Chapter Twenty-One
I stared at my laptop, reading through the approximately twenty words I’d spent the last half an hour writing.
I was working on my profile of Marcus, but felt stuck with it in a way that I hadn’t before.
The content I’d written since Queen’s had begun wasn’t flowing – it sounded too factual, too clunky, and I couldn’t seem to inject the emotion into it that I knew I needed for my piece.
That Marcus was playing better than ever didn’t seem to be translating on to the page.
I thought it might have something to do with the fact that suddenly I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t.
Was he who I felt he was when I was with him, or was he the guy who picked up girls on yachts in Monte Carlo?
I slammed my laptop shut. I’d wanted to get a couple of hours of work in before heading over to the club, but I knew from experience that there was no point trying to force it unless I had an imminent deadline, which I didn’t.
Instead, I ran myself a bath and ironed the dress I was wearing to that afternoon’s match, a navy-and-white polka-dot number from my favourite French brand.
When I checked my phone before starting my make-up, I noticed that Marcus had sent me a text.
What time you arriving?
I replied with a smiley emoji. Soon!
After spectacularly winning three more matches – the round of 16, the quarter-finals and the semis – Marcus had made it to the final of Queen’s.
It was a huge deal – Dean was flying in especially, it was being televised live on the BBC and Marcus was receiving an unprecedented amount of coverage on TV and radio.
Come to training if you like?
I felt a pull to say yes, yes, yes and head over to the grounds immediately, but I reeled myself in. Keeping a professional distance was key here now, I thought, and the less time I spent in his company, the less all over the place I felt.
Not sure I can. I’ll catch you in the players’ lounge just beforehand.
See? I could still be cool and casual – from these texts, he’d never know that I’d been daydreaming about our night together in Claridge’s on loop.
The players’ lounge at Queen’s was as plush as the pomp and ceremony surrounding the club would suggest. There were armchairs in muted pastel shades, TV screens showing the games on the main courts, food offerings, and faces I recognised.
Dean called me over and I realised it was good to see him – having him around was a stark reminder of our fake-dating arrangement, which was exactly what I needed.
There was nothing real about it, even if my body was telling me otherwise.
‘Ava!’ said Dean, standing up to hug me.
‘Hi, everyone,’ I said.
‘You made it,’ said Marcus, appearing from out of nowhere behind me and standing so close that I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. I wanted to melt backwards into him, to have his strong arms wrapped around me, to be pressed up against him again like we had been in that lift in Monaco.
‘Can I talk to you for a second?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Here?’ I said.
‘Balcony?’ he suggested, putting his palm on the small of my back and guiding me out there.
Part of the infamous clubhouse, it overlooked the prestigious centre court that Marcus would be playing on in around an hour’s time.
The crowds were just beginning to trickle in, dressed up for the occasion in frothy summer dresses and wide-brimmed hats, the men in linen blazers and boat shoes.
Apparently, there was often a handful of celebrities present for the final, which under usual circumstances would have been something fun to gossip about later, but today all I cared about was Marcus.
After the way he’d played this week, he deserved to win, but would he be able to hold his nerve?
‘Feels like I haven’t spoken to you properly in ages,’ said Marcus.
‘You’ve been busy,’ I said.
He looked devastatingly handsome today, with a new, shorter haircut and the expensive-looking white hoodie that made his skin even more luminous than normal and his bright brown eyes pop.
I wanted to clasp his face between my hands and tell him that everything would be all right, that he would be fine out there today, that I would support him no matter what, but I held back, like I had been ever since the night of the gala dinner.
‘Well done for making it this far,’ I said. ‘Am I actually allowed to say congratulations now?’
‘Not yet,’ he said with a wry smile.
I nodded, accepting his rule for what it was.
I understood it better now – if he celebrated too soon, it might have a knock-on effect on the drive he needed to win.
He was going to have to play the absolute best tennis of his life today, and if he wanted the gentlemen’s singles title, he was going to have to fight for it.
‘I’ve missed seeing you, Ava,’ he said.
‘You’ve seen me. I’ve been at every match.’
