‘No fun?’ he said, nodding to himself as he mulled it over, and then sitting forward in his seat. ‘Expand.’
I looked out at the last vestiges of the day’s sunlight glittering on the surface of the water, taking a moment to think about what I was going to say before turning back to him.
‘It’s just an opinion,’ I said. ‘But it didn’t look as though you were enjoying it. You seemed tense. As though you had this huge pressure weighing on you. Like you might have had if this was the final and not round one, playing someone you must have known you could easily beat.’
‘I see,’ he said, reaching for his coffee again.
‘Feel free to disagree,’ I said. ‘You could have been having a whale of a time, for all I know. Maybe this is actually your happy face,’ I said, making a circular motion in the air with my finger.
Silence hung dangerously between us. There was a good chance I’d offended him, that I’d gone in too hard too soon. Mind you, he didn’t have one of hisreallydark looks on, so it could have been worse.
‘You’re right, actually,’ he said.
I swallowed the huge mouthful of orange juice I’d just sipped with a gulp so loud I was sure he must have heard me. Should I press him more?
‘Why didn’t you enjoy it?’ I asked him.
He crinkled up his brow, as though he was trying to put his feelings into words, something I suspected he didn’t do very often.
‘I’m thirty-one,’ he said. ‘Which I presume you know from your research?’
‘Of course.’
‘Which means I’m nearing the end of my tennis career. Seems crazy, doesn’t it, that everything you’ve worked for your entire life lasts the sum total of a little more than a decade. Just as mentally you feel like you’ve hit your peak, your body goes and gives up on you.’
‘You’ve got a good few years, surely?’ I said. ‘Didn’t Serena Williams play into her forties?’
‘We’re not all Serena. Realistically, I’ve got until I’m thirty-five, thirty-six at a push.’
‘Okay. So let’s say you’ve got five more years playing at this level. What’s the pressure about? You’re world number twelve. I’m presuming you want to go higher?’
‘I want another Grand Slam win. And I think I can get it.’
This made sense. He’d been in finals and semi-finals of the big tournaments a few times since his Australian Open win eight years ago, but he’d never won another. I was going to have to do some research on why not – whether it was true what they were all saying, that it had been a fluke, that the British public couldn’t rely on him to win anything.
‘So that’s your goal for this year?’
‘Yes. Which is why I hired Patrick – if anyone can help me win a major tournament, it’s him. He knows what it takes. He knows what I’m missing, what I need to do.’
I desperately wanted to write all of this down, but didn’t want to ruin the moment. This was the most open he’d been with me, and it felt like he was beginning to trust me a little bit already. If I got my notebook out now, it would remind him that everything he said was liable to be printed in the press he hated, and that seemingly hated him.
‘So he thinks you can do it?’ I asked.
Marcus nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’m injury-free, I’m fit, and I’m putting everything into this year that I can, because if I want that Slam title, it’s going to have to be now.’
‘Why’s it so important to you? Isn’t winning one Grand Slam in your lifetime enough?’
‘That’s a very complicated question, Ava.’
‘Is it?’
He hesitated, as though he was unsure whether to say anything or not.
‘It feels like I owe it to my mum. There, is that the kind of quote you’re after?’
‘Do you see me writing anything down?’ I said quietly.
Marcus looked towards the shoreline, taking a deep breath. This felt important, like a bit of a breakthrough, and I wanted to keep him talking if I could.
