I watched Marcus’s expression darken.
‘People are saying that you peaked at twenty-three. That you’ll never get back to that form now. What do you have to say in response?’
I took an instant dislike to this guy, who was clearly trying to wind Marcus up. These journalists were smart, they knew what made a good story, and Racquet Man storming out of a post-match press conference would be one of them. They’d hit a nerve, I couldsee it clearly, and I felt for Marcus in that second, could see him trying to hold it together, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes had gone hard and cold.
‘My tennis career is far from over,’ said Marcus in a clipped, dismissive voice. ‘And I am going to do everything in my power to prove my critics wrong.’
Chapter Nine
That afternoon, I perched on the end of a sun lounger on the private beach of Marcus’s hotel, which I was ninety per cent sure was where we’d arranged to meet, but now I was wondering if I’d misheard because he was ten minutes late already and clearly timekeeping was of the essence for Marcus Taylor. Control freak, much? If I’d been in a different mood, I might have pulled him up on it, but the fact was, I didn’t feel like doing anything at all now, except perhaps lying in a darkened room watching endless hours ofFriends, my go-to TV choice when I was in emotional distress. Maybe after this I’d go back to my hotel and order myself a bottle of wine and finish it all in one sitting, along with not one but two desserts. Then again, I’d seen on the room service menu that they cost nearly thirty euros each, so perhaps I should refrain.
I checked my messages for about the thirty-fifth time that day, heartened to see another rousing vote of confidence from Zoe.
He’s an idiot. You’re well out of it – let this new girl deal with him!
When I looked up, Marcus was jogging along the beach in my direction in a matching grey marl sweatpants and top combo,expensive-looking trainers and a cap that I suspected he’d been gifted by the tournament. I waved. He waved back and upped his pace.
‘Apologies,’ he mumbled, flinging himself on to the lounger next to me. He didn’t seem out of breath, despite the run that would probably have had most mere mortals gasping for air. ‘We trained longer than I’d thought we would. Had to keep bashing out serves until I got them back on track.’
‘They looked fine to me,’ I said.
‘They weren’t, I was way off. I wasn’t hitting the spot I wanted. Too many missed first serves, and my second serve was passable at best.’
I’d hardly call his second serve ‘passable’. And according to the stats I’d looked up after the match, Marcus had only given away two double faults as compared to Griffiths’ seven.
‘Go on then, pull me up on being late, I know you’re dying to,’ said Marcus.
‘I’m not, actually,’ I lied.
‘Even though I called you out for it yesterday?’
‘Some of us aren’t bothered by trivial things such as somebody being a few minutes later than they said they’d be,’ I said breezily.
A waiter delivered the drinks I’d ordered, a freshly squeezed orange juice for me and a coffee for Marcus. He looked at it, pulling the cup and saucer towards him.
‘I grabbed you a cortado,’ I said, having picked up on the fact he liked them.
‘Clocking my hot beverage of choice. Nice touch,’ he said.
‘I’m nothing if not observant.’
‘What was your take on the match, then?’ he asked, putting me on the spot.
I wanted to get my notes out, to see what I’d jotted down during the one hour and thirteen minutes Marcus had been on court, but I also wanted to keep it casual and conversational. Marcus had a knack of making me feel like I was the one being interviewed – if I wasn’treeling off the details of my CV, I was warding off completely irrelevant questions about myself. Was this some kind of test? If I failed, or overstepped the mark, or said the wrong thing (whatever that was), would Marcus decide to share even less of his life with me?
‘I thought you looked very focused,’ I said carefully, keeping it vague. ‘And I liked the way you dominated him from the off. It felt like he never really had a chance.’
‘How do you imagine I dominated him?’ asked Marcus, taking a sip of his coffee.
I looked at him quizzically. ‘Are you testing my tennis knowledge again or something? Because I can tell you right now, it’s utterly non-existent.’
‘It’s not a test, Ava. I’m interested to know what you thought,’ he said, placing his cup back on its saucer and leaning back on the lounger.
I ran through the game in my head. What had stood out to me? What were my honest first impressions of his game, and could I say them? I pictured his stiff posture, his tight jaw, his grim expression throughout.
‘I noticed that there was no real fun in your game,’ I said.
I could bombard him with compliments, of course I could, he’d won easily, he’d been brilliant, there was no denying it. He’d been consistent, solid, not a trace of the temper I’d read about and had witnessed on TV. Every shot he’d played from the back of the court had looked to be going long, but when I’d watched it land, expecting it to be called out, it had pinged on to the clay just inside the baseline. But even though Marcus said this wasn’t a test, it felt like it was, and my instinct told me that what he really wanted to hear was the stuff that hadn’t been quite perfect. To see if I had the guts to stand up to him, I supposed, to tell him the things he didn’t want to hear. Although why he thought that was my job, I had no clue. Wasn’t that what Patrick was for?
