He gave Patrick a high five and walked off in the direction of the changing rooms, dabbing the back of his hair with his towel as he went.
‘Don’t you go with him?’ I said to Patrick as we stood, motionless, watching him disappear through the swing doors.
‘Non,’ said Patrick. ‘Marcus does not like it. He likes to be alone before a match.’
From what I’d gathered so far, he liked to be alone, period.
Patrick and I waited next to a deep-red velvet curtain with a sign bearing the words ‘Players’ Boxes’ taped on to the wall next to it. After showing the steward our tickets and accreditation, we were directed to our seats pretty much courtside, which was a bit of a thrill, I had to say, because when I looked over my shoulder I saw there were at least fifty rows of spectators behind me. These little booths seemed to line the entire front section of the court on three sides, with the fourth end housing more fancy-looking seats leading up to what I presumed was the hospitality suite. Camera lenses poked out of the windows of the building – this, I assumed, was the press area, which I hadn’t bothered to go to yet even though I had access to it. I preferred to hang with Marcus and his team when I could, as the whole point of coming here was to observe what went on behind the scenes, how Marcus prepared, how he treated his team. As I looked up there was a sea of photographers, no doubt capturing their own versions of the aerial shots I’d seen online – the orange clay courts surrounded by racing-green grandstand-style seating and, shimmering just behind the back row, the sea. Up high in the left-hand corner, a mini TV studio had been rigged up under a gazebo and I could see a blonde-haired woman in a beautiful pink jacket recording a piece to camera.
According to my ticket, we were in Loge J5. I made a mental note to look up the wordloges. Did all tournaments have them? Were they reserved for press only? For friends and family? Or could anyone sit in them if they were prepared to pay the presumably top-tier fee? I noticed immediately that our loge was pretty empty, consisting of only Patrick and myself plus Nick, Marcus’s physio, who was Australian likeDominic Griffiths but presumably very much in Marcus’s corner this afternoon. He had blond hair pushed up into a frizzy bun and a weathered complexion, and looked like he’d just breezed into Monaco on a surfboard. From the little I’d seen of him, his laid-back, smiley attitude was like the yang to Marcus’s and Patrick’s yin. I thought briefly about the absence of any of Marcus’s friends (surely he must have some) and family, particularly his mum, and about why she never came to watch him anymore. This was definitely a question to ask Marcus once we were easier in each other’s company, although part of me worried that he was so controlling over everything to do with his personal life, he’d never feel comfortable talking about it. What if he was too guarded to allow me to write the kind of in-depth, September-issue-worthy piece I was now under my own version of pressure to write?
The stands were filling up, with spectators filing back in having had a quick break between the last match and Marcus’s. Patrick told me there was a fast turnaround in these early rounds – four matches a day on the two main courts, which were this one and the slightly smaller Court des Princes. There was a smattering of applause as the umpire was announced before emerging from one corner of the court and making his way to his stand, a high chair with a tiny green canopy over his head to protect him from the sun. Then out came the ball boys and ball girls, dressed in green, white and orange and clearly trying hard to contain their excitement.
I settled into my seat, already too warm but deciding I needed to keep the sweater around my shoulders for purely aesthetic purposes. I put on my sunglasses and pushed non-existent strands of hair behind my ears, acknowledging the strange feeling that I was being watched, that at any time an image of me doing something highly inappropriate could be hotwired to news agencies around the globe. I didn’t think the Rolex Monte-Carlo Masters had huge international appeal, but then the fact that I hadn’t heard of this tournament until I’d seen it on Ruby’s schedule was hardly surprising given my lack of interestin sport in general. Turned out tennis was big news, even if I hadn’t really noticed, and there were gossip and rivalry and upsets galore, all constantly being shared and updated in the press, on podcasts and on social media channels.
The time on the scoreboard read 12.59 and a huge cheer broke out as the screen flicked to live footage of the inside of the tunnel where Marcus was waiting, looking stern, composed and very tall compared to his opponent, twenty-three-year-old Griffiths, who was wearing a garish fluorescent orange headband over his floppy dark hair and was jogging on the spot like he had too much energy to harness. He wasn’t even ranked in the top fifty, and yet he was acting as though the game was unequivocally his. Their approaches couldn’t have been more different, and I wondered which was going to come out on top today.
‘It’s best of five sets, right?’ I whispered to Nick.
He shook his head. ‘Three. Five is only for the Grand Slams.’
I immediately jotted this down, annoyed with myself for not having known it before – it was just that with all the talk of female tennis players quite rightly demanding equal pay, I’d had the impression that women always played three sets and men five, which was the argument for men completely unfairly being more generously compensated. But if all the tournaments – and there were aLot, I’d discovered – except the four big ones involved an equal number of sets, there was surely absolutely no argument to be made. I wroteCheck how much female players get paid for non-grand-slam tournamentsand put a star next to it.
Patrick and Nick had stopped talking and were focusing quietly on the empty court. Rap music blared out of a nearby speaker and the crowd erupted into an enthusiastic roar as Dominic Griffiths made his entrance, lapping up the attention and bounding over to his seat like a hyped-up Labrador. As Griffiths put down his bag and began preparing for the match, he waved enthusiastically at the crowd, stirring them into a frenzy before he’d hit a single shot. I wasn’t sure whether Iwas supposed to be clapping for the opposition or not – did supporting Marcus mean that I actively didn’t support Griffiths? I followed Patrick’s lead and stayed still with my hands in my lap, feeling bad and a bit rude, and in the end I caved in and did a sort of half-hearted clap, not that Griffiths himself would notice – he had enough support on this court to last him a lifetime. Surely this was going to throw Marcus off? Unless I took him at his word when he said he didn’t care what other people thought of him. The thing was, though, that felt to me more like bravado doing the talking and I was determined to get some real emotion out of him, not the robotic set of three or four ‘feelings’ (anger, disinterest, disappointment and disgust) I’d thus far seen him display on rotation.
