Chapter Five
At a quarter to seven I waited for my taxi in the unassuming lobby of my perfectly nice three-star hotel, hovering near the door but also careful not to block the entrance for any other guests who needed to come in or out of the hotel.
There was a young-ish vibe about the place; studenty types wanting somewhere relatively low-budget to stay on their way through to the French Riviera, or to Italy if they were heading in the other direction.
Anyone with money would surely be staying at one of the slew of ultra-luxurious hotels I’d enviously scrolled through on the Condé Nast Traveler website, Marcus’s being one of them.
Still, I definitely wasn’t ungrateful – getting to travel at all with my expenses paid was a perk of the job I’d never, ever take for granted.
Marcus’s manager, Dean, had emailed a couple of hours ago to confirm our meeting, which had been a relief given Marcus’s antagonistic attitude on the plane.
I’d been worried that he was going to call the whole thing off, so this had to be a good sign, didn’t it?
Maybe Marcus hadn’t been in Dean’s ear the second we landed, refusing to set eyes on me ever again.
So after showering and changing into a black satin Zara minidress (hoping this was the kind of generically chic thing one might wear for casual drinks in a swanky Monégasque hotel), I’d touched up my make-up and slicked my dark hair back into a wavy ponytail, leaving a couple of tendrils falling loose at the front.
This had been easier than washing it and straightening it from scratch, an arduous task I was unenthusiastic about at the best of times.
I stifled a yawn, wondering when the double espresso I’d just downed was planning to kick in – today had been more eventful than the last fourteen put together, and the energy required was taking its toll.
I rested my head against the windowpane as the taxi glided along Avenue Princesse Grace, which, according to my research, had once been named the world’s most expensive street.
It curled around the bay, sending us sailing past the Japanese gardens, a Rolls-Royce showroom, and a run of Vegas-style hotels with glimpses of the sea shimmering away behind them.
When I looked the other way, all I could see were stunning apartment blocks in whites, pale yellows and pastel pinks rising up in tiers as far as the eye could see, some with pretty, wrought-iron balconies, others sleek and modern, hanging over the cliff’s edge like something out of a James Bond movie.
I didn’t dare to imagine how much any of them would cost and I thought it might make me feel physically sick to google the local real-estate prices; London was bad enough.
My taxi dropped me off on the sweeping driveway of Marcus’s hotel.
I took my time walking up the rather grand front steps, noticing the uniformed valets and the supercars parked out front, feeling like Cinderella arriving at the ball (minus the amazing dress).
Once I was inside the spacious, marble-floored lobby, I had to force myself not to do an actual double-take at how beautiful it all was.
It was the kind of place that probably had an achingly hip rooftop restaurant with a months-long waiting list and a plethora of intense-sounding gym classes that I likely wouldn’t have signed up for even if I had been staying there.
Dean had requested that I meet him and Marcus in the hotel’s poolside bar and as I followed a sign directing me out on to the terrace, I spotted them immediately, perched on stools at a high table with their backs to the sea, framed by the sunset and the pretty, private pebbled beach that I bet looked gorgeously enticing on a warm summer’s day.
Mentally preparing myself, I approached them, focusing my attention mainly on Dean and ignoring Marcus, just for a second, because his scowling would only put me off.
Then again, maybe I should be grateful that he’d turned up at all.
‘You must be Ava,’ said Dean with a Hollywood smile, sliding off his stool to greet me as I approached.
‘I am indeed,’ I replied, attempting to exude professionalism and confidence with one rather clunky handshake.
Dean was senior vice-president at WCG, a behemoth of a talent agency based in Los Angeles, a city I had visited twice and loved, even though, to all intents and purposes, it should be the sort of place I hated.
Clean-shaven, with golden-blond highlights, Dean had an expensive-looking set of veneers and was wearing a suit I reckoned was Armani or similar; clearly, I was in the wrong game.
Not that I’d ever be cut out for a career in agenting, mind you, given that I avoided difficult conversations like the plague and hated chasing people for money.
To be fair, I’d found Dean pretty amiable so far, which was not to be sniffed at given there were some seriously terrible management teams out there.
