CHAPTER 2
George
‘. . . so, George, you will be required to attend one event and provide one interview in exchange for membership as part of the ambassadorship.’
I hear my name and reluctantly tear my eyes away from my phone where I’m rewatching last week’s practice videos. I’m mainly wondering why my serve is slightly slicing to the left . . .
‘Sorry? Ambassadorship?’
Gordon, my older brother and agent, looks at me impatiently. ‘Yes, George. The concierge? One of Dad’s old family friends asked for a favour and the silly fool has agreed. Remember Charles Church? Insisted we call him Cece. Rather fat old chap, messy blond Boris hair, pompous?’
‘Doesn’t really narrow it down.’ I close my eyes, recalling the conversation.
I’m far too overwhelmed to take on anything other than tennis right now, my focus has to be purely on retaining my form for Wimbledon.
The one Grand Slam I haven’t conquered, the home soil win I desperately want and know I deserve after all the work I’ve put into myself.
I look back at Gordon, who’s still watching me, bored already with the situation.
‘But I said no? What even is it? I don’t do anything that requires any kind of “special services”.’ I emphasize my point as Gordon smirks.
‘You were horribly rude to him last year apparently, at the Lacoste rooftop party before Queen’s?’ Gordon carries on, ‘He was terribly upset according to Dad. Guilted him into it, it seems.’ He raises his eyebrows, glancing at his phone now.
I try to remember any kind of memorable interaction I had last year. I hadn’t been at peak strength, on or off the court, as my struggles came to a head trying to cope with the pressure that accompanied the world I found myself in.
‘Why does that mean I need to do this? Wimbledon is just over a month away. I have the French Open to prepare for, my other tournaments, sponsorship commitments. The last thing I need is to entertain one of Dad’s stuffy friends on a whim. It’s too much.’
Gordon looks up. ‘You have to do it, because Dad says you do. He can’t have another friend spreading rumours that you’ve become unapproachable since you became famous or that you think you’re better than them. You embarrassed him enough by ending your engagement last year.’
Ah yes, that I remember. That fucking day.
——
The Althorne and the Hampden families had always been friends, as long as anyone could remember.
Owners of neighbouring estates in Buckinghamshire, they summered together, skied together, threw parties together.
Growing up around the same age, Gordon and I spent every school holiday with Olivia, the only child and pride of Geoffrey Althorne.
I wasn’t oblivious to the crush she had on me when we were younger. Even at sixteen, I knew the effect I had on girls, even some women. I was tall for my age, athletic, cocky and looked much older. People often mistook me for Gordon, something I knew he hated.
I was already showing promising signs of excelling in tennis, despite my father not believing it was a real career path for a ‘proper gentleman’.
I loved playing at our local courts, forging friendships with people who didn’t care who my father was.
My best friend in the world, Jack Harper, was one of those boys – and really is the only person, to this day, I actually trust to have my best interests at heart.
I would still show off on the court at home, delighting bored family friends, showcasing trick shots, all while smashing Gordon and men twice my age.
My father often asked me to lose if the friend in question was important enough, and I hated the pat on the back and ‘better luck next time, son’ or ‘not as good as you think you are, eh?’ So I plastered on a smile and learned to control my annoyance.
And so Olivia had always been there. As we got older, I stopped seeing her as the annoying, horse-loving, spoilt nuisance we grew up with.
I started to notice that her long blonde hair was no longer plaited into a crown, but blown out into waves, framing a pretty face and bright blue eyes.
She had a small, tight body, toned from years of horse riding and polo, and had started wearing the tiniest bikinis to swim in our pool. She was hot.
I knew Gordon fancied her too, but I was young, competitive and an idiot.
Part of me wanted to beat him in the game for her attention, although, even aged eighteen, I didn’t like the hunger in his eyes when he looked at her, or any woman for that matter.
But he had never done anything untoward so I shoved the thought aside.
Olivia preferred me anyway and it was inevitable really.
We had flirted for years, but whilst dancing together at her twenty-first birthday she pulled me closer and asked why I’d waited so long to kiss her.
So I did and it was nice enough that I did it some more until we became official.
Official turned to living together, despite my prolonged absences travelling the world as my tennis career progressed.
Living together somehow turned to engaged without much input from me; Olivia and our parents decided the two families must finally be connected by blood.
A prized match. I was given a ring, picked by Olivia from the family heirloom trove, and told to do it that summer, so we could be married as soon as possible.
‘After Wimbledon, of course,’ they agreed begrudgingly. It was all going to be perfect.
Until I ended it.
——
That day of the party, I had begged not to go. I couldn’t handle what I’d done, the future I had destroyed and the disappointment from my father. Wimbledon was the following week and I was a wreck.
I was forced to attend, an obligation to a sponsor. But I had specifically told Gordon to insist that I be left alone after the necessary photos had been taken.
The only thing I remembered about that party was nearly suffocating from the panic that threatened to take over my senses, before I knew how to get a handle on my control.
I felt as though I was going to explode from the crushing pressure.
So no, I did not remember being rude to Cece. Just the fear.
Well, the fear – and the mystery girl with those green eyes.