CHAPTER 42
George
Jack Harper:
George, are you ok?
Mate, I’m worried, what happened?
I haven’t heard from Leo either. Is she with you?
Missed call:
Jack Harper
Jack Harper:
I’ve just spoken to her. You’re a fucking idiot.
——
Hope Therapy:
Hi George – are you joining our session today?
I know the loss was hard, but I’m here to help. Please reschedule our session.
Missed call (4):
Hope Therapy
Hope Therapy:
George, I’m concerned about you. Please call me back.
——
Cece Mayfair Lifestyle:
Bad luck old chap. Bloody French.
Wimbledon interview scheduled for first day – Monday 29 June.
Will get Felicity to send over info.
Leonora still out there with you? Tell her to give me a call please. No need now you’re out. It’s not a holiday!
——
Gordon Hampden:
Where are you? Ritz said you checked out this morning.
Dad says you’re at home already? Why didn’t you wait?
Ridiculous. We have commitments in Paris.
Don’t be silly, George. She’s already cost you the match, she’s not worth losing your entire career.
Or your head. Grow up.
——
Olivia Althorne:
I’m sorry, George.
I need to speak to you. Please call me.
——
There was no hiding the breakdown this time. I can’t bear to watch the footage back, to open my phone to read the headlines, to see the messages good or bad from fans.
The whole thing was a fucking disaster. I barely won a game, thrown off by the warring anger and panic fighting inside me.
Anger won initially; all my balls sailing into the air, careening into the sides, smashing down to the net.
Then the panic started to set in and I couldn’t hide it, couldn’t squash it down and just carry on.
I started hyperventilating around the second set after losing 6-1 and asked for a timeout when it was 4-0. I ran to the locker room, knowing there was no way back, and forfeited there and then, a volunteer running to get my things as I sat with my head in my hands. Destroyed.
I got back to the hotel and she was gone already. No note.
I packed quickly, having already booked a train back, her lingering scent in my room too much to bear, the memories of the past few nights making me want to rip my heart from my chest.
And yet, despite it all, I just want Leo.
I check my phone for the thousandth time and don’t see her name.
I’ve been wracking my brains as to why she would sell me out. What would make her do it? She never mentioned money issues or wanting any kind of fame. And I know that’s not her.
But she basically admitted that she had. Why else would she have left?
What other motive is there?
I’m lying on my bed, my mind running over our time together again and again, trying to find anything that could give me a clue. Then it strikes me.
Revenge.
She even told me how she hated me after I dismissed her at the party. How I embarrassed her in front of her boss, delaying her promotion. She spent a whole year not able to watch me play. She couldn’t stand the sight of me.
Well, she got her own back. Now I’m the idiot. In love with a girl who played me.
I chuck my phone across the bed and turn to my side, burying my head in the pillow.
Well-fucking-done, George. Time to grow up.