Marcus Taylor’s jaw tightened.
Given the Racquet Man moniker Zoe had described, I had a pretty good idea what was coming next.
True to form, Marcus marched over to the stands andunleashedon the visibly drunk guy who had put him off. The guy, to his credit, seemingly couldn’t care less and was now jumping up and down with glee and pointing at himself on the jumbotron. I didn’t see why it was his problem, either – if Marcus had messed up his serve, he only had himself to blame, didn’t he? He couldn’t expect total silence in a stadium that size. As Marcus continued his cringeworthy tirade of swear words and racquet throwing, I glanced across at Zoe, who was seemingly mesmerised.
‘He’s actually incredibly sexy to watch,’ she said, sounding all breathy.
‘Ugh. You haveterribletaste in men.’
Mind you, I could hardly talk. Charlie was the polar opposite of Marcus Taylor and so conflict-averse that he’d clearly delayed ending our relationship until he couldn’t stand it (me?) any longer and absolutely had to. According to the few words I’d managed to get out of him as he swept his toiletries off the bathroom shelf and into a shoe box, he’d been thinking about it for months, since before my thirtieth (so much for that proposal in Rome), but had kept hoping it was just a phase. Things between us hadn’t been perfect, how could they have been, but I’d honestly been happy. He’d been the stability I needed and was relentlessly supportive through all the ups and downs with mywork and my family and my friends and my finances. My parents and Cassie had never really liked him, but since I didn’t value their opinion on most things, I’d always let their comments (about him being a little bit boring) wash right on over me. And I’d never really asked Zoe what she thought of him because they didn’t hang out together anyway; my life had always been quite compartmentalised like that, and he’d mademehappy and that had always been what mattered. I pushed out of my mind an image of Charlie’s flushed, regretful face as he threw most of his belongings into bin bags and ordered himself an Uber, and focused instead on Marcus Taylor, who was really going for it now, smashing his racquet on the ground over and over again until the strings were torn to shreds; to add insult to injury, he then sent it flying into his chair at the side of the court. What a waste! It showed complete disregard for the fact that people were struggling to put a hot meal on the table while he trashed a perfectly good racquet that had probably cost hundreds of pounds.
‘Actually, he is going a bit far ...’ said Zoe, hurriedly turning the volume down as Marcus started screaming insults at a terrified-looking ball boy.
‘What iswrongwith him?’ I asked, genuinely perplexed.
‘Who knows? Fascinating, though, isn’t he?’ said Zoe, winking at me.
‘I can think of other words to describe him,’ I said.
‘I think this will be really good for you, Ava. It’ll give you some purpose. Reignite that passion and ambition of yours.’
‘It’s not disappeared altogether, you know. It’s just ... resting.’
‘You’ll get to travel, apparently,’ said Zoe. ‘Amanda said something about covering a few of the tournaments happening over the next few months. Oooh, maybe there’s another one in Australia!’
‘I’m not going to Australia, Zo,’ I said. God, I could barely make it to the corner shop.
‘Shall I tell Amanda you’ll do it?’ asked Zoe, raising her eyebrows at me hopefully.
I closed my eyes for a second, struggling to make a decision. Could I really do this? Surely I hadn’t lost the ability to write altogether, even if Marcus Taylor did seem like an absolute knob and I had no interest in tennis? And also, what better way to convince everyone I was completely fine about the break-up than to take on the biggest writing gig of my life? I’d hardly be able to do that if I was still cut up about Charlie, would I?
When I opened my eyes again, the first thing I saw was Marcus Taylor wiping his face aggressively with a fluffy white towel while storming off court with his racquet bag thrown over his shoulder.
‘Fine. Tell Amanda I’ll do it,’ I told Zoe, needing to get the words out quickly before I could change my mind.
The Rolex Monte-Carlo Masters
Chapter Three
After googling the weather in Monte Carlo (better than in London, unsurprisingly; sun likely, some light rain expected), I pulled clothes that might be in some way suitable out of my wardrobe and flung them into my suitcase. The only good thing about Charlie moving out was that I now had every single inch of the flat’s limited storage space to myself. Also, if hehadstill been here, he would probably have put a dampener on my upcoming trip by ranting about how disgusting it was that millionaires chose to live in Monte Carlo to avoid paying taxes in their home country, the subject of which was guaranteed to make him turn beetroot with indignation (and, no doubt, envy).
