote her expose, and it was regarded as one of the best pieces of in depth sport’s journalism in a decade. The interview with me at the end of my losing quarter final was the most moving and inspiring pieces she’d ever worked on. She and Dana moved in together and our cottage was handed back to the letting agency.
But they still went to Sean and Caroline’s for Sunday lunch.
Laura Hargreaves sent a scathing letter to the LTA demanding that I not be given a wild card entry into Wimbledon’s main draw, despite winning Eastbourne and beating her in the third round along the way. Everyone agreed, the LTA included, that she was a spoilt, whining little mare (Julia’s exact words.) Laura was knocked out in the first round of Wimbledon and ranted to the press it was because the LTA favoured drug cheats. The LTA promptly responded and Laura found herself out in the cold and on the back pages for all the wrong reason.
I ignored it all and focussed on my game. I no longer worried about who was sitting in the family box because I knew exactly who would be there. I made it through to the Wimbledon final, only to be beaten by the reigning champion and world number one.
“Not a bad day at the office,” I said to Emma as we lay on the sofa watching the BBC highlights.
“You’ll get there, you’ll win the big one, one day.”
“I’ve already won the big one,” she looked at me like I’d gone slightly mad. “You. You’re the big one. You’re my grand slam.”
Did I say an embrace conveyed a thousand emotions?
A kiss with the woman I was going to spend forever with revealed a million more.
Other Books by Fox Brison
Island Skye
Skye Donaghie is having the worst day; she gets stranded twenty feet above the North Sea, her girlfriend dumps her and her neighbour is run over by her car – whilst fishing.
The only saving grace is that she reconnects with Natalie Jeffries, the gorgeous soccer star sister of her best friend, Sara. However, the reunion is bittersweet as it brings back memories Skye has spent the past decade trying to forget.