Chapter Sixteen
I waited in the grounds for Marcus to finish his press conference, deciding I needed some fresh air and a cold beverage more than I needed to watch him talk live about the match I’d just seen – I’d hear about it if anything interesting happened.
Distracted by the lure of a glass of cold white wine, I hit one of the many bar areas and found a single chair and a shady spot for one, despite the crowds.
The drama of the match had stayed with me; I thought it might have been the tensest I’d felt in my entire life, or at least for that length of time – nearly four hours!
How Marcus had played at that level for that long, I had no idea.
I had a new admiration for him, despite the fact he very nearly lost it at the umpire, because I’d witnessed what he was capable of when he played at his absolute best, even if he couldn’t quite carry it through to the end.
He might have slipped back into his Racquet Man persona for a minute there, but other than that he’d been brilliant – the match could have gone either way, particularly on a different surface.
I wasn’t sure if Marcus felt it, but from where I was standing, his hard work – and employing Patrick as his coach – was beginning to pay off.
When I checked my phone, I saw that I had several missed calls from Charlie and a text saying Ring me, please.
My stomach fluttered involuntarily. Had those photos upset him rather than made him want me again?
I didn’t like disappointing anyone, obviously, but especially not Charlie.
Even now, after everything he’d done, I felt the need to behave impeccably, to take the moral high ground even if he had taken the low one.
I wasn’t sure posting photos of me and Marcus together had been the best idea, in hindsight – I second-guessed everything I put on social media at the best of times.
What if Charlie thought I was an awful person now?
And – more annoyingly – why did I still care?
I returned the call, thinking about Marcus out there on the court – if he had the courage to do that, I could totally do this.
Charlie answered on the first ring, as though he’d been staring at his phone waiting for my call.
‘At last,’ he said huffily.
‘Hi,’ I said, as a gust of deliciously cool wind licked my face.
‘So I saw your photos,’ he said.
‘Which photos?’ I asked, as if I didn’t know.
‘You and that dick Marcus Taylor. Seriously, Ava? The guy’s an animal!’
Now, after the way Marcus had just played, after I’d seen him leave his soul out there on that court, essentially, it took all my strength not to tell Charlie to fuck right off and end the call immediately.
On the other hand, this was what I’d wanted, wasn’t it?
He was clearly rattled, otherwise why would he give a toss who I was dating?
‘Know him personally, do you?’ I asked, a little facetiously, I knew, but come on.
‘We’ve all seen the footage of him, Ava. I’m surprised he hasn’t seriously injured someone the way he throws racquets around. Why would you want to date someone like that?’
‘Well, at least I’ve waited a respectable amount of time before jumping into something else. Could you have been any more insensitive, Charlie? Posting cutesy photos of you and your mysterious new girlfriend not long after you moved out. Who is she, anyway?’
I seemed to have rendered him mute, and I could almost feel him fumbling around for an answer.
‘Why does that matter?’ asked Charlie.
‘Because if you’re going to weigh in on who I’m seeing, it’s only fair I get to do the same,’ I said. He couldn’t argue with that, could he?
‘But the thing is, Ava, I didn’t call to talk about me. We were talking about you and that . . . Neanderthal,’ said Charlie, the king of deflecting questions he didn’t want to answer.
I pinched the top of my nose, trying to keep calm. I didn’t think screaming down the phone would be appropriate in the champagne bar at the French Open.
‘You know what, Charlie? I think I’m going to go.
Because I literally don’t care about your opinion of Marcus – you’re not dating him, are you, I am.
And for your information, he is far more than just a man who gets angry on court.
He’s an elite athlete, more dedicated and hard-working than a single other person I’ve ever met.
And he’s actually very kind, and charming, and he listens – really listens – when you talk.
And he’s interested in me, which I have to say you stopped being towards the end of our relationship.
So I’m actually very happy. Goodbye, Charlie. ’
I went to hang up, feeling powerful and in control and also slightly reeling from the fact that I’d managed to name several things I liked about Marcus without even having to think about it.
