‘There are no exceptions. Ever.’
Aaaaaargh!
‘I’ve literally been emailing your agent, Dean, back and forth!’ I said, exasperation finally setting in. ‘I’m meeting you both later. At your hotel in Monte Carlo!’ I said, feeling ever so slightly desperate. This was the worst start to an interview I’d hands downeverhad. Most people at least pretended to want to talk to me.
‘Listen, Ada—’
‘It’sAva.’
‘Whatever. I don’t care what Dean told you. I don’t do interviews, so instead of flying all the way to Nice for something that I assure you isnevergoing to happen, maybe you should get off the plane now, while there’s still time,’ he said, shuffling his body away from me and purposely facing the other way.
‘Bit late for that,’ I murmured, as the plane began taxiing along the runway.
Fucking hell. The British public had got him all kinds of right. Which didn’t help with the impending feeling of doom that this massive opportunity was about to slip right through my fingers. Ihadto salvage the interview and persuade him to do it. As the plane took off and carved its way through the clouds, giving us jaw-dropping views of London in all its glory, I swivelled in my seat to face him, attempting to give off gentle, encouraging vibes.
‘Marcus?’
‘What?’ he said, seemingly mesmerised by the back of the chair in front of him.
‘Can I reassure you that it’s going to be an in-depth piece covering all aspects of your life? Dean’s arranged for me to come along to four major tournaments this spring and summer so that I – andLuxe’s hundreds of thousands of readers – can get to know who you really are and what makes you tick.’
He crossed his arms, sighing to himself.
‘With a name likeLuxe, I’m assuming it’s going to be some sort of superficial nonsense about my abs, or my diet, or my workout routine, or what traits I look for in a woman?’ he said, still stubbornly looking straight ahead.
He did appear to have great abs, but that wasnotwhat I was going to be leading with.
‘Actually,Luxespecialises in thought-provoking articles on a diverse range of topics,’ I insisted. ‘Our readers don’t want to know what you ate for breakfast. They want to know what goes throughyour mind when you walk out on to the court. How you feel when you win, or when you lose. How you keep your focus in a five-set match. What it would mean to you to win a Grand Slam.’
‘I’ve already won a Grand Slam,’ he said coldly.
‘Another Grand Slam, then,’ I said, kicking myself, because I knew about the Australian Open, I just hadn’t realised that’s what it actually was. ‘They want to know where you came from. Where you want to go next.’
He finally looked at me. This was progress. If he’d liked something I’d said, I very quickly needed to work out what so that I could say more of it.
‘I can’t have somebody following me around 24/7, Ava, it would be far too distracting.’
He wasn’t saying a flat-out no, was he? He’d listened to what I’d said and he’d thought about it, however briefly.Keep calm, I told myself.You’ve almost got him.
‘I promise you I’ll be extremely discreet,’ I reassured him, mimicking the dulcet tones of my favourite meditation guide. ‘You won’t even notice I’m there.’
‘Somehow I doubt that,’ he said, his eyes boring into me for a second.
Irritatingly, my cheeks flushed involuntarily. I reminded myself that Marcus Taylor was not flirting with me, he was playing me. He probably thought that if he turned on the charm – or his misguided version of it, anyway – I’d be flustered enough to admit defeat and call the interview off. No chance – it would take more than good looks to dazzle me.
‘A piece like this could completely change the public’s opinion of you,’ I said, wanting to seal the deal. ‘Why not let them get to know the real Marcus Taylor? The likeable side we don’t always get to see?’
He laughed, an annoyingly warm, rich sound that, by rights, somebody as insufferable as him shouldn’t be capable of producing.
‘Ava. Do you really think I care whether people like me or not?’
For some reason I liked it when he said my name, which was ridiculous. It was literally two syllables long – anyone could remember that.
‘Doesn’t everyone?’ I countered.
‘I really don’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’
He promptly produced a silk eye mask from his bag, slipped it on and placed massive black Beats headphones over his ears. I would not be deterred. The flight was two hours long, which meant that I still had a very small window of time to change his mind. Perhaps he’d be less defensive after a nap?
