CHAPTER 3
Leo
‘No thanks. G.’
‘Still an arsehole then,’ I think to myself, pondering his response as I travel home.
After escaping the office on time for once, I just about made the train.
Of course, as with the rest of this shitshow of a day, no seats were available.
So here I am, leaning against the door, headphones on, looking through the window and taking steady breaths as I watch the train pull out of the station.
I know that soon the rooftops will blend to green, and home to the countryside I’ll be.
I click on my favourite playlist, ‘Cowboy, take me away’, and debate if a move to Montana would be out the question.
Surly but sexy fictional cowboys are my type, no?
Brooding, spoilt tennis players are not.
How the hell would I get him to use Mayfair Lifestyle if he didn’t even want it? Why were we even doing it if he didn’t want to?
I huff loudly to myself, startling the poor gentleman next to me, and I offer a small but apologetic smile.
‘Get a grip, Leo,’ I think. ‘He’s just another challenge to overcome. You’ve handled difficult members before. He’s no different. Customer is king, kill them with kindness, blah blah blah. You can do it.’
I open up the pages of Red Hot Ranch, preparing to escape to a world where Brett Tanner shoves me up against a barn door, proclaiming his unquenchable lust as he rips open the bodice of my flowing sundress, buttons flying to the dusty floor.
I’m jolted out of my fantasy by an announcement of trespassers on the line.
Instead of the rough wood of the barn against my back, I’m squashed against the cold glass of the train door and that’s definitely not Brett Tanner’s armpit hovering over my head .
. . I groan inwardly and can’t help but let my mind wander back to George Hampden and the night my crush was well and truly crushed.
——
The meeting occurred about a year ago. The party was a pre-Queen’s event for our members held by Lacoste.
I was working but buzzing inside to be attending; I’d be in the same room as all my favourite tennis stars.
He hadn’t been on the initial guest list, the team at Lacoste citing personal commitments and apologizing for the disappointment to our members.
But halfway through the night I spotted him across the room and paused, mid-sentence .
. . My initial crush had subsided at this point but flared right back to life the minute I saw him.
I thought at that moment he was even better in person.
A literal god in a room full of unworthy mortals.
I was excited by the other players in attendance, but none had brought me to quite the standstill he did.
I was hosting members but desperately wanted to introduce myself. I didn’t pretend that I had a chance with any of the athletes there, especially not one like George, but his presence in the room was such that I was orbiting around him, pulled closer and closer by forces I couldn’t resist.
I finally plucked up the courage to go over when he was fairly alone, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows with a man I knew to be his older brother, Gordon, an ex-tennis pro in his own right, now agent, but practically invisible next to George.
Conscious of needing a reason other than ‘Hello, I’m your biggest fan’, to go over, I grabbed two glasses of champagne on the premise of offering them a drink, ever the good host, but also something to do with my hands. Hands that were uncharacteristically shaking.
Both towered above me, even in heels, but I tried my best not to be intimidated as I got closer.
Gordon was the first to turn to me, speaking as George still looked out, the London skyline twinkling around us in the rooftop bar.
‘Well, hello, who do we have here?’ He looked me up and down slowly, with approval.
My stomach clenched at the hint of intention in his cold, dull eyes, but I smiled politely.
‘Hi, I’m so sorry to disturb you. I wanted to welcome you to the party and check you don’t need anything at all. My name is—’
George interrupted without looking around. ‘No photos.’
I gestured to them with the glasses, careful not to spill anything. ‘Apologies, Mr Hampden, I wasn’t suggesting—’
He cut me off again.
‘No photos.’ He turned his head, eyes moving straight from the view to his brother.
‘Gordon, you didn’t tell them?’ He lowered his voice and looked back out the window.
‘Just please get me out of here, I’m done with this .
. .’ He closed his eyes, vaguely waving his hand towards me, ‘These people, it’s too much. ’
Excuse me?
People rarely left me speechless but I stumbled over my words, the indignation almost physically knocking me back. ‘S-sorry?’
‘Quite right, George, awful crowd.’ Gordon shook his head, grabbing my arm roughly to pull me aside, his other hand signalling for me to leave. Dismissed.
I wrenched out of his grip, the sharp movement causing champagne to slosh down my dress.
Great. Fucking great.
Pissed off and not wanting to cause a scene, I had started to walk away, but not before catching his reply.
‘Didn’t realize it would be packed full of old bores.
’ I turned back at that, frowning in disbelief at the blatant rudeness.
‘And girls on the game.’ He gave me a pointed look as he walked past me, eyes dropping to the wet patch on my dress. ‘I’ll get them to fetch the car.’
George didn’t bother to correct or reprimand him, just kept staring outside, stony-faced.
It only fuelled my anger. These people? Girls on the game?
Who did they think they were?! I opened my mouth to retort, but as always, appearing at the worst possible time, Cece lumbered over, already on his way to embarrassing himself after one too many glasses of champagne and whatever else he had squirrelled away in his monogrammed hip flask.
‘George, my boy!’ he boomed, looking between us. His eyes landed on the two, almost empty, glasses I was still clutching and widened as he took in my soaking dress.
He’d shaken his head in disappointment.
‘Clean yourself up, girl, you’re embarrassing me,’ he’d hissed, loud enough for those around us to hear. Loud enough for George to hear, although he was still facing away. ‘We’ll be discussing this tomorrow morning.’
My face flamed and I walked away swiftly, noticing heads that turned in our direction at the commotion.
