He nodded.
‘What if your mum knew the story was about to break and didn’t want you to see it? What if she felt she needed to distance herself from you because she thought that when it came out, it would reflect badly on you?’
Marcus rubbed his mouth. ‘But why wouldn’t she have said that? She could have talked to me about it. I would have told her I didn’t care what the press had to say, that I knew the truth. Yes, shedrank a bit much on occasion – she was a single mum, she worked hard, why shouldn’t she have some fun? And it wasn’t all the time, like the press made out.’
‘Publications like this purposely sensationalise their stories without thinking about the consequences. They just don’t care,’ I said, feeling angry on Marcus’s behalf.
‘And it’s not true what they said about the owner of the club. He saw potential in me and he was kind enough to help my mum out. He was married and twenty years her senior, for God’s sake. He liked her, that was all, in a fatherly way. And maybe he felt a bit sorry for her, but not because he was sleeping with her,’ he said, letting out an exasperated groan.
I stayed quiet, letting it all sink in for him. And I really hoped I hadn’t gone too far. That I hadn’t overstepped the mark and put his game in jeopardy. It would have felt wrong to know all of that and not let him know, but maybe it hadn’t been my place to say. Or my problem to fix.
Chapter Twenty-One
I stared at my laptop, reading through the approximately twenty words I’d spent the last half an hour writing. I was working on my profile of Marcus, but felt stuck with it in a way that I hadn’t before. The content I’d written since Queen’s had begun wasn’t flowing – it sounded too factual, too clunky, and I couldn’t seem to inject the emotion into it that I knew I needed for my piece. That Marcus was playing better than ever didn’t seem to be translating on to the page. I thought it might have something to do with the fact that suddenly I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. Was he who Ifelthe was when I was with him, or was he the guy who picked up girls on yachts in Monte Carlo?
I slammed my laptop shut. I’d wanted to get a couple of hours of work in before heading over to the club, but I knew from experience that there was no point trying to force it unless I had an imminent deadline, which I didn’t. Instead, I ran myself a bath and ironed the dress I was wearing to that afternoon’s match, a navy-and-white polka-dot number from my favourite French brand.
When I checked my phone before starting my make-up, I noticed that Marcus had sent me a text.
What time you arriving?
I replied with a smiley emoji.Soon!
After spectacularly winning three more matches – the round of 16, the quarter-finals and the semis – Marcus had made it to the final of Queen’s. It was a huge deal – Dean was flying in especially, it was being televised live on the BBC and Marcus was receiving an unprecedented amount of coverage on TV and radio.
Come to training if you like?
I felt a pull to say yes, yes, yes and head over to the grounds immediately, but I reeled myself in. Keeping a professional distance was key here now, I thought, and the less time I spent in his company, the less all over the place I felt.
Not sure I can. I’ll catch you in the players’ lounge just beforehand.
See? I could still be cool and casual – from these texts, he’d never know that I’d been daydreaming about our night together in Claridge’s on loop.
The players’ lounge at Queen’s was as plush as the pomp and ceremony surrounding the club would suggest. There were armchairs in muted pastel shades, TV screens showing the games on the main courts, food offerings, and faces I recognised. Dean called me over and I realised it was good to see him – having him around was a stark reminder of our fake-dating arrangement, which was exactly what I needed. There was nothing real about it, even if my body was telling me otherwise.
‘Ava!’ said Dean, standing up to hug me.
‘Hi, everyone,’ I said.
‘You made it,’ said Marcus, appearing from out of nowhere behind me and standing so close that I could feel his breath on theback of my neck. I wanted to melt backwards into him, to have his strong arms wrapped around me, to be pressed up against him again like we had been in that lift in Monaco.
‘Can I talk to you for a second?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Here?’ I said.
‘Balcony?’ he suggested, putting his palm on the small of my back and guiding me out there.
Part of the infamous clubhouse, it overlooked the prestigious centre court that Marcus would be playing on in around an hour’s time. The crowds were just beginning to trickle in, dressed up for the occasion in frothy summer dresses and wide-brimmed hats, the men in linen blazers and boat shoes. Apparently, there was often a handful of celebrities present for the final, which under usual circumstances would have been something fun to gossip about later, but today all I cared about was Marcus. After the way he’d played this week, he deserved to win, but would he be able to hold his nerve?
‘Feels like I haven’t spoken to you properly in ages,’ said Marcus.
‘You’ve been busy,’ I said.
He looked devastatingly handsome today, with a new, shorter haircut and the expensive-looking white hoodie that made his skin even more luminous than normal and his bright brown eyes pop. I wanted to clasp his face between my hands and tell him that everything would be all right, that he would be fine out there today, that I would support him no matter what, but I held back, like I had been ever since the night of the gala dinner.
‘Well done for making it this far,’ I said. ‘Am I actually allowed to say congratulations now?’
‘Not yet,’ he said with a wry smile.
