Sinjin gripped the railing as if the safety structure were a life preserver preventing her from going under. Viktoriya’s offer should have been easy to refuse. Why wasn’t she saying no? When Viktoriya trailed a finger across the back of her hand, she felt her body begin to betray her. Quick, no-strings sex was her favorite outlet for relieving tension. Heaven knew she was about to blow. But for the first time in a long time, what she wanted wasn’t what she needed. She needed—and wanted—Laure.
“I’ve learned some things since we were together,” Viktoriya said. “I would love to show them to you.”
“I would love to show you something, too. My back as I walk away. I hope you enjoy the view.”
Sinjin hoped to get in the last word. Viktoriya, as usual, one-upped her.
“I always do. There’s nothing like the view from the top.”
*
As she sat in her chair during the changeover, Laure took a sip of water and looked around. The court was standing room only. So was the Crow’s Nest. The vultures were circling. Let them circle. She wasn’t dead yet.
She took another sip of water. And nearly choked on it when she spotted Sinjin and Viktoriya conversing. Though calling it conversing was a stretch. Viktoriya seemed to be doing most of the talking. Sinjin’s body language screamed “Go away,” but Viktoriya kept moving closer.
Sinjin walked away, but Viktoriya’s broad smile said she had gotten what she wanted. Or soon would. Turning that smile in Laure’s direction, she held up her hand and waved. Was she waving hello or good-bye?
“You can’t get rid of me that easily, your highness. You and I have a date in the semifinals.”
She broke Anaïs’ serve at love, then went on a tear. She couldn’t miss. No shot was impossible. She won the second set 7-5 and closed out the match in dominant fashion, finishing with her sixth ace as she won the third set 6-0.
“The match was closer than most people anticipated,” a reporter said during the press conference that followed. “What happened?”
“Anaïs played well from the beginning of the match and I didn’t play as well as I’m capable of until the match was almost over. She hit some good shots and kept me off balance for almost two sets. I was a bit lucky to pull out the second set. I’ve been working on beefing up my serve. In the third set, it finally began to pay dividends. The match wasn’t pretty, but a win’s a win and I’ll take it.”
“I noticed Sinjin Smythe wasn’t in attendance today. Will you explain why?”
“Just because you didn’t see her didn’t mean she wasn’t around. She has a match to prepare for. She can’t do that by sitting around watching me struggle for two and a half hours.”
“Will you be in the stands for her match tomorrow?”
“Of course. This is my—” She barely stopped herself from saying last. “This is one of my favorite tournaments and I want to spend it surrounded by the people I care about. Sinjin’s one of those people.”
*
Sitting on the couch in Laure’s rented house, Sinjin cued up a replay of the 1986 U.S. Open semifinal between Martina Navratilova and Steffi Graf. Navratilova had won the classic match 10-8 in the third set tiebreaker against the upstart Graf who would go on to claim twenty-two Grand Slam singles titles, second only to Australian great Margaret Smith Court’s twenty-four.
Laure looked over Sinjin’s shoulder. “Why are you watching a hard court match to prepare for one on grass? The styles of play dictated by the two surfaces are completely different.”
In the next round, Sinjin would be squaring off against Anke Schroeder. The winner would advance to the round of sixteen for the first time in her career.
“To remind myself of something.”
“What?”
“That.”
She pointed to the computer monitor. Laure peered at the action on the screen.
Preparing to deliver a second serve at eight points-all in the third set tiebreaker after failing to convert three match points, seventeen-year-old Graf was so nervous she couldn’t hold on to her racquet as she stood at the baseline.
“I have to keep telling myself Anke will hit her share of winners tomorrow, but at some point, she will eventually remember she’s only eighteen. I just have to hang in there long enough to be in position to take advantage of the moment when it arrives.”
She closed the file and opened one that contained footage of the same players’ clash in the following year’s Wimbledon final. The match was less complicated than its predecessor, but it had meant much more. History—and the number one ranking—had been on the line. In the end, Steffi had eventually taken Martina’s top spot, but on that day, Martina’s kick serves to Steffi’s backhand had carried her to her sixth consecutive Wimbledon title and eighth overall. She would earn a record ninth three years later. Sinjin turned the sound down, letting the images flow across the screen sans commentary.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Frustrating, but I managed to get through it. That’s what counts. On the brighter side, Nicolas told me he asked Stephanie to dinner.”
Sinjin was only mildly surprised. She had seen the way Nicolas looked at Stephanie over the years—and Stephanie at him. The interest was definitely mutual. The only question was how far Stephanie would allow the relationship to develop before she reverted to her usual MO and found an excuse to end it.
“You’ll never guess what I got in the mail today,” Sinjin said.
“An offer to change your mobile phone provider?”
Sinjin pulled an envelope out of her laptop bag and tossed it to Laure. “No, try again.”
Laure turned the envelope over in her hands but didn’t reach for what was inside. “What’s this?”
“A letter from the Queen.”
“Oh? Did you forget to pay your taxes?”
“No, she said if I make the final, she’ll come to watch me play.”
