Chapter Two #3
Rationally, this was the point at which I should have said yes, and thank you, and I’d do it.
I needed the work, and chances like this – to be hired by an industry powerhouse like Amanda Eddington – came about once in a blue moon.
But nagging away at me was the thought that she was going to be expecting things from me that I wouldn’t be able to deliver in my current state of mind.
How was I, a jobbing journalist and occasional barmaid at the local gastropub, in any way deserving of an assignment as high-profile as this?
I hadn’t written a proper, full-length story in weeks – what if I couldn’t, anymore?
‘I’m going to put my foot down here, Ava,’ said Zoe, trying to sound scary.
‘I love you, you know that, but you cannot mope around in outfits like that watching Loose Women, or whatever this is, for one moment longer. I insist that you do this. Nobody has ever written an in-depth piece on Marcus Taylor before, and if you can pull it off, it would be a massive scoop for Luxe, a job Amanda wouldn’t trust to just anyone. She believes in you. And so do I.’
Celebrity profiles were exactly the kind of thing I longed to be writing and if I did it right, this job could shape my entire future.
‘But I hate sports!’ I said.
‘All sports?’ said Zoe, looking confused.
‘Yes! Have you ever known me to go for a run, or a swim, or a gym session? And as for team sports, even hearing the word football brings me out in a rash.’
‘But tennis is different, right?’ said Zoe hopefully.
‘How? Because it’s totally elitist, you mean?’
‘Maybe, but what’s not to like about Wimbledon? The outfits are cute and you like Pimm’s and strawberries, don’t you?’ said Zoe.
Hmmm. I supposed the drinks and snacks side of things did sound a tiny bit appealing.
‘Amanda needs a sports specialist,’ I concluded. I’d always been great at talking myself out of things. ‘I haven’t got the right credentials.’
Swooping in to back up my argument, I could almost hear my mum’s voice telling me not to get ahead of myself; that I – to use her favourite phrase – was getting ideas above my station.
‘It might work to your advantage not to know much,’ suggested Zoe. ‘Our readers might well be in the same boat.’
‘But how can I write about something I know absolutely nothing about?’
‘Isn’t that what research is for?’ said Zoe. ‘Pass me your remote.’
‘Why?’ I said, feeling strangely protective over it.
‘Hand it over!’ she instructed.
Tutting loudly, I reluctantly gave it to her; there was an interesting segment on spring knits coming up on This Morning that I’d been hoping to catch.
‘Dare I ask what you’re doing?’ I asked.
After fumbling around in the Netflix search grid for a bit, Zoe pressed play.
‘My mum recommended this documentary called Deuce,’ said Zoe, turning the volume up so high I actually flinched. ‘It follows tennis players as they travel around the world from tournament to tournament. Apparently, it’s riveting.’
Highly unlikely, I thought. Playing sports was bad enough, let alone watching them on TV.
I crossed my arms moodily when the opening credits of Deuce rolled over footage of something called the Rod Laver Arena in Melbourne where the Australian Open was about to kick off, whatever the hell that was.
On the plus side, this did seem like one of those impeccably produced shows that attached the perfect piece of music to every emotion-infused encounter and made each location look achingly cinematic.
‘Apparently, Marcus Taylor features a lot,’ said Zoe, settling back in her seat.
I watched sullenly as two men in their early thirties began warming up on a cobalt-blue tennis court with stormy grey skies swirling over their heads.
They were slamming the ball back and forth, back and forth, their muscular arms making light work of sending it spinning from one baseline to the other.
I was already bored. Were they going to be doing this for long?
‘That’s him!’ shrieked Zoe.
‘Which one?’ I asked, leaning forward, trying to make out their faces.
‘The fit one with the dark hair.’
The camera went close in on the man who was supposedly Marcus Taylor.
I couldn’t help but notice that he had spectacularly sculpted calves, beautifully tanned skin (no doubt acquired from spending months training in the south of France or wherever the hell they all lived), and just the right amount of facial hair.
He was quite handsome, I reluctantly acknowledged, but he had cold eyes and when he messed up a serve, he looked like he wanted to murder somebody, even though he was only warming up and hadn’t even started the game yet, from what I could tell. Talk about a bad attitude.
Right on cue, the show cut to footage of Marcus competing in the quarter-finals of last year’s US Open.
I’d always thought that was a golfing tournament?
Seemingly not, because a place called the Arthur Ashe stadium in Flushing Meadows, New York, was packed to the rafters with spectators, most of whom appeared to be chugging beer from paper cups and generally behaving as though they were at some rowdy frat boy party.
‘Did he win this tournament as well as the Australian thingy, then?’ I asked Zoe, as the camera zoomed in on the scoreboard. According to the voice-over, Marcus was leading by two sets to one and was ahead by three games to two in the fourth. I had no idea what any of that meant.
‘Don’t ask me,’ said Zoe, who clearly wasn’t a tennis aficionado either. I mean, who was?!
