The Singles Game

by Lauren Weisberger

  “Thanks, I appreciate that. Keep your fingers crossed for me, okay?” She pressed “end call” just as she pulled up to the club’s valet stand.

  “Hey, Charlie,” called out the club’s director of operations, from his perch overseeing the teenage valets. “How’s the foot?”

  She eased herself out of the SUV and waved. “Getting there,” she said, handing over her keys. “My dad inside?”

  “Yes, he said he’d wait for you at your table.”

  She thanked him and limped toward the restaurant. The maître d’ led her to the far right corner of the dining room, where the best table in the house looked out over the spectacular ninth hole. Before Charlie turned pro, neither she nor her father had ever sat at that table—her father had barely ever eaten in the guest dining room. Since her success, they were both now treated like royalty.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, as she gingerly lowered herself into the chair. The Aleve hadn’t kicked in yet, and the post-surgical pain combined with the rehab muscle ache left the whole area throbbing.

  Her father leaned over to kiss her cheek. “That’s okay. It’s not so terrible sitting here looking out the window, especially on a day like this. How was rehab?”

  Even at sixty-one, Mr. Silver had a full head of hair. It was beginning to gray around the temples, prompting plenty of eye roll–inducing silver puns from her father, but Charlie thought he was as handsome as ever. His tan was deep but he’d somehow avoided the leather-skinned look that afflicted so many men who’d spent lifetimes in the sun, and his eyes were still startlingly green or blue, depending on the color of his shirt. Granted, he’d added a few extra pounds around his midsection—and he’d started wearing dorky outfits that included brown leather belts paired with knee-length shorts—but his mostly fit six-foot-three frame compensated for a lot, and clearly none of his lady friends seemed to mind the extra weight or the lack of fashion sense.

  Charlie yanked at the waistband of her white jeans, which had gotten noticeably tighter over the last couple of months. “Ramona is a taskmaster. But I do think she’s good.”

  “She’s the best, everyone agrees.” Mr. Silver coughed. “Charlie, there is something that—”

  “I reached out to Todd Feltner. He wants to coach me,” she blurted out, before even placing her napkin on her lap. She wasn’t planning to breathe a word about her conversation with Todd, but the familiarity of the club where she’d practically been raised combined with her father’s warm hug and kind eyes had opened the floodgates. She regretted it the minute she said it.

  “Pardon?” Her father looked up, his expression alarmed. “Todd Feltner, the men’s coach?”

  “Men’s coach no longer. He wants to coach me, his first and only female player. He thinks I have what it takes.”

  “Of course you do, you don’t need that jerk-off to tell you that,” her father said sharply. He took a deep breath and made what appeared to be a concerted effort to calm down. “Sorry, I’m just surprised.”

  Charlie reached across the table and touched her father’s hand. “I know Todd doesn’t have the greatest reputation as a person, but as a coach . . . well, he’s the best.”

  Mr. Silver took a sip of water. “Do you know how many fines he’s paid the USTA for his outbursts? You remember what he did to Eversoll, don’t you? It was caught on camera if you need a refresher. He’s a loudmouth, and he’s abusive to his players. Why on earth would you want to work with someone like that?”

  “I’m not looking for a friend or a manager,” she added, her temperature rising.

  “Last time I checked, you had a coach.”

  “I still do, and you know how much I love Marcy.”

  Her father pulled his hand back, gently but with intention. “She shifted you from the juniors to the pros. She’s skillful. Gracious. And not to put too fine a point on it, but she happens not to be an asshole. The tennis world is full of them, and Marcy is one of the most genuine, honest people I’ve ever met. I don’t know about you, but that means a lot to me.”

  Charlie felt a quick flash of anger. “It means a lot to me, too, Dad. Obviously.”

  They both smiled at the teenage waiter who brought them their identical grilled chicken salads, no tomatoes, dressing on the side. Charlie knew her father would have ordered the steak sandwich with fries if he’d been dining with anyone else, and she appreciated his show of support.

