Her Advantage

CHAPTER 1

Leo

‘. . . and Leonora, you will be looking after him for the duration of the ambassadorship.’

My attention snaps right back into the weekly team meeting and off the emails I was so desperately trying to catch up on. ‘I’m sorry?’

My boss, head of Mayfair Lifestyle, looks at me impatiently. ‘George Hampden, tennis superstar . . . he’s our new ambassador and I want you to look after him.’

I look around at the rest of the team, half of whom are narrowing their eyes at the decision and half drifting away themselves, eager for this uninspiring meeting to end so they can leave the stuffy old room.

‘But I don’t look after members any more . . . I haven’t for the past few years.’

While I might have started my career as a Member Assistant, fresh out of university and desperate for a job in London, I had worked tirelessly to get to where I wanted to be.

For years I employed everything in my power to impress our influential clientele, high-end partners and the old guard of Mayfair Lifestyle, my boss, Charles Church.

As I’d been told on my first day, his ‘old school chums’ (one of whom was the owner of the company, naturally) affectionately referred to him as Cece and he encouraged the same from his employees.

Little did he know the nickname had since evolved; I’d heard everything from ‘class clown’ to much harsher words beginning with ‘c’ .

. . all depending on who he’d pissed off that week.

That he was still working at, let alone head of, Mayfair Lifestyle, was entirely due to the fact he bunked with our owner at boarding school.

How else he might have achieved a high-powered role, I don’t know.

He was yet to show any inclination towards hard work, or even mild intelligence.

Despite this, I’d finally reached a stage of my career that I could really say I was proud of.

Director of Experiences was a fluffy title, but it encompassed everything I’d worked towards.

Starting at the bottom, straight out of university, I had spent years building strong connections in a world where, unlike him, I couldn’t rely on my schoolfriends.

I’d earned the respect of not only the team around me, but some incredible brands and members.

I loved my job, especially now I had the chance to flex my strategic mindset, helping to drive the business forward, making a difference.

But then something like this happened and the reality hit me of how fragile the whole thing was.

Back in the room I realize Cece is waiting for something, irritation clouding his rotund face. He still hasn’t replied to me, so I push, ‘Perhaps best to catch up after?’

He looks away with a nod, moving on to the next topic. The meeting continues around me but I can’t focus. I tell myself that I’ll clear everything up with him after and we can move forward. He’s so incompetent, it’s likely that he’s forgotten I no longer service our members.

Members of Mayfair Lifestyle range from old schoolfriends (far more successful at advancing, rather than wasting, their family money, unlike Cece), to self-made business owners looking to finally enjoy the wealth they have amassed, but with no idea how to do it.

Discreet and efficient, we make their lives easier, stress-free and infinitely better.

Need the best table in the house at 8 p.m. on a Friday evening?

Done. Recommendations for the hot resort to ski this Easter?

We know it. Access to the social events of the season?

Sorted, alongside which outfits to wear, adhering to all dress codes. You get the idea.

I had spent years as one of our member assistants (MAs as we call them), on call 24/7, ensuring all my members felt special, were treated as individuals and were never left wanting for anything.

Our personal bonds were so strong that when I eventually received my first promotion, many were devastated, even the more difficult ones.

And not because the other MAs weren’t as good, but because we spoke daily, on all topics. Part-time MA/part-time therapist.

I loved it, but it wasn’t sustainable and it certainly wouldn’t be advantageous to my career.

So why had he picked me to look after George Hampden? He was tipped to be this year’s Wimbledon champion, a homegrown, once-in-a-generation talent and the highest-ranking Englishman ever.

He was also a massive arsehole. Famous for his stony-faced lack of emotion on and off the court; even when winning, he played the part of a classic tall, dark and admittedly handsome, brooding character well and fans loved him for it.

He had amassed a new wave of female followers, all falling for his Mr Darcy-esque demeanour, helped along by the obligatory Calvin Klein shoot, but somehow also the support of men like Cece, who believed his ‘proper upbringing’ was the reason that he was winning.

They admired his ‘British stiff upper lip’ and liked that he had ‘none of this American flamboyant nonsense’ (Cece’s words).

But I knew it wasn’t an act. He really was just a massive arsehole.

He had attended one of our events last year, a rooftop soirée sponsored by Lacoste for Queen’s, and, while I hate to admit it, I was starstruck for the first time in my life. I loved playing tennis, loved watching tennis, loved talking about tennis.

And I really loved watching George Hampden play tennis.

Or I had, before I met him.

He had started making waves in the tennis scene in his early twenties, beating the then-world number one in the final of the French Open at Roland-Garros – it was the most electrifying match I’d ever seen.

Legend versus rookie, both playing at the top of their game.

Long intense rallies, minimal unforced errors, sweat dripping onto the clay as they fought for every point.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away for a moment. And not just because he was the classic ‘tall, dark and handsome’.

