‘You look,’ I said. ‘Tell me what he says.’
Marcus scanned the message and did a sort of angry half-laugh.
‘Well, that’s not happening,’ he said.
‘What isn’t?’
‘He wants us to go to a gala dinner together – one of the tournament sponsors is holding an event at Claridge’s tomorrow night. He’s booked us a room.’
‘Oneroom?’ I asked, aghast.
‘Yep,’ he said, putting his phone away. ‘We can tell him no, obviously.’
Our phones pinged again. I looked at mine this time, reading out Dean’s message.
‘He says: Guys, I know you’re about to say no way, but bear this in mind – Lacoste are close to being back in. But they like Marcus in a couple. Think it will appeal to their slightly older clientele, guys in their thirties and forties who aren’t hanging out in bars picking up girls, they’re at home with their wives and girlfriends and kids. Having the two of you photographed at an event like this could totally seal the deal.’
Great.Really?
‘He’s very persuasive, isn’t he?’ I said eventually.
‘I think that’s what you might call an understatement. Thoughts?’ asked Marcus, staring out at the court, which I was glad of, because the thought of spending a night in a hotel room – at Claridge’s – with him was making my cheeks burn. Scrap that,everythingwas burning!
‘I’m thinking we should go. How bad could it be? And now you’ve explained to me why the sponsorship deals are so important to you, I really want to help you get them back.’
‘But what’s in it for you?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. It will probably involve a really intense question that you’re going to feel obliged to answer because I’ve been so very accommodating with this whole thing.’
He laughed softly. ‘After this, I deserve the most difficult set of questions you can possibly come up with.’
He stood up. Patrick was setting up cans at the back of the court that presumably Marcus was going to have to knock over.
‘I guess I’ll see you tomorrow night, then,’ he said. ‘Unless you were planning on hanging around until I’m done. We could grab dinner, if you want?’
Aaaargh. Dinner? Why did it suddenly feel as though there was nothing I’d rather do?! And no, I one hundred per cent wasn’t ready to acknowledge that – for me, at least – my feelings for Marcusmighthave turned into something more. That slowly but surely I’d actually started to like him. To care about him a little bit, even. And of course he was beautiful to look at, but I’d always known that, even when I’d thought hewas an arrogant arsehole, so that was nothing new. I didn’t know what any of this meant, or what – if anything – I was supposed to do about it.
Feeling as though I needed to get away from his undeniably intense gaze, I began hurriedly packing up my stuff, grabbing my water bottle, my phone, my jumper.
‘I think I’m just going to head home, actually. Want to make some good progress on the article today – Amanda’s been on my case and I’m feeling the pressure.’
‘No worries,’ he said, smiling. ‘Some other time, then.’
‘Sure.’
No! Not some other time. In fact, never would be best.
‘Marcus!’ called Patrick, waving him over.
‘Better get back to it,’ he said, jogging off.
I sighed. He even looked beautiful from behind.
So much for pushing forward with the article. When I got home, managing to not put on the TV even though I desperately wanted to watch something light and easy and maybe even romantic (no, maybe not romantic) to distract me from thinking about the prospect of sharing a bed with Marcus, and started up my laptop, I realised I didn’t have my notebook. After tipping out the entire contents of my bag – whatwasall that crap at the bottom of it? – I deduced I must have left it somewhere. Hopefully, it wasn’t the Tube, because I’d never get it back then, would I?
I fired off a text to Marcus.
Did I leave my notebook on the side of the court?