  “Does he understand your game? Your strengths, weaknesses, personality? Does he have the right relationships with tournament directors and tour officials and board members? Does he have a proven track record for helping you improve your game? Focus on strategy and court management? Protect you from all the business noise that’s better handled by others? Can Todd Feltner help plan the optimal travel and training schedule to maximize performance without sacrificing sanity?”

  Charlie forced herself to take a deep breath. Her father played professionally for less than three years, over four decades ago. Why was he being so tough on her? Charlie chewed her food slowly and stared at her plate.

  “I’m surprised to hear you’re even considering firing Marcy and hiring Feltner,” her father said.

  “I want to win,” Charlie said finally. “And I think I need a change to do it. Marcy has been my coach for almost ten years now. I was fifteen when you hired her to work with me.”

  “You’d just gotten to the finals of the Orange Bowl. As a fifteen-year-old! You’d far outpaced my coaching ability by that point.”

  “I’m not criticizing. She was a great choice for me then. But let’s be honest with each other: you didn’t hire her because she was the best possible coach available. You chose her because she was young, and easily influenced, and you knew that she wouldn’t go around your back to pressure me to turn pro.”

  “Charlie, this is all water under the bridge. And I don’t think there’s any denying that Marcy was perfect for you at a really vulnerable age in—”

  “I agree, Dad. She was perfect. Literally, perfect. Only twenty-eight herself, just retired due to the shoulder injury, and sweet. More like a big sister than some intimidating middle-aged ogre who was going to make me hate the game. I appreciate that, I swear I do. I think she was an excellent choice. I still do.”

  “But?”

  “But I’ve been on the tour for years now—I’ve played all the tournaments, traveled to all the places. I’ve steadily improved with Marcy, there’s no denying it, but I’m starting to think it hasn’t been fast enough. I’m almost twenty-five! Do you know how many women win their first major titles at twenty-five or later? Ten. In the entire Open Era! Ten. And that’s not even considering the fact that I’m recovering from an injury so bad the press is saying I’ll never win a big tournament again. Even Marcy suggested as much.”

  “You’ve gotten to the quarterfinals of Australia and the French Open—twice. You’ve reached the semis at Indian Wells and Singapore. I hardly think you’re doing a shabby job.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying and you know it. I want to win a Slam. I’ve trained my entire life for that, and now it seems like I have an opportunity to work with someone who might be able to take me there.”

  “I just don’t know that—”

  “All other things being equal, if your goal was to win a US Open in the next two years, who would you hire? Marcy Berenson or Todd Feltner? With no consideration for their style of coaching or likability or whatever else we’re throwing in there?”

  Her father was silent.

  “Yeah, me too,” Charlie said quietly.

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s the right choice for you,” Mr. Silver said, taking a sip of his beer.

  Charlie met his gaze. “It sounds like Todd’s not the right choice for you,” she said.

  Mr. Silver peered at Charlie.

  “There’s more than winning, Dad, of course I
know that. Every year the women’s tour becomes more and more focused on fitness. Fifteen years ago if you lifted for an hour a day, you could expect to outlast most of your opponents in a tough three-setter. All that’s changed now. Women spend almost as much time on fitness training as they do on the court, and Marcy’s not totally up to speed on that. I’ve told you before that she’s not willing to travel as much, and that’s been difficult, too.”

  “She’s trying to have a baby, Charlie. I know you understand that.”

  “Of course I understand that! She’s still a friend, Dad. She and I spend more time together on a weekly basis than pretty much anyone else. I was one of her bridesmaids when she married Will! And it’s natural that he doesn’t want her to travel so much. Forty-some weeks a year is hell, especially when you’re going through in vitro. I get it, I really do. I hope more than anything she’ll be able to get pregnant. But then what? You think she’s going to want to hop on planes every three days and head to Dubai? Shanghai? Melbourne? Toronto? London? And when she very understandably doesn’t want to do travel like that—or can’t? I know I sound callous here, but where does that leave me?”