He moved across the court with a lethal prowl that was graceful, but predatory.

I’d never seen anyone play like him. He seemed older than the other rookies, polished, with every move perfectly managed.

His dark eyes never lost focus, his shots were precise and measured.

I could see his power vibrating through the screen; he was in total control.

I’d never reacted to anyone this way before, at least not someone I’d never met.

Who was I kidding? I’d never reacted this way to someone I’d met either.

I was mesmerized by him.

He didn’t show any weakness, no emotion slipped through.

Even when he saw his opponent’s ball sail past the base line on match point.

As he gave his winning interview, thanking the French crowd (in French, with a perfect accent, of course), he never lost control of that stony expression, never let go.

But then, heading to the tunnel, he looked straight down the camera, cheeks flushed from the exertion, his chestnut waves (apparently the only thing he couldn’t control) flopping over dark, almost smoky eyes. And then he winked, the hint of a smile playing on his full lips before he ducked away.

His star power exploded right at that moment.

I must have watched that wink a thousand times.

What followed was a frenzy of trending TikTok edits, aided by the aforementioned Calvin Klein ads, the fanfics, the press .

. . people went crazy, all for that one moment when George let his facade slip.

I never told anyone about my fascination with him.

Perhaps I worried they would think my love of tennis was just due to a silly crush; or perhaps because it had unnerved me how much he had gotten under my skin.

Slowly, it faded as reality took over and I gave myself a proper talking to.

I still watched his matches and followed his career as it propelled forward, still admired him.

But I dated real men, rather than thinking of the fantasy man who lived on my screen, dominating my favourite sport instead of my thoughts.

His online presence was nothing compared to the real thing though. That one night, the night of the party, I thought he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

Until I met him.

——

‘Oh my god, I just googled him and what the hell?! You are such a lucky bitch!’ my best friend Rosa squeals down the phone. ‘You honestly have the best life. He is dreamy . . .’

‘Rosa, no. He’s a dick. An awful human being.

One that I’m now stuck with.’ I frown at myself in the window of the coffee shop I escaped to after Cece told me there was no debate.

According to him, not only was George a superstar athlete, he was also the son of one of his personal friends.

I was to be at his beck and call, all day, every day.

This had to go well, as he had pulled in a favour for the ambassadorship and the founder was personally invested.

George preferred texts, never phone calls, and I might be required to travel. That was the extent of my knowledge.

I’d never told Rosa, or anyone, about the evening I met George, embarrassed by my lack of composure. I wasn’t worried about George though; I knew he’d have no recollection of meeting me.

I can hear typing in the background. ‘England’s highest ranked player ever, went to a good school, currently lives in London . . . and he’s single!’

‘Rosa, he’s an arrogant, entitled prick with no manners.’

‘How do you know? Just because he’s all moody and brooding on the court doesn’t mean anything.

’ She goes quiet, clearly scrolling. ‘Fit. Fit. Double fit. Jesus, this man, he’s practically a god!

’ More silence. ‘Oh Christ, I’ve got to his Calvin Klein ad.

Fuck. His body.’ She exhales, before giggling.

‘Come on, Leo, you’re being so grumpy! Look on the bright side .

. . you never have to speak to him directly, looking after a celeb looks good on your CV, and you might get to see some top-level tennis.

Not to mention he’s so bloody gorgeous, which you can still appreciate, even if you do hate him.

Which I still don’t understand anyway . . .’

I pull myself together. ‘Fine, I’ll start afresh and get through this.’ I look at the time on my phone. ‘I have to get back before Cece starts making comments about me being “part-time”.’

Rosa laughs. ‘Now that guy, he is a certified prick. Remember when he tried to chat me up at your supper club?’

‘Eurgh, god, don’t!’ I shudder. ‘Anyway, onwards and upwards, love you and thank you, Rosa.’

‘Always, love you too, Leo.’ She hesitates, before tentatively asking, ‘Are you playing tennis tonight?’

Smiling down the phone, I reply, ‘Yes, and yes I am seeing Jack. I’ll tell him you say hello!’

‘Shut up. Good luck with Mr Darcy, you’ll be fine! Speak later!’ She hangs up before I have the chance to say goodbye.

Feeling infinitely lighter and reassuring myself that I’m overreacting, I return to the office. I can do this, I can be professional, and I will smash this. I need to smash this.

As per his instructions, I text from my work phone:

Dear Mr Hampden,

I am delighted to welcome you to Mayfair Lifestyle.

My name is Leo James and I will be looking after your membership, here to assist with anything you may need.

I understand you prefer texting for any communication, but in order to best service your requests it would be wonderful to set up a quick call to discuss any preferences you may have.

I look forward to working with you.

Kind regards,

Leo James

His reply comes a few hours later.

No thanks. G

For fuck’s sake.