Chapter Five #2
‘All I’m saying is, we need to show fans that there’s a softer side to you,’ insisted an impressive Dean. ‘Yes, you’re incredibly serious about your tennis and yes, it takes extreme dedication and commitment. But I want Ava to see the Marcus your team sees.’
‘Which is . . . ?’ he asked.
I was gagging to know, too, because so far he seemed exceptionally one-dimensional.
‘I want you to show them fun Marcus,’ said Dean, leaning forward to hammer home his point. ‘Generous Marcus. Hard-working, kind, thoughtful, introspective Marcus.’
Was Dean talking about somebody else?
‘And how is Ava going to achieve this, exactly?’ asked Marcus, possibly thinking the exact same thing. Although this was good, he wanted details. Could I be back in?
‘Well,’ I said, clearing my throat. ‘For a start, I’d like to shadow you for the next few months.’
Marcus rolled his eyes. ‘Shadow me? Planning to join me on court, are you?’
I smiled sweetly. ‘Presumably you do occasionally do things other than play tennis?’
‘Yes, Ava. What do you take me for?’ he said.
‘Go on, then, like what?’ I asked. ‘Have you got a secret hobby I should know about?’
‘I don’t see how any of this is relevant,’ he said, waving me away with his hand.
‘It’s just that if everything in your life is all tied up with tennis, perhaps that’s your problem?’ I suggested boldly, meeting his eye.
He raised an eyebrow at me for the second time since I’d met him. ‘And who says I have a problem?’
Dean leaned on the table, looking from one of us to the other and smiling to himself. ‘You two are really hitting it off, huh?’
A waitress came over to take our order and Dean – rather prematurely, I thought – asked for a bottle of champagne and three glasses.
‘You know I don’t drink the night before a match,’ grumbled Marcus.
‘A sip won’t hurt you,’ said Dean. ‘We need to celebrate.’
‘Have I missed something?’ I asked. ‘Celebrate what?’
‘Look, Marcus. I know talking about yourself is difficult,’ said Dean, lowering his voice by an octave so that he sounded all sort of gravelly and persuasive.
I got where Marcus was coming from for one very brief moment. Talking about myself had always been discouraged and now I found it practically impossible, too. Interviewing people was one thing, but the idea of it being the other way around didn’t even bear thinking about.
‘Ava here comes highly recommended. Luxe magazine in the UK are offering you a four-page spread, including an exclusive photo shoot,’ said Dean.
‘You didn’t say anything about photos,’ said Marcus, his expression now so dark it was like an eclipse.
‘We’re open to you choosing your own photographer,’ I added. ‘If you have one in mind?’
‘It’ll be fun, no?’ said Dean. ‘You get to take control. To say who and where. We could shoot here in Monaco. Or in a studio in London, or Los Angeles? Whatever you want.’
Marcus put his head in his hands.
I dared to glance at Dean and he gave me a cursory nod, which I took to be a sign of encouragement.
‘Let’s go, Marcus. Let’s shake this up, let’s make a change. And having the lovely Ava following you around for the next twelve weeks won’t be that much of a hardship for you, will it?’
I winced.
‘Do I have to answer that?’ said Marcus, slowly raising his head again as though in extreme emotional distress.
Thankfully, our champagne arrived and Dean poured us all a glass.
If I got the chance at some point, I’d ask Marcus about his pre-match routine, even though he’d already warned me off mentioning his diet or his abs.
For some reason I involuntarily glanced at his stomach, flat beneath the rippling fabric of his designer T-shirt.
‘To our collaboration,’ said Dean, raising his glass and holding it hopefully between us.
After a few moments of hesitation, I did the same. ‘To our collaboration.’
Marcus wasn’t moving. The air was thick with anticipation – was this it, the moment I’d been waiting for since eight o’clock this morning when I’d boarded my flight?
Was Marcus going to agree to do this, or was this going to be another of the myriad times I’d heard him say ‘no’ already today?
My foot fluttered lightly underneath the table as I watched his hand slowly reach for the stem of his glass.
He picked it up and painstakingly slowly tapped first my glass and then Dean’s.
‘To our reluctant collaboration,’ he said.
I smiled at him, I couldn’t help myself.
Obviously it wasn’t reciprocated, but I didn’t care.
He’d said yes, that was all that mattered.
Over his shoulder I saw two very dressed-up, giggly young women taking photos of us – I hastily looked away again, hoping Marcus hadn’t noticed.
The last thing we needed was another kick-off and I wasn’t sure the girls were prepared for the full force of Marcus Taylor’s disapproval.
But he seemed to have a sixth sense for cameras and looked over his shoulder. The girls giggled harder and waved.
When he turned back, fuming, I decided to begin my get-Marcus-on-side campaign in earnest.
‘It must feel quite intrusive sometimes,’ I said. ‘The last thing you want after a long day of training or whatever.’
Marcus took a sip of his champagne. ‘It’s only really the die-hard tennis fans who want pictures and autographs. And it’s worse when I’m at a tournament, obviously.’
‘But this isn’t what you signed up for, is it?’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Comes with the territory when you play sport at this level. And it’s not like “signing up for it” was a conscious decision. I had the opportunity to change my life and my family’s and I took it. I wouldn’t have been able to choose to do something else, even if I’d wanted to.’
This was already getting interesting. Had he felt forced into playing professional tennis when deep down he’d had other ideas, other passions? And was it his parents who had stopped him from pursuing them, like mine had?
‘When are you going to start following me around, then?’ asked Marcus, clearly delighted at the prospect.
I wondered if he could sense that I was in writer mode now and that anything he said was, in theory, out there for me to quote and send to print.
Of course I didn’t want to break his trust, but I also needed to keep it real – if Marcus continued to be an arse, I’d have no choice but to document it.
‘As soon as possible?’ I suggested.
So that I can file my piece and get this torturous experience over with? I almost added. I gave him a look, hoping I could convey this sentiment without actually having to say it.
‘Ava, if it works for you, I suggest you observe Marcus’s training session tomorrow morning at nine at the country club. Then you can meet his coach, Patrick Ferretti, and possibly his physio, Nick Breakspear.’
‘Perfect, I said, hurriedly scribbling down the names of his team members. Interesting that he was surrounded entirely by men – I could only imagine the testosterone levels in the dressing room.
‘Can’t wait,’ said Marcus, catching my eye with a look I could only interpret as There’s nothing I’d rather do less.
Behind him, the girls surreptitiously took another photo and I pretended not to notice.