‘You didn’t spend the night together, then?’
The female half of the couple glanced in my direction and I hurriedly picked up my phone, taking Zoe off speakerphonetout de suite.
‘You’ve seen the selfie, haven’t you?’ I said.
‘Oh, weallhave,’ said Zoe knowingly.
‘It was Marcus’s idea,’ I said, deciding that throwing him under the bus was the best way to get Zoe off my back.
I sat back in my seat, my mouth watering as a plate of delicious-smelling, warm, buttery croissants was served to the man seated next to me. Would it be too much to order one of those after I’d finished this? If you couldn’t have double carbs for breakfast in Paris, when could you? It wasn’t likeIwas playing tennis.
‘The point is, I thought you were pretending and then I see this shot of the two of you looking really into each other. And you’ve got that smug, smitten look you used to get when you first got together with Charlie. And Marcus is smiling. You told me he never smiles. What had you said to him that was so funny?’
She was putting me off my breakfast here. There would have been little point in posting on social media andnotlooking loved-up. I suppose what worried me was that I didn’t remember having to fake it. I remembered his thigh sliding into place next to mine, the way my head had felt on his shoulder. The way his beard had tickled the top of my head. Why hadn’t it felt more difficult? I was supposed to be impartial, or at the very least feel nothing more than mild journalistic interest. Was it possible that I’d been having such a good time, I hadn’t actually needed to remember to act like I was?
‘We decided to up our game,’ I said. ‘And I know I’ve said this about a million times now, but you haven’t said anything to anyone, have you? About it all being a set-up?’
‘Ava, you can trust me, you know that. All I’m saying is, I see what I see. And he’s smoking hot, so I wouldn’t blame you if you did start falling for him.’
‘I’m not falling for him.’
What a ridiculous suggestion.
‘Is he a good kisser?’ asked Zoe.
Yes, yes, yes.
‘Can we change the subject?’ I said, irritated now and wishing I’d never picked up her call. Way to ruin a perfectly good breakfast platter!
After managing to get rid of Zoe and rushing to finish my breakfast, which was slightly less appealing than it had been before she’d put stupid ideas in my head, I wandered down to the Metro and navigated my way out to Porte d’Auteuil, which was the nearest station to the stadium. It was packed. Everywhere! And after it took me about ten minutes to make it up the steps to street level, I realised I’d arrived at the exact same time as the approximately thirty thousand other people who were also going to watch tennis today, many of whom, I imagined, would be here to see Marcus take on Tomas Horvat on the iconic court Philippe-Chatrier. I spotted an entrance for press and decided that needs must – I got out my accreditation lanyard and swept past the queues, feeling mildly bad about it but also not wanting to miss anything that might be useful for my piece.
Our seats on Philippe-Chatrier were sensational – the court housed just over fifteen thousand people and the stands were filling up fast. We were in Marcus’s players’ box, two rows from the front, and slightly raised for a better view. Tubs of pretty cerise flowers divided the spectators from the court itself, which was that dusty red clay again. It had been raked until it was perfectly smooth, with no hint of the scuffing and sliding and (potentially) racquet smashing that was about to ensueon its hallowed surface. Behind me were rows of what I presumed were the VIP seats that rich tennis fans paid thousands of euros to acquire. Like at Monte-Carlo, they were housed in little booths that I’d learned were calledlogesbut still didn’t know why. As I settled into my seat next to Dean, my phone vibrated in my bag. I ignored it at first, focusing on taking in the atmosphere, the buzz of a match about to begin. But then it rang again. I opened my bag, fishing around for my phone.Charlie Calling. I frowned at my screen – this was everything I’d wanted, wasn’t it? For him to have seen the photos and have had some sort of jealous reaction to them, prompting him to beg for forgiveness and ask to move back in? And yet now it was actually happening, the moment of triumph I’d imagined felt strangely underwhelming. I thought about Marcus preparing to walk out on to the court and rejected Charlie’s call – I could hardly talk to him now anyway, could I, there were signs everywhere saying no mobile phones allowed.
‘Here we go,’ said Dean, as the umpire came out on court to a smattering of applause. Smartly dressed in a navy blazer and white polo shirt combo, he appeared to be enjoying the attention and gave the crowd a jaunty little wave. He didn’t go up to his chair, choosing instead to chat to a couple of the ball boys and ball girls who had also made their way out to stand on the sidelines of the court. I wondered how excited they’d been about today, whether they were young tennis players themselves about to be inspired by seeing two of the world’s best players battling it out right in front of them, while doing the complicated ball scooping and throwing routines they’d been taught. A row of TV cameras and photographers took up the front row of one full length of the court. I wondered if it was being broadcast in the UK and if my dad was watching.
