Because he was clearly enjoying his freedom to the max and wasn’t cut up about losing me atall.And who exactly was he going awaywith? Because if it was a friend or his dad or something, he would have just said, wouldn’t he? My mind was working overtime now – was it possible he’d met somebody else already? Or even that this someone else was the reason he’d ended things with me in the first place?
‘Fine. Let me know when you’re back and I’ll send an Uber to collect it,’ he said.
Great. He couldn’t even be bothered to come and get it himself. Was the prospect of seeing me really that unbearable for him?
‘Take care, Ava,’ he said, moving his face closer to the screen. ‘And I really am sorry. I hope you’ll find a way to be okay.’
‘I’ll be fine, Charlie. I’m not going to fall apart just because we’re not together anymore.’
‘Oh I know,’ he said. ‘I know. That came out wrong. I just meant—’
‘I’ll see you around.’
He waved at me sadly until I forced myself to end the call because otherwise I was probably going to cry. For some bizarre reason, I ran my fingertips across the now-empty screen. It had been better when I’d made myself forget he’d ever existed, because his call had totally made me relapse. Which I did not have time for because it was nowEight Forty-Four! I launched my phone into my bag, scrambled up and power-walked around thepool, feeling nauseous and tearful and not at all in the mood for Marcus bloody Taylor.
He was already in the lobby waiting, of course, standing next to a huge oval table housing the most gigantic vase of fresh flowers I’d seen in my entire life. He was wearing a pale-blue tracksuit with navy trim and a Lacoste logo on the chest. Perhaps he was sponsored by them, and I made a mental note to ask, and also to find out what they thought of his despicable on-court antics.
‘Afternoon,’ said Marcus sarcastically, picking up his racquet bag and hoisting it over his shoulder.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, did we not say eight forty-five?’ I snapped, plucking my phone out of my bag and waving it in his direction.
‘I think you’ll find you’re late,’ he said.
‘What, by one minute?’ This guy needed to lighten up. What difference was sixty seconds going to make. ‘Shall we go, then?’
‘Oh!Nowyou want to go?’ said Marcus.
I tutted and stalked off but then I had to wait for him outside the main doors because I had no idea which direction we were going in.
‘You do know I’m not staying here? That I had to walk across town to meet you?’ I said, on a mission to justify not being on time by about a millisecond.
He turned right and headed uphill. I hurried to fall into step beside him, already feeling the pull of my breath as Marcus effortlessly powered along and I had to work ridiculously hard to match him step for step. For fuck’s sake, couldn’t he doanythingat a normal pace?
‘And yet you arrived at the hotel in plenty of time,’ said Marcus.
‘How do you know what time I—’
‘I could see you from my balcony,’ he said, cutting me off. ‘So whatever it was that made you late, it certainly wasn’t the walk over.’
Great – he was totally in one of those posh bungalows up on the cliffs, wasn’t he? I felt uneasy at the thought of him watching me without me knowing. I could have been doing anything; something unprofessional (I wasn’t sure what). Had he been watching while my cappuccino arrived, while I sipped it, while Charlie threw me off with his pointless call about clothes any normal person wouldn’t wear until at least November?
‘Any chance we could talk about something other than my timekeeping?’ I asked, making the executive decision to change the subject. ‘I’m here to interviewyou, remember?’
‘Don’t remind me,’ he said.
‘How are you feeling about your chances at this tournament? Do you have a game plan?’ I asked him.
He squinted across at me. ‘You’re not seriously expecting me to tell you?’
‘Why not?’ I took my phone out of my bag. ‘You don’t mind if I record this, do you?’
‘Yes, I do mind. Because my “game plan”, Ava, is classified information and it remains firmly in my own head.’
This was frustrating, because if he didn’t give me permission to record him, I was going to have to remember every single thing he said and furtively make notes once I got to the courts. I followed him as he marched across the road, up towards a huge turquoise marquee at the top of the hill, which I presumed was the famous Monte-Carlo Country Club, where apparently Grace Kelly used to play tennis for fun during her reign as Princess Consort.
‘But Dean must know, right? And Patrick. And maybe even Nick?’ I asked, momentarily so smug about having retained the names of the key members of his team that I almost forgot why I was having to mention them.
‘Dean is my manager. He doesn’t get involved in strategy,’ said Marcus, unzipping his bag, pulling out a lanyard with an annoyingly perfect photo of his face on it and shoving it around his neck.
