Chapter Thirteen #2
Meanwhile, Dad was barely visible through the plumes of thick white smoke he was generating as he prodded heavy-handedly at the hot coals.
A cloud of it was heading straight for next door’s washing and it didn’t appear to occur to Dad that maybe he should have suggested they take their washing in before he fired it up.
Surprisingly, the afternoon was a relative success.
Cassie had picked at her food a bit, which usually had the effect of putting me off mine, but somehow I had the biggest appetite today and tucked into a burger, two sausages and a piece of chicken seasoned with jerk powder, Dad’s summer speciality.
Mum opened a bottle of prosecco and, after a glass and a half each, we actually had a bit of a laugh.
Dad asked me a couple of questions about the tennis and seemed impressed with the knowledge I was gleaning, and he said how well Marcus had done in Rome – he’d reached the semi-finals, beaten by the world number four in three very close sets.
‘Clay is his least favourite surface,’ I said, pleased with myself for remembering.
‘You can tell,’ said Dad.
‘Did he have any kick-offs in Rome? That’s all I’m interested in, it’s hilarious,’ said Cassie flippantly, scrolling through her phone, which had been beeping constantly throughout the meal.
‘Not that I know of,’ I said, although I hadn’t been following the footage avidly.
It would have meant signing up to Sky Sports, which I wasn’t prepared to do because it cost an absolute fortune.
Also, I thought it might be a bit obsessive – as it was, he kept popping into my mind’s eye at extremely unhelpful times.
I didn’t think watching him lunge around the court all sweaty and smeared with dusty red clay was in any way going to stop me noticing how gut-wrenchingly attractive he was.
I had a Eurostar to catch in the morning, which got me neatly out of having to stay the night in Reading.
Cassie had disappeared up to her room pretty swiftly after lunch anyway, and by the time I’d cleared everything away while Mum and Dad watched The Chase it was gone four and time to head back.
I was still umming and aahing about what to pack – was Paris more or less dressy than Monte Carlo?
I wasn’t staying as long this time, either, as Amanda Eddington quite rightly didn’t think the budget could stretch to putting me up for two weeks in the hope that Marcus would make the final.
I’d be there for his first-round match, and the second if he made it that far, which, judging by his performance in Rome and Madrid, he had a good chance of doing.
According to Dean, it depended on who he got in the draw, which was being decided this afternoon, apparently, in a ceremony at L’Orangerie de Roland-Garros (no idea what that was, but it sounded perfectly lovely).
I could have travelled a day earlier if I’d wanted, but I’d chosen not to because it was Cassie’s birthday and I wanted to spend the day with her.
Although since she’d spent most of it either staring at her phone screen or locked in her room, I felt slightly put out about that decision now, especially as Dean was pushing for Marcus and me to get ourselves photographed together at the earliest opportunity because according to him, things had gone a bit quiet on the ‘romance’ front.
Marcus hadn’t been in London at all since I’d seen him in Monaco, and apparently the press was likely to assume we were no longer together.
Meanwhile, Charlie had continued to post photos of himself with his new girlfriend – whose identity was still a complete mystery – and I couldn’t help being gutted that he was doing the same things with her on a Sunday that he used to do with me.
Zoe had instructed me to mute his account immediately, and I kept saying I would, but I also had a masochistic need to know exactly what he was doing and with whom so that I could justifiably wallow in misery about it afterwards.
Nobody I knew had heard from him, and we’d never really had mutual friends in the way that some couples did – they were firmly either in his camp or mine – so there was no information to be wheedled out of people that way.
I popped up to see Cassie before I left, already prepping myself to play down my upcoming trip. Paris in the spring sounded undeniably dreamy at face value, but it was also work, as I kept having to remind myself, particularly because sometimes it didn’t feel like it.
I knocked on Cassie’s door, my fingers already wrapped around the handle.
‘Come in!’ called Cassie.
She was sitting on her bed with her phone next to her. The TV wasn’t on, so she must have been scrolling. I hoped she wasn’t obsessing over influencers again.
