by Fox Brison
“Deep breath, kiddo,” my father’s voice echoed into the void and I smiled at the memory it conjured; lying on Wimbledon’s Centre Court when I was eight after he’d called in a favour from an old school friend. We would have been hung drawn and quartered and probably tried for treason if we’d been spotted. But we hadn’t been. I could still hear his voice… ‘remember this Georgia, never forget how you feel right here, right now…’
And I never did.
I could still remember feeling the warmth of the sun hidden by fluffy white clouds, the prickling blades of emerald grass poking into my uncovered neck, and the sounds of the crowds, imagined, calling my name as I collapsed on the grass after winning the Venus Rosewater Dish.
‘Georgia, one day… one day…’ his voice still held that note of pride and love that I’d grown up hearing.
My whole body trembled. Wishing the memory was a picture hastily drawn on my old etch-a-sketch that I could erase with a violent shake of my head, I instead gave myself a familiar pep talk. “Focus, Maskel. Focus on the now.” Taking a deep breath I grabbed my bag from the passenger’s seat and checked myself in the mirror.
I was still getting used to my new haircut.
I’d walked into the hair salon after my gym session, sat down and told the stylist to chop it all off – now. I’d had the same hairstyle for over ten years and it was time for a change. It was nothing as drastic as Brittany’s efforts, there was still a bit of length on top, but the sides and back were both shaved pretty close to my head. Julia almost had an apoplectic fit when we met for lunch. Her five minute squealfest could be heard outside the small café and had carried on the wind.
I chose to take this as a good sign.
I waited until my watch showed dead on four thirty before heading to the clinic. The receptionist wasn’t at her desk so I took a seat and picked up one of the magazines that were a pre-requisite for waiting rooms everywhere. I always thought you could tell what kind of establishment you were in just by the magazines left for you to read. Hairdressers it was usually OK or Hello or some other celebrity clap trap, however, the dentist tended more towards the mature audience, maybe Women’s Weekly or Take a Break. Before I could discover what a psychologist left for their patients to read, Emma emerged from her office.
“George, I’m sorry for the wait-” She did this funny double take thing that was very cute. “Your hair? It’s different.”
“Oh,” I ran a hand through my shorn locks. “I fancied a change and what with the weather being so wonderful I decided to go a bit shorter.”
“Its.. its.. You look nice. Great. That style really suits you. Shorter. Much shorter.” She seemed slightly flustered, probably because she was running behind schedule.
“I wasn’t sure what to do when I arrived. Should I have knocked? I haven’t held you up I hope.”
“No, of course not. I feel like I’m chasing my own tail at the moment. I can assure you I do have an assistant, but she had an emergency dentist appointment this afternoon. Please come through, I’m not usually this disorganised.”
I sighed and reluctantly followed Emma through to her torture chamber, I mean her office. Normally I went in like a Star Trek extra (sarcasm at the ready, defence shields on maximum, glaring down the barrel of the psychiatrist’s note book and pencil) but within ten seconds her welcoming smile totally disarmed me. She started by discussing the weather, the state of the nation and the latest terror alert before getting down to the nitty gritty.
“So, George, I try not to gather too much background information about my patients beforehand because I’ve found it can be detrimental. I like to hear things straight from the horse’s mouth as it were. However, I do need to understand how you got here.”
In Kermit, sprang to mind, my sarcasm primed to deflect questions I wasn’t ready for.
She must have seen the look of horror on my face and added, “Sometimes talking about the past can help the present and pave the way to the future.”
“So what, you pick apart my life and blame an unhealthy obsession with marshmallows as the reason I freeze on court?”
Emma laughed. “Not at all. This is a completely organic process and it can be a question of trial and error as to finding the solution. We will get your mind as healthy and as focussed as we can by, hopefully, reducing any negativity you feel about any given situation. Believe it or not, in many cases my clients find that just by getting things off their chest it can free them up enough to solicit some sort of improvement. We’ll also watch recordings of your matches and try to spot any triggers that may cause you to tighten up. I will teach you relaxation techniques-”
“Been there, done that,” I interrupted wearily.