‘Ava, please. I’m sorry,’ said Charlie, changing his tone, the aggression of a few moments ago gone.
Now he just sounded desperate. What was wrong with him?
Why did he care so much? Surely he should be putting all his energy into his new ‘relationship’ – because I was presuming it was official, and that it wasn’t just a string of sexy nights away in boutique hotels.
‘I think there’s little point in prolonging this conversation,’ I said, keen to get off the phone.
Marcus might be ready to leave in a minute, and Dean wanted us to head back to the car together because this was a super-high-profile event and there were press here from all over the world, although I was pretty sure Marcus wouldn’t be in the mood for photos. He probably just wanted to be alone.
‘I miss you,’ said Charlie. ‘There. I’ve said it.’
I put my hand across my mouth, not quite believing what I was hearing.
These were the words I’d imagined him saying over and over in the dark days after he first left; the reassurance from him I’d needed in the two weeks after he’d moved out, when he refused to answer my texts at all.
Now he missed me. And I missed him too, but surely that was inevitable after spending four years with someone.
Did it mean more than that, for either of us?
‘It’s probably a bit late for all that,’ I said, wondering if I meant it or if I just didn’t want to let him off the hook that easily. I didn’t know, I couldn’t think straight.
‘Don’t you still think about me? About us?’ he asked, sounding a little bit tearful.
‘Sometimes,’ I replied, although it was less and less as time went on.
‘Too busy thinking about Marcus Taylor?’ he mumbled.
‘Something like that. On which note, he’s just finished a match and we’ll be heading back to his hotel in a minute.’
‘I saw he lost,’ said Charlie spitefully.
Why was he looking up tennis results? He was a football man through and through and I’d never once seen him show interest in racquet sports of any kind.
‘It was a very close match,’ I said. ‘He played brilliantly,’ I felt the need to add.
‘So what now?’ asked Charlie. ‘Can we meet up when you’re back? Go for a drink or something? I really need to talk to you.’
I had a flashback to the night he announced he didn’t want to be with me anymore. How I’d begged him – begged him – to sleep on it, to take the time to help me understand exactly what had gone wrong.
‘You had your chance to talk and you point-blank refused,’ I said, tears springing up at the memory.
‘I’m sorry, Ava. I handled it really badly, I can see that now,’ he said.
‘You couldn’t wait to leave!’ I said, wiping a rogue tear away with the sleeve of my cardigan.
It still stung that he’d left with so little regard for my feelings, after the years – good years – we’d spent together.
‘You couldn’t even give me until morning.
You made me feel as though I was nothing to you. ’
‘No, Ava. That wasn’t it, I just—’
‘So no, Charlie. I don’t want to meet up with you. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me again.’
I ended the call, resisting the urge to sob because . . . photos. Marcus. I pulled myself together and went to find him.
It took a while for my heartbeat to return to normal as I sat quietly with the team in the players’ lounge.
Dean was up and down taking calls from LA, and Nick was with Marcus.
Patrick had told me Marcus had had a wrist injury four years ago that flared up occasionally, which was why Nick travelled with him everywhere.
At great expense, I imagined. Apparently, the press conference had gone well – Marcus had admitted feeling regret over the way he’d acted over the line call, which I thought was something different from him.
When I’d seen recordings of post-match interviews before, he’d appeared to show little remorse, banging on about pressure and blaming the umpire/spectators/the weather and anyone else but himself.
Perhaps, despite the setback, he was making progress after all.
When Marcus appeared, I knew immediately that he was beating himself up about losing.
There was something different about the way he walked, about the dead look behind his eyes.
Of course, it could just be exhaustion – I hoped it was – but I suspected there was something more.
The second Grand Slam of the year and he’d been knocked out in round two, and perhaps in his mind it made little difference by whom, or how hard he’d fought for it.
It meant he potentially only had two more chances to fulfil his dream of winning another Grand Slam this year – Wimbledon and the US Open – and what if he couldn’t?
What then? Would he try again the following season?
