CHAPTER 6
George
‘You’ll tone it down, will you?’ Jack shouts across the net, bent over and panting.
I grin back at him, flipping my cap backwards now the sun is going in.
This is exactly what Hope wanted for me.
Fun. And I definitely am having fun, absolutely smashing Jack across the court, but he’s giving me a run for my money.
I can’t believe he’s not pro himself. Although, he’s always preferred coaching to the cut-throat competitiveness of the tour.
I needed to let off some steam today after Gordon’s absolute fuckery over this Mayfair Lifestyle nonsense.
——
I was halfway through a run this morning, when my phone buzzed, cutting off my music.
Call from: Leo James
I hung up without answering, pissed off that this guy wasn’t getting the message, and carried on.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzed again. He had messaged.
Dear Mr Hampden,
I hope you’re well today.
I just tried to call in order to complete your welcome to the service. Please do let me know if there might be a more convenient time.
Otherwise, I would be delighted to conduct your welcome via text.
To remind you, I am here to look after anything you may need assistance with. I encourage you to utilize the service both on your time off and during the tour, should you require any help with logistics or need recommendations for the various cities you will visit.
I understand Paris is your next destination and have attached a city guide for your perusal.
Very best,
Leo James
A city guide? What does he think I’ll be doing? Gallivanting around the Marais? Sipping wine outside Café de Flore? Climbing the bloody Arc de Triomphe?
It’s the French Open, not a fucking mini break. I won’t have time for anything but tennis.
I ignored his message and carried on.
I finished with a 100m sprint up to the main house and stopped to catch my breath against one of the Palladian pillars adorning the front facade, trying to regain my previous pre-Leo peace.
It had been a beautiful morning and I was out early, padding downstairs quietly before the others woke up, to head to my favourite spot.
Coffee in hand, I walked to the top of the slope at the back of the house and sat straight on the dewy grass, feeling immense gratitude as I watched the early light dance across the lake and a slight breeze rustle through the ancient oak trees lining the main driveway off to the side.
Hope had been trying to teach me to ground myself lately, so I had taken some deep breaths and tried to clear my mind.
I loved being back in the countryside, even if it did mean I had to deal with Dad and Gordon. There was something about looking out my childhood bedroom window and seeing almost endless green that instantly calmed me.
‘George, are you back?’ I heard Gordon call from inside, shaking me from my thoughts. I looked down at my watch. It was 9.15 a.m. Give me a break.
He called out again, more irate this time. ‘George?!’
‘Yep,’ I replied, somewhat short, and followed Gordon’s voice to the main dining room where breakfast seemed to have been laid for twenty-four, rather than the three of us currently living here.
Mum was off, hidden away in the Swiss Alps, trying some newfound aesthetic procedure.
No doubt she’d look younger than me on her return.
‘You called, Gordy?’ I used his childhood nickname at home, mainly to piss him off.
‘Don’t call me Gordy. And yes, I wanted to speak to you about this Mayfair Lifestyle thing.’
I groaned. ‘Not you too. I’ve already had “Leo” chasing me this morning. I don’t need anything. And I really don’t see the big deal.’
‘I told you, Dad said you have to. Apparently, he’s mortified about the gossip surrounding your behaviour last year. You know what a blabbermouth Cece is . . . everyone thinks you’ve grown too self-important, too good for them, especially tossing Olivia aside like that.’
My fists clenched. ‘You know it wasn’t like that.’
‘Wasn’t it? I still don’t understand why one minute everything was perfect and the next you’re entering self-destruct mode.
Olivia gone, matches lost, pictures of you stumbling out of nightclubs with god knows who.
’ He shakes his head. ‘Not what dear old Dad had in mind when he agreed to let you go pro.’
‘He didn’t let me do anything,’ I argue.
‘How does booking some restaurants for me change any of that anyway?’ I fill the plate in front of me with some cold scrambled eggs, anaemic-looking bacon and boiled spinach that the staff haven’t cleared away yet.
I miss my dietician, but I’m hungry and needs must.
‘Well, there’s the exposure for them, the fact they can wow partners and potential clients with your name is something. But then obviously we have the interview.’
