Chapter Four #2
‘Really, what?’ I countered, purposely holding his gaze. I wasn’t going to grovel. It was a perfectly reasonable request that he move.
He sulkily prised himself out of his seat, making a huge deal of unbuckling his seat belt and taking off his precious eye mask, huffing and puffing the entire time.
‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, careful not to touch him as I slid past.
When I returned to my seat, Marcus’s headphones were nowhere to be seen and he was scrolling absent-mindedly through his phone, stroppily standing up as I squeezed past. I reminded myself what was at stake here.
Working for Luxe was my dream and this was probably my one and only chance to impress Amanda Eddington.
Clearly, I was going to have to try even harder to get Marcus Taylor on side.
Perhaps if he knew what I was trying to achieve . . .
‘Would you like to read some of my work?’ I suggested. ‘I could show you a couple of my articles right now, if you like?’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ sneered Marcus.
Right, then. That hadn’t worked. Maybe if I let him think he had a bit of editorial control?
‘Why don’t I tell you what I thought my angle could be for the story?
How we could approach the article. Together.
For example, we could talk about your pre-match preparation.
How do you get yourself in the right mindset to play a tournament like the Rolex Monte-Carlo Masters and what does an ATP 500 event like this mean to you? ’
Marcus turned in his seat to look at me.
‘I think you’ll find the Monte-Carlo Masters is an ATP 1000 tournament. Tut tut, somebody hasn’t done their homework.’
Suddenly, a seat in economy had never looked so appealing.
‘Slip of the tongue,’ I said. Damn. I really thought I’d got a grasp of the ATP levels thing.
He raised one slightly unruly eyebrow at me, the only imperfect thing on his otherwise perfect face.
‘Do you even know what the ATP is?’
‘Yes,’ I lied.
‘Go on then.’
‘Oh sorry, are we testing my tennis knowledge here or talking about the article I’m supposed to be writing about you?’
‘As I’ve said at least twice now, I won’t be participating in any articles, especially not written by so-called journalists who know absolutely nothing about tennis.’
‘Well, that would be because my family couldn’t have afforded to pay for tennis lessons, even if I’d wanted them.
And in fact, I think you’ll find that the entire stuffy tennis scene is set up so that privileged kids can thrive, much like most other things in life, and so no, Marcus, I don’t know anything about it.
I can think of far more exciting sports. ’
‘Like what?’ he deadpanned.
At least he didn’t seem too insulted by the fact I’d said tennis was boring and had practically called him a posh knob.
‘Yoga,’ I said.
‘That is not a sport, Ava.’
‘Who cares? I enjoy it. I have fun doing it. You should try it sometime.’
I grabbed my water bottle and glugged at it, hoping to reset so that I could act like a professional journalist trying to get somebody on side instead of this weird, outspoken version of myself.
Perhaps I could explain that I’d just broken up with someone and wasn’t feeling myself?
I’d made an absolutely catastrophic start to the interview, whichever way you looked at it.
And annoyingly, even though I hated him on sight, my journalistic curiosity had well and truly kicked in and I suddenly wanted this interview more than anything else; I had to persuade him to do it, even if he was – on first impressions – an awful person.
There had to be more to him than back-to-back snidey put-downs, didn’t there?
‘Look, I think we might have got off on the wrong foot,’ I said, which was obviously an understatement.
‘You think?’ he said sarcastically.
His voice was deep and resonant, but quiet and melodic, as though in another life he might have been loud and boisterous, but in this one he was forever holding something back.
Except when he lost it out on court, of course, and then it was as though he released every single emotion he’d ever felt in one spectacularly visceral swoop.
‘Why don’t you tell me why you won’t do interviews?’ I asked, trying a different tactic. ‘I might be able to alleviate some of your fears.’
‘It’s not about fear, it’s about fact: the papers only skew stuff to make me look bad,’ he said.
‘Worse than you look already, you mean?’
Surely he had to take some accountability for his actions?
‘Don’t hold back,’ he said.
Funnily enough, I did usually hold back, big time. If it wasn’t because of Charlie, then it must be the champagne – quaffing three glasses of the stuff before 10 a.m. had clearly been a bad idea.
‘Go on, then. Sell yourself to me. If you don’t usually write about tennis, which clearly you know absolutely nothing about, what do you write about?’ asked Marcus.
‘Well,’ I said, mentally scrolling through my CV, ‘you might be interested to learn that despite being twenty-one and with marriage the furthest thing from my mind, I started out as an editorial assistant on Your Wedding magazine.’
Marcus snorted. ‘I thought you were a serious journalist?’
‘People are very serious about their weddings, I’ll have you know. Anyway, it was the first paid writing gig I was offered out of uni, so I wasn’t about to turn it down, was I? I had a little thing called rent to pay?’
‘Not interested in marriage, you say?’ said Marcus.
‘That was then.’
‘Changed your mind?’ he asked, his tone teasing.
Charlie’s face flashed into my mind’s eye again, as it still did about fifty times on a good day. I was in dangerous territory here, but needs must.
‘Currently undecided,’ I said. ‘You?’
‘Is this part of your interview technique? Start talking about yourself and then slip in a question?’
‘I didn’t think you’d agreed to an interview?’
I had him, I had him, I had him! Surely. Didn’t I?
‘Carry on. What came after writing about other people’s weddings?’ he asked.
‘Features assistant on one of the Sunday supplements,’ I said, trying to gauge if he was still interested.
