In silence, they watched the replay zoom in on Meghan’s feet. Back and forward it went, focussed on the close-up of Meghan’s pink shoe going back and forward over the line. An obvious foot-fault.
“A good call from the linesperson,” Viva said.
“It was close. I think the linesperson was a little too tough, though. On such an important point.”
“Which is exactly when she should be tough.” Viva leant back in her chair.
On court, Meghan won the game, and the players sat down at the change of ends.
“Calls like this slow the game. Make it less appealing for spectators. And no one likes to see women behaving badly.”
Viva’s fist clenched on her thigh, hard enough that there would be nail marks. “Women?” she said, thankful that her voice remained even. “Or sportspersons?”
Robin’s eyes narrowed. “Sportspersons,” he conceded. “Slip of the tongue.”
“In the heat of the moment, when a call goes against you, it’s too easy to let that frustration boil over into bad language or a physical moment of release. That doesn’t mean we should condone it, but it’s somewhat understandable.” She gestured at the court, to where Meghan sat at the change of ends, eyes focussed on some distant point. Only her jiggling knee gave a hint to her inner turbulence. “Meghan handled this well, considering.”
“Yes,” Robin said with some reluctance. “She did. I imagine this is something you might be expected to feel strongly about. I recollect you were less than happy when the call came against you in the US Open.” Barely concealed glee infused his voice. “Tell me, does a player hold grudges? Do they remember the umpire and make life difficult for them?”
“Some obviously do. I admit I found that particular call hard to let go. But not any longer.”
“Obviously.” Robin’s snigger left her in no doubt that he’d been reading the gossip columns.
Would she get off on a murder charge if the whole thing was captured on live TV? Surely Robin wasn’t vindictive enough to bring that up now. He would know exactly what that would do to Gabriela. Inside, Viva seethed, but she arched an eyebrow and kept the same cool, half-amused smile on her face that she used when asked a difficult question in a press conference.
“Quite,” Robin said when the silence had stretched long enough that it was dead air. “After all, we are all professionals in our way.”
“Exactly my point.”
Jelena held her cool, and in a bit over two hours she smashed down the final winner to claim the title. Tears pricked the back of Gabriela’s eyes. Jelena’s battle had resonated through the tennis world, and it seemed she had a lot of support. Gabriela watched as Jelena ran to her player’s box and embraced her girlfriend. It was long and tight, and when she moved away, the tears on her face were plainly visible. She hugged the rest of her team, along with Jack, who was beaming from ear to ear at her victory.
Gabriela lined up with the rest of the officials as the trophy was presented. Jelena walked a victory lap of the arena, the huge trophy clasped in her arms, before returning to shake the hand of every official, tournament sponsors, and marketing people. Her face was alive with joy, and she kept glancing at the trophy as if she couldn’t quite believe it was hers.
No wonder Viva doesn’t want to give this up entirely. Gabriela looked down at her toes. Viva had been in this position before; she’d hoisted the US Open trophy aloft, kissed it for the barrage of camera flashes, reaped the rewards of being a sports celebrity.
How could Viva possibly walk away from the chance to live that again?
Chapter 25
The Aussie press seized on the foot-fault as the reason for Meghan’s shock loss in the final, comparing it to Viva’s loss in the US Open.
Gabriela threw down the paper, glad there was only the hotel receptionist in the lobby to witness her anger. Was there nothing she could do to take the attention away from herself and from her and Viva as a potential couple? Robbed! screamed one particularly dramatic—and inaccurate—tabloid headline, which talked at length about Meghan’s loss. Gabriela snorted. While Viva’s foot-fault had played no small part in her loss, Meghan’s had had zero impact. Meghan had won the first set, the one with the foot-fault, and had lost the next two.
But the damage was done. Gabriela’s name was in the headlines once more, coupled with Viva’s. A second paper had even dragged up the photo of the two of them at the Clifton Hill café. Gabriela studied it again. Who had taken the photo?
