Linda nodded then went to the sink. She glanced at Andre. “Will you join us for dinner? My mom should arrive any minute now.”
“I don’t understand,” he said. “I came here to…”
She grinned. “Your dad came over last week. We went to the beach and talked for a long while. Tio Gabriel just needed time.”
Andre pulled his dad to the side. “What made you finally go to her? Was it our talk?”
He shook his head. “I told you, I was busy doing something.”
Andre stared at him, trying to understand.
“Your tio had hundreds of ideas. He would sketch them on any random paper in the house, then forget about them. I kept all of them, four boxes of ideas. I put together all his thoughts and notes into an album. It wasn’t easy. Not because it was a lot of work, though it was. The real hard part was remembering him and how he’d get excited over a new idea, talk about it, get me excited, and then lose all interest a week later. Each one I read brought fresh tears. It was draining, but also exciting–some of his ideas are still amazing. I finished the album last week and gave it to Linda. Maybe one day you and Linda can turn some of his ideas into reality.”
Andre’s mouth had gone dry. “That’s amazing, Papa.”
“You don’t have to solve all the problems, Andres,” his father said. “Sometimes the problems will solve themselves if you give it time.”
Andre tried to nod—wanted to hug his father, whom he had never hugged before.
Someone pulled his elbow.
“Come, Andre,” his mom said, tugging him toward the den. “Let’s drink wine while they prepare dinner. I want to know more about the British girl. Does she do yoga, because those legs, and that ass? It’s just not fair.”
On Tuesday, after having eliminated her opponent in the quarterfinal match, Gemma thought about her strong run in the last two matches. Maybe she had been right after all. Andre was a distraction. Without him, she had dismantled her opponents. But according to his earlier text, his plane was due to land soon.
She had to be careful. She didn’t want to lose momentum. She had one day’s rest before her semifinal match on Thursday against Sonia–her third chance this year.
Her mobile rang—Andre.
“Welcome,” Gemma said.
“It’s great to hear your voice again,” Andre said. “Are you busy tonight?”
“Sorry, yes I am.” As she spoke the words, something collapsed in her heart.
“How about tomorrow?”
“Andre, it’s best I remain focused on my upcoming match.”
A beat. “Sure, no worries. Well, I wanted to tell you in person, but good news should be shared. The Met arrested the extortionist.”
“Are you serious?” Lead lifted off her shoulders.
“Yes. DCI Whitby has his hands on the evidence. Original footage and more. I will be visiting the team in the morning to help scan the systems for uploads, transfers, or copies. We’ll know if any other pieces of the material exist, and put this story to bed.”
For a moment she considered calling him over, but stopped herself. Though on mute, the footage on the telly was clear: a news segment showing the arrival of Andre at Heathrow and the paparazzi surrounding him. Must have been video from minutes earlier. Bedric had been right. It had already happened. She refused to allow a replay of Australia. Not with Andre, not with anyone.
Andre hung up and closed his eyes. He had not told her that he had quit his job, nor that the stalker had been hired by his employer. She didn’t want to deal with any of this until after the tournament. He could and would respect that.
He was finally free, but had no good way to celebrate. The cab was driving him to Gemma’s home. No point now. He picked up his cell and dialed.
“I’m back in town. Are you free?” he asked.
After a brief conversation, he hung up and tapped on the driver’s glass partition.
“Change of plans. Please take me to Ten Downing Street.”
“The PM’s residence?” the driver asked.
“That’s the one.”
“Did it work?” the Prime Minister asked.
“Like magic. I can’t thank you enough.” Andre didn’t want to share more than he had to.
“Glad to hear it,” the PM said, sinking deep into the sofa seat. “Clearly I’m happy you broke the chains. I’m also happy I don’t have to actually pay that kind of money.”
They drank a toast.
“As I said that night at your home, I needed something to bluff with.” At the time, Andre had not expected M&T to bury themselves with the extortion letter. In their attempt to hold on to him, they had made it easier for Andre to leave.
“Andre, I would have gone directly to the queen and asked her to personally fund it if it meant we would have your services for the next five years. And I would be a great boss.”
Andre laughed.
“I’ll take this as your R.S.V.P. for Emily’s engagement. I knew you’d come up with a clever plan. What will you do now? Professionally, I mean. I’m sure you have expenses–”
“I’ll be fine. I have no financial worries. You and my uncle can rest comfortably.”
“Well. Fantastic. Now on to a more important matter. What’s the story with you and Gemma?”
Andre leaned forward. “Have you ever watched the sunset on a tropical island?”
The PM gave a curious look. “Sure, Tahiti a few years back.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Beautiful, immense, reminded me of how small we are and our relative insignificance. Also, I felt sad, I admit. It lasted but for the briefest of moments.”
“Mortals can’t hold on to the sunset. It will set when it wants to. Gemma’s life, the circumstances, and the circus that has grown over the past two weeks have thrown her off. She’s closed herself off again. Her survival instinct has kicked in.”