  Her father nodded. “It’s one of the risks of hiring a female coach. But I like to think we stick by our friends when—”

  “I’m not sure why you’re doing this to me.” Charlie’s voice was almost a whisper.

  “We’re just having a conversation, Charlie.”

  “It doesn’t feel like a conversation, Dad. It feels like one giant shaming. We haven’t even mentioned what happened at Wimbledon. Ultimately she was responsible for the shoes. She’s slowed down a lot lately trying to get pregnant. And you should have heard the conversation we had about my future just this morning.”

  The waiter, a local high school kid who, according to her father, was headed for a tennis scholarship to a Division I school, removed their salad plates and replaced them with small bowls of mixed berries.

  “It sounds like your mind is made up. I may not agree with you, but I support you in whatever you decide,” Mr. Silver said, scooping some whipped cream onto his berries.

  Support me so long as I agree with you, she thought but didn’t say. And although Charlie hadn’t been certain that hiring Todd was the right move, it had become much clearer as she’d outlined all the reasons to her father, whether he liked them or not.

  “Yes. My mind is made up,” Charlie said with more conviction than she felt.

  “Well, okay then. We agree to disagree.”

  They were the exact same words Mr. Silver had used more than five years earlier when, during the summer before her sophomore year, Charlie had decided to turn pro. Charlie had always understood that finishing four years of college and competing at the top levels of the women’s tour were mutually exclusive, and of course, so had Mr. Silver—but her father’s disapproval had bordered on outrage.

  Charlie was about to point out that their conversation was following a familiar pattern, but she was saved by Howard Pinter, the owner of the club. Howard was rotund and bald and spoke with a spittle-spraying lisp and he always wore suspenders that looked like they stretched painfully over his enormous midsection. Howard loved them both, and told them every chance he could, especially now that Charlie was famous.

  “Peter. Charlie! Why didn’t I know you two were having lunch here today?”

  “Howie,” her father said, already on his feet. “Good to see you.” The two men shook hands.

  Charlie moved to stand, but Howard pushed down gently on her shoulder. “Please sit, dear. Are you both enjoying lunch? Will your friend be joining you, too?”

  At first Charlie thought Howie was asking her, but then she noticed the expression on her father’s face. Shut the hell up, it said as he looked directly into Howie’s eyes. Never in her life could she remember her father giving someone such a look of . . . what? Panic?

  Whatever it was, Howie got the message. “Forgive me, I’m all confused. You know how it is at my age, I’m practically addled. I’ll tell you, I can barely remember how to dress myself every day. Can you believe there was a time I used to know the name of every kid who worked in the pro shop or the kitchen? Now I’m lucky if I remember who my own children are.” He forced a laugh.

  As quick as the anger had flashed across her father’s face, it was gone. “I’m just filling Charlie in on all the club gossip,” he said, smiling.

  Howard dropped into a seat at the table with surprising agility. “Ooooh, tell me, tell me. No one tells me the good stuff anymore. You think I care who’s bickering about court assignments or about the golf course maintenance? Hell, no! I want to hear who’s screwing each other in the coat closet!”

  They all laughed, and Charlie was relieved that her father seemed able to lighten up, but she couldn’t help her lingering feelings of irritation. The three of them chatted for a few minutes, with Charlie filling Howard in on seemingly-juicy-but-totally-benign tour gossip: rumors of Natalya’s dating a famous quarterback; the billionaire Saudi who’d reportedly offered seven figures to each of the top three men’s players to play a single match with him at his compound in Jeddah; the number-five-ranked woman who had just failed a surprise doping test. He clapped his hands together and grinned. That’s not even the good stuff, Charlie thought. She wondered how he’d react to the Todd Feltner news. Or, for that matter, the fact that she was casually hooking up with the hottest male player on the tour. She smiled to herself just thinking about it.