Michelle Obama, apparently, who was sitting in the front row wearing a denim dress that I made a mental note to google when I was back to wearing proper clothes again and actually leaving the house.
By this point, Marcus Taylor was looking all kinds of fucked off and had just produced three ‘unforced errors’ in a row.
His opponent, Anton Bauer – a baby-faced Danish guy with a blond topknot – was crouched down, ready to receive his serve.
For some bizarre reason, Marcus Taylor repeatedly bounced the ball on the ground, again and again.
And again. Eventually (and after a ridiculous amount of time, in my opinion), his eyes narrowed as he tossed the ball into the air with his left hand, slid his right foot forward to meet his left and leapt fully off the ground in a powerful motion, like a tiger about to launch itself at some poor, unsuspecting prey.
Just as his racquet was about to make contact with the ball, someone shouted Come on, Marcus!
at top volume, and instead of sailing over to the other side of the court like it was presumably supposed to, the ball slammed clean into the net. A hush descended over the stadium.
‘Game Bauer,’ announced the umpire.
The crowd roared.
Marcus Taylor’s jaw tightened.
Given the Racquet Man moniker Zoe had described, I had a pretty good idea what was coming next.
True to form, Marcus marched over to the stands and unleashed on the visibly drunk guy who had put him off.
The guy, to his credit, seemingly couldn’t care less and was now jumping up and down with glee and pointing at himself on the jumbotron.
I didn’t see why it was his problem, either – if Marcus had messed up his serve, he only had himself to blame, didn’t he?
He couldn’t expect total silence in a stadium that size.
As Marcus continued his cringeworthy tirade of swear words and racquet throwing, I glanced across at Zoe, who was seemingly mesmerised.
‘He’s actually incredibly sexy to watch,’ she said, sounding all breathy.
‘Ugh. You have terrible taste in men.’
Mind you, I could hardly talk. Charlie was the polar opposite of Marcus Taylor and so conflict-averse that he’d clearly delayed ending our relationship until he couldn’t stand it (me?) any longer and absolutely had to.
According to the few words I’d managed to get out of him as he swept his toiletries off the bathroom shelf and into a shoe box, he’d been thinking about it for months, since before my thirtieth (so much for that proposal in Rome), but had kept hoping it was just a phase.
Things between us hadn’t been perfect, how could they have been, but I’d honestly been happy.
He’d been the stability I needed and was relentlessly supportive through all the ups and downs with my work and my family and my friends and my finances.
My parents and Cassie had never really liked him, but since I didn’t value their opinion on most things, I’d always let their comments (about him being a little bit boring) wash right on over me.
And I’d never really asked Zoe what she thought of him because they didn’t hang out together anyway; my life had always been quite compartmentalised like that, and he’d made me happy and that had always been what mattered.
I pushed out of my mind an image of Charlie’s flushed, regretful face as he threw most of his belongings into bin bags and ordered himself an Uber, and focused instead on Marcus Taylor, who was really going for it now, smashing his racquet on the ground over and over again until the strings were torn to shreds; to add insult to injury, he then sent it flying into his chair at the side of the court.
What a waste! It showed complete disregard for the fact that people were struggling to put a hot meal on the table while he trashed a perfectly good racquet that had probably cost hundreds of pounds.
‘Actually, he is going a bit far . . .’ said Zoe, hurriedly turning the volume down as Marcus started screaming insults at a terrified-looking ball boy.
‘What is wrong with him?’ I asked, genuinely perplexed.
‘Who knows? Fascinating, though, isn’t he?’ said Zoe, winking at me.
‘I can think of other words to describe him,’ I said.
‘I think this will be really good for you, Ava. It’ll give you some purpose. Reignite that passion and ambition of yours.’
‘It’s not disappeared altogether, you know. It’s just . . . resting.’
‘You’ll get to travel, apparently,’ said Zoe. ‘Amanda said something about covering a few of the tournaments happening over the next few months. Oooh, maybe there’s another one in Australia!’
‘I’m not going to Australia, Zo,’ I said. God, I could barely make it to the corner shop.
‘Shall I tell Amanda you’ll do it?’ asked Zoe, raising her eyebrows at me hopefully.
I closed my eyes for a second, struggling to make a decision.
Could I really do this? Surely I hadn’t lost the ability to write altogether, even if Marcus Taylor did seem like an absolute knob and I had no interest in tennis?
And also, what better way to convince everyone I was completely fine about the break-up than to take on the biggest writing gig of my life?
I’d hardly be able to do that if I was still cut up about Charlie, would I?
When I opened my eyes again, the first thing I saw was Marcus Taylor wiping his face aggressively with a fluffy white towel while storming off court with his racquet bag thrown over his shoulder.
‘Fine. Tell Amanda I’ll do it,’ I told Zoe, needing to get the words out quickly before I could change my mind.