But whatever tennis gods were conspiring against her, the end result was the same. She and Viva were still linked in the eyes of the tennis federation, and this would call into question her impartiality, especially given that the photo had been taken before Viva retired, negating Gabriela’s assurance that any relationship was over.
Over. It had such a final ring to it. Over before it had really begun. Gabriela folded the paper and shoved it in the hotel waste bin, not caring that they were courtesy papers for the use of all guests.
Gabriela turned on her heel and strode towards the lift. A run would clear her head. A brisk few kilometres along the river path would drive officialdom, the all-too-claustrophobic tennis world, and Viva from her head.
A few minutes later, clad in her running kit, she jogged along the path that ran alongside the Yarra River. Her footfalls thudded rhythmically as she dodged between strolling couples and dogs on overlong leads. Gum trees drooped in the heat. Gabriela crossed over a bridge to run along the greener parkland side, where there was more birdsong than traffic noise. She crossed the river again to the trendy suburb of Abbotsford, thinking she might stop for a cold drink at the café there, but when she jogged up to the door, it was closed. She returned to the river path, passing alongside the imposing old convent building to Dights Falls, where a few kayakers surfed the man-made rapids.
Gabriela stopped to slurp water from a drinking fountain. Her breath came in short pants, and her legs were heavy in the heat. She glanced at her watch. No wonder she was tired—she’d shaved nearly two minutes off her usual time for the distance. Glancing up the road from the falls, she saw she’d reached Clifton Hill. The backstreet café was a short distance away. She hadn’t been there since the time with Viva, shying instinctively away from the place that had brought her trouble. But that damage was already done. Slowing her pace, she walked the short distance to the café.
It was as quiet as ever, the long, narrow space dimly lit. Gabriela ordered an iced tea and, because she wouldn’t be back again until next year, a piece of the sticky baklava. The same woman nodded at her unsmiling, and Gabriela went to sit in the cooler area at the back. The same booth where she’d met with Viva.
The café owner brought her order and set it down.
“Thank you,” Gabriela said.
The café owner hesitated. “I was hoping you would return. You and your friend, the tennis player.”
“It’s just me this time.”
“The photo of the two of you in the paper.” The woman twisted her hands together. “We didn’t take that. Not me nor my husband. We didn’t know who you were—we don’t watch tennis.”
Gabriela glanced up. The woman’s normally expressionless face was agitated. “That’s okay. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“A customer came in when you were here. She saw your friend and asked me if she was the famous tennis player. I shrugged and told her I didn’t know. She seemed quite excited about it. She said your friend likes women and maybe you were her girlfriend. She took a picture with her phone when she was at the counter.” She spread her hands wide. “I’m sorry if it made it difficult for you and your friend.”
“It’s all right. Really. It wasn’t your fault.” She paused. “What did the customer look like?” Was it anyone she knew, someone out to make trouble for her?
The owner shrugged. “An older woman. Dark hair. She lives near here, I think.
I’ve seen her several times.”
Unlikely to be anyone connected to the tennis world, then. Just a random stranger getting their celebrity shot.
“And things are okay with your friend?”
“I’m not sure she’s my friend anymore. It’s not that easy on the tennis circuit.” Sadness gripped her chest. Saying it out loud made it so much more final.
“You find a good woman and settle down. Buy a café. Have beautiful babies.” The conviction in her voice was strong.
Gabriela met her eyes and gave her a genuine smile. “I might just do that. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. I’m—”
“Gabriela, yes, I know. Now I do, anyhow. I’m Cristina, and I’m happy to meet you. And if you want a good woman to settle down with, my niece is a good hardworking girl. Beautiful too. She will inherit this café one day. You think about that, eh?” Cristina turned. “Your drink and baklava today is on me. Good luck, Gabriela.” She walked away, her stout, black-clad shape moving slowly to the front of the shop.
Gabriela sucked down her drink. She was glad it wasn’t Cristina or her husband who’d sold the photo—but who would have blamed them if it had been? Celebrities were considered public property, and while she was a nobody, Viva was still a somebody and probably would be for some time.
