Chapter Fifteen
When Zoe rang the following morning, I was sitting outside a café feeling extremely Parisian on my red-and-white-striped woven chair, facing out on to the street so that I could people-watch to my heart’s content.
On the plate in front of me was a warm baguette, which I had to say was not a patch on the delights Marcus and I had made the night before, and a delicate cheese omelette.
I was drinking orange juice and coffee, because I hadn’t been able to decide which I’d wanted more, and so: when in Paris.
I put Zoe on speaker because I needed to use my hands to spread copious amounts of salty butter on to my bread.
‘Hey,’ I said.
A car honked its horn; a trio of tiny, yappy dogs trotted past.
‘Where are you?’ she asked accusingly.
‘Paris.’
‘I know, but where, exactly?’
‘In a café?’ I said, wondering why the sudden fascination with my location.
‘Are you, you know . . . alone?’ she asked.
‘Um . . .’ I said, glancing at the couple to my right and a businessman on his own to my left. ‘Pretty much. Why?’
‘I thought Marcus might be with you,’ said Zoe.
‘Marcus is not with me. In fact, he’ll probably be pummelling away on a treadmill as we speak,’ I said.
‘You didn’t spend the night together, then?’
The female half of the couple glanced in my direction and I hurriedly picked up my phone, taking Zoe off speakerphone tout de suite.
‘You’ve seen the selfie, haven’t you?’ I said.
‘Oh, we all have,’ said Zoe knowingly.
‘It was Marcus’s idea,’ I said, deciding that throwing him under the bus was the best way to get Zoe off my back.
I sat back in my seat, my mouth watering as a plate of delicious-smelling, warm, buttery croissants was served to the man seated next to me.
Would it be too much to order one of those after I’d finished this?
If you couldn’t have double carbs for breakfast in Paris, when could you? It wasn’t like I was playing tennis.
‘The point is, I thought you were pretending and then I see this shot of the two of you looking really into each other. And you’ve got that smug, smitten look you used to get when you first got together with Charlie.
And Marcus is smiling. You told me he never smiles.
What had you said to him that was so funny? ’
She was putting me off my breakfast here.
There would have been little point in posting on social media and not looking loved-up.
I suppose what worried me was that I didn’t remember having to fake it.
I remembered his thigh sliding into place next to mine, the way my head had felt on his shoulder.
The way his beard had tickled the top of my head.
Why hadn’t it felt more difficult? I was supposed to be impartial, or at the very least feel nothing more than mild journalistic interest. Was it possible that I’d been having such a good time, I hadn’t actually needed to remember to act like I was?
‘We decided to up our game,’ I said. ‘And I know I’ve said this about a million times now, but you haven’t said anything to anyone, have you? About it all being a set-up?’
‘Ava, you can trust me, you know that. All I’m saying is, I see what I see. And he’s smoking hot, so I wouldn’t blame you if you did start falling for him.’
‘I’m not falling for him.’
What a ridiculous suggestion.
‘Is he a good kisser?’ asked Zoe.
Yes, yes, yes.
‘Can we change the subject?’ I said, irritated now and wishing I’d never picked up her call. Way to ruin a perfectly good breakfast platter!
After managing to get rid of Zoe and rushing to finish my breakfast, which was slightly less appealing than it had been before she’d put stupid ideas in my head, I wandered down to the Metro and navigated my way out to Porte d’Auteuil, which was the nearest station to the stadium.
It was packed. Everywhere! And after it took me about ten minutes to make it up the steps to street level, I realised I’d arrived at the exact same time as the approximately thirty thousand other people who were also going to watch tennis today, many of whom, I imagined, would be here to see Marcus take on Tomas Horvat on the iconic court Philippe-Chatrier.
I spotted an entrance for press and decided that needs must – I got out my accreditation lanyard and swept past the queues, feeling mildly bad about it but also not wanting to miss anything that might be useful for my piece.