“Not with me you haven’t.” Emma said, and a totally involuntary thought about an unorthodox relaxation technique I’d like to do with her popped into my head.
“Fine, what do you want to know?” I’d contemplated long and hard over the weekend and determined I was going to give these sessions with Emma my all. Not only was I getting sick of losing tennis matches, I was also sick and tired of the all-encompassing grief that dogged me.
“I thought we’d start with something easy. Could you tell me what first drew you to tennis and give me a brief outline of your career to date?” Emma reached out and gently touched my thigh. “Just keep it nice and simple. You can do this, George.”
I swallowed hard. Simple? Nothing in my life was simple.
“It only has to be a short precis,” Emma continued, “you can pre-”
“From the beginning or from the time I started playing again after my break?” I interrupted.
“From the beginning would be most helpful.”
“Okay,” I started hesitantly. “I guess I started playing because both my parents did, but although my mother was quite successful before I was born, it was my Dad who made me fall in love with the game. When I was small we’d spend hours in the garden just messing about batting the ball to each other. My mother only started to take an interest once it turned out I had some talent for the sport. She took over my coaching and that’s when it became more serious.”
“Was that transition difficult?”
“No, at least it wasn’t at the time. I liked the attention, I loved winning and my Dad was so proud. I eventually became the top ranked junior in the country at fifteen.”
“Impressive. You must have worked extremely hard.”
“Yes. I practised for several hours a day.”
“Did that leave much time for anything else?”
“Not really, but that was the year I made the semi-final of two junior grand slams, the U.S open and Wimbledon.” It was a bit depressing to admit I’d peaked at fifteen years of age.
“Even more impressive. What’s your favourite tournament?”
“Oh Wimbledon for sure,” My eyes lit up, but then shuttered twice as quick. “After my ban I lost my… passion I suppose is the best way to describe it. I loved the game but I felt betrayed by it. Silly, because it was all my fault.” I shrugged. “Sometimes it’s hard to stop loving something, even though you know it might not be the best thing for you. Sorry, I’m not sure if I’m making any sense right now.”
“Yes you are, perfect sense. You’re doing great.” Emma smiled warmly. “So the decision to return after your drugs ban was an easy one for you?”
“No, well actually yes. Kind of. It didn’t take long to make, the decision at least.”
“Why was that do you think? What did you miss about the game?”
“Everything. I missed the sound of my heartbeat as I bounced the ball ready to serve at break point down, the ache in my lungs, the crowd cheering… I missed the euphoria at the end of a match, when I’d hit the ball and it would whistle down the line for an ace, or play a drop shot that just crept over the net making it impossible to retrieve.” I took a sip of my water.
“What about people, friends, other players? Did you miss those relationships?”
“
I… I didn’t have many friends on tour, there was a feeling it ruined my edge when I faced them in a match situation. But after the suspension? Yes, yes I missed them. I think it’s hard sometimes for someone who isn’t in that environment to truly understand the emotions you go through on the court. The pressure. The loneliness. The devastation. Some days you feel bipolar, the mix of feelings that scour your body.”
“I see.” Emma scribbled something in the folder. “But you did have a support structure in place?”
“My mu.. coach and my Dad for the most part.” If she noted my hesitation at labelling my mother as anything but my coach, she wisely held back from asking about it. If only my Dad had been there in Australia maybe I wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation.
“That was it, you didn’t have anyone outside your family members you could confide in?”
“Julia, my best friend, but it was hard to keep in touch with different time zones. Oh, and there was Ana, of course.”
“Ana?”
“Ana Kerberov my ex.” I looked at Emma a touch sceptically. Surely she’d heard… the whole bloody world had heard of that particular debacle. Emma simply titled her head and waited for me to continue. “We fell out quite spectacularly at the Australian Open in 2011 just before my ban…
After leaving my mother at the hotel, I wandered the streets of Melbourne. A sharp beep interrupted my melancholy and a small smile lit my face when I saw who the text was from.
