You Broke Me First

Chapter Twenty-Five

On the morning of the Wimbledon men’s final, I was in my mushroom pyjamas on the sofa, watching the news.

There was a lot of focus on the match – Marcus had made it, the first British player to reach the final in years, and the country was going wild.

The BBC were interviewing the thousands of fans who had been queueing all night, hoping to get their hands on a much-coveted ticket, and there were beautiful aerial shots of Centre Court with bright-blue July skies framing the stadium – I couldn’t believe that, later, Marcus would be walking out on to that grass and making his bid for the thing he wanted most in the world: another Grand Slam win, and more than that, to be a Wimbledon singles champion.

I was deciding what to have for breakfast when the doorbell rang.

I sighed – who could be here at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning?

I padded out to get the door, throwing it open, shocked to see Marcus standing there, all six foot four of him, dressed in a midnight-blue Lacoste tracksuit, his hands in his pockets, his cheeks a little flushed, his eyes shining. I braced myself against the door frame.

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Nice pyjamas,’ he said, his eyes sweeping over me.

‘I aim to please,’ I said.

I should have felt self-conscious, but somehow I didn’t. This was the raw, unfiltered version of me, and if he didn’t like it – I mean, who would? – then so be it.

‘Sorry to call so early. I’ve got warm-up at ten, so I’m on my way out to Wimbledon now.’

‘Of course. How are you feeling about the match?’ I asked.

‘Optimistic,’ he said. ‘But I’m not here to talk about me.’

From behind his back he produced a large, pink, expensive-looking box and handed it to me.

‘Don’t get too excited,’ he said as I took it from him.

‘Is this a gift?’ I said.

‘Open it and you’ll see,’ he said, crossing his arms. Was he nervous?

I removed the lid from the box. Inside were two rolled-up yoga mats, one a beautiful pastel pink, one black with grey swirls.

Frowning, I looked up at him. ‘What’s this?’

‘You said you love yoga.’

‘That thing that isn’t a sport? Yes, I do.’

‘So I thought we could do it together,’ he said, uncrossing his arms and running his hands through his hair instead.

‘What?’ I said, laughing lightly.

‘I want us to do the things you like. Together. Because I’m aware that so far, the time we’ve spent together has been very focused on me, and on tennis – on what I like, and where I need to be.

But I want to learn everything there is to know about you and why you enjoy the things you do, and I thought that maybe we could start with yoga.

You can teach me,’ he said, raising his eyebrows hopefully.

‘Why are you doing this now?’ I asked. ‘On the day of the Wimbledon final?’

‘I don’t know. I just had to say it before I bottled it. Because I love being around you, Ava, and I don’t want this – you and me – to end just because Dean says it can.’

I was holding my breath, I realised. If I could have done I would have sat down, right there on the doorstep.

‘Come on tour with me,’ he said, his voice low, quiet.

‘How can I leave everything here?’ I said, not understanding.

‘Everything like . . . ?’

Good point.

‘My home. This flat.’

‘The flat you shared with Charlie? That you can’t really afford, that reminds you of him?’

There were other things I couldn’t leave. Weren’t there?

‘My parents,’ I said, although that sounded feeble because how often did I see them, anyway?

Marcus gave me a look.

‘Okay, what about my job?’ I said.

‘You can write from anywhere, can’t you? And you can always fly back if you need to. And there’s a little thing called virtual meetings.’

I let all of this sink in.

‘Where would you be going next?’ I asked, still very sure that I couldn’t possibly go with him. He was getting carried away, he’d think differently if he won today, when he was back focusing on what was most important to him.

‘I’ll be heading to Washington after Wimbledon, then Toronto and Cincinnati.

After that it’s the US Open in New York.

You wouldn’t have to be at all of them if you didn’t want to be.

But you might want to be at some?’ he said, wincing.

‘I know it’s a lot. And I wouldn’t expect you to give up your entire life for me – I know you have your own career to focus on, and I’d want it to be an equal arrangement.

I support you as much as you support me. ’

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘It’s a big decision, I get it. You have a life here. But it’s not like you can never come back. And I’ll probably be retiring in a few years’ time, playing less at the very least. It won’t be forever.’

Was he suggesting we had something that might outlive his tennis career?