I had paused, fork halfway to my mouth. ‘Interview?’
‘Yes, George, all part of the deal. You’ll go on live at Wimbledon, Giles has a connection. You know Giles? And, among the usual questions about your tournament preparation, they will ask you what has helped contribute to your successes this year, and you will mention Mayfair Lifestyle.’
The breakfast I had been inhaling threatened to come straight back up.
‘The interview will be live?’ I almost whispered.
‘And? You’ve done interviews before, have you not?’
‘Yes, and look how well they’ve gone!’ I was well aware of the ‘strong and silent’ act people thought I put on and, while that was one result of the control I strived for on the court, in reality, I’d struggled with public speaking.
I kept interviews short and on point or sent answers back via email for anything Gordon and my publicist set up.
‘Come on, Georgy.’ Gordon smirked rather than smiled as he used my nickname. ‘It’s time to grow up and get over this little phase. You never used to be like this.’
I didn’t respond. I also never used to be in the public eye, never had expectations on my shoulders, pressure that crushed me from the inside out.
‘We’re going up to see them tomorrow morning, by the way. Kick it all off properly. Snap a photo outside for their socials. You know the drill.’
‘Gordon, we’re going to Paris on Friday for practice, it’s . . .’ I look back at my phone, ‘Wednesday today. We can’t do this after Roland-Garros?’
‘They want to announce it to coincide with the tournament, where we’re all hoping you’ll do well. Make us all look good?’
He folded up the paper he had been reading before I arrived and tucked it under his arm, the spitting image of our father.
‘Just be ready at 8 a.m. tomorrow, George. We’ll get a car up and be back before you know it.’ He had patted me on the shoulder on the way out, so condescending. ‘Good chap.’
Appetite suddenly lost, I had gone up to my room and lain on my bed, still sweaty from my run, staring at the ceiling before calling Hope, who encouraged me to ‘acknowledge my feelings, sit with them and then let them go.’
——
I sat with them all day, but didn’t manage to shake the underlying anxiety until Jack texted, reminding me that we had a date tonight.
It was then I saw an unread message from an unknown number. I must have missed the notification.
George!
Delighted to hear you’re joining us in the office tomorrow morning. All excited here, especially your member assistant – always going on about tennis! Such a superfan! Obsessed!
Please let me know your coffee order in advance, will send one of the girls out before you get here.
Love,
Cece
So I’d be spending the morning with Cece and Leo the ‘obsessed’ fanboy. Great.
——
I jog back to the baseline, preparing for Jack to recover enough to serve, thankful we’re on the very end court as more people start to arrive post-work.
It’s tucked away, far from the entrance, which is where I’m glancing when my gaze catches on two women walking in laughing, arm in arm.
One carries a large tennis bag, the other an iced drink in each hand.
I can see they’re both pretty hot, even from here.
‘Oi, focus,’ Jack shouts. ‘You ready?’
I nod and turn back to our game, but I can’t help it as my eyes still flit back and forth, following the pair as they settle a few courts away.
The shorter of the two gathers her dark hair and pulls it into a high ponytail before taking her phone from the hidden pocket of her tight black leggings.
She frowns at a message before showing her friend, who leans down and scoffs.
I hear a faint ‘prick’ and then more laughter.
A ball sails past me and I look up to see Jack standing at the net, hands on his hips.
‘Hello? I haven’t scored an ace against you since we were fifteen. What’s wrong?’
I glance back at the girls, who have started to stretch, and Jack follows my gaze.
‘Oh fuck,’ he exhales. ‘Stay here.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s my friend. The he who’s a she. The one I don’t want you to piss off.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Which one?’
‘Brunette, and no. You are not coming over. Give me five minutes.’
‘So I’m supposed to just stand here?’
‘You’re a big boy. Practise your serve or something, I’ve noticed it’s slicing slightly to the left.’
I give him the finger and he laughs, running over to their court as I pick up a ball to serve. How dare he? I’m one of the best servers on the tour.
I get in position and throw the ball, tucking the racket straight behind me before raising it up and then down like a whip as it reaches its peak. As I’ve done countless times before.
It slices to the left. Of course. Fucking coach.