Party at Shane’s. Meet u there?
A party was just what I needed to help me forget. After sending a quick reply, I waved down a cab and gave him an address in St Kilda, one of the coastal suburbs of Melbourne. I was taking more and more risks with my career, the more my Mum pushed, the more I pulled. But there was an arrogance born of being almost untouchable. I was going to be the next tennis superstar.
“Why do you think you were doing that?” Emma interrupted the story. “Taking risks I mean?”
“Hmm? I guess part of me wished I’d get caught; I’d given up seeking validation for performing well on the court, I was now seeking attention, any attention, with my off court antics,” I replied honestly and then continued with my tale of lost love.
The muffled sounds of music and laughter oozed into the corridor as I made my way along the inch thick wool carpet. I couldn’t wait to get wasted and spend time with someone who really cared for me.
Several drinks later, I was feeling a lot more mellow and slow dancing with Jenny, the sister of another player. She pulled me into a bathroom, but I resisted the temptation to forget my troubles in the warmth of a beautiful stranger, and instead politely kissed her on the cheek and headed out of the glass doors that dominated one wall of the penthouse. I stood on the balcony staring out over The Esplanade; the view was breath taking, even more so at night.
“Have you ever been to Melbourne, Emma? No? It really is unbelievably beautiful.”
I could hear the waves caressing the St Kilda beach, and the golden lights in the tall thin windows of the Palais Theatre made it seem more in keeping with a cathedral of worship, rather than a cathedral of culture. The quiet of the outside was interrupted when the sliding balcony doors swished open and the sounds of the raucous party punctuated the night. A few seconds later I felt the familiar forearms of Ana wrap around my waist.
“I’m surprised you are here,” her whisper, with a hint of Slavic undertone, tickled my ear, “You have match tomorrow, no? The heat delay, it affected your side of draw?” Anastasia was a Russian player whose physical attributes had the public drooling and sponsors rubbing their hands together with barely supressed glee. I was her occasional doubles partner on the court.
And she was my incredibly closeted partner off it.
I’d been out and proud of it for a couple of years. Even my mother, who to be fair found fault with everything, didn’t care about my sexuality as long as it didn’t interfere with the tennis. Of course there were the usual bigots and cowardly internet trolls who used the anonymity of the world wide web to attack, but on the whole I was treated positively. Ana had a beard, Sergei. He was on the men’s tour and was a little too handsy for my liking and, well, in Melbourne I guess I’d just had enough.
“Georgia?” Anastasia pulled me closer and held me tightly. “What is wrong? You are tight as drum.”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” Another lie. “Yes I have match tomorrow.” Finally a truth. I kept my replies succinct.
“Maybe I know how to help you relax, da?” Anastasia began to kiss my neck.
I smiled at the broken English, it was one of the most endearing things about her. I leant back into the relative safety of her embrace, distracted for a moment by her flawless beauty and undeniable strength. Maybe this was what I needed, maybe for one night I needed to forget who I was, or rather, who I wasn’t. I turned around and pulled her into my arms and kissed her hard. Tonight she was mine and I intended to make the most of our time together. “Let’s go back inside,” I murmured softly.
***
Moaning, I turned over and quickly closed my eyes. The bright Melbourne sun penetrating the thin hotel curtains did nothing to alleviate my huge hangover. This was one morning I missed the dull grey of a good old blighty winter. “You okay?” the husky voice sent a shiver down my spine. It also initiated a series of flashbacks from the previous night. Dancing on tables, licking salt from a certain Russian’s navel, then an uninhibited sexual marathon that only ended a couple of hours earlier.
