“Your room is always available. You know that.”
She stretched out a hand, tears unaccountably pricking at the corner of her eyes. “Thank you. I do know. But I’m going to look for a small block. Build something airy and light, with a view of the ranges. If you hear of a couple of acres that fit that description, you might let me know.”
“I will.” Her father cut his toast into squares and forked some eggs on top. “It makes my heart glad, Viva, that you still want to live near us.”
Her fork paused in the air. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“You were so young when you left home. And when you came back, you were changed. More worldly. It was inevitable, I suppose, but you were only fourteen and you were travelling the world by yourself.”
“Yeah. Just me and a couple of dozen people from Tennis Australia.”
“You know what I mean. We missed out on your teenage years—”
“The tantrums, the sulks, the angst and dramatics.”
“Except there weren’t many of them, were there? You were so controlled. You went away a mess of nerves and emotion, and you came back with a composure and focus way beyond your years.”
“Meditation. Seriously, try it sometime.”
He ignored her. “Viva, I worry sometimes that you traded your childhood for tennis.”
His words brought up a flickering cinemascope of images: herself, battling through pain and injury, the bone-deep weariness that no child should have to feel. The dormitory-like atmosphere she lived in. Being so self-sufficient so young. She’d missed her parents at first, had hated the noise and bustle of the city after the quiet open spaces of Waggs Pocket. It had been a forced maturity. But weighed against that was the passion that had driven her, the rewards, both material and otherwise, that stemmed from being so good at something she loved. It had defined her life. It had been her life.
And now it was nearly gone.
Her dad regarded her steadily. His breakfast cooled in front of him. “What will replace that passion for you now, Viva? I’m not sure that a quiet life in Waggs Pocket and occasional commentating will be enough for you.”
“What would you wish for me?”
“Something to make your heart sing again. Someone to make your heart sing. A woman to love, who loves you just as deeply.”
“I’ve had girlfriends. But it’s difficult to sustain a relationship on the tour.”
“I know. We’ve met some of them.”
“Please don’t mention Chitra.”
“I wasn’t going to. But since you have, it was obvious she loved you very deeply, in her own way.” He took a mouthful of tea. “I think Chitra gave more to you than you gave back to her.”
“I was at the peak of my career. She only played doubles.”
“Only. That’s exactly what I mean. Chitra may have only played doubles, but those matches were as important to her as any grand slam was to you.”
“What are you saying?”
He took another swallow of tea as if it were liquid courage. “Nothing you can’t already work out for yourself. Just that a lesser amount of skill, of luck, of circumstance, doesn’t make another person’s dreams any less important. A different goal is not a lesser one. Chitra wants to win a doubles grand slam. I hope she does.”
“I wish her luck.”
“I know you do.” His eyes were steady on her face as he said, “I guess I’m saying that supporting another person in their dream can be as rewarding as chasing your own. If it’s the right person. Especially as you’ve realised yours.”
She pondered his words. “I hope I’m not that selfish that I wouldn’t do that for someone.”
“The right someone, Viva. And they have to want it for themselves. Don’t force someone into what you wish for them.”
“You’re a wise man, Dad. What about your dreams? Did you realise them?” With a lurch, she realised she didn’t know. Was her father’s dream a bush pub, a wife, and two grown-up children still hanging around?
“Lindy was always my dream. That and life in a small community. So yes, I’m still living it. You and Jack were the icing on the cake. And Viva, talking of Jack… You know the pub is his baby, don’t you? He jokes around, he’s flippant, but this is his life. I think you can complement it, but I’m asking you not to usurp it.”
“I know. I won’t.”
An outer door banged. “Lindy will be here in a minute.” Her dad stood. “I wish you all the luck in the world in your final season of professional tennis. But remember, Viva, it’s not everything.” He collected their breakfast plates and put them in the dishwasher. “What time are you leaving for Brisbane?”
“Later this morning. I’ll be back with Michi for Christmas, but we’ll be gone again the day after.”
“I understand. I love you, darling. You’ve always been such a pride and joy to us.”
