Despite what I’d initially believed, I didn’t think Marcus’s team were walking on eggshells around him. I’d felt a bit like I was at first, but I was nowhere near as worried about upsetting him or saying the wrong thing now as I had been at the beginning. I hadn’t once seen him be unpleasant to any member of his team and, to my knowledge, his anger was always internalised. Or taken out on a racquet, obviously, but never a fellow human. Actually, that wasn’t strictly true. There had been linesmen, umpires, ball boys and noisy spectators who had all felt the wrath of Marcus Taylor. So why did I feel so confident that he wasn’t going to take it out on me?
He picked up his racquet bag and started walking towards the exit. As he passed Anton Bauer, who was sitting at a table with his team, Anton stood up and shook Marcus’s hand.
‘Commiserations, man. Close call.’
Marcus put his hand over Anton’s. ‘Thanks, man.’
As he walked on, I glanced at Dean. Was I supposed to be going after him? Because it really didn’t seem like he wanted me to and I—
‘Are you coming, Ava?’
Marcus was waiting for me by the door. A little self-conscious, suddenly, I hurried across the room to join him.
We held hands automatically as we stepped out of the stadium and headed for the pick-up area where a line of flashy black Mercedes minivans was waiting, presumably to whisk players back to their hotels whenever they desired. Behind a rope stood around twenty photographers, who immediately started flashing away and calling Marcus’s name. I thought I felt him squeeze my hand as we ignored them and got into our van. The driver slid the door shut behind us, enveloping us in a dark, quiet cocoon that smelled of leather with a hint of pine. Marcus threw himself back in his seat, looking up at the ceiling.
‘Well, that was a fucking train wreck,’ he said.
I thought about how best to answer. And then I thought I’d just say how I felt and to hell with the consequences.
‘You played really well,’ I said, turning to him as we began to drive slowly out of the stadium. Fans were staring at us through the glass, not able to tell who was inside because of the blacked-out windows, although one of them took a photo anyway.
‘I did not, Ava. And the most frustrating thing is, I had it all up here,’ he said, jabbing his finger on his temple. ‘I knew what I needed to do to beat him, I understood the shots I needed to make, but when it came down to it, I failed dismally to execute them.’
‘Okay, but that’s always going to happen, right? There’s going to be things you do well, that you’re proud of, that surprise you about yourself. And then at the same time you’re going to makemistakes. Some shots are not going to work out the way you would have liked them to.’
‘I want to play the perfect game, that’s what I strive for, what I’ve always aimed for.’
‘I know,’ I said, wanting to show him that I understood. I knew nothing about elite-level sports, of course I didn’t, but in my own way I was striving to be perfect too – with my sister, in my own career. I’d gone back and read articles I’d written and thought they were awful. But it never felt as bad as I could see this felt for Marcus.
‘You get used to losing,’ said Marcus. ‘But some losses hurt more than others, and this is one of them.’
I nodded. ‘You’ll be okay,’ I said.
I patted his knee lightly and although I was planning to remove it again, I felt the need to leave it there. We sat in silence for a minute or two, both of us looking out of our own windows as we drove along the streets of Paris. And then suddenly I felt him put his hand on top of mine. Curl his fingers in between my fingers. I squeezed hard, still looking out of the window, not able to take in the view now because all I could think about were the very pleasant sensations shooting up my arm and into my body, my mouth, my head. His hand was warm and strong. I could hear him breathing, quickly, gently, but I thought I might be holding my breath. I had the sense that he needed me to keep squeezing him and I wanted to do that for him, wanted to do anything to make him feel even the tiniest bit better about losing today.
‘I like having you around,’ he said after a while, his eyes not moving from the window.
I turned to look at him, even if he couldn’t meet my eye, nodding gently. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
The Queen’s Club Championships
Chapter Seventeen
It took me a while to settle into the normality of being back in London. Marcus had been in the south of France with Patrick, preparing for the grass court season, so we hadn’t seen each other for nearly two weeks, although there’d been the odd text back and forth. Dean had flown back to LA but had sent a message to say that our plan was working – there had been some good press coverage around Roland-Garros, not only of Marcus and I together, but of Marcus’s performance against Tomas Horvat. I’d acclimatised to seeing photos of myself sitting on the sidelines of the court. The press had taken a shot of me cheering Marcus on in Paris and I’d realised that my emotions in those moments had become completely authentic. I wanted to support him; I wanted him to do well.
Zoe had sent me a set of photos of us walking in the Place des Vosges after the cooking class, pictures I hadn’t even known existed. It still surprised me that images could be so misleading – it was dark, so they were pretty grainy, and I had the impression they’d been taken by a member of the public rather than by a professional paparazzo. Even so, we looked as though we were staring love-struck into each other’s eyes for the entirety of the evening, mesmerised by the sheer sight of each other, his arm around my shoulders, mine slung around his waist. I hadn’t even remembered walking like that, it had felt so natural and easy, and, okay, we’d had a glass of wine or two, but sincewhen had we acted like a proper couple when we weren’t even sure anyone was watching? No shots had surfaced of us kissing outside the entrance to my hotel, however, meaning that little set-up had all been for nothing. Not that kissing him had exactly been a hardship. And ithadreminded me that kissing someone you didn’t know that well could actually be quite nice, and that I could kiss random people now, if I wanted. Except that there was our agreement – I had a strong sense of not wanting to undermine everything Marcus and I had been trying to achieve. Our mission had had the desired effect for me – I’d succeeded in making Charlie jealous, and it had been much less satisfying than I’d thought it would be. I’d realised I couldn’t forgive Charlie for the way in which he’d left me and also that there had been cracks in our relationship that I’d never even noticed because it had been enough for me that he was a nice guy with a nice family. But we weren’t quite there with Marcus and his sponsorship deals. Dean said a few brands had been in touch to indicate that Marcus was back on their radar, but nothing was definite, and so for now our arrangement would remain.
I caught up with Marcus for the first time out on one of the practice courts, the day before his first match at Queen’s. The club was in West Kensington, slap-bang in the middle of a residential area made up of beautiful four-storey townhouses that probably cost about eight million pounds each. The site was tiny compared to Roland-Garros and had the sort of neighbourhood tennis club vibe of the Monte-Carlo tournament, except with a stuffy, high-end London feel and crappier weather. I’d never seen Marcus play on grass before – he said his game was better on this surface than it was on clay, but when I took a seat on a bench to watch him hitting with Patrick, it looked exactly the same to me. Had he said the ball bounced faster or slower on grass? I honestly couldn’t tell.
When he saw me, he said something to Patrick about taking a quick break and ran over, perching on the bench next to me. He stuck his long, bronzed legs, contrasted perfectly by his pristine white socks and white trainers, out in front of him. He was sporting almost indecently short shorts in the same silky material as the tracksuit bottoms he’d worn the very first time I met him on the plane, and a white T-shirt topped with the white Monte-Carlo Country Club cap I’d seen him in once before. It was a simple yet phenomenally effective combination. I knew Marcus had been training hard over the last couple of weeks and I could see that it had paid off – the shoulder muscles just visible beneath his T-shirt looked a little more defined and I was almost certain that his arms, still tanned from months of travelling in our winter, were a little bigger on the bicep.
‘It’s lovely here,’ I said, looking around. ‘I’m actually quite looking forward to the tournament.’
He frowned at me, his eyes in teasing mode. ‘Ava, are you getting into tennis?’
‘Now, that would be telling.’
‘How have you been?’ he asked, looking sideways at me.
