“I didn’t mean to,” Adele had whispered.“C’était un accident.”
She watched as they carried Margery off the court, limp and fatigued. With the energy and excitement of the match behind her, replaced instead with pain and disappointment, her body must have finally given in to the powder. Adele wanted to shrink into herself, to disappear into the darkness that was enveloping her, to never be seen again.
A young reporter came to her side. “Adeline,” he said, “are you all right?”
She looked at him, but everything was going blurry. She needed her father, she neededhimto ask her that very question. She pushed past the reporter.
“Adeline.” He jogged to keep up with her. He pressed a piece of paper into her hand. “I’m withThe Times. Please contact me when things calm down.” But she threw the paper back at him and ran off the court, alone.
Adele looked up at Rutherford. “You were there that day. I remember you now.”
He nodded.
Adele was stripped of her previous years’ Wimbledon titles and shunned by the public for her horrific display of poor sportsmanship. Margery suffered an eye injury that took months to heal, and though she did eventually return to tennis, she never won another championship. It was a media frenzy; the papers went after Adele, calling her La Bête, La Reine Vicieuse, Le Monstre. She couldn’t go out in public without being harassed and hounded. Her parents retreated to their home in Nice, and Adele got as far away from it all as she could. She left London, couldn’t bear to return to her beloved France for fear of adding to her parents’ humiliation, so she went to America to hide until she could figure out what to do next. She wrote letter after letter to her father, begging forgiveness for her outburst and for wasting all those years he’d spent training her when she’d just thrown it all away. She wrote to her mother, asking her to try to explain her feelings of regret to her father, but none of her letters could fully express her guilt and shame; nothing seemed sufficient, so she didn’t send a single one. Instead, she let them pile up on her bedside table. Three months later she read in the national paper that her father, “Beloved coach and father of disgraced former tennis champion Adeline Léglise,” had died of a heart attack.
Adele was sure she had caused his death. And when her mother didn’t call or write to share the news or ask her to come to the funeral, she was convinced that she blamed her too. She stayed in the quiet, almost desolate town she found on Balboa Island, and she used the last of her money to buy a small, cheap house where she wouldn’t bother anyone else, and they, hopefully wouldn’t bother her.
“I tried to reach your mother before this interview, yesterday, actually,” Rutherford said. “I was able to get in touch with her caretaker in Nice, but as you likely know, your mother is quite ill and was not available for a comment.”
“You spoke to my mother?” she asked, but it came out in a whisper.
“Only her caretaker,” he said.
At this Adele stood abruptly. “Cut,” she said, glaring at the cameraman. There was some commotion among the staff behind the lights; someone rolled their hands in circles, someone else encouraged her to sit down.
“We’re still live,” Jonathan said calmly, “but we will pause for a word from our sponsor in just a few moments.”
Adele obliged and sat back down. She was angry and wanted to know more. What had the caretaker said? How long had her mother been sick? She could have inquired about her mother’s health and whereabouts at any point over the past twenty-four years, and her mother could have inquired about hers, but neither had. Now hearing this unexpected news made her desperate.
“What would you say to your father today, Adele, if you had the chance?”
The question rolled around in her mind for what felt like several long minutes, but no one urged her to respond faster, and she hoped it might be her imagination. She could say that her father broke her, that he had ruined her, that he had crushed her spirit. She stared at Jonathan for a moment longer and then said, “I’d tell him I forgive him.”
At the ad break for Lucky Strike, she marched over to Jonathan.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d been in touch with my mother?” she asked.
“I apologize,” Jonathan said. “I’m not allowed to discuss the questions or topics of conversation prior to the on-screen interview,” he said. “But I can give you her address and phone once we’re done.”
“I don’t need that. If I wanted to contact her, I would have done it myself,” she said, “at any point over the past twenty years or so.”
“Why didn’t you?” he asked softly, but she only glared at him, then rushed outside, away from all the cameras, away from all the lights, the heat, and the questions. She was pacing when Milly and Sylvia found her.
“My God,” Milly said. “You’ve been through so much; I had no idea.”
“I couldn’t keep it in any longer,” Adele said. “The guilt, the disgrace, I just had to get it out.”
“You did the right thing,” Sylvia said, handing her a glass of whiskey, as promised. Adele knocked it back.
“You could have told us,” Milly said. “I hope you know that we would never judge you.”
“She’s right, Adele,” Sylvia said. “You’ve been living with that secret for way too long. You don’t have to do this alone anymore; you’ve got us now.” She looked to Milly, who nodded emphatically. “Whatever happens, we’re here for you. You’ll never have to hide out again.”
Adele nodded and tears began to form in her eyes. She looked up to the sky, willing them to disappear. She didn’t cry. She never cried, but this was the kindest thing anyone had ever said to her.
“Merci,” she whispered.
When Adele went back inside, the makeup gal started powdering Adele’s face, applying more rouge, a touch more lipstick. Adele waved her away.
