‘Definitely more than is reflected in the final score. I had to push for every single point. And he had me running around more than I would have liked,’ he said, attempting a wry smile.
To be fair, Marcus was much better at this than I thought he’d be – he was saying all the right things and was being nice about Griffiths, even though he’d thrashed him. I was marginally impressed and continued scribbling away until Marcus finished his interview and began walking off court, to much less applause than Griffiths had received. Was this what Dean had been talking about when he said he wanted the public to love Marcus? Were his meltdowns really so bad that he didn’t deserve to be applauded when he’d won so impressively? With one defiant wave over his shoulder, Marcus made his way into the tunnel, stopping only to sign a couple more of those giant green balls, which people were dangling precariously over the side, presumably begging him for autographs. Would he have signed them if he’d lost, I wondered?
‘What happens now?’ I asked as we all gathered our things together and began heading for the nearest exit.
‘Press conference,’ said Nick. ‘Oh, and don’t make the same mistake I did when I first started working with Marcus ...’
‘What’s that, then?’ I asked, intrigued and thinking I’d probably already made it, whatever it was.
‘Don’t congratulate him,’ warned Nick. ‘Under any circumstances. He doesn’t like people being positive about his game when he’s just finished a match.’
I frowned. ‘Don’t say anything at all? Even though he crushed the guy?’
‘Nope. Nothing. And always take the lead from him,’ added Nick. ‘That would be my advice.’
‘Right,’ I said.
Was Marcus really such a tyrant that he had his own team second-guessing what they were and weren’t allowed to say when he’d gone and romped home with a match? Surely it was normal to say well done, what was so wrong with that? And surely Patrick, who was charm personified when he wanted to be but clearly had an ‘edge’, didn’t tiptoe around Marcus too? I wondered what would happen if they didn’t? What were they scared of? Losing their jobs? It wasn’t clear what had happened with Marcus’s last coach – the only write-ups I’d found on the subject said they’d ‘parted ways’ last November, which I took to mean either Marcus had fired him or he’d quit. Either way, nobody seemed to want to say, and yet it felt like the kind of thingLuxereaders would want to know.
‘Will he head straight back to the hotel after the press stuff?’ I asked, staying close to Nick and Patrick so that I didn’t lose them in the crowd. Patrick, who it seemed was pretty recognisable on the circuit, pulled down the peak of his cap, presumably wanting to reach Marcus for a debrief without being accosted by camera-wielding fans.
‘Marcus has an ice bath. And then we train,’ said Patrick.
‘More training?’ I clarified. ‘After all of that?’
‘His serve was off,’ said Patrick, ushering me up the steps towards the VIP village. ‘He’ll want to work on that and then maybe he’ll have some free time if you need him for an interview. Then Dean is meeting us for a team dinner – you are welcome to join.’
Dean had other clients to look after, apparently, and was currently talking to potential sponsors with Mia Stephens, the women’s number five.
‘Sounds good,’ I said, feeling my phone buzz in my bag.
I found a discreet spot in the back corner of the press area to wait for Marcus to make an appearance and took the opportunity to check my messages. Amanda might be trying to get hold of me and she seemed like the kind of woman who would wait for no one. I was semi-relieved to see it wasn’t her checking up on my progress (minimal), it was Zoe. I read the message three or four times, thinking it would eventually make sense, or that there was a typo that had changed the entire context.
Do not, I repeatDo Not, look at your Instagram.
This was very dramatic, even for her. What could possibly be so bad? Could it be that the photos of Marcus and I were no longer uploaded only to the obscure gossip website, but were also splashed across the sidebar of an infamous showbiz news column (which I knew she was addicted to)? I punched off a reply to Zoe.
My fingertip is literally hovering over the icon here – you’re going to have to tell me why I shouldn’t just click on it!
I half listened to a conversation between a couple of journalists sitting in front of me. One was slagging off Marcus, saying he’d been hoping he’d lose it on court so that he’d have something interesting to report on. I wondered whether Marcus knew he was unknowinglyplaying right into the hands of the media, who couldn’t wait to tear him down.
Another message pinged through from Zoe.
Don’t look!! Call me Immediately.
Oh God. It was the comments, wasn’t it? Underneath the photo of me and Marcus. He, of course, would be looking glowing and gorgeous and in comparison I probably looked distinctly average at best. Everyone knew you should never read the comments under news stories (particularly not on Zoe’s aforementioned website of choice, their readers were vicious). They’d be tearing me apart, I could imagine it now.
I sighed, immediately disobeying Zoe’s weird instructions and opening my Instagram. I didn’t need to be kept in the dark like a child; I would face whatever horrors were on my Instagram feed with dignity and resilience. Until I saw a series of photos of Charlie beaming back at me, that was. And not just Charlie, but Charlie and somebody else. He’d purposely kept her identity hidden, but it was definitely a woman, because he’d posted tantalising shots of her body parts – her lips; her pedicured feet; her handHolding His!! The caption he’d so wittily come up with read:Cosy spring vibes in the Cotswolds #datenight #newgirl #newromance #couplegoalsand was followed by three heart-shaped emojis. The Cotswolds? The same place he’d point-blank refused to entertain whenever I’d mentioned the wordsSoho Farmhouseandromantic weekend awayin the same sentence? No wonder he’d wanted to collect his knitwear! I could only imagine the long rambling walks and cosy pub lunches he was currently indulging in with hisNew Girlfriend!! God, had I meant that little to him? And whowasshe? I bet she was gorgeous, if her perfect feet were anything to go by.
Feeling sick and utterly bewildered, I looked up to see Marcus entering the room with Patrick by his side, his trademark grimexpression taking hold as he took a seat at the conference table, adjusting the microphone, which was positioned far too low given his height. Cameras popped and the room, which was perhaps half full, became silent as the press director, a thin, impeccably dressed French woman in her late thirties, announced that Marcus would now be taking questions, and that anyone who had something to ask should raise their hand. A few shot up immediately. The first couple of questions were relatively easy for Marcus to answer. ‘How much would a win at the Monte-Carlo Masters mean to you?’ ‘Did you have a game plan going out on court today?’ ‘What did you think of Dominic Griffiths’ game?’ Marcus said as few words as possible, answering each question with a sort of robotic efficiency. ‘In the run-up to Roland Garros, this tournament is important in gauging how much work I still have to do.’ ‘My game plan is to win by any means possible.’ ‘Dominic is always a tough opponent and today was no exception.’
I tried to focus on Marcus, even though images of Charlie and his new love interest kept swimming in front of my eyes. It would probably help if I turned my phone off, but suddenly I didn’t have the energy to do anything as complex as pressing a button.
A male journalist in his sixties, wearing a too-tight shirt with patches of sweat seeping through the back of it, shot his hand up. Marcus nodded in his direction.
‘Yes?’ said Marcus.
‘How long do you think you’ve got left on the professional circuit?’ asked the journalist.