That there was a chance of us going on forever?

This seemed unlikely. Could he really go from avoiding commitment at all costs and picking up different women on a weekly basis to imagining a future with me?

Was it less me and more my calming presence that he wanted?

Was I a good-luck charm that he didn’t want to risk losing?

Was I somehow unthreatening to him in a way that his exes weren’t?

He reached out to tuck an unruly lock of hair behind my ear, looking deep into my eyes. ‘I’m falling in love with you, Ava, just so you know.’

My eyes felt tight and bright. What if he was one of those guys who, once he knew he had you, lost interest instantly? He could have anyone he wanted. Why would he choose me? In the words of my mum when I was a child, what did I think was so special about me?

‘I’ll need to think about it,’ I said, my throat tight with emotion.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Take your time.’

‘And you need to go and warm up,’ I said.

The last thing I wanted was to throw him off before the biggest match of his life.

‘See you on Centre Court,’ he said.

I nodded. ‘I’ll be there. You’ve got this.’

I took my time deciding what to wear. It was already gone twelve and I needed to get going if I wanted to make it to the grounds in time for the match, because I could only assume the traffic would be horrendous on men’s finals day.

England was in the height of Wimbledon fever, even more so because Marcus was playing.

The press had finally started to champion him.

One newspaper had even printed a picture of him and me together with the headline Has Racquet Man Turned Into Romantic Man?

Dean’s plan had worked like a dream. Marcus had offers of sponsorship, more than he could ever have imagined.

But for all that Marcus had gained, something had been lost for me.

My relationship with Cassie was going to take some time to recover, and I was going to need to process the fact that she and Charlie were together now, and that I felt differently about my sister as a result.

Any happy memories of my relationship with Charlie had been trashed by recent events, which was probably a good thing.

And my article was finished, I just needed to add in a line or two about Marcus’s final match at Wimbledon.

Amanda Eddington was impressed with what she’d seen so far – Zoe said she was raving about me in the team meeting, and that she wouldn’t hesitate to hire me again – in fact, there was a profile of an A-list actor she was negotiating for and she’d already asked about my availability for August.

I laid my dress out on the bed. Zoe had persuaded me to buy it, and I swung between thinking it looked lovely and being convinced that I looked ridiculous in it.

It was a showy dress. A cerise pink mini with puffed sleeves and a nipped-in waist. A look-at-me dress.

If I wore it in the players’ box, would everyone think I was pulling attention away from Marcus?

And then I realised that it was my punishing voice doing the talking – my mum’s voice, I supposed, that I’d somehow internalised and made my own.

As if wearing a nice outfit would in any way take away from what Marcus had achieved and would go on to achieve today, whatever happened.

I slipped it on. I was just about to leave when my phone rang.

It was Mum. I checked the time – 12.20. She would have to be quick.

‘I’m just off over to Wimbledon, so . . .’

‘This won’t take a minute, Ava,’ she said.

I packed my bag while she was talking, hooking the phone between my shoulder and my ear. I’d need my tickets, my accreditation, tissues, money, credit cards, lipstick. Foundation and powder for touch-ups. Sunglasses. Sunscreen. What else?

‘I know we haven’t really spoken about Cassie and Charlie, but I wanted to have a proper think about what I wanted to say to you.’

Here we go, I thought. I’d somehow be to blame. Cassie would be a mess and it would be my fault.

‘Mum, can we skip the recriminations? I really haven’t got time for this today.’

A beat.

‘That’s not why I called, Ava.’

‘Oh?’

‘It might surprise you to hear that I’m actually quite disgusted by what Cassie has done. And I’ve told her as much.’

I raised my eyebrows. She was right, this was not what I’d been expecting, not at all.

‘I’m not sure if I’ve told you about when Cassie was born,’ continued Mum.

‘You have,’ I said. Several times, I nearly added.

I knew she’d arrived two months early, that she’d been in the neonatal unit, that she’d caught an infection and almost died. I knew that I didn’t see my parents for almost two months because they were at the hospital and I had to go and stay with my nan and grandad in Slough.

‘Well, I think it shaped everything from then on. Because we nearly lost her, and because you were so strong and healthy and capable, I think I felt I had to make it up to her. Had to make Cassie feel extra special, as special as you seemed naturally to be.’

