‘You don’t value his opinion?’
‘I value it greatly when it comes to business. But not when it comes to my game,’ he said.
‘And Patrick?’
‘Patrick works on my technique, my serve, my shots. He knows my weaknesses and my strengths. We talk objectives, goals. But we don’t discuss my opponents, or how I’m going to use what I know about them to help me win the game.’
‘Wouldn’t his input be helpful?’ I asked, as we bypassed a coach-load of fans pulling up by the kerbside, a bus dropping off a bunch of crammed-in locals, some of whom were wearing a uniform suggesting they were working at the tournament in some capacity, and a smattering of chic-looking people arriving on foot. Because it was so early, Marcus managed to go unnoticed for a second or two, until one person spotted him, setting off a run ofGood luck, Marcus!andOver here, Marcus!, all of which he proceeded to ignore, keeping his head down while striding on by. I wondered why he couldn’t find it in himself to give them so much as a cursory nod of thanks.
Marcus showed his pass to security and explained who I was, that I was a journalist and that I had a press pass waiting for me at the desk. They let us through, directing us to the official accreditation stand.
‘To answer your question, when I walk out on that court, I’m all alone,’ said Marcus. ‘Patrick isn’t allowed to coach me. Any decisions I make, I make by myself. And so the strategy has to be entirely mine, so that I can flip it whenever I need to. So that I’m not relying on anyone else to do it for me.’
I couldn’t argue with that. I also hoped I could remember what he’d said word for word because despite his questionablepersonality, this man was a veritable hotbed of headline-ready quotes.
Dean had put my name on the press desk and, having shown some ID, I was now kitted out with a lanyard declaring me fully accredited and Access All Areas.
‘You can explain our tardiness to Patrick,’ Marcus said huffily as he led me through the VIP village and out into a pretty square, which had marquees selling expensive sportswear and novelty tennis-themed gifts around its periphery and a pop-up café in the middle. I could have killed for another coffee, but I didn’t dare ask to stop.
I made another mental note:Marcus is obsessed with timekeeping!!
I followed him down some steep steps, and then around for a bit and up on to another level with what looked like several courts at the top. The steps were flanked by tumbling beds of colourful flowers, neatly planted displays of daisies, marigolds, pansies and other plants I didn’t have the knowledge to identify. A sign said we were on route to the practice courts and I could already hear the pop of balls being hit back and forth with considerable force. Stopping for a second to catch my breath, I looked behind me, thinking what a pretty venue it was. The sea was glittering in full view just beyond one of the main courts and, below me, the tournament was laid out on different levels, as though it had been carved into the side of a cliff like a village. The colour scheme appeared to be white and that lovely turquoise I’d seen from the bottom of the hill in the form of parasols and tents, with quaint white benches for people to sit on and bars and crêperies dotted around for when people wanted to spend the equivalent of their weekly salary on a glass of wine and a Nutella pancake.
After navigating yet more steps, we arrived at court number nine. Marcus ushered me through the gate and inside a sort of green mesh cage housing two of the bright orange clay courts I’d seen on thatDeuceprogramme. A couple of players were already training or warming up and I didn’t recognise either of them, which was probably a sign that I was going to have to force myself to learn more about tennis – not only the game itself, but the key players on tour. It didn’t exactly fill me with joy and, if I had my way, I’d put it off until it was absolutely necessary.
Meanwhile, while rather distractingly peeling off both the top and bottom of his tracksuit ensemble, revealing white shorts and a T-shirt underneath, Marcus introduced me to Patrick, who was in his early fifties and was as suave and handsome as I’d imagined. He approached me with a sort of sexy intensity that only people with a French accent can pull off and said ‘Welcome, Ava’ loud enough to distract one of the players on the other court and make him abandon his serve in mid-air. Although Patrick and Marcus hadn’t worked together for very long, they appeared to have a very similar disposition, and both looked as though they were about to go on trial for murder rather than hit a few balls back and forth across a net. I was being facetious, obviously, and clearly it was a serious business (as it should be, given the947,000 euroswinner’s prize!!) but this was just a training session. Would it have killed either of them to smile?
‘Dean says you are hoping your article is going to make the British public fall in love with Marcus,’ said Patrick, simultaneously unzipping his own racquet bag.
‘That’s the plan,’ I said, laughing and then wishing I hadn’t because nobody joined in.
‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ said Marcus flippantly.
‘Now, now, Marcus,’ said Patrick before turning to me with the first glimmer of warmth I’d seen. ‘Ignore him. He warms up eventually.’
I was far from convinced.
‘Is it okay if I perch here to watch your session?’ I asked Patrick, pointing to a bench handily placed at the side of the court. I’d have my back to the sea, which was a shame, but a perfect view of the court action.
‘Go ahead,’ said Patrick, already striding out on to the clay, ready to begin.
‘How long will you be out here?’ I asked him, thinking they’d probably be an hour or so max.
‘Two hours,’ said Patrick over his shoulder. ‘At least.’
Marcus must have seen my face fall or something because he said snippily: ‘If it’s too much for you, Ava, feel free to leave at any time. Wouldn’t want you to be bored, or anything.’
I sat down and defiantly got out my notepad. ‘Oh, I intend to stay until the very end,’ I said breezily, even though I’d formerly had no such intention.
I wasn’t going to let Marcus Taylor dictate what I did or didn’t do – he might have his team running around after him, but I was here to cast an unbiased eye on proceedings. Plus, I needed to understand the rules a bit more ahead of Marcus’s first match the following afternoon and maybe this would help.
‘Have a good session!’ I called after him as he jogged with high knees over to the other side of the court and began squatting and lunging like there was no tomorrow. It wasn’tunpleasantto watch.
Ninety minutes later, I was beginning to regret my rather premature declaration to Marcus, but of course pride prevented me from leaving now, because he’d only accuse me of not being able to cut it and would use it against me. So I ignored the fact that the slats of the wooden bench had officially turned the backs of my thighs numb, and that thesun had moved overhead and was now beating down on the top of my (hat-less) head, and I studiously took notes about Marcus’s game. If nothing else, it was keeping my mind off of Charlie, which could only be a good thing. Marcus was right-handed – I’d made a note to ask Patrick/Marcus if this was an advantage or not – and he had a cool serve: he effortlessly tossed the ball into the air in the exact same position each time, casually stepped his feet together and then out of nowhere he sort of launched himself off the ground like a jet taking off. Was this a normal technique, or was there something different about the way Marcus served, I wondered? Something else I noticed was that Patrick kept telling Marcus to ‘go into the net’, which he seemed to have an aversion to. From what I could tell, he appeared to be happiest when he was slamming balls from one baseline to the other, his shoulder muscles rippling beneath his T-shirt, his biceps engaged as he brought his racquet through to make contact with the ball. His white shorts had already turned a subtle shade of orange, stained by the clouds of dust flying off the court every time the ball ricocheted off the clay.
While Marcus and Patrick took a break to talk and – in Marcus’s case – glug about two litres of water, I began mapping out the introduction to my article. It always felt good to get words on a page, even if they weren’t particularly good words. At this stage in the process I liked to write down anything that came into my head, with a view to finding the natural tone of the piece. Since nobody would ever read it and barely any of it would appear in the finished article, I felt free to note my honest impressions of Marcus and the elite tennis circles he moved in (spoiler alert: they weren’t good).
Marcus Taylor: International Tennis Star. World Number Twelve. British Number One. Absolute Tool. These monikers have all been used to describe the man I’ve been assigned to shadow for three months between April and July – and on first glance, I don’t disagree with a single one of them.
