I played it down, giving a little unenthusiastic sigh. ‘I won’t get much time to myself. And I’m not there for long, so I’ll be writing or interviewing most of the time.’
‘You can say, you know,’ said Cassie, her expression softening.
‘Say what?’
‘That you’re looking forward to seeing Marcus. That you like him. That you’re excited about Paris. I won’t fall apart if you do.’
I frowned. This was an extremely unusual reaction. Perhaps she was fishing so she could report back to Mum.
‘I haven’t seen him for a while, Cass. I don’t even know if we’ll—’
‘Stop trying to hide things from me. I know you’re into him, I can see it, and it’s fine. Honestly. I’m a big girl. Sure, it would have been nice to be single at the same time for a bit. We didn’t even get to have a girls’ night out together before you jumped right back into a relationship again.’
‘I wouldn’t say it was a relationship,’ I said.
‘Whatever you want to call it. I’m happy for you.’
I didn’t think she’d ever said the wordsI’m happy for youto me, not once, not ever.
‘Are you feeling okay, Cass?’ I asked.
She reached out and squeezed my hand.
‘I’m fine. Now go and get ready for your trip. I appreciate you coming all the way out here for my birthday, but if I was going to Paris the next morning, I wouldn’t have done that for you.’
Obviously, I thought.
I wondered briefly if these walks or whatever she was doing were helping. She definitely seemed more content in herself; she must be, to have said the things she just said. As I left the room, promising her a small gift from Paris, I felt lighter than I had since the day she was born. She was twenty-seven now and perhaps edging closer to thirty had given her the push she needed to finally start looking after herself. My phone pinged in my pocket as I put my shoes and coat on before poking my head around the lounge door to say goodbye to Mum and Dad. I checked my notifications, in case they’d cancelled my Eurostar or something. It wasn’t about the train, though; it was a message from Marcus – I’d saved his number in my phone for official reasons, but until now we hadn’t sent each other a single message, preferring – or at least having got into the habit of – communicating via Dean.
Ava, looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. Also, would you be free for a Parisian cooking class and wine-tasting the day after?!
My heart did that thing where it felt like it skipped a beat and then produced an extra intense one to make up for it – it was the first time his name had popped up on my phone like that, that was all. I hadn’t been expecting it. And acooking class?Dean had obviously booked it for us, but I was surprised Marcus had agreed to it. I went back and forth over how to respond. What wasn’t to like about a fun activity in Paris, and if we really were going to get the public on side with my ‘girl-next-door’ appeal, what couldlooksweeter and more romantic? I drafted a message and, after spending ages editing and re-editing it, I sent back what I hoped was an achingly cool response.
Nice idea. Let me check my work schedule and get back to you.
Chapter Fourteen
Marcus’s first-round match had been unexpectedly postponed due to a rain delay and instead of playing the previous night, he was now on first the following morning. It had meant that on arrival in Paris, I’d spent a delightful afternoon and evening at Résidence Juliette, a quaint, dimly lit boutique hotel in beautiful, buzzing Le Marais. The enormous bed had had the smoothest, whitest sheets I’d ever slept in, and even this morning they’d been practicallybeggingme to lie back down on them. But Marcus was on at 10 a.m., so I was going to have to grab some breakfast and head straight over to Roland-Garros.
The receptionist ordered me a taxi and as soon as I got in the car I wound down the window, enjoying the early summer heat and the views of the Eiffel Tower over the other side of the river – it was much warmer here than it had been in London when I left and I put my sunglasses on, nonchalantly letting my cardigan slip off one shoulder, hoping I was suitably dressed for my first ever Grand Slam. I thought I was getting a little better at looking the part – today I had on a navy-and-white floral mini dress, black patent ballet flats and a fake Chanel handbag, which I’d slung across my body, plus a white cardigan in case the weather turned. I’d attempted to put my hair up into one of those French-style messy buns with bits hanging loose, and it had taken me ages to do and in fact I’d successfully managed it only when I’d givenup, shoving my hair on top of my head in frustration without even looking in the mirror.