She walked into his wide embrace and laid her head on his shoulder as she used to do as a little girl. “Love you too, Dad.”
Chapter 15
The email still wasn’t perfect. Gabriela flexed her shoulders, stiff from hunching over the keyboard. How many times in a career did an official have to write an email like this? She wished the flippant approach would work: Dear ITF, I’ve been having hot sex with a player. Sorry about that. But it’s all over now. Carry on!
No, this email needed a combination of diplomacy, acknowledgement of her error, apology, and sincere assertion that it would make no difference for the three tournaments that Viva was playing and she was umpiring.
Then she would have to wait and see what difference it made to her career in the long run. And what if Viva did continue playing doubles? What then? Her mind glanced away from that.
The facts. She had to concentrate on the facts, not the emotion. Not on Viva and her long athlete’s body and the way she felt under her hands. Not on how well they ran together, the things they had in common. Not even on her delightfully normal family and the quirky bush community of Waggs Pocket. Certainly not on the noises Viva made in the back of her throat as she came or the wicked look of anticipation on her face as she parted Gabriela’s thighs and moved between.
No. Better to remember that Viva had let her down. Maybe she never had any intention of retiring immediately; she had certainly changed her tune fast enough once big dollars and time in the spotlight were on the table. Whatever the reason, the loser wasn’t Viva with her mega-dollar enticement and promise of a future as a commentator. No, the loser was Gabriela, scrabbling to salvage her career.
She wrote fast, trying to convey the perfect mix of formality and appeal.
The player, Genevieve Jones, assured me she would be retiring as an active player prior to the Brisbane International. However, she has now delayed retirement from the singles tour until after the Australian Open. Our relationship has now ended. I assure you that this previous association will in no way impact upon my commitment to be a fair and impartial official.
She stood, stretched, and paced over to the window. Brisbane buzzed outside the window. Was Viva back in town, or was she still in Waggs Pocket? Was she hitting again? And if so, how was her wrist holding up?
Gabriela had played a couple of sets with Jorgen the other day. He hadn’t mentioned Viva, and neither had she, although the question had burned on her tongue. Gabriela made a coffee in the tiny kitchen and returned to her email. Once it was sent, she would reward herself with a walk along the river, maybe a coffee and a slice of citrus tart in one of the waterfront cafés.
She read the email over a final time. Her finger hovered over Send. She clicked. It was done.
The walls of her tiny apartment closed in, and the memory of Viva was in every corner. It would be Christmas soon. If Viva had gone through with her retirement, maybe they would have spent it together. Maybe at Waggs Pocket in the company of her family. Maybe they would hav
e gone out to dinner in Brisbane, uncaring of who might see them. She would never know what might have been now.
Gabriela grabbed her purse, found her keys, and left, out in the bright sunshine.
“I love this tournament.” Michi bounced along at Viva’s side as the tournament director led them into Brisbane’s Queen Street Mall. “Even the draw is an event. Aussies love tennis, and I love how Aussies love tennis!” She waved at a cluster of teenage girls holding oversized tennis balls and pens in the hope of an autograph. “And thanks to you, Queensland’s golden girl, I get to do part of the draw.”
“Just don’t draw me against Alina in the first round,” Viva said out of the side of her mouth as she, too, waved to the crowd pressing against the barricades.
Angus, the player representing the men’s side of the tournament, grinned. “I did this last year and went up against Roger Federer in the first round. I lost, 6-0, 6-1. Not my finest hour.”
“Or even finest forty-five minutes,” Michi quipped.
They reached the stage and posed for photos with the sponsors and tournament directors. The draw itself took only a few minutes.
“I drew you a qualifier.” Michi grinned at Viva. “You got lucky. She’ll be so tired after playing three qualifying rounds in this heat that you’ll stomp all over her.”