‘I suppose that’s marginally more impressive,’ said Marcus.
‘And now I’m a freelance journalist, so I can basically write about anything.’
‘Except tennis.’
‘Trust me, I can get up to speed in no time. I mean, it’s a game, isn’t it – how much can there be to learn?’
‘I think you’ll find it’s more than just a game. And if you’re serious about writing about my life, I suggest you start giving the sport the respect it deserves.’
My heart leapt. Even though he’d just essentially told me off, I was holding on to the fact he was talking about the interview as if it was actually happening. All I had to do now was not say anything else to mess this up.
I tucked my hair behind my ear, self-conscious for the first time since we’d met.
‘I can assure you, I’m taking this very seriously.
Dean would never have agreed to this if he didn’t think it was important for your career.
And for me, having an article of this calibre in a magazine like Luxe could be the big break I’ve been waiting for. ’
‘Are you using emotional blackmail on me, Ava?’
Dammit, he was more astute than I’d thought.
I was about to deny it when I was distracted by a flurry of movement out of the corner of my eye.
It took me a minute to realise that a woman was heading purposefully in our direction with her phone held aloft, seemingly trying to take a photo of Marcus.
By the way she was swaying up the aisle, I could only assume she’d had even more free champagne than I had.
‘I thought it was you,’ she purred in a thick French accent, shoving her phone in his face without asking.
Marcus put his hand over her lens, gently pushing her away.
‘No photos, please.’
The woman clutched her chest in shock, as though it was her God-given right to stick her camera under the nose of a complete stranger. She might feel like she knew him, but he did not know her. I felt my very first pang of sympathy for Marcus Taylor.
‘Just one tiny little picture. It is for my daughter. She is big fan,’ insisted the woman, her words ever so slightly slurred.
‘I’m sorry, but no,’ said Marcus.
I cringed internally. I understood that it wasn’t ideal, that he just wanted to sit quietly on a plane, but other passengers were looking over now.
Couldn’t he just say yes to the photo and get it over with?
Between the two of them they were causing a huge scene, and for what?
One measly little selfie? I was tempted to say something but bit my tongue; that was hardly going to help me get him on side.
After what felt like ages, during which all eyes in the business-class cabin were trained exclusively on Marcus, she finally gave up and backed off, waving him away in disgust, hissing what I guessed were expletives at him.
‘Any idea what she’s saying?’ I asked, thinking it was probably better not to know.
‘Nope, and I couldn’t care less,’ he said dismissively, pulling his eye mask aggressively out of his pocket and putting it on again.
Great. We were back to the silent treatment, and I still didn’t have my interview.
Marcus sprinted off the plane the second we landed, calling a derisive It’s been delightful talking to you, Ava over his shoulder as he strutted down the aisle.
It had taken all my mental strength to stop myself lunging after him in one last-ditch attempt to win him over.
His agent had arranged for the three of us to meet at their hotel that evening and I had no idea whether Marcus was planning to show up.
I was edging towards not, but a glimmer of hope was pulsating somewhere inside of me.
I didn’t see him again until we’d retrieved our luggage from the carousel and I happened to fall into step beside him on the way out.
He was sporting an iceberg-sized racquet bag slung over his shoulder and the requisite moody demeanour as we emerged into the bright lights of the arrivals hall.
I felt tiny next to him, which was no mean feat since I was five foot eight and almost always felt too tall, especially if I was wearing heels.
Marcus was six foot four, according to his official stats.
I revelled in the need to strain my neck to look up at him.
‘Still stalking me, then?’ he said, glancing down at me with irritation.
‘Your ego really does know no bounds,’ I quipped.
‘Marcus, over here!’
Suddenly, there was a flurry of camera flashes so bright that I physically had to hold my arm in front of my eyes. I’d never encountered actual paparazzi before, and it was shockingly intense. God, was this what it was like to be famous? All of the time?
Through the crook of my elbow, I noticed a young, denim-clad photographer snapping brazenly away in our direction, and he wasn’t the only one: there was a guy wearing a cap, too, and another one kneeling on the ground, presumably wanting to get a shot of Marcus from a different angle.
It seemed they’d had intel that some of the British players would be flying in for the tournament that day.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ yelled Marcus, striding over to the one in denim and pushing his camera quite violently so that the photographer almost dropped what was clearly a very expensive piece of equipment.
The enormous lens alone must have cost a fortune. ‘Get your camera out of my face. Now!’
I was rooted to the spot, somehow unable to look away even though every part of this spectacle made me recoil in horror.
I’d only met Marcus a couple of hours ago and there’d already been a lot of drama, mostly involving the taking (or not) of photographs.
Surely being papped came with the job? Now that I’d seen it first hand, I could vouch for the fact it wasn’t a pleasant experience, but he must be used to it by now?
If I got the chance, I vowed there and then to get to the bottom of his overreaction, because I refused to believe that anyone did this much shouting for the fun of it.
Eventually tearing myself away from the scene unfolding in front of my eyes – the photographer was now threatening to call the police, while Marcus stomped off in the direction of the taxi rank with a stressed-looking driver running after him – I searched for the car Luxe had booked for me, feeling somewhat unsettled.
Marcus wasn’t helping himself behaving like this – it couldn’t be good for his blood pressure or his tennis career, not to mention the unfortunate people he unleashed his temper on.
Surely there had to be another, calmer, nicer side to him somewhere, which I was determined to uncover.
Now all I had to do was persuade Marcus to let me.