CHAPTER 4
George
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
I reread the message from Mayfair Lifestyle with a groan as I lean back against the island in this stupidly cavernous, pristine kitchen. I’m back at the family home after conceding our Chelsea flat to Olivia, the very least I could do after ruining her life last year.
No, Leo, I do not want a call. No, Leo, I do not need assistance. And no, Leo, I certainly don’t need some random guy called Leo, likely a younger but just as annoying version of Cece, to ‘best service my requests’.
I have no requests, I don’t do anything except play tennis, eat, play some more tennis, go to the gym, tennis, eat, and eventually try to sleep.
I look on the profile picture of the sender, trying to see if Leo really is like every guy I went to school with, but it’s just the Mayfair Lifestyle logo.
Without thinking, I type and send, ‘No thanks. G’.
Serves Dad and Gordon right for making me do this before gearing up for the most important streak of matches in my year: Roland-Garros followed by Wimbledon, my two favourite tournaments, with a few in between to keep up my form.
After last year, it’s crucial I keep my head down and in the game.
Hope, the sports psychologist Jack kindly found me on the down-low, has, unbeknownst to my family, encouraged me to rediscover the enjoyment I have for the game, removing the pressure and visualizing the perfect flow state to achieve better results.
The goal in my mind is Wimbledon, but peace and stability are in hers. Hope by name . . .
Not that any of the fans would know my inner turmoil. I’ve built a reputation for my steely control. Outwardly, people see an emotionless facade cultivated over years of living with my cold family, turning down any unsanctioned wants or needs. Look inwards and I’m a mess.
Or I was a mess. Hope has indeed lived up to her name and I’m turning a corner. Good results are coming back: reaching the semis at the Australian Open, wins in Indian Wells, Monaco, Rome and a close-cut final in Madrid mean I’m in good standing for a strong summer. I’m enjoying it.
Enjoying life outside of tennis? We’ll get there. Although for me, tennis is life. I love it: playing, watching, talking about it. Hope says I need a hobby. I say Hope needs to play some tennis. Then she’d get it.
Speaking of which, I pull up my phone and call Jack, the only person I’ll call outside of Gordon or my dad if I can help it.
These days I’m perfectly articulate jotting down my thoughts but tend to close up when speaking out loud.
Another reason I’ve earned the nickname ‘Mr Darcy’ from my fans; they love the fantasy of a strong, silent type. If only they knew the reality.
Jack picks up after two rings; ‘Hey G, how’s it going?’
He’s always so relentlessly happy. It would be grating if I didn’t love him so much.
‘All good, Jack. But listen, I know you have lessons today, any chance you could squeeze me in for an hour? I’ll wear a cap and sunglasses, nobody at the club will know it’s me.’
‘Until you execute a perfect serve at 130 mph?’
I smile. ‘I’ll tone it down, I promise. I just need to hit a bit, release some energy. Had a tough day.’
‘Tough life at the top, eh?’ he teases. He’s the only one who really knows how bad things got last year and understands how to bring me out of my head. Makes things more normal for me.
‘Yeh, only three models slid into the DMs today, an all-time low.’
‘Tragic, no wonder you need cheering up.’ He pauses, checking his calendar. ‘If you can come for 5.30, I’ll fit you in before I have to pick up my friend, how about that?’
‘You have other friends? Who is he?’ I bite, with mock annoyance.
‘Sadly, I do. But he’s a she and, no, you cannot have her number. She’s just your type and I’d rather not piss her off.’
‘My type?’ I question.
‘Yes. Hot. Female.’
‘Oh yeah? What does she look like?’ I’ve only been with a handful of girls since Olivia, none of which were more than one-night stands, but Jack has known me long enough that his warning surprises me. I’ve never treated any women poorly, except Olivia I suppose.
‘Dark hair, green eyes. She’s very pretty, ambitious, funny, confident, loves tennis almost as much as you!’ He laughs.
My mind drifts back to that awful night last year.
Those eyes had been green; beautiful, fierce.
Amid the panicked rush to get out of the event, I saw her staring and it stopped me in my tracks.
She had turned away as I came to my senses, control flooding back as I quickly tried to get out of there.
I hadn’t been able to shake the sight of those eyes.
‘So why aren’t you dating her?’ Jack was a good-looking guy, constantly fawned over at the club where he was Head Coach, mostly by bored wives who were fed up with the lack of attention from their ageing husbands.
Or teenage girls, most of whom attended girls-only schools and had no exposure to other boys.
It was all fairly innocent, to be expected really.
There was the odd age-appropriate woman, signing up purely to get his attention, hoping their lessons would be some sort of dating game.
Jack is a good man, one of the kindest people I know, but he’s strict in his professionalism and many have grown bored of the pursuit when they realize they don’t stand a chance.
‘We went on one Hinge date, realized we got on, had loads in common, but had absolutely no spark. Better off as friends. Girls and boys can be friends you know.’
‘Mmm, I’ll take your word for it.’ I tease him a little. ‘If she’s as pretty as you say she is, I might have to meet her’. I glance at the big clock on the wall. It’s 4 p.m. ‘I’ll stop by Grange Home Farm on the way, say hello to Harry. Do you want anything?’
‘Nah, thanks though. I’ll pop in before I pick her up. Get her a little treat; she’s had a rough day too.’ Jack pauses, as if he can sense my grin.
‘And you’re not dating her? Sure, sure . . .’
‘Fuck off. See you soon, George.’
‘Bye, lover boy,’ I laugh down the phone as he hangs up, my mood instantly lighter.
I’ll deal with this Leo guy tomorrow.