Our seats on Philippe-Chatrier were sensational – the court housed just over fifteen thousand people and the stands were filling up fast. We were in Marcus’s players’ box, two rows from the front, and slightly raised for a better view.
Tubs of pretty cerise flowers divided the spectators from the court itself, which was that dusty red clay again.
It had been raked until it was perfectly smooth, with no hint of the scuffing and sliding and (potentially) racquet smashing that was about to ensue on its hallowed surface.
Behind me were rows of what I presumed were the VIP seats that rich tennis fans paid thousands of euros to acquire.
Like at Monte-Carlo, they were housed in little booths that I’d learned were called loges but still didn’t know why.
As I settled into my seat next to Dean, my phone vibrated in my bag.
I ignored it at first, focusing on taking in the atmosphere, the buzz of a match about to begin.
But then it rang again. I opened my bag, fishing around for my phone.
Charlie Calling. I frowned at my screen – this was everything I’d wanted, wasn’t it?
For him to have seen the photos and have had some sort of jealous reaction to them, prompting him to beg for forgiveness and ask to move back in?
And yet now it was actually happening, the moment of triumph I’d imagined felt strangely underwhelming.
I thought about Marcus preparing to walk out on to the court and rejected Charlie’s call – I could hardly talk to him now anyway, could I, there were signs everywhere saying no mobile phones allowed.
‘Here we go,’ said Dean, as the umpire came out on court to a smattering of applause.
Smartly dressed in a navy blazer and white polo shirt combo, he appeared to be enjoying the attention and gave the crowd a jaunty little wave.
He didn’t go up to his chair, choosing instead to chat to a couple of the ball boys and ball girls who had also made their way out to stand on the sidelines of the court.
I wondered how excited they’d been about today, whether they were young tennis players themselves about to be inspired by seeing two of the world’s best players battling it out right in front of them, while doing the complicated ball scooping and throwing routines they’d been taught.
A row of TV cameras and photographers took up the front row of one full length of the court.
I wondered if it was being broadcast in the UK and if my dad was watching.
On a big screen, footage of Marcus walking along a bright white corridor suddenly appeared.
The crowd went wild, knowing we were about to begin.
He had a white sports bag over each shoulder and was gently stretching his neck, first one way then the other.
The camera stayed on him as he climbed a set of stairs, his trainers squeaking on the lino floor, and when he paused at the top, which was presumably just inside the tunnel, it zoomed in for an extreme close-up of his face.
I looked up at the rows and rows of people and wondered how Marcus could do this – how he had the confidence to get out there in front of all these people.
How could he keep his focus with so many eyes on him?
I thought that for the first time I truly understood the pressure he was under – it wasn’t about the money, or at least I didn’t think it was just that.
He was fighting for a place in history, the career milestone he craved, the second Grand Slam title that would prove to him and everyone else that his Australian Open win eight years ago had not been a fluke.
I crossed my fingers in my lap, sending a wish out into the universe that he would win today, that he would triumph in front of all these people.
Marcus, who perhaps was thinking something similar himself, was looking straight ahead, jogging lightly on the spot, kitted out in the mint-green shorts and white top with the Lacoste logo that looked so good on him but that he wouldn’t be wearing next season once they’d snatched their sponsorship deal out from under him.
Over the speaker system, an enthusiastic male voice spoke only in French.
I didn’t understand any of it except Marcus’s name at the end and he began to walk, appearing at the corner of the court mere seconds later.
Pumping dance music blared out as he waved at the crowd, only a smattering of whom were on their feet, although he seemed to be getting a slightly better reception than he had at Monte-Carlo.
His name had been beamed on to the digital advertising boards around the perimeter of the court and was flashing in fluorescent pink font: Marcus Taylor, Marcus Taylor, Marcus Taylor.
I clapped my heart out for him, as Dean and Patrick whooped next to me, and then I went for it and whooped too, immediately feeling self-conscious and reining myself in.
‘Come on, Marcus!’ yelled Dean.