‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’
‘Oh, you know. My first ever Wimbledon. Thought I’d push the boat out.’
I’ve been up since the crack of dawn to recreate a hairstyle I’d seen online. It was a triumph of optimism over reality given that my fine, baby-soft locks can’t hold a curl for as long as it takes to drink a cup of coffee. As it had already dropped before breakfast, I made a snap decision to look for a Google tutorial for an ‘easy updo’, which I followed to the letter.
I’ve used so many kirby grips that my head resembles a game of Kerplunk, but it is at least passable. The dress, however, a polka dot number reminiscent of the polo scene inPretty Woman, more than makes up for it. Corny as it sounds, I feel like a million dollars, though that’s partly about the expression Sam has on his face every time he looks at me. Like he can’t believe his luck.
We chat for the whole train journey. By the time we get to SW19 and follow a casually elegant crowd along Wimbledon High Street, I am giddy with excitement. First impressions as we enter: it’s bigger than I was expecting, but so much more beautiful too. It’s not that I didn’t think this would be a good-looking place. I’d just never considered what any partof it might have been like beyond what I’d seen on TV. While it has all the huge, architectural features you’d expect from a major international sports venue, it’s landscaped like an English country garden. The outer walls of the show courts are clad with romantic creepers. The paths are lined with beds of agapanthus, roses and hydrangeas. Between the staff in crisp blazers and spectators on picnic blankets watching a huge screen, it all feels both steeped in tradition but state-of-the art at the same time.
We’ve got an hour to kill before the first match so Sam goes to buy champagne, which we drink in the sunshine, on a steep grassy bank, accompanied by neat little sandwiches and strawberries and cream. When it’s time to head into Centre Court, we find ourselves in ridiculously good seats, six rows from the front.
The first match is the men’s number 2 seed – a fiery young Russian – versus the number 38 seed, an American who made it to the semi-final last year. After the warm-up, a silence descends as the first game opens. My overriding initial thought is that the sport these men play is not the same one I partake in each Saturday morning. At most, it bears a passing resemblance. The way Sam plays iscloser, but even then there’s a huge gap between the shots we mere humans make and those we’re witnessing.
Their sport is a thing of beauty and frustration, of almost superhuman endeavour. The way they move is dynamic and poetic all at once, stretching for unfeasible shots, hitting with insane speed and power. Yet the more I watch, the more I question my initial assertion. Even these guys make mistakes. When frustrations creep in, they spiral. When their confidence is high, they soar.
The first two of our matches are over relatively quickly, with the stronger seeds destroying the opposition with an ease that is sometimes painful to watch. But the third is adifferent matter altogether. It’s between a twenty-three-year-old Polish woman and one of the biggest names in French tennis; both have been dominant this season.
‘Who are you rooting for?’
‘Oh, definitely Fournier,’ Sam says, ‘even though she’s far from the favourite.’
‘Really? I thought she’d woneverythingover the years?’
‘Yes, but she’s been plagued by injury and is considered to be past her peak.’
‘Do I even want to know how old she is?’
‘Thirty-eight.’
I tut. ‘Are you depressing me on purpose?’
‘She’s the oldest player on the WTA tour,’ he says. ‘To be fair, they put their bodies through a bit more abuse than you and me.’
‘After a couple of those nights in La Manga, I’m not sure I agree . . .’
The match is electrifying, full of drama and tension from the first point. The crowd spends the next two hours on the edge of their seats – gasping, cheering, gripped by the skill and athleticism on show. All three sets go to a tiebreak, but in the end, it is Fournier – with her problematic, thirty-eight-year-old joints – that triumphs. Today at least, experience beats youth and her reward is a standing ovation and a one-way ticket to the quarter-finals.
By the time Sam and I drift into the grounds, all but a couple of the matches on the outside courts have finished and the crowds have thinned out. Only the die-hards remain on the hill, enjoying the last drops of sunshine as they drink Pimm’s in front of the big screen.
‘I don’t want this to end,’ I sigh. ‘I’ve had too good a day.’
‘Come on, Cinderella,’ he tells me, as a little breeze picks up and makes me shiver. ‘Here,’ he says, as he takes off his jacket to put around my shoulders.
‘Won’t you be cold?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You are a true gent, Sam Delaney.’
I slide my arm through his, woozy with champagne and the unbridled joy that today has been. As we walk arm in arm towards the exit, a cheer goes up from somewhere in the outside courts. Sam stops and nods in the opposite direction from where we’d been headed. ‘Follow me.’
The last tennis of the day anywhere within the grounds is a mixed doubles match on one of the outside courts. The atmosphere is completely different from Centre Court, far more intimate, with only two rows of seats, nothing like enough for the number who want to watch. Sam sees a gap at the gate and reaches out for my hand, gently pulling me in, so I’m in front of him. He slides his hands around my waist and we watch in silence.
The tennis is great, though I find my attention drifting, focusing instead on the warmth of his arms around my body, his hips against my back. I recline slightly, sinking dreamily into him, as he presses his lips on the top of my head. At some point, I start to become aware of someone’s eyes on us and jerk my gaze to the stand next to us to see a woman looking at us.
She must be in her nineties, a tiny, bird-like lady accompanied by a man I assume to be her son. A smile filters onto her face as she leans in and grasps my forearm.
‘You’re a beautiful couple. What a lovely husband you’ve got.’
