‘Good that we’re on the same page with this,’ he said. ‘We can get Dean to iron out the details later.’
‘There’s not going to be some weird Hollywood-style contract or anything, is there?’ I asked, keen to avoid being sued if I slipped up, which knowing me wasn’t beyond the realms.
‘Don’t worry, Ava, you won’t be legally bound to pretend to like me.’
I pressed the palm of my hand into my chest, giving him a mock sigh of relief.
‘Haha,’ he said.
I smiled. Teasing him was actually quite fun.
‘Are we done for today, then?’ asked Marcus, no doubt desperate to get away.
‘Sure. You probably need to prepare for tomorrow ...’
He nodded, downing the dregs of his coffee.
‘Round two,’ he said. ‘And it’s not a great draw.’
‘Sorry, I know you’re probably sick of my questions, but who are you playing?’ I asked.
This could be a useful conversation about his pre-match routine – perhaps I could gently ease the information out of him.
‘Federico Rambetti. Italian, twenty-six years old. Difficult to beat on clay.’
‘So the surface makes a difference?’ I asked. ‘Your game works better on one surface and not so well on others?’
‘Exactly,’ said Marcus, ‘and clay is not my forte.’
‘How come?’ I asked. How much could what the court was made of change things – surely you could either play brilliantly or you couldn’t?
‘The ball bounces higher on clay,’ he explained. ‘So if my game is to hit fast strokes, preferably from the baseline, occasionally using the serve and volley, it means that my opponent is more likely to be able to return them. I’m naturally better on hard courts or grass.’
‘So grass is Wimbledon?’ I said, images of the enticing green courts popping into my mind, along with all the pomp and ceremony that came along with it every summer.
‘Wimbledon, Queen’s, Eastbourne, a couple of others.’
‘And the hard courts?’ I asked. This I had no idea about.
‘Australian Open and US Open are the big ones,’ he said. ‘But also Miami and Indian Wells.’
‘WhatisIndian Wells?’
He looked at me, amused. ‘It’s a place, Ava. In California.’
‘Ah. Good to know. And where else has clay?’
‘Roland-Garros – the French Open,’ said Marcus. ‘Obviously here, also Rome and Madrid.’
I nodded, thinking this was useful information to have. I was assuming most of my readers would know as much as I did about the game – some would be more clued up, but it would be good to put Marcus’s game in context. From what I had deduced, he’d be hoping to reach the finals – and preferably win – at Wimbledon, and would give it a good go at a couple of the others, but probably wasn’t going to triumph at the French Open. I presumed, however, that he never said never.
‘How are you going to approach your match with this Rambetti guy, then?’ I asked casually, hoping he would answer me before he realised what I was trying to do.
‘Federico is a master of the unexpected,’ said Marcus, leaning forward, warming to his subject. ‘He does these stealth drop shots that are almost impossible to reach, although not so much on clay, and he has a great spin on his backhand.’
‘Interesting,’ I said. ‘So you’ll be doing what to try and beat him tomorrow?’
‘You wouldn’t be trying to coax my game plan out of me, would you?’
