He must have been on a break from training, because he began to reply almost immediately.
Yes. Want me to drop it somewhere?
It was kind of him to offer but I couldn’t expect him to come all the way over here and, given my current frame of mind, I doubted my writing would be at its best today anyway. And a thumbnail for the new season ofEmily in Parishad popped up on my home page last night and the idea of ploughing through the entire season in one sitting was proving impossible to resist.
I messaged Marcus back and told him I’d grab it from him the following day. When my phone pinged, I assumed it was him again, but it was actually my mum, asking how I was, saying they hadn’t seen me for ages. It was true, I’d been avoiding them a little bit because I didn’t want to have to lie to their faces about Marcus, so it had been easier to keep contact to a minimum for now. Then I’d tell them we’d broken up after Wimbledon and job done.
Haven’t seen you for ages! Up to anything exciting this week?
It’s Queen’s so mostly tennis. Off to a gala dinner tomorrow night.
Sounds lovely. Somewhere nice?
Claridge’s.
Very swanky. Beyoncé stays there when she’s in London, apparently.
Ha, I’ll keep an eye out for her. Will come up and see you all soon x
Chapter Eighteen
In the taxi on the way to Claridge’s I purposely spent the journey re-reading articles on Marcus and the many women he’d dated. There was a tennis player he’d been photographed with several times last year, Zuzanna Kaczmerek. She was athletic-looking, tall, and world number ten – she was gorgeous, they were both passionate about tennis, so why hadn’t it gone anywhere? A few weeks after the last photo I could find of them together, he was photographed on a yacht in Monte Carlo with some billionaire’s daughter – she had dark hair, olive skin and was wearing a bikini that may as well not have been there. Yes, being confronted by evidence of his womanising ways was exactly what I needed ahead of having to share a room with Marcus that night – my only hope was that Dean had booked us a twin room. Surely he wasn’t that cruel? Anyway, it should be fine now I’d reminded myself that stepping over the line with Marcus – or worse, developing any kind of feelings for him – was an exceptionally bad idea. Guys like him were obviously to be avoided. And if a very pleasant but relatively ordinary-looking secondary school teacher (i.e. Charlie) couldn’t be trusted, what man could? No, as far as I was concerned, relationships were off-limits for the foreseeable. That wasn’t to say I couldn’t have some fun – it just could not, under any circumstances, be with Marcus Taylor.
Marcus was already waiting for me in the lobby when I arrived at the hotel. I had to pause for a second when I saw him, and tell myself off – there was no need to feel intimidated just because I’d never seen him in a suit before and now here he was in a dark navy one with a burgundy tie, looking like James Dean inRebel Without a Cause. It was just Marcus. It was just us, fake-dating away, just like we had been for the last nine weeks or so. Nothing had changed. Other than the odd kiss for the cameras, we’d always kept it very professional and we would continue to do so tonight, I would make sure of it. As a doorman lifted my small suitcase up the stairs, I felt a pang of something like guilt – since when did spending the night with an international tennis professional interviewee in a hotel in Mayfair become a thing? My life had always been small and quiet, the way I’d convinced myself I wanted it. As a kid, I’d never been able to stand out because most (all) of the attention had been on Cassie and I’d given up trying to make my parents notice me. I supposed some children would have gone the other way and become loud and boisterous and demanding, but I retreated into myself, losing myself in the world of books and school and the creative writing I’d loved. This – Claridge’s, the epitome of London’s five-star luxury hotel scene – felt like the kind of thing the other version of me would have done. I took a deep breath, taking in my surroundings. It was just as spectacular as I’d imagined, all thick cream carpets and uniformed staff and chandeliers, and the sort of subdued hubbub you got in places like this because everyone felt as though they had to talk in hushed tones.
Marcus was sitting in an armchair next to the restaurant, his Lacoste overnight bag by his feet, a disgruntled expression on his face as he flicked through his phone. My heart leapt a little bit, but I put it down to having to now face the inevitable – checking in to our room. ‘Our’ room. What a strange situation I’d found myself in.
‘Hi,’ I said, approaching him.
When he looked up at me, there was none of the usual smiling or teasing, it was like we’d reverted to the first time we met.
‘Hello, Ava,’ he said.
‘Everything okay?’ I asked, a bit needily.
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ he said, standing up and picking up his bag. ‘Shall we check in?’
I followed him down an exquisite corridor with secret rooms housing goodness knows what leading off from both sides. If I had the opportunity, I wanted to take some time to wander around the hotel on my own, peeking into rooms that maybe I shouldn’t be in, getting a sense of what really went on behind these walls.
Marcus took charge, checking us in, paying for the room (did Ireallyhear the receptionist say it was costing £1,200 foronenight?!), grabbing the key card. I was starting to feel slightly nauseous, not just because of Marcus’s weird behaviour, but because this felt a little bit sordid, if I was honest. And I thought it might make me feel better to pay my way for the room.
‘We’re on the third floor,’ said Marcus tersely, striding towards the lifts.
I fell into step beside him. ‘I’d like to give you some money towards the room,’ I told him. I would have offered half, but I didnothave a spare £600 hanging around. ‘So if you can ping me your bank details, that would be great.’
‘There’s no need, it’s already covered,’ he said.
‘I know it’s already covered because I saw you handing your card over, but it doesn’t feel right. I’d like to pay my way.’
‘Are you going to write it off as an expense or something?’ asked Marcus. ‘How would you explain a hotel room in Mayfair – research for your article?’
We stepped inside the lift, even though part of me wanted to turn around and march in the other direction, far away from him. So much for me daydreaming about romantic nights in hotelsrooms on the way over here (yes, okay, I admit it, I’d allowed myself to fantasise about it just once before seeing sense and shutting the whole thing down) – he could hardly bear to look at me.
‘If I’ve done something to upset you, I’d prefer it if you told me rather than doing this passive-aggressive silent treatment thing. Because I don’t know about you but I’m not going to be able to fakeanythingtonight if we continue in this vein.’
As we stepped out of the lift on the third floor, Marcus turned to face me, his face devoid of any emotion, although perhaps I should have been thankful he wasn’t angry, since that seemed to be his default in most situations.
‘You’re right. May as well get this over with. I read your notebook,’ he said, crossing his arms defensively.
