She hated hearing him say this. She’d always loved their little house in Nice, but it was no longer her father’s taste. He had moved beyond that, and it was Adele’s job to maintain his new standard of living.
Her pre-match anxiety grew more and more intense as the matches went on. Even so, at Wimbledon that year, she excelled in the early rounds and was set to play the final round of the tournament. She should have been confident, feeling victorious on the heels of her wins, but on the morning of her final match against Margery Horn, she froze. She’d lost to Margery in New York the previous year and was haunted by the crowds who had cheered for her opponent, chanting the name of the British champion. Her father woke her early with such intensity and cruelty, spelling out exactly how she would disappoint him if she failed.
Rain postponed the match until 7PM. Adele waited in her dressing room during the long delay, the pressure of being the defending champion building and building until it overwhelmed her. Her usual anxiety turned to palpitating panic. She paced, she argued bitterly with her mother and father, and then she cried and apologized. She changed her outfit several times and reapplied makeup.
The king of England had requested to visit with Adele and her opponent courtside just prior to the match, but Adele could hardly breathe. Wearing her signature pleated short skirt and sleeveless blouse, herheart beat so fast and so loud that she thought everyone else could hear it. She couldn’t banish the fear of defeat from her head. She’d had several nips of brandy and felt dizzy and lightheaded, insisting she needed more time, that they should delay the match further, but her father said she was being ridiculous. He sent her to the press suite, where she was told to sit next to Margery on a scratchy gray sofa and wait to be escorted to the court.
“I can’t believe we’re going to meet the king,” Margery said excitedly. “Did you know that his son, the Duke of York, played in Wimbledon with his wing commander and they lost in straight sets?”
Adele stared straight ahead, ignoring her.Never speak to your opponents, never smile, never nod.She heard her father’s orders in her head.Intimidate your opponent and impress your audience. For them you are a star, for them she is nothing.
“Something to drink?” a waiter asked.
“Water, please,” Margery said, and Adele nodded in agreement.
“Perrier,s’il vous plaît,” she said, hoping her French would cease any further attempted conversation from her opponent.
“One sparkling and one flat water coming up,” the young man said.
Adele closed her eyes and pictured the upcoming match in her mind. She would toss the ball up into the air, high enough to take a full breath, then bring the racket down on it fast and sharp, propelling the ball across the court, but it slammed into the net. Her eyes shot open.No!This was a bad sign. She took another deep breath and envisioned beginning the match again. The same thing happened. This time when she took a breath it was shaky, and she was sure Margery noticed.
“What’s wrong, Adele? Are you worried about the match?” Margery asked with a laugh. Adele ignored her.
When the waiter returned with two glasses and set them down on the table in front of them, Margery got up and walked to the window. “I can’t believe we’re actually going to meet King George,” she muttered to herself.
Adele didn’t care about meeting the king of England. She cared onlyabout the match. She cared about the expression on her father’s face when she won, or, she dared herself to imagine, the look of disgust and his denouncement if she lost.
That could not happen.
She eyed her opponent’s glass, then reached into the side packet of her tennis bag and felt for the medicine her father gave her to sleep. She rolled the glass bottle around in her hand, consumed by visions of humiliation and defeat in front of the huge crowd. She unscrewed the medicine bottle and slipped a pill into her hand. She pressed it between her thumb and forefinger, digging into it hard with her nails until she felt it come apart and break into gritty white powder between her fingers.
“I always knew I’d get to play tennis at Wimbledon and meet royalty someday,” Margery said, looking back at Adele, then out the window again. “I suppose I also knew that I’d get to beat you too,” she said, still staring out the window. “Twice.”
Adele didn’t think through what she did next. She took her hand out of her bag, leaned forward to pick up her sparkling water, but first sprinkled the powder that she had pinched between her fingers into Margery’s glass of still water. Not the whole pill—maybe half had broken off into her bag—but enough to make her a little less excitable, Adele thought, a little less confident.
“Time to go.” A gentleman in a navy suit stood at the doorway of the press suite.
“Oh my gosh,” Margery said under her breath. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m going to meet the king.” She walked from the window to grab her tennis bag from the sofa and joined Adele to accompany the gentleman out. “Oh,” she said, stopping short, “I almost forgot.” She rushed back to the table, picked up the water glass, and knocked the whole thing back, then pushed past Adele, eager to be first in line to meet royalty. Adele watched, agape, then followed her out of the press room, down a hall, and out to center court, where a red carpet had been rolled from the royal box.
Only then, when Adele stood at the end of the red carpet and sawKing George and his wife Queen Mary approaching them, looking majestic and not at all affected by the humidity that the rain had brought, was she struck by two things: the astonishing magnitude of what was happening—she was meeting the king and queen of England—and by the irreversible evil of what she had just done to Margery.
Both women curtsied as they had been instructed and bowed their heads slightly as the king addressed them. Adele’s mind was suddenly functioning only in French. “Votre Majesté,” she said when he addressed her, inexplicably unable to find the words in English.
“I wish you both the very best of luck,” the king said. “I must say you are both a delight to observe. Very entertaining indeed.” He smiled. “And I know the tremendous amount of skill and desire needed to play this sport at this level. I commend you both.” Queen Mary stepped in and smiled. “May the best girl win.”
But nobody won that day. And Adele had never returned to the court, until now.