My phone pinged and I paused the packing to read an email from Ruby, Amanda Eddington’s very on-the-ball assistant over atLuxe. She’d done a great job of organising my travel at short notice after I’d had a Zoom call with Amanda and she’d hired me on the spot, chirpily informing me I’d need to leave for Monaco three days later. I was having to go from barely leaving the house to navigating travel to one of the most glamorous places in the world, not to mention somehow pulling off the biggest interview of my life. At least it had forced me to get dressed and make a serious dent in my laundry.
I skimmed through my itinerary for the next few days, which was an exhausting-sounding list of activities including drinks meetings with LA talent agents, observing practice sessions at the Monte-Carlo Country Club and watching Marcus play live at the Rolex Monte-Carlo Masters tournament. I sighed to myself, only about twenty per cent sure I was ready for any of this, but also aware that I essentially didn’t have a choice since this career-changing opportunity to write for the UK’s bestselling glossy magazine had presented itself to me out of nowhere. Sort of, anyway, because obviously it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t shared a flat with Zoe in university halls and she wasn’t now my closest friend and biggest champion. I wasn’t a fan of nepotism, but I was going to have to put my principles momentarily on hold because there was absolutely no way I could turn down the chance to see my byline onLuxe’s smooth, shiny pages. I could already see myself flicking through the magazine’s November issue (Amanda wanted me to interview Marcus between April and July and follow him to four different tournaments) and landing on the piece I’d written – it was a dream come true. I’d already decided that I’d be arranging the magazine conspicuously on my coffee table, permanently opened at my article so that I could look at it every single day. It wasn’t about other people seeing it, or needing to be congratulated for it or anything like that; it would just be for me. A reminder of how far I’d come. When I was growing up, being good at writing wasn’t considered a skill to be celebrated (nor were most things that involved my achievements), but I’d learned over the years to find small ways to be proud of myself. And, as an added bonus,Luxewere paying well, and those gas and electricity bills were not going to pay themselves.
I did a quick sweep of my dressing table, zipped up my suitcase, checked all my electrics were switched off, watered my plants and gave myself a pep talk in the hallway mirror.I can do this, I told myself, like a boxer about to enter the ring. My confidence may have been knocked by the break-up, but somewhere deep insideme was a light burning bright with all the things I still wanted to achieve.I am a great writer when I put my mind to it, I told myself, and I could be great again. I stared my own reflection out:Marcus Taylor is not going to know what’s hit him!
A complete stranger (who’d better besecondsfrom missing his flight, because there could be no other acceptable explanation) rolled his size-of-a-house suitcase straight over my foot at speed, jolting me painfully out of the cocoon of isolation I’d been living in and leaving me fantasising about being back on my battered old sofa. After my self-imposed solitary confinement, it felt all kinds of wrong to suddenly be surrounded by about three thousand other people barging around me with giant backpacks and tired kids as they tried to work out which queue to join to check in for their flight. And the noise was deafening! I pushed my headphones into my ears as far as they would go and pressed play on my meditation app in an attempt to drown out the chaos. How did I interact with people, again? And why was everyone so loud and talky, I wondered? I sincerely hoped I wasn’t going to be stuck next to somebody chatty on the plane, because if so, I was going to have to pretend to be asleep for the entirety of the flight.
When my turn came, I dragged my suitcase up to the desk, handing over my ticket.
‘Good morning, madam,’ said the chirpy British Airways staff member behind the counter of the bag drop.
He punched some numbers into his computer, glanced up at me, smiled smugly to himself and returned his attention to his screen. This was worrying – I hadn’t checked my passport before I left. It wasn’t out of date or something, was it? There was somenew rule about having at least six months left on it, which I was sure I had.
‘Everything okay?’ I asked nervously.
‘Oh, it’s more than okay,’ he said mysteriously, handing something to me. ‘Your new ticket, madam. You’ll be sitting inbusinessclass for your flight with us today.’
