‘Don’t think so,’ said Marcus. ‘I can sleep on the floor if you like?’
I hesitated. For some reason I didn’t want that and I wasn’t about to dig deep as to why.
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘I think the bed is probably big enough for both of us, don’t you?’
‘As long as you’re sure,’ he said, throwing his bag on to a chair.
Was he not at all concerned about this? Then again, I wasn’t his type, was I, judging by the absolutely stunning women he’d been photographed with before. Sharing a bed with me probably wouldn’t faze him in the slightest – he probably wouldn’t be tempted to do anything at all except sleep.
‘Maybe if I scoot right over to this side. And you kind of push over there,’ I suggested.
‘You don’t want me actually fallingoutof the bed, I presume?’ he said.
Not able to think of a suitable response, I wheeled my suitcase into the corner.
‘Just nipping to the bathroom. And then shall we head down to the dinner?’ I said, not trusting myself to stay in that room with him a moment longer than I had to.
‘Let’s do that,’ he said, sitting on the bed and watching me with a grin.
I went into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, leaning my back against it and closing my eyes. It would be fine.Fine. I was sharing a room with one of the most attractive men I’d ever met who also just happened to be my pretend boyfriend and there was nothing strange about that, nothing at all. It wasn’t like I was going to throw myself at him overnight, was it? Unless I drank too much free alcohol, which I immediately made a mental note not to do.
I touched up my make-up and tidied my hair, which I’d left flowing around my shoulders but had then decided to put up in a ponytail. I seemed to be perpetually flushed this afternoonand it was making my hair frizzy, particularly at the nape of my neck, where it had already turned into a tangled mess. I combed it out, clipping it up and out of the way, spraying about half a bottle of hairspray over the whole thing to smooth it out and then barely being able to breathe because of the lack of ventilation in the bathroom. I threw open the door, half falling out of it while gasping for air.
Marcus looked at me, bemused. ‘Everything okay in there?’
‘Hairspray,’ I wheezed, taking a lungful of less toxic air.
And then we both laughed and it felt okay again. Sort of. If I didn’t put too much emphasis on that extremely luxurious-looking bed that later that night we would have to share.
The gala dinner at Claridge’s was everything I’d imagined it to be – it was taking place in the hotel’s stunning ballroom, which had a geometric black-and-white carpet, an art deco design throughout and beautiful chandeliers that made you so happy you wanted to swing from them. We’d only had starters so far, but I thought the smoked haddock soufflé they’d served us might have been the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted in my life.
Marcus and I were seated together, of course, and although he knew everyone at our table – a mixture of players, one tournament director, and a couple of commentators everyone except me seemed to recognise – the only person I knew was Patrick, on the other side of me. Everyone was lovely, but I was also quietly enjoying listening in on their conversations and joining in when I could without any real pressure to do anything; surprisingly, with Marcus by my side, I felt completely at ease.
‘How’s your article coming along, Ava?’ asked Patrick.
‘Good, actually,’ I said, glancing at Marcus, somehow wanting his approval. ‘I feel like I’m finally getting to know what makes him tick out on the court – now I just need to find a way to articulate everything I’ve learned about him to my readers.’
Marcus slid his arm casually along the back of my chair so that I was sort of nestled under it. It felt comforting and warm, like a place I might never want to leave, which was dangerous, because pretty soon he’d never be putting his arm around me again. I’d better start getting used to the idea.
‘Are you excited for the grass court season, Marcus?’ asked Patrick.
‘I’m not sure I’d use the word “excited”. “Pressured” feels like a better choice.’
‘Marcus, this is not a now or never. One step at a time. You are thirty-one, not thirty-seven. There will be other chances,’ said Patrick.
Marcus didn’t look convinced.
‘How are you feeling about round one?’ I asked him. ‘Who have you got?’
‘Pedro García,’ said Marcus.
I looked at him blankly. Although my tennis knowledge was much improved of late, Marcus regularly drew players I’d never even heard of, and Pedro was one of them.
‘Spanish, twenty-nine, hit the top ten a couple of years ago but hovers around the low twenties now. But he does love grass. And he’s been working hard on his fitness,’ said Marcus.
‘And so have you,’ said Patrick. ‘You did well in training today, Marcus. I have a very good feeling about this tournament.’
‘Don’t jinx it,’ Marcus quipped.