‘I know you have,’ he said. ‘But it feels like we haven’t had a moment alone. Not since . . .’
I swallowed. He couldn’t seem to say the words either.
Not since the night we’d spent in bed together, when I hadn’t been able to sleep, when it had taken every ounce of resolve not to wake him up and say let’s just do this.
Let’s just sleep together and see what happens.
He put one hand on my waist, tracing circles on my hip with his thumb.
‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ he said.
‘You need to focus on your game,’ I replied, glancing out at the stands filling up.
‘You’re right,’ he said, looking over his shoulder. ‘But being with you makes me feel calm. And the less tense I am, the better I’ll play.’
‘Does that mean you trust me enough to tell me your game plan?’ I teased, trying my luck.
‘Is this you with your journalist hat on?’ he asked.
I shook my head, knowing without a doubt that this was not about my article. ‘No.’
‘You really want to know?’
‘I really want to know.’
It probably wouldn’t mean much to me anyway, but I wanted to push him, to see if he trusted me enough, and in turn, whether maybe I could learn to trust him.
He was playing the world number three, a French guy called Alexandre Duardin, who had also done his fair share of racquet smashing in his time.
Marcus lowered his voice until it was barely a whisper.
I had to move closer to hear him, so close that my body was touching his at several points: at our temples, our shoulders, our hips; my fingers had inadvertently laced through his.
A tingling sensation ran down my spine, and I didn’t think it was the anticipation of hearing what he planned to do out on court.
‘Alex will serve big,’ said Marcus. ‘He rarely misses. And his reach is incredible – no matter where I put the ball, he’s capable of getting there.’
‘So how will you beat him?’ I asked, keeping my own voice low.
‘He never has a Plan B. So if for some reason his game isn’t working, he can’t change it up mid-match. So I have to make him feel like his game isn’t working.’
‘How?’
‘I return his serves, no excuses. And if his focus drifts, even for a second, I take advantage. Get him running, keep him on the baseline, press him until he starts making mistakes.’
Extricating his fingers from mine, Marcus stood up straight, ruffling his hair, although there wasn’t so much of it to ruffle anymore.
‘I should probably go and get ready.’
‘I believe in you,’ I told him quietly. ‘Go out there and win this.’
It seemed like the British public might finally be getting behind Marcus, too, as he made his entrance on court.
Every single seat in the arena was filled and almost everyone stood as he emerged from the tunnel, looking very different from the man I’d seen enter the court for his first match in Monte Carlo.
He’d lost the scowl and replaced it with quiet concentration – his face was softer as he waved at the stands, his lips widened out to form a half-smile, which I thought was the most he – anybody – could manage given the pressure of the enormous task ahead.
My heart began hammering in my chest – I felt nervous for him.
I knew how much a win would mean to him.
Wimbledon, the world’s most prestigious tournament, was just over a week away and triumphing today would take him one step closer to the ultimate prize.
Had everything come together for him at exactly the right time?
Dean was seated next to me, with Patrick and Nick on the other side of him, and there was a tension in the box I hadn’t felt before.
As Marcus took his position to serve, I saw him adjust the grip on the handle of his racquet.
He looked at Alexandre Duardin for a beat or two, then dipped his eyeline down to the grass, bouncing the ball five times.
He’d told me it helped him find a rhythm for his serve, but it didn’t always have to be five bounces, sometimes it was three, or four, or seven.
He delivered a strong serve to the corner of the box.
Duardin flicked it back but only just and Marcus ended the point with a flat forehand that went spinning past Duardin, landing just in front of the baseline.
Fifteen-Love. I realised I’d rarely seen Marcus hit a ball long – it must be one of the strengths his opponents took into account when they were creating game plans of their own.
He won the first game easily. Alexandre Duardin won the second – I could see what Marcus meant about his strong serve.
Marcus had to work harder for the third game, but he won it on an advantage point.
As the crowd roared, Marcus looked over at our box.
It seemed to be Patrick he was searching for, but Dean was the first to his feet.
‘Come on, Marcus! Let’s go!’