“I’ve felt better,” I admitted. My mouth felt like the bottom of a budgies cage, and my head felt like the Harlem Globetrotters were using it to give an exhibition of their basketball prowess. I knew that last shot of Patron tequila was a mistake. I’d drunk to forget, to forget my mother’s words, to forget the pain in my heart, to forget the betrayal and despair and for the most part it worked. But it had come with a price.
“You were, how you say it, a different person last night?” Anastasia said with a devilish smile.
I drew my eyebrows forward in confusion. “Hmm?” She pulled down the covers to reveal a pronounced love bite on the top of her breast. “Oh shit, Ana, I’m… I didn’t mean to be so rough.”
“Net. Not rough passionate.”
“Here, let me kiss it better.” I leaned forward.
“Uh, uh,” Anastasia jumped out of bed and shook a finger at me. “You need to get ready and I need to get back to room before coach sends out search party.” She leaned over and kissed me again, before quickly dressing. “I will watch your match and maybe we have dinner in your room?”
“You could watch it from my box, you know … I mean, we’re doubles partners for goodness sake! No one would think anything of it.”
“Georgy-”
I heard the warning tone in Anastasia’s voice but ignored it. “Jesus, Ana, is it too much to ask? I want my girlfriend at the most important match of my career.” I disliked this needy feeling, but couldn’t stop it.
Suddenly it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, Anastasia did not feel the same way I did.
“If you loved me you’d be there! You watched Sergei get annihilated in the first round. What’s he got that I don’t have? Oh right,” I laughed sarcastically,” yeah a dick.”
“Why you say this, George? You know it untrue.”
“Do I? Do I, Ana? You spend more time with him than you do me and every time I see you together he’s got his hands all over you. The only time I get to have my hands on you is in some darkened corner at secret parties, or in a hotel room.” I flumped back on the pillow, my anger quickly dissipating, but my disappointment still ever present. “Just leave will you? I can’t handle these fucking lies anymore.”
I was coming to the rather painful realisation that much of my life was built on lies. My relationship with Anastasia was a lie; my relationship with my father was a lie; my relationship with my mother was possibly the biggest lie of them all. My life was a house of cards that was standing in the path of a force
ten hurricane and there was no eye in the storm to offer respite.
I wiped away the tears that had silently ambushed me. “Surprised?” I asked Emma.
“A little. You loved Ana a great deal?”
“I did. I mean it hurt when it happened, obviously. The photos that showed us in a compromising position were unexpected and Anastasia’s press conference when she denied our relationship was a hoot. It made me seem like some sort of desperate drooling lesbian. Don’t get me wrong, Emma, I understood the need for secrecy; Anastasia’s main sponsors were all Russian conglomerates and the mother state wasn’t exactly renowned for an accepting or tolerant nature regarding its homosexual and transgender comrades.”
“But that didn’t mean it didn’t suck.”
“Yeah it sucked alrighty… my mother came to my rescue, not that I knew it at the time, I thought Ana might have had a change of heart when she issued an apology etc.” I waved it off as if it were no big deal, except it had been. “Said she’d been drunk and couldn’t really remember what had happened… fuck it really hurt, Emma.”
“Are you okay, Georgy?”
“Yeah, sometimes it was difficult, being so… I don’t know… not quite isolated… solitary? Focussed? Friendship… love… it all became lost, I guess… lost in the quest to be the best… to win at all costs… losing was not an option, never an option… not if I wanted an easy life… so I pushed it down, sucked it up… yeah, I became, what’s that expression? About an island or something? I became an island.” I shook myself “I’m sorry but do you mind if we leave it there today, I’m meeting some friends for dinner.” The lie brought a high colour to my cheeks. I planned to drive straight home after the session, I wasn’t in the mood for company, birthday or no birthday.
“Of course, we’ve practically reached our time anyway. Thank you, George, for being so candid. I know that wasn’t easy for you. When do you want to schedule your next appointment?” Emma was flicking through a matching large green book to the one in the front office, and was tapping her small but full lips with the tip of a pen. I looked at her blankly. “You do want to continue?” she asked.