The umpire made an announcement, first in French and then in English.
‘And from the United Kingdom ... Marcus Taylor!’
A graphic containing stats about Marcus – his age, height, weight, nationality and ranking – flashed up on the big screen as he appeared through the tunnel, freshly changed into a pristine white tracksuit top and mint-green shorts, his racquet bag on his shoulder as almost always. He kept his eyeline steady as he entered the court to a smattering of cheers from the small pockets of the crowd where maybe they supported the UK, if not Marcus himself, and a crescendo of boos from everyone else. Somebody half-heartedly waved a Union Jack in the air, but compared to Griffiths’ reception it was positively underwhelming. My most recent deep dive into Marcus’s professional history had revealed a tabloid headline from a few years ago dubbing him theGreat British Disappointmentbecause of his tendency to crash out in the first round, so maybe that explained it.
Patrick and Nick stood up and began to whoop as hard as they could.
‘Come on, Marcus!’ yelled Patrick. ‘Let’s go!’
I stood up because I thought I ought to do something, but I wasn’t really the whooping type, so I clapped enthusiastically instead. A few cameras popped in my direction, and I felt a wave of anxiety as I wondered where my face was going to be plastered next. I immediately changed my facial expression to something I thought depicted warmth and encouragement, as it might if I was watching my actual boyfriend playing tennis at a tournament of this calibre. Was this what people in the public eye had to do? Were they constantly checking every look they threw at someone? I’d lived the majority of my life completely unseen, or at least it had felt that way. Part of what I liked about being a writer was that nobody really knew who you were, and that felt safe and familiar. Taking the limelight was something I’d never been allowed to do and even now the concept of it felt alien and uncomfortable. As I watched TV cameramen running backwards in front of Marcus with their long lenses in his face as he walked, I wondered how hard all of this was for someone like Marcus. For someone who, in Patrick’s words, liked to be alone.
Marcus took a seat and unpacked his bag, pulling out several racquets and three water bottles, which he lined up by his feet. Thankfully, the boos died down as Marcus and Griffiths took to the court for a warm-up – hitting forehand to forehand, then backhand to backhand, then a flurry of lobs and smashes, finishing up with some practice serves. The air was thick with anticipation and the faint smell of crêpes wafting up from the food stands mixed with the expensive perfume that everyone seemed to wear in Monaco, the sort that might be overpowering if it wasn’t so exquisite. As the umpire called Marcus and Dominic in for the coin toss, a hush fell over the stands, like in a theatre when the lights went down and you had a mini rush of adrenaline because you knew the play was about to start. Marcus lost the toss and Griffiths chose to serve first. As they took their places for the match to begin, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it – whoever it was would have to wait.
Griffiths tossed the ball into the air and served. Marcus hit it high, landing the ball just inside the baseline, on Griffiths’ forehand. Griffiths returned it with Marcus immediately using a two-handed backhand to send it flying diagonally back across the court. Griffiths lunged hard for it, but it bounced just out of reach.Love-Fifteen. Patrick stood up again, yelling ‘Yes, Marcus!’ and I started clapping frantically, because it seemed like that was the etiquette. Surely I wouldn’t need to do that every time Marcus won a point?
Griffiths served again, to the far side of the box this time. There was a longer rally, a run of slick, powerful forehands being hit from baseline to baseline, a position I already knew Marcus favoured. Eventually, Griffiths mishit a shot into the net.Love-Thirty.
The crowd slow-clapped Griffiths as he prepared for another serve; whether this put him off I didn’t know, but he hit it too shallow and it slammed straight into the net. His second serve was more accurate, but looked easier for Marcus to return, and as predicted, he sent it careering down the sideline and Griffiths only just got it back. Marcus, meanwhile, had run into the net to intercept the ball and volleyed it on to the ground so hard that Griffiths didn’t stand a chance. The umpire announced the scores in French first and then in English.Love-Forty.I knew we were at break point – and I could be wrong, but I suspected that a break of serve this early was a very good sign.
Griffiths, his bravado crumbling by the second, served twice into the net, one after the other.Game Taylor.
Marcus won the match easily in straight sets, 6-0, 6-2. The crowd were thankfully a tad more subdued as Griffiths made his way off court, leaving Marcus to face the television cameras.
‘Marcus, congratulations. How do you feel that went for you?’ asked a suited-up man I presumed was a commentator, perhaps for a local TV station.
Marcus cleared his throat. ‘It went well, I think. I knew Dominic was going to be a tough opponent, and that he’d have the crowd behind him, and so I had to go hard right out of the gate.’
‘Well, you certainly did that,’ said the commentator.
I scribbled down what Marcus was saying word for word so that I could analyse it later, although the mass exodus from the stands was somewhat distracting and I wondered why these so-called tennis fans were more interested in taking selfies with the court as a backdrop than they were in listening to the winner’s interview.
‘Did Griffiths challenge you at all?’ the commentator asked Marcus.