“So what’s the plan? How will you address this?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think this is a problem I’ll be able to solve.” What was he going to do? Prepare a PowerPoint presentation? Build a spreadsheet that showed why they were perfect for each other? This one was up to her. And as much as the implications scared him, he knew that was the only way.
“I’m sorry, Andre,” the PM said.
Andre forced a smile. “At least we’re in the semifinals now,” he said, as he raised his glass in a mock toast.
“It’s only a game, son. Just a stupid game.”
“Ability may get you to the top, but it takes character to keep you there.”
~John Wooden
ame day tradition remained the same as always. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, looking at a point in space. A light sheen of perspiration dusted her arms and legs, and her breathing was moderate. Everything appeared to be in place, except her mind wasn’t actually focused on the game. Instead she was pretending, going through the motions.
Her thoughts were not the typical mantra of ‘one point at a time.’ Instead, her brain activity was erratic and confused by thoughts of a future with Andre that were now in question.
A couple of weeks ago, she would not have dreamt that sitting here, waiting for her seminal match at Wimbledon, it would be thoughts of Andre distracting her.
She had planned and expected to win many Grand Slams–a current-day Steffi Graf. She wanted the record. But after five years of trying and disappointing the experts and herself, she would be happy with one. And if she were to win one, she hoped it would be Wimbledon. For her. For her dad.
What would be her legacy? She thought of the ‘beautiful’ ones who had played the game but never won a Grand Slam. Was she destined to go down as one of them? She wanted to matter.
Gemma entered center court. The explosion of cheers and applause upon her arrival was heartening. The overwhelming majority of the crowd stood and gave her an ovation. Fans waved UK flags of various sizes. The national pride unmistakable.
She wore an all-white outfit. She rec
alled what Andre had said about her outfit: “White against your tanned skin makes you look like a black pearl nestled in Caribbean sand.”
When she sat on the bench, she glanced toward her seats. He was there with Tish. For an instant a smile threatened to break through, but she stopped it. There was no reason to smile.
The clouds overhead promised rain.
The umpire spoke. “Quiet please. Thank you.” With that, the match began.
The first set was over in thirty minutes. Gemma was being humiliated.
She was slow, unable to reach the returns. Her motion during the serve was tight, producing weak, pitiful hits. After each point, she grimaced and squeezed her hamstring.
Why like this? Why couldn’t she lose like she had in the French Open, with dignity? Instead she was playing like a rank amateur.
Down 1-3 in the second set, rain drenched them and the umpire called a break. The ground staff sprinted on the court and covered the grass. But just as quickly, the rain stopped.
While the officials debated closing the roof, Gemma was downright panicking. She was down one set already, and the second was quickly slipping away. She was being outclassed. She couldn’t exit like this. The press would ruin her. She would be the joke of professional sports for years to come. Maybe the rain stoppage had been a lucky break? Could she bear down and focus now?
She glanced in Andre’s direction. Why had he shown up? To watch her be embarrassed? To see first-hand what his handiwork had caused? It didn’t matter. She would take care of him in due time.
With the score 1-3 in the second set, Sonia needed to win three more games and Gemma’s Wimbledon dreams would end in yet another semifinal trouncing. That would mark the end, not only of this tournament, but possibly of her career. She was imploding, choking in a fantastic way–a repeat of the Australian fiasco. It was one thing to lose, quite another to get manhandled. A crushing defeat in her own country, in front of her people, in front of the Prime Minister, Prince William, and Catherine.
The soap opera of her life was repeating itself. No matter who she chose, the same dark cloud followed her.
She readjusted the strap on her thigh while the ground staff uncovered the grass again. The players were asked to warm up. Gemma didn’t rise from her chair.
She focused on a point in space. She would go through the mental preparation now. Unlike most sports, in tennis, even if the athlete had only one point left, she could fight her way back and win the entire match.
“You can do it, Gemma!” someone yelled, and the audience roared.
She remembered her first loss. She remembered her first win. She remembered her first tournament championship, the rape, the articles about her, the anger, and the promise she made to prove them all wrong.
Gemma! Gemma! Gemma!
She remembered putting her trust and love in one man. She remembered it all.
We love you, Gemma!
She removed the strap off her thigh and tossed it into the crowd. Widespread cheers and applause bounced throughout the stadium.
She didn’t need to warm up. It was game time.
It was Gemma’s serve, and she had to hold serve. If she dropped this one, then it was all but over–fait accompli. She would fight for it, one point at a time. The only point that matters is the next one. She would not think of the final result, but this moment only–this point only.
Done.
She walked to the base line and asked for three balls. The light drizzle brushed against her. She inspected one ball and popped it away. She placed the extra ball underneath her skirt and stepped up to the line. All her motions and timing were calculated. Frustrate your opponent. Create anxiety. Produce drama.
She took a deep breath, glanced over at Andre, then at her opponent. Sonia was relaxed, hovering near the extreme edge of the court, bouncing slightly on her toes. Her body language exhibited full and complete confidence.