This was hell. I was working, we had guests and, having already almost lost my usual composure, I battled to maintain a calm facade, willing the tears of outrage and anger pricking my eyes to subside. What an entitled dick . . .
I was facing the bar, dabbing at my dress with a napkin discreetly as I counted to ten in my head, but Cece’s unnecessarily loud voice continued on and carried well enough. I either couldn’t hear George or he hadn’t bothered to acknowledge him.
‘Sorry about her, George . . . can’t get the staff these days, can you? So unreliable. Too much in favour of the old drink I’d say. All play and no work!’
I took another deep breath, willing myself not to explode at Cece and in doing so blow my chances of getting the promotion to director that I had repeatedly been promised.
‘But look at you! You were half the size when I saw you last.’ Cece ploughed on despite apparently not receiving a response.
‘I knew your father! Remember? He must have told you of our summers with the Stanthorpes in Antibes? That house was a beauty, belonged to Archie Stanthorpe’s great grandfather.
Oh, the memories we had there . . . Sold it now of course, couldn’t afford it in the latest divorce, awful stuff.
Tragic. We all said she was only in it for the money.
Terrible, awful really. How is the old fellow anyway? I haven’t seen him in years.’
I heard him pause for breath before continuing, voice laced with fake concern . . . ‘How does he feel about poor Olivia though? Hope you don’t mind me prying, sad business but news travels fast.’
I looked over as George finally turned, confusion knotting his brow as he saw the blabbering man standing in front of him.
I almost felt sorry for Cece as he looked him up and down coldly and, without a word, walked away, exhaling slowly and heading towards the lift.
He had to walk past the bar to leave. Past me.
I stared as he strode closer, unable to look anywhere else despite everything.
As though he felt my gaze, he looked up briefly with those stormy dark eyes and stalled, looking straight at me for the first time that evening.
I had turned quickly, unable to maintain control of the emotion bubbling within me and he seemed to remember where he was, catching himself.
I heard him thank our host before abruptly leaving.
The whole thing was over in a matter of minutes but he’d shattered my pride. Shaken me up in a way few could.
The cherry on top of a really shitty cake came straight after with Cece’s parting words. ‘Try to lay off the champagne, Leonora . . . it’s not a good look to the boss, especially when I’m really, really trying to convince them of your worth. Time to go home, I think.’
Brilliant.
——
Half an hour later than planned, the train pulls into the station and I sigh in relief as I exit to see my friend, and unofficial tennis coach, Jack Harper.
He’s leaning against his car, a grin plastered across his tanned, handsome face, muscular arms crossed over his equally muscular chest. He’s totally oblivious to the girls watching him from the car beside, giggling as he waves at me, biceps flexing.
‘Come on, gorgeous, get in.’ He gestures to the front seat where he’s left a banana and an iced chai latte from Grange Home Farm, my favourite local spot, in the cup holder. I see ‘OAT’ scrawled across the top and it lightens my mood immediately. He remembered. He’s so bloody thoughtful.
‘Jack Harper, I love you,’ I sigh.
It’s both a blessing and a shame we established early on that we were never meant to be more than platonic. He’d be such a good boyfriend, perfect really, but I’m just happy he’s my friend.
‘We’re late, but I’ve kept the court free all evening. Your day sounded pretty stressful?’ He glances over as I grab the banana, adding, ‘Even more so than usual.’
Jack knows that I can’t share any personal member details and I’m always discreet, but I can trust him enough to share the vague horror stories.
Like the time one of the juniors sent flowers to the wife of a longstanding member, rather than mistress, with a note telling her to meet him in Room 212 of The Beaumont.
He was rather surprised when he opened the door that night, expecting the busty, young blonde he’d picked up in Tramp the month before, not his partner of thirty-six years.
Luckily for him, the affair wasn’t outed, the confusion resulting in his wife thanking him for the surprise, but declaring she would have preferred Claridge’s: ‘They have a new treatment at the spa that I’m desperate to try.
’ We booked her in the next day. All was forgiven and, importantly, forgotten, thankfully.
As a tennis coach, I know Jack would delight in knowing I was looking after George, but my professionalism wins out and I simply tell him, ‘We have a new ambassador member, a famous athlete, and Cece has kindly given me the task of looking after him.’
‘But I thought you don’t look after members any more?’ he questions.
‘I know, which is part of the issue. But mainly I’m under pressure because he’s a friend of my boss and the owner. Both of whom are on my case to make this successful.’
‘Which you will. Because you’re ace at your job.’
I feel anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I really need to get on the court and release some of this energy. ‘He doesn’t want to use the service. I tried welcoming him earlier and his response was, “No thanks”.’
‘Wow, what a dick. A free membership, for what? Thirty grand? And he’s not bothered?’ He exhales. ‘Surely you can talk him around?’ Jack takes his eyes off the road and gives me a quick grin. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone refuse you anything . . .’
‘He doesn’t want to speak, only text.’ I lift my drink, taking a long sip.
‘You’ve only tried once, very unlike you to give up so easily.
Maybe something about him has got under your skin?
’ Jack carries on as I shrug, keeping memories of that night to myself.
‘Just keep trying, Leo, I’m sure he’s just another self-absorbed prick, used to treating people like shit.
You’ll win him around and he’ll be doing everything you want soon enough. ’
I don’t reply, so he changes the subject. ‘So, tell me, where did Brett Tanner take you “roughly” today?’
I laugh out loud, updating him on Red Hot Ranch and putting George Hampden to the back of my mind. A few hours sweating it out on the court and I’ll be back to normal.
This will be a success.