Chapter Fourteen
The receptionist ordered me a taxi and as soon as I got in the car I wound down the window, enjoying the early summer heat and the views of the Eiffel Tower over the other side of the river – it was much warmer here than it had been in London when I left and I put my sunglasses on, nonchalantly letting my cardigan slip off one shoulder, hoping I was suitably dressed for my first ever Grand Slam.
I thought I was getting a little better at looking the part – today I had on a navy-and-white floral mini dress, black patent ballet flats and a fake Chanel handbag, which I’d slung across my body, plus a white cardigan in case the weather turned.
I’d attempted to put my hair up into one of those French-style messy buns with bits hanging loose, and it had taken me ages to do and in fact I’d successfully managed it only when I’d given up, shoving my hair on top of my head in frustration without even looking in the mirror.
The taxi wasn’t able to get close to the stadium because of the crowds.
Who knew this many people liked tennis? Swathes of fans were heading up to the grounds, tickets clasped in their hands, the women mostly dressed a little bit like me (this was good).
The level of security had been upped several notches from Monte-Carlo, including the presence of police officers with guns poised and seemingly ready to use them.
I got out my phone, checking Dean’s instructions: I was to follow signs for press accreditation, pick up my credentials and meet the team in the players’ lounge.
The Stade Roland-Garros was around ten times bigger than the Monte-Carlo site and was a modern, purpose-built stadium named after a French aviator who had died aged twenty-nine after his plane was shot down in the First World War.
The complex consisted of twenty courts, the biggest of which was Philippe-Chatrier – I wasn’t sure who he was and made a mental note to check, because if Marcus got through to the second round, he’d be playing on it, apparently.
Today he was on one of the smaller outside courts, which was another reason to be happy about the sun and the wispy white clouds skimming across blue sky.
The grounds smelled like geraniums and Sauvignon blanc and I didn’t immediately hear a single British voice, although I was sure there must be some.
I’d read the French were particularly passionate about their tennis, often booing players from other countries before they’d even begun.
This, I was sure, would not please Marcus.
Once I’d passed through all the necessary security checks, attempting to use my exceptionally bad French and in the end reverting to English about ninety per cent of the time, I found my way to the lounge via a long white corridor.
On the walls was an impressive display of photos of past French Open winners that you would definitely have felt inspired by if you were in any way athletically inclined.
I admired their winning spirit, even if I’d never been competitive about anything in my life.
I would have taken a video for my dad if I didn’t think that getting caught recording footage might get me thrown off the premises.
I had to actively remember to breathe when I walked into the lounge and saw some of the faces I’d just seen displayed in the corridor.
My eyes darted back and forth, looking for Marcus or a member of his team, desperately seeking a face I recognised.
It took me ages to get my bearings and just as I thought I was going to have to turn back around and leave, I heard somebody call my name.
‘Ava! We are over here!’
Patrick had spotted me. Relieved, I scraped together the last vestiges of my confidence and scuttled over to join him. He nodded a greeting as I approached, then Dean stood up to give me an LA-style air kiss.
‘Marcus and Nick are finishing their warm-up in the gym,’ said Dean. ‘They should be out shortly. I know Marcus wanted to say hi.’
Patrick looked surprised – he wasn’t in on our fake-romance “arrangement”, presumably, and probably wondered why Marcus would care if I was here or not.
I had mixed feelings about starting all of this up again, anyway, especially as for a second I’d actually thought Dean had meant it when he said that Marcus wanted to see me.
It had given me a little burst of happiness I hadn’t been expecting and I’d swiftly had to bring myself crashing back down to earth with a harsh reminder that this was all for show, even if our (fake) moments of intimacy had begun to flow more freely in Monte Carlo.
Holding Marcus’s hand when there were paparazzi around had become second nature, but it had been weeks without any contact now and obviously if we had been dating for real, there would have been phone calls and FaceTimes and morning texts, and messages before we went to bed, or was that just me?
I was now going to have to fake a connection from the beginning again and we couldn’t afford to ease into it.