Gemma stared her down until Sonia noticed her eyes. Sonia’s back straightened slightly and her heels touched the grass. Gemma immediately shifted her weight and tossed the ball high. It swirled in slow motion. She timed her leap, maximizing the crushing force of her racquet, her weapon of choice. Her racquet cut through the air, while at the same time she growled and torpedoed the ball down the middle. Sonia didn’t even attempt a return. She was left planted on the court.
Ace.
The crowd erupted with a standing ovation.
Gemma’s first ace of the match. Gemma walked to her line, then scanned the crowd and found Andre, leaning forward against the rail, fingers intertwined.
One point at a time. One love at a time–the time is for tennis. She knew what that meant, what it would have to mean. She would not throw away sixteen years. Not like this. She had worked too hard.
Everything else–everyone else–is a distraction.
Sonia moved a bit closer to the center to prevent another dead-center ace. Gemma tossed the ball, and when she struck it, she sliced the ball at a deep angle, willing it to go to the extreme end of the court, away from Sonia; the lefty’s weapon. Sonia’s eyes widened and she leapt for the far side of the court. Her racquet made contact with the grass, not the ball. Gemma’s second ace in a row.
She now saw it all in slow motion.
Gemma tore another serve, clocked at 118 miles-per-hour down the middle. Sonia made contact, but the ball flew into the crowds. The umpire could no longer control the cheers.
Gemma took her time in picking the right ball, frustrating Sonia further. She walked up to the line, then watched her adversary, one of the best who had ever played the game, who now appeared confused by the turn of events. Flustered, Sonia murmured, seemingly talking to her racquet. Gemma took her position, tossed the ball in the air, and when she made contact, she knew she would not lose this set.
Gemma won five straight games, coming back from down 1-3 to win it 6-3. They were now tied at one set apiece. The tiebreaker set was next, but lightning shattered the skies and heavy rain drenched the court and players.
The officials scrambled to first cover the grass, then close the roof, but in the end elected to postpone the tiebreaker set to the next day, citing the late hour as the reason for postponement. It was nearly ten in the evening. By rule, they could play until eleven, but she understood the real message. They could get a lot more advertising revenue by playing up the storybook drama for one more day.
Gemma’s dressing room door opened, and Tish rushed in and gave Gemma a hug. Andre followed.
“G! I can’t believe it. You were down for the bloody count. An amazing comeback. Utterly brilliant.”
“Thank you,” Gemma said. “Not over yet.” Her eyes traveled to Andre’s.
“You were phenomenal,” he said, his eyes trained on hers. “Amazing transformation.”
“Transformation?” Tish asked, still smiling. “What do you mean?”
Andre did not break eye contact with Gemma. “She released a burden. Like Atlas, she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Once released, she was back and ready to dominate the game.”
“Tish, can you give us a moment?” Gemma asked. She had to be strong and decisive. She could not back down now.
Tish glanced at her, then Andre. “Sure,” she said, then walked out.
Andre stepped up and stood in front of her. Two feet separated them. The same distance as the first time she met him in Paris.
Staring into his eyes, she almost lost her resolve. One love at a time, she reminded herself.
“We can’t go on like this.”
He said nothing.
“You’ve–our relationship has become a source of great distraction for me. I can’t have this in my life. Not again.”
He remained silent, boring into her eyes.
“All the madness that comes with us, it’s just not healthy. I can’t throw away sixteen years of tennis like this. It needs to stop. We need to stop and go our separate ways.”
Still nothing.
�
��Will you say something?”
“Gemma, you can blame me for everything. The choice is yours. But it won’t change anything. Not really. Was I to blame for the Australian Open? How about the French? Or the years before this one?”
A slap would have been better.
“You have to take a serious look and understand why you sabotage your own success, in all areas of your life. What are you afraid of? What will happen if you win it all? What could’ve happened if you’d fallen in love with me?”
She needed to sit, or grab on to something stable.
“There’s one constant in this picture: you. Look at the chaos around you. It was there before me, and it’ll be there after. I didn’t ask you to lie to the world about us. I saw this coming, but you chose to continue the madness. I’ve remained the same person throughout. I’ve never pretended to be someone or something I’m not. Can you claim the same?
“The celebrity game you play assures you’ll always have something go wrong. I’m sorry bad things happened to us. Those are curves on the road–they are not the road. If we can’t handle these, how can we handle the big rocks, the tragedies? You’re right: if we’re not on the same page, if we’re not willing to stand side by side, then we shouldn’t be together.”
Andre caressed her face. She trembled inside, but fought hard to maintain her composure. He held her face delicately. A tear threatened the bridge of her nose. She swallowed and held her breath.
“I love you, and I’m willing to fight through anything for us. Anything and anyone. At the core, we are the same. When you’re ready to have a partner who’ll stand next to you, let me know. When you’re ready to be the Gemma who lives and loves freely, then find me. Right now, the Gemma in front of me is the character she’s created with Wesley. It’s the one you devised to keep you safe. Life is not safe. Life is lived at risk. The domain of survival feels safe, but survival is another way of admitting death is catching up with you. I refuse to live that life.”
Game of Love Page 24
