For a second, I thought she wasn’t going to answer my question because she didn’thavean answer. But then she turned back around and looked me right in the eye.
‘Because your life is just so perfect, Ava. Everything comes so easily to you. You’ve got a thriving career, men falling in love with you left, right and centre, and you get to travel the world allexpenses paid. You’ve always looked down on me and my sad, shitty life, and for once – just once – I didn’t want to be the reject sister, the less successful one, the useless one.’
‘I’ve never looked down on you, Cassie,’ I said to her.
And it only seemed perfect because I never told her all the bad stuff. I realised then that by trying to protect her, by trying to be the good girl for Mum and Dad, I’d made Cassie think that my life was easy, smooth, a walk in the park. Perhaps it was better to be honest, then, to show people who you really were and how you really felt, instead of trying to pretend you were okay when you weren’t.
I decided to go to Marcus’s game that afternoon, mainly because I needed to document his journey through Wimbledon for my article. He was playing on No.1 Court, which was just as well because it looked set to rain all day and it had a retractable roof, meaning play would be able to go ahead no matter what the weather. I sat in the players’ box with Dean, Patrick and Nick, jotting down notes about the venue, the atmosphere, the fans, the snippets of conversation I heard from his team. At twenty-three minutes past three, Marcus entered the court, followed by his opponent, Dominic Griffiths, the Australian guy he’d played in Monte Carlo the very first time I’d ever seen him play in real life.
‘We’ve had some good news,’ said Dean, leaning in to talk to me. ‘Marcus has secured several sponsorship deals for next season. Winning at Queen’s, plus the campaign we designed for the two of you ... well, it’s worked.’
‘That’s great,’ I said, squeezing his arm. I’d become quite fond of Dean and secretly wished he was my agent, too. I could only dream of the kind of kick-ass writing assignments he’d have no trouble securing for me. ‘Good work.’
Dean turned to me again, dropping his voice to a whisper.
‘Ava, I hope I’m not out of line saying this, but I think you and Marcus actually make a cool couple. Like, for real. I’d never have suggested any of this if I hadn’t seen a spark between the two of you in the first place, you know that, don’t you?’
I wasn’t sure how much to say, but I trusted his judgement and his opinion was about as neutral as I could hope for, given he worked for Marcus.
‘I think things have become more real for us over time,’ I said. It was strange to say the words out loud. Not even Zoe knew the back and forth I’d been doing in my head: the longing, the recriminations, the embarrassment, the excitement – Marcus had got me feeling all kinds of things I’d never experienced before, at least not at the same time. ‘With his career taking off, and me in London while he travels the world ... I don’t know. Maybe the timing’s not right. Maybe it might not ever be.’
‘You could make it work,’ said Dean. ‘He’s really into you, I’m telling you. You’ve changed him and he’s not an easy guy to be around sometimes, but when I see him with you, you make itlookeasy.’
‘Has he said anything?’
Dean shook his head. ‘He doesn’t need to. The guy is easier to read than he thinks he is.’
I smiled to myself. Maybe he was. Honesty was his thing, he’d told me himself. So what if I should believe him when he said he liked me and had never felt like this about anyone before?
The match went smoothly, other than Marcus being about to serve for a game at one point and somebody deciding that was the perfect time to pop a champagne cork. Marcus had looked angrily over at them and the umpire had told everyone to please avoid opening champagne when a player was about to serve. At least Marcus didn’t start shouting, and he went on to execute the best second serve I’d ever seen him do, so no harm done. He beat Dominic again, 6-4, 6-4, 6-2 and was into round three.
Chapter Twenty-Five
On the morning of the Wimbledon men’s final, I was in my mushroom pyjamas on the sofa, watching the news. There was a lot of focus on the match – Marcus had made it, the first British player to reach the final in years, and the country was going wild. The BBC were interviewing the thousands of fans who had been queueing all night, hoping to get their hands on a much-coveted ticket, and there were beautiful aerial shots of Centre Court with bright-blue July skies framing the stadium – I couldn’t believe that, later, Marcus would be walking out on to that grass and making his bid for the thing he wanted most in the world: another Grand Slam win, and more than that, to be a Wimbledon singles champion.
I was deciding what to have for breakfast when the doorbell rang. I sighed – who could be here at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning? I padded out to get the door, throwing it open, shocked to see Marcus standing there, all six foot four of him, dressed in a midnight-blue Lacoste tracksuit, his hands in his pockets, his cheeks a little flushed, his eyes shining. I braced myself against the door frame.
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘Nice pyjamas,’ he said, his eyes sweeping over me.
‘I aim to please,’ I said.
I should have felt self-conscious, but somehow I didn’t. This was the raw, unfiltered version of me, and if he didn’t like it – I mean, who would? – then so be it.
‘Sorry to call so early. I’ve got warm-up at ten, so I’m on my way out to Wimbledon now.’
‘Of course. How are you feeling about the match?’ I asked.
‘Optimistic,’ he said. ‘But I’m not here to talk about me.’
From behind his back he produced a large, pink, expensive-looking box and handed it to me.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ he said as I took it from him.
‘Is this a gift?’ I said.
‘Open it and you’ll see,’ he said, crossing his arms. Was henervous?
