Great. No wonder she was livid at the thought of him dating me.
As the taxi pulled up outside the restaurant, I felt like Julia Roberts inPretty Woman, albeit with a slightly more salubrious job. The restaurant was housed in an ornate building that looked exactly like the photos I’d seen of the casino. It had been front-lit in a sultry red light and looked like something out of a movie, with its sweeping staircase and firepits blazing on either side of the entrance. Uniformed valets scurried about outside as a string of unbelievably expensive cars waited ahead of us to be parked – they were out in force tonight, the Ferraris, the Lamborghinis, their engines roaring, their reds and yellows and golds popping against the night sky.
‘Wow,’ I said.
‘Flashy, isn’t it?’ said Marcus, as our car came to a stop.
‘Are we really going to do this?’ I blurted out as he reached for the door handle.
A cluster of paparazzi was already crouched at the bottom of the steps, ready to pounce, and I realised that if we were photographed together now there would be no going back. And I didn’t want us to have a sort of will-we/won’t-we moment in full view of everyone, I wanted to be clear – were we walking into the restaurant as ourselves, as Marcus Taylor, tennis star, and the anonymous woman who was interviewing him? Or were we pretending to be something more? Something more intimate? Something that would require me to revisit my somewhat rusty acting skills?
‘We’re doing it,’ he said, catching my eye. ‘Aren’t we?’
I breathed in sharply, my heart suddenly racing, although I wasn’t sure why. This could get back to my family now; to Charlie. And I was going to have to be prepared to lie – or at least avoid telling the truth – to the people closest to me. Could I really do that? It felt like maybe I could, but what kind of person did that make me?
‘Let’s go, then,’ I said, bracing myself and swinging open my door.
Chapter Eleven
When Marcus came around to help me out of the car, I noticed he was wearing yet another beautifully tailored jacket, this time over a camel-coloured cashmere jumper with black jeans; the combination looked annoyingly slick. As he held his hand out for me to take, I swivelled in my seat, smoothing down the fabric of the white linen shift dress I was wearing – an H&M summer sale special – thinking about keeping my knees together, because wasn’t that a classic, getting out of a car and being ‘papped’ with far too much on show? Not that I’d know; not that I’d everneededto know. And then, as if in slow motion, because that was how it felt for some reason, I took his hand. It was big and warm and steady, and I held on to it for dear life as he half pulled me out of the car. He led me up on to the kerb and slammed the door shut behind me.
He bent to whisper in my ear. ‘Ready?’
I squeezed his hand as a yes.
The entrance to Coco Bay was not doing things by halves, with a spotless bright-red carpet leading up to it that made it feel as though we were going to the Oscars and not to dinner. Blinded by camera flashes and rendered mute, I was aware of a few things as we made our way up the steps: my gold drop earrings swinging back and forth, knocking gently against myjawline; my heels sinking into the carpet; my hot palm pressed against Marcus’s cool one. Everything else was a massive blur.
Marcus, who’s that with you? Is this your new girlfriend? Did you meet on the circuit? Marcus, put your arm around your girlfriend, will you? Go on!
Marcus ignored them and kept walking, looking straight ahead. I tried to follow suit but had the distinct impression that I might have looked a little more rabbit in the headlights than cool and detached, a much-practised look that Marcus was pulling off with aplomb. After all, I’d never had people take photos of me arriving at an event before, why would they? Who had?!
The front door of the restaurant, which had seemed so far away when we’d got out of the car, was suddenly within touching distance. A doorman swung open the door to let us through and Marcus dropped my hand, placing it on the small of my back instead as he guided me inside. The door closed behind us and for a second it was just him and me in the relatively quiet space of the restaurant’s foyer, the pop of the cameras out of sight although not entirely out of earshot.
‘You okay?’ he asked, looking down at me.
‘Not sure yet,’ I answered honestly.
And then the extremely beautiful twenty-something maître d’ swanned up to us, exuding effortless French Riviera chic in a black trouser suit with nothing underneath. I felt a shot of envy for her confidence (and her flawless make-up) as she led us through the dimly lit, velvet-clad restaurant and showed us to our table, where Dean, Patrick, Nick and Mia were waiting. As we passed one table, Marcus waved to the people on it, one of whom was a player I recognised, although his name escaped me. I had a horrible feeling that I was going to have to up my research or risk making a humiliating faux pas.
Marcus didn’t take my hand again, which was probably just as well, since Mia was already glaring at us as we arrived at the table. I didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes, or more importantly, hurt anyone’s feelings. That wasn’t what this was about – there should be no collateral damage, in fact the only people we could potentially be hurting were the two of us, and we knew what we’d metaphorically signed up for, so on our heads be it. Strange that he was the only other person who knew how all of this felt, and yet it wasn’t exactly the same for him – whether he professed to hate it or not, he was used to being in the spotlight, but for me, it was the total opposite of my real life back in London, where I could walk down the street (when I wasn’t in a self-imposed solitary confinement) and not one person would have a clue who I was. In actual, real life I was pretty much invisible, and I wasn’t sure if that was how I liked it, or just how it had always been and I’d got used to it. I fleetingly thought back to my only experience of ‘fame’, not that you could have called it that at all. I’d been aged seventeen and in sixth form at Reading Comprehensive School and I’d somehow winged the lead in the end-of-year production ofPygmalion. I’d aced it, I knew I had, because everyone except my parents told me so. I’d toyed with the idea of acting as a career for ages after that; considered what it might be like to go to drama school instead of to university. There had been something addictive about all eyes being on me, of turning into somebody else for an hour and a half and having people watch me and enjoy my performance. But yeah, after weeks of my family banging on about what a terrible idea being an actress was, the sheen had come off and I’d given up on that little dream. Sometimes I felt annoyed with myself for being too cowardly to inform everyone in no uncertain terms that I wanted to be an actor and that I was going to go for it, no matter what they thought.
I was beginning to panic a bit as Marcus and his team ordered more and more food for the table and I started totting up the bill in my head – according to the self-important red leather menu, mains were around forty euros each and they’d ordered at least eight of them, plus several starters and two bottles of wine, which I could only hope were placed somewhere towards the top of the wine list and not at the eye-wateringly expensive bottom.
‘Ava, tell us about yourself. Dean says you’re a writer?’ said Mia, eyeballing me accusingly, as though Dean had made that up and I was there purely to get my clutches into Marcus and his presumably quite hefty bank balance.
‘That’s right,’ I said, only slightly distracted by the fact that Marcus’s knee was currently resting rather satisfyingly against mine. Was this part of the show, or were his legs just so long that touching was inevitable when seated around a dinner table? ‘I’m writing a profile on Marcus forLuxemagazine.’
‘Get you, with all the publicity,’ Mia said to Marcus. She turned to Dean. ‘When are you going to getmean exclusive interview in a glossy magazine?’
‘Working on it, Mia,’ said Dean, in a soothing tone. ‘I’m in talks withVanity Fairas we speak.’
‘Maybe I need to smash a few more racquets?’ said Mia, smiling sweetly at Marcus. ‘That’s clearly what a woman needs to do to get noticed around here.’
‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ said Dean. ‘And Marcus is going to try controlling his temper on court from now on, aren’t you, Marcus?’
‘Try being the operative word,’ he mumbled.
‘We have been working on it in training,’ said Patrick, looking up from perusing the menu. ‘He is very hard on himself, Ava, did you notice?’
