‘I think you’ll find it’s more than just a game. And if you’re serious about writing about my life, I suggest you start giving the sport the respect it deserves.’
My heart leapt. Even though he’d just essentially told me off, I was holding on to the fact he was talking about the interview as if it was actually happening. All I had to do now was not say anything else to mess this up.
I tucked my hair behind my ear, self-conscious for the first time since we’d met. ‘I can assure you, I’m taking this very seriously. Dean would never have agreed to this if he didn’t think it was important for your career. And for me, having an article of this calibre in a magazine likeLuxecould be the big break I’ve been waiting for.’
‘Are you using emotional blackmail on me, Ava?’
Dammit, he was more astute than I’d thought.
I was about to deny it when I was distracted by a flurry of movement out of the corner of my eye. It took me a minute to realise that a woman was heading purposefully in our direction with her phone held aloft, seemingly trying to take a photo of Marcus. By the way she was swaying up the aisle, I could only assume she’d had even more free champagne than I had.
‘I thought it was you,’ she purred in a thick French accent, shoving her phone in his face without asking.
Marcus put his hand over her lens, gently pushing her away.
‘No photos, please.’
The woman clutched her chest in shock, as though it was her God-given right to stick her camera under the nose of a complete stranger. She might feel like she knew him, but he did not know her. I felt my very first pang of sympathy for Marcus Taylor.
‘Just one tiny little picture. It is for my daughter. She isbigfan,’ insisted the woman, her words ever so slightly slurred.
‘I’m sorry, but no,’ said Marcus.
I cringed internally. I understood that it wasn’t ideal, that he just wanted to sit quietly on a plane, but other passengers were looking over now. Couldn’t he just say yes to the photo and get it over with? Between the two of them they were causing a huge scene, and for what? One measly little selfie? I was tempted to say something but bit my tongue; that was hardly going to help me get him on side.
After what felt like ages, during which all eyes in the business-class cabin were trained exclusively on Marcus, she finally gave up and backed off, waving him away in disgust, hissing what I guessed were expletives at him.
‘Any idea what she’s saying?’ I asked, thinking it was probably better not to know.
‘Nope, and I couldn’t care less,’ he said dismissively, pulling his eye mask aggressively out of his pocket and putting it on again.
Great. We were back to the silent treatment, and I still didn’t have my interview.
Marcus sprinted off the plane the second we landed, calling a derisiveIt’s been delightful talking to you, Avaover his shoulder as he strutted down the aisle. It had taken all my mental strength to stop myself lunging after him in one last-ditch attempt to win him over. His agent had arranged for the three of us to meet at their hotel that evening and I had no idea whether Marcus was planning to show up. I was edging towards not, but a glimmer of hope was pulsating somewhere inside of me.
I didn’t see him again until we’d retrieved our luggage from the carousel and I happened to fall into step beside him on the way out. He was sporting an iceberg-sized racquet bag slung over his shoulder and the requisite moody demeanour as we emerged into the bright lights of the arrivals hall. I felt tiny next to him, which was no mean feat since I was five foot eight and almost always felt too tall, especially if I was wearing heels. Marcus was six foot four, according to his official stats. I revelled in the need to strain my neck to look up at him.
‘Still stalking me, then?’ he said, glancing down at me with irritation.
‘Your ego really does know no bounds,’ I quipped.
‘Marcus, over here!’
Suddenly, there was a flurry of camera flashes so bright that I physically had to hold my arm in front of my eyes. I’d never encountered actual paparazzi before, and it was shockingly intense. God, was this what it was like to be famous? All of the time?
Through the crook of my elbow, I noticed a young, denim-clad photographer snapping brazenly away in our direction, andhe wasn’t the only one: there was a guy wearing a cap, too, and another one kneeling on the ground, presumably wanting to get a shot of Marcus from a different angle. It seemed they’d had intel that some of the British players would be flying in for the tournament that day.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ yelled Marcus, striding over to the one in denim and pushing his camera quite violently so that the photographer almost dropped what was clearly a very expensive piece of equipment. The enormous lens alone must have cost a fortune. ‘Get your camera out of my face. Now!’
I was rooted to the spot, somehow unable to look away even though every part of this spectacle made me recoil in horror. I’d only met Marcus a couple of hours ago and there’d already been alotof drama, mostly involving the taking (or not) of photographs. Surely being papped came with the job? Now that I’d seen it first hand, I could vouch for the fact it wasn’t a pleasant experience, but he must be used to it by now? If I got the chance, I vowed there and then to get to the bottom of his overreaction, because I refused to believe that anyone did this much shouting for the fun of it.
Eventually tearing myself away from the scene unfolding in front of my eyes – the photographer was now threatening to call the police, while Marcus stomped off in the direction of the taxi rank with a stressed-looking driver running after him – I searched for the carLuxehad booked for me, feeling somewhat unsettled. Marcus wasn’t helping himself behaving like this – it couldn’t be good for his blood pressure or his tennis career, not to mention the unfortunate people he unleashed his temper on. Surely there had to be another, calmer,nicerside to him somewhere, which I was determined to uncover. Now all I had to do was persuade Marcus to let me.
Chapter Five
At a quarter to seven I waited for my taxi in the unassuming lobby of my perfectly nice three-star hotel, hovering near the door but also careful not to block the entrance for any other guests who needed to come in or out of the hotel. There was a young-ish vibe about the place; studenty types wanting somewhere relatively low-budget to stay on their way through to the French Riviera, or to Italy if they were heading in the other direction. Anyone with money would surely be staying at one of the slew of ultra-luxurious hotels I’d enviously scrolled through on the Condé Nast Traveler website, Marcus’s being one of them. Still, I definitely wasn’t ungrateful – getting to travel at all with my expenses paid was a perk of the job I’d never, ever take for granted.
Marcus’s manager, Dean, had emailed a couple of hours ago to confirm our meeting, which had been a relief given Marcus’s antagonistic attitude on the plane. I’d been worried that he was going to call the whole thing off, so this had to be a good sign, didn’t it? Maybe Marcus hadn’t been in Dean’s ear the second we landed, refusing to set eyes on me ever again. So after showering and changing into a black satin Zara minidress (hoping this was the kind of generically chic thing one might wear for casual drinks in a swanky Monégasque hotel), I’d touched up my make-up and slicked my dark hair back into a wavy ponytail, leaving a couple of tendrils falling loose at the front. Thishad been easier than washing it and straightening it from scratch, an arduous task I was unenthusiastic about at the best of times. I stifled a yawn, wondering when the double espresso I’d just downed was planning to kick in – today had been more eventful than the last fourteen put together, and the energy required was taking its toll.
