‘I am proud of you, Marcus,’ I heard him say. ‘This is an excellent start.’
Then Marcus saw me, sandwiched between Patrick and Zoe. He cupped my face in his hands and pulled me in for a kiss and I don’t know why, but it didn’t feel like it was for show, and either way I didn’t care. I clasped his head between my hands, too, and kissed him back. When he pulled away I mouthedwell doneand he mouthedthank you. I was pretty sure Marcus didn’t usually react this emotionally to a win, particularly not in such an early round – after all, he was seeded higher, he would surely have expected to come out on top. I thought the jubilation all round was to do with the quality of his shots, of his serve, the way he’d sprinted around the court, barely breaking a sweat. I supposed the length of the match had been nothing compared to the four-hour extravaganzas he’d had at Grand Slams in the past. And the crowd were whistling and clapping, too, in a way I hadn’t seen them do before. Which I never understood, because racquet smasher or not, British players weren’t exactly two a penny in the top twenty, so in my opinion they should be supporting the ones they did have. Marcus ran over to pack up his water bottles and his racquets, hauling the two bags I now knew he took out on court every time on to his shoulders, one on each, and waving at the crowds as he walked off the court. It felt like a moment. It felt like something had changed. And for some reason, I could feel Zoe’s eyes burning into the side of my head.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Nothing,’ she said, but I knew she’d tell me over another Pimm’s. Zoe wasn’t one to keep her thoughts to herself.
Zoe didn’t have the right level of accreditation to get into the players’ lounge, so we went to the marquee set up in the grounds and grabbed a drink there, although with the last match of the day having just finished, it was heaving. We couldn’t get a seat, and so were propped up at a standing table. I wished I’d worn flats instead of heels, because not only were they pinching my toes, but the kitten heel had sunk into the grass without a trace.
‘All I’m saying is, I know what I saw,’ said Zoe. ‘You’re into him and don’t bother denying it.’
I tried to laugh it off. ‘It’s not that, Zo. It’s just that faking it is becoming easier as we go along. Itlooksmore natural.’
At this rate I’d be convincingmyselfthat that’s all there was to it, even if I could still feel the pressure of Marcus’s wet lips (I was hoping it was water rather than sweat – actually, scrap that, I didn’t care either way) on mine.
‘So nothing happened that night at Claridge’s then?’ she said accusingly.
Was I really going to lie to my best friend?
‘Okay, we kissed. But that was it – it was nothing we hadn’t already done.’
That wasn’t strictly true. There were places he’d put his hands that night that he’d never put them before.
‘Knew it. You’re in denial,’ declared Zoe.
‘I’m not,’ I insisted.
‘I’m your best friend and I know when you like someone,’ she said.
‘I think I know what’s on my own mind,’ I said, irritated by the way she was making assumptions about my feelings, even if deep down I knew she was right.
It was true. I did like him. But then, who wouldn’t? And sure, I’d got to know him now and he was more engaging than he’d seemed on first impressions, which only added to his appeal. And he was extremely manly, and nice to his team, and did very impressive things with a racquet and a ball. But there was plenty of stuff not to like, too. Even if, apart from the anger outbursts, I couldn’t think of any right now.
Zoe, weary from demolishing an entire jug of Pimm’s by herself, headed home and I stayed in the marquee, doing some research on my phone in the twenty minutes or so I had until I’d arranged to meet Marcus in the players’ lounge.
I’d got to the part of the article where I was talking about Marcus’s childhood, his parents, particularly his mum, and I was still confused about why she’d been so present in his life and so supportive of his tennis and then nothing. It was like she’d disappeared from not only his team, but his life, and over what? A house she wanted to buy? A tournament he refused to play?
I began to search, cross-checking with photos and video footage of the matches Marcus had played nine years ago, the year before he won the Australian Open. The stories on Marcus’s mum, who was called Denise (Taylor was her name; she and Marcus’s father, Terry, had never been married), were ramping up at that time, particularly in the biggest-selling tabloid at the time. There were pictures of her staggering out of bars, having to be helped into taxis, wearing dark glasses at Marcus’s matches, the insinuation being she was hiding something, likea hangover, presumably. This explained why Marcus hated the press so much – why wouldn’t he, when they’d given his mum such a hard time? One of the nastiest headlines wasMoney Mad Mum, which was referring to a story about Denise being shown around a high-end property in Richmond, in which the journalist accused her of spending her son’s money on big houses in one of London’s wealthiest districts. I was about to click off the page when I noticed a hyperlink to a different article – it was in a small blue font and I could almost have missed it if it hadn’t sparked a memory. Marcus had said something about his mum being popular with the owner of the tennis club she worked at. The title wasTennis Mum Seduced Club Boss to Get Son Free Lessons. I hadn’t seen anything like this before and clicked into it immediately, shocked to see a small article in the Sunday version of the tabloid that had been infamous for its sordid gossip around that time. It detailed how – allegedly – Marcus’s mum had used her ‘feminine wiles’ to seduce the ageing owner of an exclusive tennis club in a posh part of Manchester to give Marcus free tennis lessons in exchange for sex. There were pictures accompanying the article, none of them flattering, showing Denise supposedly flirting with a much older guy, wearing ‘revealing’ clothing (a vest and shorts, basically) and drinking on the job. I cross-checked the date – it was the end of August, the year before Marcus won the Australian Open. Could this have had something to do with Marcus’s mum dropping out of the team? Could it be that she knew the story was about to break and wanted to protect Marcus?
I googled tennis events from around that time and discovered that there had been a much talked-about tournament in Dubai – there were several stories in the press because it had a huge seven-figure prize attached, unusual at the time, it seemed. Most of thetop players had taken part, but Marcus was notably absent. Had this been the tournament his mum had wanted him to play? Had their falling-out been triggered by her shame – that she had asked her son to buy them a house and tried to pressure him into playing a tournament to pay for it, coupled with the story she knew was about to come out about the tennis club owner? And if this was the case, did Marcus know about the allegation?
I was so caught up in my research that I then had to rush to meet Marcus, spotting him and the team immediately as I walked into the lounge. And I’d had no time to work out what – if anything – I was going to tell him.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Well played,’ I replied, kissing him lightly on the cheek in case anyone was watching.
He nodded. ‘Shall we go?’
We snuck out of the back entrance of the complex, but even so, a group of die-hard fans and a slew of press were there waiting, cameras held aloft. For once, Marcus stopped to sign autographs and even agreed to have a selfie with one fan.
Once we were in the car, I turned to him.
‘Did Dean put you up to that?’ I asked. ‘I thought stopping to talk to fans and taking photos wasn’t your thing?’
‘It wasn’t. Isn’t. I just felt like it today,’ he said.
‘Because you played well?’