What if she let Viva into her life, the ITF be damned? Whichever way she looked at it, wasn’t she just trading one happiness for another? Gold badge umpire or a girlfriend she might love? Coffee or tea. You couldn’t mix them together; you had to have one or the other, or it just didn’t work. Viva or gold. Gold or Viva.
She nibbled the baklava, the honey taste bursting on her tongue. The ITF generally sent out emails after the Australian Open, confirming an official’s level of accreditation. Last year, she’d waited impatiently, convinced that it would be her year and she’d make gold. Every ping of the email had her scrambling for the phone in case the email was from the ITF. When the email had come reconfirming her silver level, the disappointment had been intense. Next year, gold, she’d sworn to herself. The pinnacle. That would not happen now; she was sure of it.
So what if she rang Viva, said yes, yes, a hundred times yes, let’s see what we can be? Would it really matter in the longer scheme of things? The scenarios flickered through her head in a kaleidoscope of possibilities. Her and Viva, catching up over coffee, drinks, dinner in hotel bars around the world. Time in Australia, maybe with Viva’s welcoming family, maybe by themselves. Maybe they’d buy a house together, maybe some land. Horses, chickens. She rested back against the cracked vinyl of the booth. Her as a silver badge umpire, never making gold. That was where the scenario stuttered and failed. As long as Viva was playing doubles, gold badge was unlikely. Indeed, it would lead to a string of lower-level matches, reduced income, a massive setback in her career.
She’d come too far in her career to walk away now.
The contract was a dream. A guaranteed minimum of ten tournaments a year, including three during the Australian season, plus two of the three remaining grand slams. The option to select the tournaments she covered so that she could do a few close together over the American hardcourt season or the European clay court season. A clause giving precedence to her doubles matches if they clashed with commentating duties.
Viva signed with a flourish and grinned at her parents across the dining table. “Don’t worry. You’ll be rid of me soon enough. Another two weeks and I’ll be off to Qatar for my first commentating gig under this contract.”
Her mum poured boiling water over tea bags and brought the mugs over to the table. “Don’t stay away too long. You didn’t retire to keep seeing the inside of hotel rooms.”
“I won’t. I’ll be home for much of the year. I’ll look out for that house and land I keep talking about. Maybe a dog.”
“Hold off on the dog. We’ll care for any babies you or Jack might have in the future, but not a dog.”
“I’d prefer to have a partner before considering babies. A dog I could manage alone.”
“Dog?” Jack wandered past to find a mug for himself. “I’d look after a dog for you. Especially if it was big and tough. Pit bulls are great.”
“Because you’re such a marshmallow you need a scary dog,” Viva teased.
“That wouldn’t go down well in a pub.” Their dad frowned at his son. “I don’t want to be sued. If you’re getting a dog, Viva, make it something friendly and unthreatening.”
“Don’t worry. I need somewhere to live first. Maybe someone to love.”
“There’s a woman out there somewhere for you.” Her mum reached out and clasped Viva’s hand. “A sweet girl who’ll love you for who you are.”
“Self-absorbed, rich, and temperamental.” Jack’s grin took the sting from his words.
“I would have said warm, generous, and outgoing,” their mother said. “Jack, pass the bickies while you’re there.”
Jack passed the biscuit tin to their mother. “Viva has good friends, I’ll give her that. Talking of friends, I’m thinking of going to California to catch up with Jelena and Marissa before Indian Wells. Go to Vegas. Ride a Harley Davidson through the desert.”
“You’re a bit young for a mid-life crisis.” Viva picked an Anzac biscuit from the tin.
“I’m a bit old to have stayed in Waggs Pocket for most of my life,” Jack countered. “Now that you’re going to be around more, I’d like to see some of the world before I settle down, grow a beard, and become the revered publican of the Stockyard Hotel.”
“You can join me any place I’m commentating,” Viva said. “I’ll pay for your hotel room. You’re on your own for the bar tab, though.”