The taxi wasn’t able to get close to the stadium because of the crowds. Who knew this many people liked tennis? Swathes of fans were heading up to the grounds, tickets clasped in their hands, the women mostly dressed a little bit like me (this was good). The level of security had been upped several notches from Monte-Carlo, including the presence of police officers with guns poised and seemingly ready to use them. I got out my phone, checking Dean’s instructions: I was to follow signs for press accreditation, pick up my credentials and meet the team in the players’ lounge.
The Stade Roland-Garros was around ten times bigger than the Monte-Carlo site and was a modern, purpose-built stadium named after a French aviator who had died aged twenty-nine after his plane was shot down in the First World War. The complex consisted of twenty courts, the biggest of which was Philippe-Chatrier – I wasn’t sure whohewas and made a mental note to check, because if Marcus got through to the second round, he’d be playing on it, apparently. Today he was on one of the smaller outside courts, which was another reason to be happy about the sun and the wispy white clouds skimming across blue sky. The grounds smelled like geraniums and Sauvignon blanc and I didn’t immediately hear a single British voice, although I was sure there must be some. I’d read the French were particularly passionate about their tennis, often booing players from other countries before they’d even begun. This, I was sure, would not please Marcus.
Once I’d passed through all the necessary security checks, attempting to use my exceptionally bad French and in the end reverting to English about ninety per cent of the time, I found my way to the lounge via a long white corridor. On the walls was an impressive display of photos of past French Open winners that you would definitely have felt inspired by if you were in any way athletically inclined. I admired their winning spirit, even if I’d never been competitive aboutanything in my life. I would have taken a video for my dad if I didn’t think that getting caught recording footage might get me thrown off the premises. I had to actively remember to breathe when I walked into the lounge and saw some of the faces I’d just seen displayed in the corridor. My eyes darted back and forth, looking for Marcus or a member of his team, desperately seeking a face I recognised. It took me ages to get my bearings and just as I thought I was going to have to turn back around and leave, I heard somebody call my name.
‘Ava! We are over here!’
Patrick had spotted me. Relieved, I scraped together the last vestiges of my confidence and scuttled over to join him. He nodded a greeting as I approached, then Dean stood up to give me an LA-style air kiss.
‘Marcus and Nick are finishing their warm-up in the gym,’ said Dean. ‘They should be out shortly. I know Marcus wanted to say hi.’
Patrick looked surprised – he wasn’t in on our fake-romance “arrangement”, presumably, and probably wondered why Marcus would care if I was here or not. I had mixed feelings about starting all of this up again, anyway, especially as for a second I’d actually thought Dean had meant it when he said that Marcus wanted to see me. It had given me a little burst of happiness I hadn’t been expecting and I’d swiftly had to bring myself crashing back down to earth with a harsh reminder that this was all for show, even if our (fake) moments of intimacy had begun to flow more freely in Monte Carlo. Holding Marcus’s hand when there were paparazzi around had become second nature, but it had been weeks without any contact now and obviously if we had been dating for real, there would have been phone calls and FaceTimes and morning texts, and messages before we went to bed, or was that just me? I was now going to have to fake a connection from the beginning again and we couldn’t afford to ease into it. Amanda Eddington had been checking in regularly and I’d been forced to give the same vague answers to her as I had to everyone else:Marcus is awayat the moment in Europe. We’re taking it easy, but things are going really well, yes.Zoe was literally the only person I could be completely honest with. Although, saying that, I hadn’t mentioned the super-hot pressed-together-in-a-lift situation to her – if I let on that I’d felt attracted to Marcus, even for what had amounted to less than ten seconds, she was going to have anI told you it was a bad ideafield day.
I grabbed myself a pleasingly frothy cappuccino and listened to Dean and Patrick chatting away – unsurprisingly – about tennis, chipping in when I could, relaying how much UK press coverage there’d been around the Madrid Open and the Italian Open in Rome and the kinds of stories I’d seen printed about Marcus. They tended to be around the theme of shock – shock that Marcus had made it that far in a clay tournament, and shock that he’d lost a match without at some point smashing a racquet. Dean seemed pleased with this intel.
‘We want the press focusing on his achievements, not on how many times he saidfuckout on court,’ said Dean.