Laure’s eyes widened. The only sporting events the Queen regularly attended were The Derby and the Royal Ascot. She never missed England’s most prestigious horse race, but aside from the Duke of Kent and the late Princess Diana, the sight of a Windsor at the All England Club was as rare as a Wimbledon without rain. “I thought she hated tennis.”
“She does.”
“So I guess it’s up to you to change her mind.” Laure nudged Sinjin’s hip with her foot. “Good luck with that.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the support.”
“I’m here for you. Do you really think she’ll come?”
“She said she would. Why would she lie?”
“She is a politician after all.”
“Then I guess there’s only one way to find out for sure: make the final and see if she shows up.” She leaned back on the couch and sighed.
Laure hugged her knees to her chest. “Would you rather be off painting the town red instead of listening to Stephanie, Gabrielle, and my parents discuss the merits of paisley versus plaid while Nicolas tries not to burn the steaks? Excuse me. Six steaks and one lonely salmon filet.”
“I’ve already risked jinxing myself by having dinner here instead of at Fog. You managed to get me here, but there’s no way you’re going to convince me to change my meal, too.”
“Relax. I’m not trying to play mind games with you. I just wanted to spend some time with you without talking about anything remotely related to tennis.”
Taking the hint, Sinjin shut down her laptop.
“This nuclear family thing is new to me. I haven’t been part of a traditional family since I was little. My father left when I was four. My mother died when I was thirteen. My father’s parents took care of Steph and me for a while. I’ve lived in the States off and on since I enrolled at a tennis academy in Florida when I was fifteen. Stephanie moved out on her own shortly after. For years, it’s been the two of us against the world, and we didn’t see each other as much as we should because I was traveling all the time. Both of us have been alone more often than not.”
“Has your father ever tried to reach out to you? My parents and I are so close I can’t imagine not having either of them around.”
“I haven’t seen my dad since I was sixteen. He showed up at one of my junior tournaments and stuck around long enough to say hi then took off again. When Steph and I were kids, he would call us on our birthdays and say he was coming to see us, but he never showed up. After a while, we stopped caring. We had a mother who loved us, we had each other, and we didn’t need anyone else.”
“But your grandparents are still in your life. I remember you telling me how your father’s parents tape your matches and watch them after they’ve ended.”
“Even though they already know the result by the time they watch the tapes, my grandfather still yells at the screen as if he can affect the outcome and my grandmother makes enough pots of tea to supply an army.” She laughed at the fond memory. “My mother’s parents are just as bad. I’ve offered to get all of them tickets for some of my matches, but they’re just like Andrew—so nervous they can’t watch in person. My paternal grandparents are in Brighton, but my maternal ones are still in Nigeria. I don’t see my mother’s parents as often as I do my father’s, obviously, but I do keep in touch with them. The last time I talked to them, they said all of Lagos was cheering for me.”
“Great,” Laure said with a wink. “Like you weren’t enough of a crowd favorite already.”
Sinjin shrugged as she basked in the glow of Laure’s smile. “Everyone loves an underdog.”
“I’m rather fond of them, too.”
“I think I can do this.”
“What? Win the tournament?”
“No.” She leaned forward and kissed Laure’s cheek. “Fall in love with you.”
Third Round
Laure thought the best part of a relationship was having someone to share things with. From something as simple as a meal to something as profound as a work of art. She wanted someone to share her life with the way her parents had been sharing theirs for the past forty years. Her mother was a curator for the Louvre. Her father was an art dealer who specialized in emerging artists. She had grown up listening to their lively debates about food, wine, music, and art. Their latest talking point was Picasso’s Child With a Dove. She smiled to herself as she watched them debate the merits of the portrait while speculating about the “secret” painting that might be hidden under the thick layers of oil. As she stood in line to see Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, she wished she could emulate their example. She wished Sinjin was by her side.
Her parents provided pleasant company as they spent the day exploring the endless treasures housed in the National Gallery, but she couldn’t stop wondering what Sinjin would make of them all.
What would she have to say about Rubens’ Samson and Delilah? Would Sinjin, as she had, find areas of confluence in Cézanne’s Bathers and Seurat’s similarly-titled Bathers at Asnières? Would she prefer them to Monet’s Bathers at La Grenouillère? Would she be entranced by Velázquez’ Rokeby Venus or would she be drawn instead to Ingres’ haughty Madame Moitessier? Would she aspire to have her likeness hang alongside those of other notable Britons in the National Portrait Gallery? Or would she be bored to tears by the whole thing?
Someone in line behind her gently tapped her on the shoulder. “You’re Laure Fortescue, aren’t you?”
Laure turned to face her inquisitor, a cute redhead in a pinstriped suit, stiletto heels, and a lacy blouse that invited further inspection. Then she took a quick glance around to see how many people might swoop down on her if she said yes. She liked spending time with her fans, but she’d rather spend this day with her family. Just like Sinjin, she didn’t see her family nearly as often as she wanted. Another reason to look forward to retirement. When her playing days were over, she and her parents could try to regain some of the time they had lost. She couldn’t wait for them to be together for days or even weeks at a time, either at their apartment in Paris or her house in Saint Tropez.