“I’ll take you up on that. Are you doing the French Open? I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Their mum dunked a biscuit in her tea. “What happened to that lovely girl, Gabriela? Did you patch up your differences?”
“We did. But we’re not dating, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Something in her expression must have warned Lindy off the subject, as she didn’t reply.
Not dating. Such short words to hide a wealth of heartbreak. They skimmed over the surface of career obligations and regulations and reduced it to a simple negative. Viva sipped her tea, uncaring that it scalded her mouth. Maybe Jack had the right idea. Friends stayed around, lovers not so much.
Chapter 26
Gabriela’s email pinged, and she glanced at the laptop, open on the hotel room desk. Maybe this was the Airbnb confirmation she’d been waiting on. With a week to kill before the next tournament in Malaysia, she’d been looking at accommodation in southern Thailand.
It was the Airbnb. They apologised and said a family emergency meant they could no longer take bookings for that week.
Gabriela exhaled in a long sigh. Maybe she should book the flight anyway; there was no shortage of places to stay in Phuket, but the thought of being forced to stay in a resort hotel put her off. She’d had enough of fancy hotels through her work; pleasure meant a quiet stay with a local host.
She replied to the host anyway, thanking them for their response, and clicked out of her email program. As she clicked close, an email flashed past her eyes. Her fingers froze on the keyboard. Had that been from the ITF? Heart pounding, she fumbled to reopen her email. The program seemed to take an eternity, but eventually, it stuttered into life. She clicked on the message.
Dear Ms Mendaro. Her eyes scanned past the opening pleasantries, the notification of new office holders, a link to a website about FAST4, the abbreviated tennis game, designed to entice more viewers. Her fingers tightened on the mouse. Would they ever get to the point, or was this email purely a general update?
Finally, down at the bottom, as if it were the most unimportant part of the email, she found what she was looking for.
After due conside
ration, the ITF has determined your level for the next twelve months will be silver badge. Thank you for your dedication over the past years.
Silver. Gabriela sat back in the chair and closed her eyes. Although it wasn’t unexpected, a rock of disappointment lodged in her belly. Silver was good; silver was still high on the ladder. But it wasn’t gold. She re-read the email in case she’d missed anything. No reason was given, but there never was. She rose from the chair and went over to the window. Was it only because of her relationship with Viva? She pressed her fingers to her forehead as if she could pry the reason from her mind. It could be anything. Gold badge was notoriously hard to reach—indeed, there were only a couple of dozen gold level umpires in the world, and very few of them were women. But before Viva had upset her chances, she’d been so sure that this year she’d be joining that elite level.
It could be simply that the ITF felt there were enough gold badge umpires. Or maybe someone else had received the accreditation. There were many hungry silver level people like Gabriela. Irene for instance. But of all the silver badge umpires, Gabriela was the most senior.
The photo of her and Viva wouldn’t have helped. Even though she had disclosed the relationship to the ITF, had accepted without complaint the restrictions she’d been given, even though she’d tried to do the right thing, the ITF may have viewed that photo unfavourably. Maybe they’d considered the relationship wasn’t over. There were so many possible reasons.
Gabriela went back to her laptop. She had a week before she had to be in Malaysia, and if she wasn’t going to Phuket, she needed to find somewhere else.
What if she stayed here? Not Melbourne, but outside the city? She could take a tour of rural Victoria and fly from Melbourne to Kuala Lumpur. She checked the flights—they were available and not too expensive.
Her finger hovered over the button. She should book the flight, but her finger refused to move. Inertia stole over her. The solitary trip around Victoria that had sounded so tempting only moments ago now seemed long and empty. A procession of small towns, tables for one, no one to turn to and exclaim about the scenery. The laptop flicked over to the screensaver as she pondered. Two weeks of crowds and company in Melbourne with scarcely a moment for solitude would normally have made her crave silence and a space to be alone. But the reluctance to commit to this was visceral.
Code of Conduct Page 25