  “Okay, I’ll leave you two to your lunch,” Howard said, looking at Mr. Silver. There was an uncomfortable beat of silence. Howard cleared this throat and pushed his chair back. “Well, if you two will excuse me, duty calls. I’m sure some bored housewife is berating one of my locker room staff as we speak. Charlie, always a pleasure. You come visit us more often, you hear?” He bent down to kiss her on the cheek; Charlie willed herself not to wipe away the lingering wetness.

  “Thanks for coming over to say hi, Mr. Pinter,” she said. “And no blabbing those tour secrets, you hear?”

  He belly laughed like Santa Claus and ambled away. Charlie turned to her father.

  “What’s he talking about? What’s the good news? And who’s your ‘new friend’?”

  “It’s not a big deal, Charlie. It’s just that Howie arranged for me to move into one of the three guest cottages they keep at the far end of the property—near the lap pool? They’re quite nice.”

  “The cottages that were built in, like, the early nineteen-hundreds? Do they even have heat? Why on earth would you want to live in one? I don’t think anyone has actually stayed in one of those in decades!”

  “They’re a bit rustic, yes, but think of how much time I’ll save not having to drive back and forth from Topanga every day? The traffic has really—”

  “And what about our house? Mom loved our house!” Charlie didn’t mean to bring up her mother right then, but she hadn’t ever imagined a day when her father would sell her childhood home. After all, it was the last place her mother had lived. It was where she had died. It seemed unfathomable he would ever leave it.

  “I know she did, sweetie. We all love it. But you have to understand that things change, situations change. I just don’t have the time or the energy to take care of something that size at this point in my life.”

  “So you’d rather live here? You already spend too much time here. Charlie could feel her rising panic. “This is about money, isn’t it?”

  Her father met her gaze. “This is not about money. That is absolutely none of your concern, do you hear me?”

  “Why else would you do this? I don’t understand why you won’t let me help! What does any of it mean if I can’t help my own family?”

  “I’m still your father,” he said sharply. Then, softening: “No one understands more than I just how much you have to invest in your career. A sizable salary for your coach, and all the travel for
both of you and Jake, and I’ll refrain from imagining how much more Todd Feltner will require than Marcy. You need to invest in yourself, Charlie.”

  “I just don’t understand why you’d move—”

  He held up his hand. “Enough. It’s going to be great for me to downsize and lose the commute. Yes, it will be hard, too. But it’s time.”

  Charlie forced a smile despite the sinking feeling in her stomach. “Okay then. Maybe we both have to agree to disagree.”

  4

  the twenty-third best girl

  LOS ANGELES

  AUGUST 2015

  The FOR SALE BY OWNER sign may as well have been trimmed in Christmas lights, because it was the very first thing Charlie saw every time she looked out her bedroom window. It had been two weeks since her father had announced his intention to move onto Birchwood property, and still, she could barely process it. The three-bedroom bungalow set back a bit off of Topanga Canyon Boulevard was less than idyllic—the curving driveway had long-ago crumbled into loose rocks and the exterior desperately needed a new paint job (not to mention new doors and windows), but what her childhood house was lacking in curbside appeal, it more than made up for in memories: the Sunday night barbecue dinners on the back patio surrounded by the woods; riding her bike with Jake to Topanga State Park and stopping for Cokes on the way at the roadside gas station that had since turned into an organic market; helping her mother tend the window boxes of impatiens they would plant each year. Her family had never been one to throw lots of parties or host loads of guests, but Charlie remembered a mostly happy childhood in that house, a home that her mother loved and cared for with great joy, the place where she had closed her eyes for the final time. It was fitting that Charlie had barely changed her childhood room—right down to the Justin Timberlake posters—and that she still considered it her home because really, why would she pay rent somewhere else when she traveled eleven out of twelve months? What did not fit was the idea of her father selling this piece of their shared history and moving into a guest cottage. On Birchwood’s property. In the Palisades. She shook her head just thinking about it.