One of my worst days ever at the Sunday supplement had involved being screamed at by the publicist of a C-list reality star because I’d offered her vegan client a Gail’s sausage roll.
The reality star herself hadn’t seemed bothered at the time and had just declined it like a normal person would.
Except that she must have complained to her publicist about me afterwards, so she’d instantly gone down in my estimation.
Another one living up to the rep – Marcus Taylor was not alone.
I could sense Marcus watching me as I edged myself on to a stool – I’d have been much better off on one of the squidgy sofas.
Perhaps, like cats, Marcus felt more powerful when he was sitting up high.
He appeared to have changed out of his ludicrously overpriced sportswear and into an ensemble consisting of a grey T-shirt, a black blazer and indigo jeans.
Perhaps the working title for my article should be: How Can A Man This Attractive Be So Utterly Unlikeable?
‘I’ve told Dean I won’t be doing the interview he set up for me without my permission,’ said an icy-toned Marcus, right on cue.
Great start. We were back to square one, then, by the sounds of it. Did Dean have the power to force him to do it?
Dean gave him a look. ‘Marcus. We’ve talked about you being more of a “yes” man . . .’
‘You’ve talked about it,’ replied Marcus.
Dean didn’t look remotely fazed. I thought I might like a ‘Dean’ fighting my corner – I didn’t suppose he got messed around very often, and as a freelancer, getting money out of people was an unnecessarily stressful part of the job. Chasing unpaid invoices was my own private kind of hell.
‘As you know, we’ve been thinking long and hard about how to propel you firmly into the hearts of the British public,’ said Dean with enthusiasm. ‘Hell, not just British fans, but fans all across the world. How do we reel them in and make them love you as much as we all do?’
If that was Dean’s intention, boy did he have his work cut out for him.
‘As you must be aware by now, the public’s opinions are irrelevant to me,’ said Marcus.
Before I could remind myself where I was, I snorted in disbelief, because I just didn’t buy it. We all cared what people thought of us, as much as we tried to persuade ourselves we didn’t. Surely? Or was Marcus Taylor really that sure of himself?
‘Something wrong, Ava?’ asked Marcus, narrowing his eyes at me.
‘Sorry,’ I said, coughing for effect. ‘Had something in my throat.’
Marcus gave me a look that indicated he didn’t believe a word of it before turning his gaze back to Dean, shutting me out completely.
‘Dean. My goal is the same as it’s always been – to play the best tennis I can.
To win another Grand Slam. Whether or not people like me is neither a priority nor within my control. ’
He sounded very convincing, if you could call a robot convincing, but he wasn’t fooling me.
It would break me to walk off court after playing my absolute heart out (this was taking a great deal of imagination) only to have at least half the stands booing, stamping their feet and hissing at me.
I’d literally be a wreck. And Marcus might not be as sensitive as I was to the judgement of others – people rarely were, I’d found – but surely he felt something?
‘But we care what the general public have to say about you. Don’t we, Ava?’ said Dean, nodding encouragingly at me.
‘Um, yes?’ I said, thinking only of the article; of the piece I’d already started to plan. I’d say whatever he needed me to say if it meant Marcus was going to agree to let me interview him.
And anyway, it was kind of true; I did care about Marcus’s reputation, insofar as I wanted my readers to feel something for him by the time they’d read through to the end of my article.
They didn’t have to like him – I thought that might be a bridge too far, anyway – but I wanted them to at least begin to understand him.
To empathise, perhaps. But in order for me to write something like that, Marcus was going to have to be honest with me, and I was beginning to think that this level of openness was something he might not be capable of.
Dean, however, was not to be deterred.
‘Ava wants to write a beautiful piece about you, Marcus. Something that shows Luxe magazine readers who you really are. We know you’re much more than the Racquet Man the press has dubbed you.
You’re not just a playboy throwing his toys out of the pram, you have layers.
You have actual feelings, like all of us do.
But I think that maybe you need to show us what’s in your heart and prove to people that you can tap into your emotions as much as the next person. Do you hear what I’m saying?’
‘Sounds like you’re asking me to give up tennis and take up poetry,’ said Marcus in the sardonic tone I was becoming all too familiar with.