‘Mum . . .’

‘Hear me out, Ava, I’ll only be another minute. I want you to know that I’m aware I tried to dull your light. Me and Dad both did. We saw that you were destined to shine and we felt worried that Cassie would feel left behind. And . . . I’m sorry about that. It wasn’t fair of us to do that to you.’

I swallowed hard. Mum had never said any of this to me before, I’d never had any idea this was how she felt.

‘Sometimes I thought you actually disliked me,’ I said.

‘Never,’ she said. ‘And I understand now that I need to show you how much I care about both of you, not just Cassie.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said, touched. I took a deep breath – it probably wasn’t a good idea to get upset and ruin my make-up.

‘And Ava?’

‘Yes?’

‘For what it’s worth, I think Marcus Taylor makes you ten times happier than Charlie ever did.’

‘Okay, you’re embarrassing me now, Mum.’

She laughed and so did I.

‘I’d better let you go,’ she said.

‘Yes please, unless you want me to blub all over my nice new dress.’

‘Have fun, Ava. And tell Marcus good luck from us.’

In the taxi I messaged Zoe, thinking I should probably give her a heads up.

I think I’m in love with Marcus Taylor. Is that mad?!

It took too long for her reply to come through.

Where was she? – it was a Sunday, so she wouldn’t be at work.

Why on earth wasn’t she glued to her phone, waiting for a message from me she wasn’t expecting?

! What if it was a mistake to tell her while I was still a little bit on the fence – not about loving Marcus, because I finally trusted that he meant what he said, and honestly my feelings for him were too strong not to try, but about the travelling around with him bit.

Was it crazy to give up everything I had here to follow him around the world?

But whenever I tried to bring myself back down to earth, I had the sense that it was something I couldn’t turn down – I’d loved spending time with him and the team over the last couple of months, why wouldn’t I want more of it?

And he was making an effort to meet me halfway – he did bring good things into my life.

Without him, the situation with Cassie would have been so much worse, because learning from him, watching him, I’d finally learned that it’s okay to go after what I want, even if it disappoints people along the way.

Zoe finally messaged back.

No, it’s not mad, it’s lovely. Go for it, tell him how you feel, and don’t look back!

I smiled to myself, watching south-west London life out of the window, wondering when I’d begun living the fairy tale I’d daydreamed about when I was young and would have done anything to escape the monotony of my day-to-day existence, the constant walking on eggshells at home, the boredom of school.

It was when I got upgraded to Business on the flight to Nice, I thought.

That steward who upgraded me had changed my whole life and he’d never know it.

I didn’t get into the grounds until gone two-thirty.

The traffic had been at a standstill and in the end I’d got out of the cab and had had to walk miles in my heels, finally making it on to the site, running past the beautiful flower displays and the Pimm’s stalls (I’d be having one of those later, for sure) and into the entrance to the players’ box.

There was a rope across the gate, meaning I’d had to wait until the players next changed ends.

I could hear the ball slamming back and forth, back and forth.

Marcus was playing Tomas Horvat again and Tomas grunted every time he hit the ball and so I knew which shots were Marcus’s and I closed my eyes, willing him to do well, willing him to win.

After every point, there was rapturous applause.

They’d been playing for over half an hour now.

‘What’s the score?’ I whispered to one of the officials on the gate, a man who looked to be in army uniform from circa 1924.

‘Taylor is leading three games to two in the first set,’ he said.

I nodded. It was close. Anyone’s match.

Finally, the officer removed the rope and I filed in with a couple of others.

Dean had left me a seat next to him in the box, but for a second I stood at the bottom of the stairs, wanting Marcus to see me, to know that I was there.

As if he could sense me, when he stood up to run back out on court, he looked up.

Perhaps the pink had caught his eye, perhaps that had been why I was supposed to wear it.

I smiled at him, nodding my head, hoping he’d understand what that meant. It meant a few different things, actually. It meant yes, I would take a chance on us. Yes, I’d come with him on tour. And yes, I knew he could do this.

He smiled and nodded back. He’d got it.

And then he turned and walked back out on court, the crowd fully behind him, cheering him on. And I took my seat to watch him win.