Chapter Thirty-Two #3
“I apologize,” Jonathan said. “I’m not allowed to discuss the questions or topics of conversation prior to the on-screen interview,” he said. “But I can give you her address and phone once we’re done.”
“I don’t need that. If I wanted to contact her, I would have done it myself,” she said, “at any point over the past twenty years or so.”
“Why didn’t you?” he asked softly, but she only glared at him, then rushed outside, away from all the cameras, away from all the lights, the heat, and the questions. She was pacing when Milly and Sylvia found her.
“My God,” Milly said. “You’ve been through so much; I had no idea.”
“I couldn’t keep it in any longer,” Adele said. “The guilt, the disgrace, I just had to get it out.”
“You did the right thing,” Sylvia said, handing her a glass of whiskey, as promised. Adele knocked it back.
“You could have told us,” Milly said. “I hope you know that we would never judge you.”
“She’s right, Adele,” Sylvia said. “You’ve been living with that secret for way too long. You don’t have to do this alone anymore; you’ve got us now.” She looked to Milly, who nodded emphatically. “Whatever happens, we’re here for you. You’ll never have to hide out again.”
Adele nodded and tears began to form in her eyes. She looked up to the sky, willing them to disappear. She didn’t cry. She never cried, but this was the kindest thing anyone had ever said to her.
“Merci,” she whispered.
When Adele went back inside, the makeup gal started powdering Adele’s face, applying more rouge, a touch more lipstick. Adele waved her away.
“Are you ready to resume?” Jonathan asked. “I’m sorry I caught you off guard. This is an exceptional interview.”
“Fine,” she said. “I just want it to be over.”
“And we’re rolling in five, four, three, two…” The director mouthed “one” again, and the small green light on the camera appeared.
“We’re back with Adele Lambert, formerly known as Adeline Léglise.” He turned to her. “Adele, I’m sure our viewers would like to know: Do you still play tennis?”
“No,” she said abruptly, but Rutherford tilted his head.
She forgot, briefly, that he’d first approached her at the club.
“I coach at a local tennis club, all women.” She looked to the back of the room where Sylvia and Milly now stood pressed against the kitchen door, and she wondered for a moment if she should say which club.
Sylvia might be grateful for the publicity, though maybe not the kind of publicity that Adele would bring after this interview.
Then she thought of the letters she’d received from former fans after the incident, letters filled with hatred.
She recalled how despised she became and how difficult it was to bear the collective loathing—not just from her beloved France, but the world.
All that would resume after this, she was sure of it.
“Have you ever considered a rematch?” he asked.
Adele looked up and almost laughed. “A rematch?”
“Yes, with Margery.”
“Don’t be absurd,” she said. “I haven’t played an actual match in more than two decades.”
“Margery has said several times in interviews over the years that she would play you again. You didn’t know that?”
“I don’t read the gossip papers,” she sneered.
“Now that you do know, would you consider a rematch? In London or France or New York?”
“Absolutely not,” she said.
“All right, then,” Jonathan said. “Let’s move on to a less-heated topic.
” He laughed tightly. The production crew began to air film clips of Adele in her golden years, showing some of her shots, some of her wins, her signature leaps across the court.
As she watched, she thought not about the good old days, when she was winning, because in truth, even when she was on top, she had been miserable most of the time, desperate to impress, desperate not to disappoint.
Instead, she thought about her new friends.
When she was at the top of her game, she hadn’t had friends—there wasn’t time—and she’d had only acquaintances since.
For this brief moment, when the camera wasn’t focused on her, she considered how Sylvia and Milly had changed everything for her.
Meeting them had ended more than twenty years of hibernation, brought her out of her loneliness, and welcomed her into life again.
She had pushed them away when Jonathan Rutherford showed up; she had blamed them for his intrusion, when it wasn’t their fault.
In many ways, getting this burden off her chest, finally coming out from the shadows, no matter how harsh the reception might be, was a relief.
It was finally going to be over, and she was glad she no longer had to hide or lie about who she really was.
She had Milly and Sylvia to thank for that, for everything, really.
“I’ll do it,” she blurted out while the footage was still running.
“What’s that?” Johnathon asked, motioning with his hand for the cameraman to cut to Adele.
“I said I’ll do it. You say Margery Horn would be willing to play a rematch. If she’s still interested after hearing what I confessed to today, then I’ll play her.”
“My goodness,” he said.
“But it has to be here.”
Jonathan glanced to his cameraman, then back to Adele, looking somewhat shocked and slightly confused, though it seemed he was trying hard not to show it.
“It has to be here in Newport Beach, at The Island Club,” Adele said. “That’s the only place I’ll play, and it would have to be soon, in two weeks.” She reached out of the camera’s view for her daybook.
Jonathan’s jaw dropped.
“How about Saturday, May fifth, two and a half weeks from now, to give time for organizing.” Adele looked back to Sylvia, who looked startled, eyes wide, but she didn’t shake her head no or motion for her to change course.
Adele then looked directly at the camera.
“Margery, if you are watching, and if you would still like to play, it would be my honor.”
“Well…” Jonathan seemed genuinely shocked and thrilled and maybe even a little giddy.
“Well, in that case, I’m going to take the liberty of saying that we, the network, would provide Margery a plane ticket to California for that date, if she can travel by then.
And we would be glad to televise the event. ”
“Bien,” Adele said, feeling a little giddy herself, and also quite nauseated at the thought of what she’d just done. “Très bien. It is a date.”