CHAPTER 18
George
The restaurant Leo has chosen is perfect.
A small neighbourhood bistro over in Saint-Germain, it’s atmospheric, charming and the food is delicious.
They’ve even given us a table tucked in the corner, away from prying eyes and hidden from phone cameras.
She’s clearly fantastic at her job; she knows exactly what to pick for the occasion.
It’s a shame I can’t get over myself to enjoy it.
Gordon, the absolute prick that he is, sprung an in-person interview with Paris Match on me.
I don’t know how many times I’ve said to him, no unnecessary press in the lead-up to a tournament.
It’s bad enough I have to do the obligatory nonsense for the ATP social.
Why does TikTok care which song I’m listening to now?
How does listening to Harry Styles affect my game?
It’s suffocating and only exacerbates this ridiculous ‘Mr Darcy’ image that seems to have followed me around.
People either hate me for not ‘being a good sport’ or love me for being an arrogant arsehole.
Neither are true. As I told Leo, I just don’t like talking, especially about myself.
‘You haven’t had much trouble spending the past few days talking with Miss James?’ Gordon had retorted when I refused to go. ‘Or perhaps there wasn’t much talking involved?’ he smirked suggestively, and I felt my anger rising.
I grew up in a house where we spoke either of our own achievements or the failures of others.
Any attempt to connect on an emotional level was brushed aside with a swift ‘Oh, darling, just don’t think about it’ from my unfeeling mother.
I didn’t even try with Dad, his expectations clear from the start: ‘I don’t care what you do, just don’t embarrass me. ’
I felt sorry for Gordon in that sense; at least I was the younger boy and the pressure of maintaining the family estate and lineage didn’t fall on my shoulders.
I doubt I would have been allowed to pursue tennis the way I did otherwise.
Gordon was really on borrowed time acting as my agent; I knew Dad would call him back eventually and his future was set.
As mine had been, before I managed to escape.
And while it’s harsh, escaping is what it felt like.
The low-level, ever-present anxiety had been bubbling under the surface constantly, but occasionally it found its way out, usually erupting in a full-blown panic attack.
Not always at the best time either, as if I could pick and choose.
Last year’s semi-final in Melbourne was a blur to me.
I was moving mechanically through each set, my muscle memory taking over whilst my brain was in meltdown.
I lost 6-2, 6-2, 6-0 to a close tennis friend, Ryder Cedars from the US; one of the worst results I’d had in years.
I had barely shaken his hand, couldn’t even look him in the eye, walking straight to the tunnel and into the locker room where I collapsed into a bench, my body shaking.
I thought I was going to die from the pressure in my chest, my breathing quick and shallow, unable to move my legs properly or focus on anything other than the rising panic.
I had tried to drink some water, but my hands shook so much I couldn’t get the lid off.
Ryder had run in, keeping his post-match interview short after recognizing I wasn’t acting, or playing, like myself. He knew something was wrong after years of being on tour together and brought me back to myself, a steady hand on my shoulder telling me it was going to be OK.
And nobody knew. Ryder didn’t tell anyone, and I certainly didn’t. The press had a field day; the footage fed perfectly into their depiction of me. Journalists asked if I would throw a tantrum and storm off every time I lost. The ATP threatened to fine me for unsportsmanlike behaviour.
I said nothing.
My team made me watch the game back, to see my mistakes, wondering how on earth I lost so badly to someone whose game I knew inside out.
But there was nothing fundamentally wrong with my skill; I still played with control, kept up with the pace, I just wasn’t winning the crucial points.
Watching the tapes, I couldn’t believe that it wasn’t blindingly obvious what was happening to me.
My face appeared focused, stern almost, and void of emotion.
It made me realize that my life was that match. I was going through the motions, that same blank face, nobody understanding what was going on inside.
When I returned from Australia, I had tried to voice my concerns to Olivia. While I struggled to get the right words, she had cut me off, stroking my arm, gently saying, ‘Darling, don’t worry, it’s just one loss. Don’t think about it,’ before stepping away to dress for dinner that evening.
I knew it was over then really. The parallels to my early life were apparent, and I didn’t want that for myself, didn’t think it was fair on her either.
It took me almost six months to eventually end it for good.
I avoided speaking to the press about anything other than tennis, and even then I kept it factual. I couldn’t trust them, and in turn it made this fabricated image stronger.
But end it I did. On the day of the Lacoste party. The same day that I apparently pissed off Cece and, in doing so, found myself here. An ambassador for his company. Accompanied on this trip by one of the most interesting women I’d ever met.
But I didn’t want to scare her off with the reality of me.
Which is exactly what I was doing now.
I had really tried to let go of my frustration before seeing her, but even a hot shower couldn’t calm me as usual.
The magazine had asked if ending my relationship contributed to my recent run of good form. What the actual fuck?
Gordon usually vetted the questions, so this must have slipped through. I immediately closed up, essentially grunting my way through the rest of the interview as my anger grew and grew, until I couldn’t take it any more.
I stood up and left, muttering goodbye. I needed air, to get out of there quickly. Gordon had scolded me like a child in the car, asking when I was going to grow up and sort myself out. I retreated further into myself. How can he not see how questions like that would disrespect Olivia?
So here I am, ruining the first date I’ve looked forward to in years. Our main dishes have just been served and I’ve barely said a word. And she looks phenomenal. Earlier, her arse in those jeans. Fuck. I would have got to my knees in the lift just to worship that arse.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
‘Are you going to bother saying anything other than yes or no tonight?’ She interrupts my train of thoughts and I look up. She’s pissed off, her eyebrows raised and lips pursed. God, even annoyed she looks good. Those lips. What am I doing?
I shrug, unable to lift myself out from my mood. But she’s not standing for it and she gets up abruptly, slamming her napkin on the table.
‘I may work for you, but I don’t have to put up with an evening of this shit,’ she hisses, still conscious that she doesn’t want to make a scene. Grabbing her bag, she goes to leave, muttering, ‘Fuck this, fuck Cece, fucking done . . .’
Ah, fuck.