Or would he be able to accept that everything else he’d achieved already was enough?
Marcus nodded at me and then turned to Dean.
‘Is my car ready?’
‘It is,’ said Dean, giving him a sympathetic smile.
Despite what I’d initially believed, I didn’t think Marcus’s team were walking on eggshells around him.
I’d felt a bit like I was at first, but I was nowhere near as worried about upsetting him or saying the wrong thing now as I had been at the beginning.
I hadn’t once seen him be unpleasant to any member of his team and, to my knowledge, his anger was always internalised.
Or taken out on a racquet, obviously, but never a fellow human.
Actually, that wasn’t strictly true. There had been linesmen, umpires, ball boys and noisy spectators who had all felt the wrath of Marcus Taylor.
So why did I feel so confident that he wasn’t going to take it out on me?
He picked up his racquet bag and started walking towards the exit. As he passed Anton Bauer, who was sitting at a table with his team, Anton stood up and shook Marcus’s hand.
‘Commiserations, man. Close call.’
Marcus put his hand over Anton’s. ‘Thanks, man.’
As he walked on, I glanced at Dean. Was I supposed to be going after him? Because it really didn’t seem like he wanted me to and I—
‘Are you coming, Ava?’
Marcus was waiting for me by the door. A little self-conscious, suddenly, I hurried across the room to join him.
We held hands automatically as we stepped out of the stadium and headed for the pick-up area where a line of flashy black Mercedes minivans was waiting, presumably to whisk players back to their hotels whenever they desired.
Behind a rope stood around twenty photographers, who immediately started flashing away and calling Marcus’s name.
I thought I felt him squeeze my hand as we ignored them and got into our van.
The driver slid the door shut behind us, enveloping us in a dark, quiet cocoon that smelled of leather with a hint of pine.
Marcus threw himself back in his seat, looking up at the ceiling.
‘Well, that was a fucking train wreck,’ he said.
I thought about how best to answer. And then I thought I’d just say how I felt and to hell with the consequences.
‘You played really well,’ I said, turning to him as we began to drive slowly out of the stadium. Fans were staring at us through the glass, not able to tell who was inside because of the blacked-out windows, although one of them took a photo anyway.
‘I did not, Ava. And the most frustrating thing is, I had it all up here,’ he said, jabbing his finger on his temple. ‘I knew what I needed to do to beat him, I understood the shots I needed to make, but when it came down to it, I failed dismally to execute them.’
‘Okay, but that’s always going to happen, right? There’s going to be things you do well, that you’re proud of, that surprise you about yourself. And then at the same time you’re going to make mistakes. Some shots are not going to work out the way you would have liked them to.’
‘I want to play the perfect game, that’s what I strive for, what I’ve always aimed for.’
‘I know,’ I said, wanting to show him that I understood.
I knew nothing about elite-level sports, of course I didn’t, but in my own way I was striving to be perfect too – with my sister, in my own career.
I’d gone back and read articles I’d written and thought they were awful.
But it never felt as bad as I could see this felt for Marcus.
‘You get used to losing,’ said Marcus. ‘But some losses hurt more than others, and this is one of them.’
I nodded. ‘You’ll be okay,’ I said.
I patted his knee lightly and although I was planning to remove it again, I felt the need to leave it there.
We sat in silence for a minute or two, both of us looking out of our own windows as we drove along the streets of Paris.
And then suddenly I felt him put his hand on top of mine.
Curl his fingers in between my fingers. I squeezed hard, still looking out of the window, not able to take in the view now because all I could think about were the very pleasant sensations shooting up my arm and into my body, my mouth, my head.
His hand was warm and strong. I could hear him breathing, quickly, gently, but I thought I might be holding my breath.
I had the sense that he needed me to keep squeezing him and I wanted to do that for him, wanted to do anything to make him feel even the tiniest bit better about losing today.
‘I like having you around,’ he said after a while, his eyes not moving from the window.
I turned to look at him, even if he couldn’t meet my eye, nodding gently. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’