Amanda Eddington had been checking in regularly and I’d been forced to give the same vague answers to her as I had to everyone else: Marcus is away at the moment in Europe.
We’re taking it easy, but things are going really well, yes.
Zoe was literally the only person I could be completely honest with.
Although, saying that, I hadn’t mentioned the super-hot pressed-together-in-a-lift situation to her – if I let on that I’d felt attracted to Marcus, even for what had amounted to less than ten seconds, she was going to have an I told you it was a bad idea field day.
I grabbed myself a pleasingly frothy cappuccino and listened to Dean and Patrick chatting away – unsurprisingly – about tennis, chipping in when I could, relaying how much UK press coverage there’d been around the Madrid Open and the Italian Open in Rome and the kinds of stories I’d seen printed about Marcus.
They tended to be around the theme of shock – shock that Marcus had made it that far in a clay tournament, and shock that he’d lost a match without at some point smashing a racquet. Dean seemed pleased with this intel.
‘We want the press focusing on his achievements, not on how many times he said fuck out on court,’ said Dean.
Well, quite.
Of course, Marcus chose that precise moment to appear next to us, looking devastatingly handsome – having only seen him in grainy photos in newspapers for the last few weeks, I’d forgotten how impressive his physique was close up.
This would be all athletes, I reminded myself.
It was because I’d never really been around them before.
Anyone would feel the same, wouldn’t they?
‘Talking about me again, are you, Dean?’ said Marcus, briefly catching my eye.
‘Always, Marcus, always,’ replied Dean, not caring that he’d been caught.
He appeared to have the thickest skin of anyone I’d ever met and I supposed he needed it in his line of work.
In fact, I doubted that Marcus was anywhere near his most demanding client – Mia Stephens had seemed pretty highly strung in my opinion, and I knew that there’d be even bigger egos at play within his clientele.
I stood up to greet Marcus, trying not to overthink what I was about to do – I wanted to let Dean know that I hadn’t forgotten I had an agreement to uphold and that I was all in and taking it seriously.
And it had to seem authentic – if Marcus was my boyfriend and I hadn’t seen him for a while, I’d want to kiss him. Wouldn’t I?
‘Hello stranger,’ I said to Marcus, running my arm around his waist and pulling him into me.
To be fair to him, he hesitated only for a second before catching on and putting his hand on the small of my back, pulling me closer so he could brush his lips across mine.
My stomach flipped and I nearly gasped out loud, right there in the middle of the lounge.
His lips had just felt so . . . good! When he pulled back, we caught each other’s eyes and smiled, each of us breaking into a soft laugh that from my perspective was a combination of mortification and my head spinning, because I still had my hand on his waist, and my thumb was dangerously close to the six-pack I kept finding myself daydreaming about at inopportune moments.
Maybe I just needed to touch them once and get it out of my system.
‘Wow. It is the lovebirds show,’ said Patrick, seemingly unimpressed.
He was probably a) very confused and b) worried that this supposed love affair of ours was going to be distracting for Marcus, which I supposed it might have been if it was real.
Then again, I couldn’t imagine Marcus letting anything throw him off course, not this year, not when the possibility of a Grand Slam win felt so tantalisingly close.
I reclaimed my hand, which had somehow moved from Marcus’s waist to the spot right between his shoulder blades, where I could feel his lungs expanding every time he took a breath.
I let my arm hang by my side, trying not to look awkward, eventually hooking my fingers over the back of a chair for support and for something to bloody well do.
‘What time are you due out on court?’ I asked Marcus, hoping conversation would deflect his attention away from my flushed cheeks. If in doubt, revert to tennis, I was beginning to learn.
He glanced over at the TV screens lined up along one wall, each showing live footage of an empty court.
‘I’m on court Simonne-Mathieu . . . they’re planning to start on time, so I’ll need to be ready for ten,’ said Marcus.
‘Who are you playing?’ I asked.
‘Anton Bauer,’ said Marcus.
‘The Danish guy with the topknot?’ I asked.
‘A topknot and a killer backhand,’ said Patrick.