‘Because if you’re going to weigh in on who I’m seeing, it’s only fair I get to do the same,’ I said. He couldn’t argue with that, could he?
‘But the thing is, Ava, I didn’t call to talk about me. We were talking about you and that ... Neanderthal,’ said Charlie, the king of deflecting questions he didn’t want to answer.
I pinched the top of my nose, trying to keep calm. I didn’t think screaming down the phone would be appropriate in the champagne bar at the French Open.
‘You know what, Charlie? I think I’m going to go. Because I literally don’t care about your opinion of Marcus – you’re not dating him, are you,Iam. And for your information, he is far more than just a man who gets angry on court. He’s an elite athlete, more dedicated and hard-working than a single other person I’ve ever met. And he’s actually very kind, and charming, and he listens – really listens – when you talk. And he’s interested in me, which I have to say you stopped being towards the end of our relationship. So I’m actually very happy. Goodbye, Charlie.’
I went to hang up, feeling powerful and in control and also slightly reeling from the fact that I’d managed to name several things I liked about Marcus without even having to think about it.
‘Ava, please. I’m sorry,’ said Charlie, changing his tone, the aggression of a few moments ago gone. Now he just sounded desperate. What waswrongwith him? Why did he care so much? Surely he should be putting all his energy into his new ‘relationship’ – because I was presuming it was official, and that it wasn’t just a string of sexy nights away in boutique hotels.
‘I think there’s little point in prolonging this conversation,’ I said, keen to get off the phone. Marcus might be ready to leave in a minute, and Dean wanted us to head back to the car together because this was a super-high-profile event and there were press here from all over the world, although I was pretty sure Marcus wouldn’t be in the mood for photos. He probably just wanted to be alone.
‘I miss you,’ said Charlie. ‘There. I’ve said it.’
I put my hand across my mouth, not quite believing what I was hearing. These were the words I’d imagined him saying over and over in the dark days after he first left; the reassurance from him I’d needed in the two weeks after he’d moved out, when he refused to answer my texts at all.Nowhe missed me. And I missed him too, but surely that was inevitable after spending four years with someone. Did it mean more than that, for either of us?
‘It’s probably a bit late for all that,’ I said, wondering if I meant it or if I just didn’t want to let him off the hook that easily. I didn’t know, I couldn’t think straight.
‘Don’t you still think about me? About us?’ he asked, sounding a little bit tearful.
‘Sometimes,’ I replied, although it was less and less as time went on.
‘Too busy thinking about Marcus Taylor?’ he mumbled.
‘Something like that. On which note, he’s just finished a match and we’ll be heading back to his hotel in a minute.’
‘I saw he lost,’ said Charlie spitefully.
Why was he looking up tennis results? He was a football man through and through and I’d never once seen him show interest in racquet sports of any kind.
‘It was a very close match,’ I said. ‘He played brilliantly,’ I felt the need to add.
‘So what now?’ asked Charlie. ‘Can we meet up when you’re back? Go for a drink or something? I really need to talk to you.’
I had a flashback to the night he announced he didn’t want to be with me anymore. How I’d begged him –beggedhim – to sleep on it, to take the time to help me understand exactly what had gone wrong.
‘You had your chance to talk and you point-blank refused,’ I said, tears springing up at the memory.
‘I’m sorry, Ava. I handled it really badly, I can see that now,’ he said.
‘You couldn’t wait to leave!’ I said, wiping a rogue tear away with the sleeve of my cardigan. It still stung that he’d left with so little regard for my feelings, after the years –goodyears – we’d spent together. ‘You couldn’t even give me until morning. You made me feel as though I was nothing to you.’
‘No, Ava. That wasn’t it, I just—’
‘So no, Charlie. I don’t want to meet up with you. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me again.’
I ended the call, resisting the urge to sob because ... photos. Marcus. I pulled myself together and went to find him.
It took a while for my heartbeat to return to normal as I sat quietly with the team in the players’ lounge. Dean was up and down taking calls from LA, and Nick was with Marcus. Patrick had told me Marcus had had a wrist injury four years ago that flared up occasionally, which was why Nick travelled with him everywhere. At great expense, I imagined. Apparently, the press conference had gone well – Marcus had admitted feeling regret over the way he’d acted over the line call, which I thought was something different from him. When I’d seen recordings of post-match interviews before, he’d appeared to show little remorse, bangingon about pressure and blaming the umpire/spectators/the weather and anyone else but himself. Perhaps, despite the setback, he was making progress after all.
When Marcus appeared, I knew immediately that he was beating himself up about losing. There was something different about the way he walked, about the dead look behind his eyes. Of course, it could just be exhaustion – I hoped it was – but I suspected there was something more. The second Grand Slam of the year and he’d been knocked out in round two, and perhaps in his mind it made little difference by whom, or how hard he’d fought for it. It meant he potentially only had two more chances to fulfil his dream of winning another Grand Slam this year – Wimbledon and the US Open – and what if he couldn’t? What then? Would he try again the following season? Or would he be able to accept that everything else he’d achieved already was enough?
Marcus nodded at me and then turned to Dean.
‘Is my car ready?’
‘It is,’ said Dean, giving him a sympathetic smile.
