‘What, that Brit who’s always breaking his racquets on people’s heads?’ he asked, seemingly incredulous.
‘I don’t think it’s on people’s heads, Dad,’ I said. I was a stickler for getting my facts straight and my dad had clearly been sucked in by the sensationalised headlines.
‘His game is excellent, but he hasn’t lived up to his potential and he can’t seem to keep his temper in check. He’s a disgrace. A wasted talent. He should be ashamed of himself!’ said Dad with passion.
‘That’s quite an extreme reaction ...’ I said, weirdly feeling as though I needed to defend Marcus Taylor, a man I’d never met.
Sure, I’d seen theDeucefootage and, okay, his behaviour wasn’t great, but the show had probably been edited to make it look worse than it was. Anyway, I liked to keep an open mind going into an interview – after all, my job was to bring out the light and the shade; paint a three-dimensional picture of whomever I was profiling, not judge them before we’d even had a chance to speak.
‘Look, Dad, I have to go.’
‘Well, don’t let me stop you,’ he said, even though he and Mumhadactually been stopping me for the last ten minutes.
I ended the call and opened up the articles about Marcus I’d saved on my phone, which were mostly newspaper reports with straplines likeRacquet Man Crashes Out of Wimbledon! andStroppy Marcus Loses It Again! Blimey, the press hated him, didn’t they? There were also a ton of stories about his love life, involving him partying in glamorous locations with a string of drop-dead-gorgeous models who all seemed to be clinging to him adoringly. What a player! I bet it killed him that instead of his phenomenal tennis, his biggest draws were his romantic pursuits and his propensity to kick off when a shot didn’t go his way. One article gave a blow-by-blow account of a match at something called Indian Wells (I made a mental note to look up this mysterious-sounding thing/place), and I wondered why Marcus always seemed to be on the edge of something – teetering on the precipice of being either brilliant or mediocre, of winning or losing, of keeping it togetheror going completely off his head. Nobody had ever published a fully fledged profile on him before and it didn’t entirely surprise me – he seemed like the kind of guy who assumed everyone was out to get him. Which they sort of were. But that didn’t explain why he’d agreed to dothisinterview. Was he going to bail at the last minute again, like he had all those times before?
Business class on board wasn’t quite as lovely as the lounge, but it did have roomy seats, pre-take-off champagne (yep, more of the stuff) and unusually attentive air stewards. I had the disturbing thought that now I’d had a taste of the high life, I was going to find itverydifficult to go back to Economy, although clearly I was going to have to. And the best thing about Business, in my opinion, was that I would only have one person sitting next to me and was not destined to be sandwiched between a snoring stranger and a screaming baby. Or at least, I presumed I would have somebody sitting next to me – probably one of the corporate hounds I’d seen drinking espressos and scrolling manically through their phones in the lounge, although they were cutting it very fine to board.
I pulled down my table and set up my laptop, bringing up an interesting article about Grand Slam tournaments and why they were so important to players (big prize money, prestige and points – points for what, I wasn’t yet sure). Last year, Marcus had reached the third round of Roland-Garros, also known as the French Open, but had he won the whole thing, he would have netted himself over two million dollars in prize money. I’d had no idea tennis was so lucrative, and never mind the sponsorships on top of that. You heard so much about footballers and their extortionate wages, and I got that tennis players weren’t earning that amount every week, but I was shocked to learn that even thosemaking it through to the second round of Wimbledon stood to earn around a hundred thousand dollars!
Just as the engines started up, somebody threw themself into the seat next to me, almost trampolining me out of mine. I wasn’t sure why I’d thought people in Business would be any more civilised – money most definitely did not buy class. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that this person – a man, judging by his size – was wearing silky black tracksuit bottoms and some sort of expensive-looking cream-coloured chunky knit. I also couldn’t help but notice his quite considerable thigh muscles, which were straining against the thin fabric of his trousers as though they were about to burst right through them. Not that I wanted to give him the satisfaction of looking up, but his face was bound to be a disappointment in comparison. You couldn’t have it all, could you?
‘Oh, great.’
The person next to me had spoken, but I wasn’t sure whether it was to himself, to somebody on the other side of him, or to me. It couldn’t be me he’d been addressing, because what would he be ‘oh-greating’ me about? I tried to focus on my article and not on his voice, which sounded vaguely familiar – deep, resonant, a very slight northern twang.
‘Stalking me, or something, are you?’
This definitely sounded like it was aimed in my direction. I looked up, only to be met by the chiselled cheekbones and dead eyes of none other than Marcus Taylor.
Chapter Four
I’d been wrong in assuming his face couldn’t possibly live up to his thighs, because Marcus was extraordinarily, dazzlingly handsome close up. I was suddenly finding it very hard to think straight with him glaring at me, his mouth mere inches away from mine, all pouty lips and thick, dark hair that you immediately wanted to run your hands through and a beard that made him look older than the thirty-one years I knew he was from my research. Shame he was such a massive arse.
‘Stalking you?’ I tried to joke.
‘If you’re not a crazed fan, why the hell have you got a picture of me on your laptop?’ he demanded to know, using the same icy tone I’d heard him adopt when complaining to the umpire about the sun being in his eyes/noisy crowds/slippery surfaces/a shot he insisted had been incorrectly called.
Glancing quickly at my screen, I cringed when I realised I’d zoomed in on a photo of him mid-serve. It didn’t look great that I was doing research so last minute, although, in my defence, Amanda had only hired me a few days before and since I knew absolutely nothing about tennis, I had my work cut out for me. I flipped my laptop closed.
‘It’s research,’ I told him, stashing it under the seat in front for take-off.
‘Research for . . . ?’
I met his eye, aiming to give off an air of self-assuredness and integrity. Who did this guy think he was? I’d never even heard of him before Zoe turned up on my doorstep dangling a best-job-ever-shaped carrot in front of my face, and now here he was talking down at me like he was Ryan bloody Gosling. Although I liked to imagine that Ryan would be ten times politer.
‘I’m Ava Whitfield. The journalist writing the article on you forLuxemagazine.’
‘What article?’
I swallowed. Fuck. This guy was a nightmare. My dreams of winning a Pulitzer Prize for this piece were fast fading in front of my eyes.
‘Luxemagazine? The UK’s biggest-selling women’s glossy? You agreed to an exclusive feature on your life and career, and I’m the one doing it.’
Marcus scoffed. ‘I agreed to no such thing. Because, as you’d know if you’d done your research sooner, I don’t do press.’
I took a deep, steadying breath, wondering if it would help to have my meditation app playing in one ear.
‘Which is why I’m delighted I’m going to be the exception to your rule,’ I said, attempting – and failing – to deliver a coquettish smile.