On a big screen, footage of Marcus walking along a bright white corridor suddenly appeared. The crowd went wild, knowing we were about to begin. He had a white sports bag over each shoulder and was gently stretching his neck, first one way then the other. The camerastayed on him as he climbed a set of stairs, his trainers squeaking on the lino floor, and when he paused at the top, which was presumably just inside the tunnel, it zoomed in for an extreme close-up of his face. I looked up at the rows and rows of people and wondered how Marcus could do this – how he had the confidence to get out there in front of all these people. How could he keep his focus with so many eyes on him? I thought that for the first time I truly understood the pressure he was under – it wasn’t about the money, or at least I didn’t think it was just that. He was fighting for a place in history, the career milestone he craved, the second Grand Slam title that would prove to him and everyone else that his Australian Open win eight years ago had not been a fluke. I crossed my fingers in my lap, sending a wish out into the universe that he would win today, that he would triumph in front of all these people. Marcus, who perhaps was thinking something similar himself, was looking straight ahead, jogging lightly on the spot, kitted out in the mint-green shorts and white top with the Lacoste logo that looked so good on him but that he wouldn’t be wearing next season once they’d snatched their sponsorship deal out from under him. Over the speaker system, an enthusiastic male voice spoke only in French. I didn’t understand any of it except Marcus’s name at the end and he began to walk, appearing at the corner of the court mere seconds later. Pumping dance music blared out as he waved at the crowd, only a smattering of whom were on their feet, although he seemed to be getting a slightly better reception than he had at Monte-Carlo. His name had been beamed on to the digital advertising boards around the perimeter of the court and was flashing in fluorescent pink font:Marcus Taylor, Marcus Taylor, Marcus Taylor.I clapped my heart out for him, as Dean and Patrick whooped next to me, and then I went for it and whooped too, immediately feeling self-conscious and reining myself in.
‘Come on, Marcus!’ yelled Dean.
His opponent had appeared on the screen and was now making the same journey Marcus had, along the corridor and up the steps.Tomas Horvat was German, had cheekbones that could cut glass and looked so young that perhaps in another life he would have been lying on the sofa gaming while recovering from an all-nighter. The crowd roared as he entered the court; strange that he was getting a much bigger reception than Marcus. He was world number one, I supposed, a bigger name, so perhaps it made sense that hardcore tennis fans would be more excited to see him, but I still felt for Marcus. And then I reminded myself that he was able to block all of this noise out – that he became selfish, ruthless, intent only on winning the game. According to him, he couldn’t care less whether people booed or cheered, he was there to do a job, and carrying that out to the best of his ability was the only thing that mattered.
Both men began unpacking their bags. Marcus walked over to what looked like a chest freezer (if chest freezers were sponsored by Perrier) at the side of the court and pulled out several white towels. There seemed to be constant movement in the crowds – latecomers arriving and struggling to locate their seats, others deciding that now was the perfect time to get up and use the bathroom. Wasn’t all of this distracting for the players?
Once they’d warmed up, the umpire called them in for the toss. Marcus won and chose to serve.
‘He is sending an early message to Horvat,’ I heard Patrick say.
I presumed that the message was that he was not to be intimidated, but it was just a guess.
My phone buzzed again in my bag.
With two balls balanced on his racquet, Marcus took his place on the baseline, sliding one into his pocket and taking the other in his hand. Horvat prepared to receive – he was right-handed like Marcus, which was good, because I’d learned that playing a left-hander threw up awhole other set of challenges. There was a burst of slow clapping until the umpire asked everyone to be quiet and near silence fell over the stadium, although there was still a palpable, fizzing atmosphere in the air. A duo of ball girls took their crouched positions at either side of the net. Several rogue camera flashes popped and then all eyes were on Marcus as he bounced the ball (seven times, I counted) and tossed it into the air.
His first serve was deep and long, almost hitting the back line of the serving box. Horvat returned it easily, sending it cross court to Marcus’s forehand. Marcus whipped it straight down the line on to Horvat’s backhand – he, in turn, sent it sailing diagonally back over the net. Marcus repositioned himself so that he could use his backhand to hit deep. It must have been as powerful as it looked because Horvat sliced a clunky-looking shot into the net.Fifteen-Love.
Marcus served again – it went long. I knew he’d been working on his second serve with Patrick, so hopefully he was feeling better about it. He went again, only just getting it over the net, but it was in. Horvat returned long to the baseline. Marcus sent it across to Horvat’s backhand – he seemed to be focusing on that side, was this Horvat’s weakness? Was this part of Marcus’s secret game plan? Horvat had manoeuvred himself around so that he was there waiting on the forehand and he sliced it straight down the middle of the court. Somehow Marcus must have anticipated where the ball would land because he was right there, using his forehand to send the ball into the now wide-open space in Horvat’s right corner. Horvat charged across the court, hitting a diagonal shot to Marcus’s own right corner, putting him off-balance and way outside of the tram lines as he lunged to reach it. He placed it in Horvat’s mid-court. A more controlled Horvat hit a sneaky drop shot that had Marcus charging into the net, sliding across the clay to scoop it up before it bounced a second time. Horvat was waiting at the net to volley it straight back. It looked like it was going to sail right over Marcus’s head, but at the last second Marcus spun around, reached for the ball and did a sort of backhand flick over his rightshoulder at such a steep angle that Horvat had no chance of returning it. The crowd roared.Thirty-Love.I whooped again, I couldn’t help myself. And then I released the breath I’d been holding for the entire point. Marcus was playing well, really well. If he carried on like this, he was in with a chance. And I knew that he would be thinking the same thing and that this would give him the boost he needed to push on.
Marcus took the first set 6-4. Tomas beat him in the second, 7-5.