‘Just came to say bye. I’m heading off in a minute,’ I said.
I sat on the edge of her bed, looking around the room.
When we were younger, early-to-mid-teens, perhaps, I’d spent hours in here, slouched on a bean bag on the floor, doing my homework there, making the excuse that it helped to have background noise.
Really, it was that she’d always be having a bad time at school and I hadn’t wanted her to feel alone and thought it might help to have me there.
The problem was, she had become kind of dependent on me and when I did actually have to concentrate – in the run-up to my GCSEs, for example – Cassie accused me of not caring about her anymore.
She was only thirteen or so, I got it, and in the end I’d relented and had sacked off the library to resume my position on the bean bag, but I sometimes wondered why Mum hadn’t offered to sit with Cassie instead, so that I could have done my revision elsewhere.
It had crossed my mind once or twice that maybe – subconsciously, obviously, because she wasn’t a malicious person – Mum didn’t actually want me to do well in my exams. She’d made myriad comments about ‘just passing’ being enough, and not needing to get As, and I’d nodded along thinking: I want to do my best, though.
I want to aim for As, because why wouldn’t I?
‘Looking forward to Paris?’ asked Cassie.
I played it down, giving a little unenthusiastic sigh. ‘I won’t get much time to myself. And I’m not there for long, so I’ll be writing or interviewing most of the time.’
‘You can say, you know,’ said Cassie, her expression softening.
‘Say what?’
‘That you’re looking forward to seeing Marcus. That you like him. That you’re excited about Paris. I won’t fall apart if you do.’
I frowned. This was an extremely unusual reaction. Perhaps she was fishing so she could report back to Mum.
‘I haven’t seen him for a while, Cass. I don’t even know if we’ll—’
‘Stop trying to hide things from me. I know you’re into him, I can see it, and it’s fine. Honestly. I’m a big girl. Sure, it would have been nice to be single at the same time for a bit. We didn’t even get to have a girls’ night out together before you jumped right back into a relationship again.’
‘I wouldn’t say it was a relationship,’ I said.
‘Whatever you want to call it. I’m happy for you.’
I didn’t think she’d ever said the words I’m happy for you to me, not once, not ever.
‘Are you feeling okay, Cass?’ I asked.
She reached out and squeezed my hand.
‘I’m fine. Now go and get ready for your trip. I appreciate you coming all the way out here for my birthday, but if I was going to Paris the next morning, I wouldn’t have done that for you.’
Obviously, I thought.
I wondered briefly if these walks or whatever she was doing were helping.
She definitely seemed more content in herself; she must be, to have said the things she just said.
As I left the room, promising her a small gift from Paris, I felt lighter than I had since the day she was born.
She was twenty-seven now and perhaps edging closer to thirty had given her the push she needed to finally start looking after herself.
My phone pinged in my pocket as I put my shoes and coat on before poking my head around the lounge door to say goodbye to Mum and Dad.
I checked my notifications, in case they’d cancelled my Eurostar or something.
It wasn’t about the train, though; it was a message from Marcus – I’d saved his number in my phone for official reasons, but until now we hadn’t sent each other a single message, preferring – or at least having got into the habit of – communicating via Dean.
Ava, looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. Also, would you be free for a Parisian cooking class and wine-tasting the day after?!
My heart did that thing where it felt like it skipped a beat and then produced an extra intense one to make up for it – it was the first time his name had popped up on my phone like that, that was all.
I hadn’t been expecting it. And a cooking class?
Dean had obviously booked it for us, but I was surprised Marcus had agreed to it.
I went back and forth over how to respond.
What wasn’t to like about a fun activity in Paris, and if we really were going to get the public on side with my ‘girl-next-door’ appeal, what could look sweeter and more romantic?
I drafted a message and, after spending ages editing and re-editing it, I sent back what I hoped was an achingly cool response.
Nice idea. Let me check my work schedule and get back to you.