“Yes, I am.”
“I thought it was you. Thrilling win yesterday.”
Laure reflexively gripped the sketchbook in her hands. The only thing she wanted to take away from the previous round was the fact that she had won. Everything else was best forgotten. “A little too thrilling, if you ask me.”
“You’ll play better when you’re back on the show courts. I imagine it must be difficult to concentrate with the excitement and hubbub of seven other courts in action all around you. Speaking of excited, Sinjin has a lot of people’s pulses racing.”
Mine included.
“Do you think she can go all the way?”
“She has a tough draw,” Laure said, “but if she plays up to her abilities, she can do some damage.”
“That would be lovely to see. Tell her we’re all rooting for her. All of us.”
“I will.”
She inched closer to Van Gogh’s Impressionist masterpiece. In another week, she hoped to paint a masterpiece of her own. And it could come at Sinjin’s expense.
A roar swept across the room.
“Unless a long-lost Gainsborough has been found,” Laure said to no one in particular, “I fear we’ve missed something.”
The redhead consulted her smartphone. “Ah, Andy Murray just advanced to the round of sixteen.”
“Good for him.”
Murray was poised to make another deep run. Would he stall in the semifinals yet again or was he finally ready to break through to his first Wimbledon final?
After she made her way through the line and got a good, long look at the painting, she headed to the espresso bar downstairs. Her parents joined her a few minutes later. While her mother viewed digital reproductions of the gallery’s collection via a state-of-the-art touch screen, her father reached for her sketchbook. “Let’s see what you’ve been working on this week.”
“It’s not finished yet.” She tried to grab the book, but he pulled it out of her reach.
He arched an eyebrow. “Are you doubting my ability to judge a work in progress?”
“Of course not, but I’d rather show you the finished product.” She took another swipe at the sketchbook, but he leaned away from her.
“Indulge him,” her mother said with a well-practiced sigh.
Laure tore her paper napkin into shreds as her father slowly flipped through the pages. He rubbed his chin as he examined the last page in the sketchbook. She recognized the look. It was the same look that crossed his face every time he examined a work that intrigued him.
“Hmph.” The familiar grunt was a mixture of appreciation and pride.
Her mother leaned over to take a peek. “Extraordinary. Do you have a title?”
“Medusa.”
“Fitting,” her father said, sliding the sketchbook across the table. “I look forward to seeing the completed work. And to continuing to get to know your subject.”
After the final point of each of her matches, Sinjin removed the bandanna that held her hair out of her eyes. When she shook her hair free, she always reminded Laure of the gorgon from Greek mythology. Only Laure didn’t turn to stone when she looked into her eyes. She turned to mush instead. Her sketch depicted Sinjin in all her hair-flying glory. She traced a finger across the nearly finished drawing, being careful not to smudge the hatch lines.
Warm fingers grazed the nape of her neck, sending chills down her spine. She turned, half-hoping Sinjin had decided to brave a potential mob scene in order to surprise her. The cute redhead with the stiletto heels held a business card between two French-tipped fingers.
“In case you need additional tennis results.”
Laure glanced at the card, which identified its owner as Sienna Armstrong, corporate accounts representative for one of London’s largest banks.
“Good luck tomorrow,” Sienna said.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
“Hmph,” Laure’s father grunted after Sienna took her leave. “The Fortescue charm strikes again. She
gets it from me, you know.”
“Thankfully,” Laure’s mother said as Laure passed her the card under the table, “she gets her discretion from me.” She palmed the card and deposited it in the nearest trash bin.
Laure knew she would be fantasizing about those stiletto heels for days. In her dreams, the woman wearing them wouldn’t be Sienna Armstrong but Sinjin Smythe.
*
Sinjin toed the baseline. Anke was too talented a returner to give her free games and hope to be able to catch up. Holding serve was imperative. Sinjin hadn’t had her serve broken in her first two matches. She hadn’t even faced break point. Now in the very first game, she found herself staring at three of them.
She erased the break points with back-to-back-to-back aces, then struck a service winner to reach game point. Before she could put the anxious crowd’s fears to rest, though, Anke drew the game to deuce with a return that whizzed past her before she was barely out of her service motion.
Okay, she thought as she looked around Court Two, it’s going to be a long day at the office.
Sensing she needed an energy boost, the crowd broke into rhythmic applause.
Sinjin bounced on her toes, reminding herself to move her feet. She tried to pump herself up, but she felt flat. By making the third round, she had achieved a personal best. She had reached one of the goals she had set for herself before the tournament began. But that modest goal was no longer enough. She wanted more. And she would have to do it at the expense of a friend.
She looked across the net at Anke. So young, so eager. Her hunger to win was fully evident. For the first time in the tournament, Sinjin didn’t feel that hunger in herself. What she felt was the fear of losing. She didn’t want to walk off the court second best, but at the same time, she didn’t want to be responsible for dashing Anke’s dreams.
When she double faulted to give Anke another break point, she felt as if she was reverting to her old self.
“Dig deep.” Laure pounded her fist over her heart. “Whatever it takes. Win this and you get two days off.”
Lucky Loser Page 10