Viva smiled in return, but her thoughts pushed past the draw to the announcement she had to make at the end. Her fingers pressed her wrist in an automatic gesture. It felt fine. The steroids and painkilling injections had worked their magic. She glanced at the journalists and bank of cameras. They had been tipped off for an announcement following the draw, and social media had already speculated as to what it could be. For the most part, the rumours were accurate. Shirley and Deepak waited unobtrusively in the crowd. Once the announcement was made, all three of them were lined up to give interviews for the rest of the day.
Viva sighed. After today, she would be Genevieve Jones: nearly retired tennis professional.
Gabriela waited in the officials’ lounge for her match to start. The preceding match had dragged on to a slow third set. She glanced at the TV monitor showing the progress. 4-3 in the third. Hopefully, it would wrap up soon. The smell of coffee wafted over from the café area, and she thought longingly of a cup. But it didn’t do to drink too much ahead of a match. Toilet breaks were awkward things when you were in the umpire’s chair.
A burst of applause sounded, and she glanced at the screen again. 5-3. Surely now the match would wrap up soon. She stood and stretched.
Arno, one of the other officials, came over, coffee in hand. He pointed to the monitor. “Interminable match. Bet you’re glad you didn’t get that one.”
She nodded. “I hope mine goes quicker. But with two qualifiers playing each other, you just never know.”
“I hear the American youngster, Nicholas Simmons, is tipped to win over the Belgium kid.” Arno set down his cup and reached for the sugar packets. “But watch Nicholas. He’s at the uppity stage where he thinks he knows it all. Likes to argue line calls, and there’s no Hawk-Eye on the outside courts here.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. I will be extra vigilant.”
“You always are.” Arno grinned. He tilted his head towards the screen. “Match point. You could be up now.”
She turned in time to see an ace fly down the T. “Looks like I am. See you around, Arno.”
“I hope your match is quick. I’m after you on that court.” He paused, and his gaze flickered her way quizzically. “I was a little surprised that you got the two qualifiers and I got the seeded players’ match. I’m still only bronze badge—I would have thought it would be the other way around.”
“Maybe they think it’s time you had some better matches.” She bent to pick up her bag and water bottle. “Don’t overthink it. Just enjoy the experience.”
She strode off before he could reply. So other officials had noticed the matches she had been given too. Qualifiers and unseeded players for the first round and nothing past the quarterfinals. It was hard to maintain a nonchalant attitude when she was seething inside. Damn Viva and her selfishness. Damn her for her naive assumption that it would all be corrected with one apologetic email. She wasn’t the one being penalised for this.
There had been no official reply to her email; there didn’t need to be. The matches allocated to her said it all.
“I give you Queensland’s own Genevieve Jones, ladies and gentlemen.” The commentator led the applause as Viva made her way to the centre of the court for the post-match chat.
“Congratulations, Viva. I thought Ellen was going to take you to a third set for a while there, but you came through. A tough match for your opening round here in Brisbane.” The commentator directed the mic towards her.
“Thanks, Andrew. Yes, it was a tough start. Ellen is always a tricky opponent, and she played well today. I think we’ll be seeing more of her in the future.”
“How did your wrist hold up?”
“Good. No problems there. I’ll be ready for Paige in a couple of days.”
“Paige will be a difficult one for you.” Andrew turned so that the camera caught his best angle.
“Yes, she’s beaten me the last couple of times, but I’m ready for her. I’m looking forward to it.” She smiled and shifted her racquet bag to the other shoulder.
“I’ll let you go now. Genevieve Jones, ladies and gentlemen.”
Viva lifted her hand in acknowledgement and headed for the exit, giving a particular wave to the group from the Stockyard Social Club. She paused to sign a few autographs, then left centre court.
One down. Who knew how many to go.
Once she’d showered and the post-match press conference was completed, she met Deepak as arranged in the players’ lounge.
“That was harder than it should have been, despite what you told Andrew,” he said. “Ellen was metres behind the baseline. You should have sent more serves wide to take advantage of that.”
She nodded and took a sip of her sports drink.
“Remember that when you play Paige. She doesn’t have good movement. She’s also carrying a bit of extra weight after the break and has dropped a bit of fitness. You make her run in this humidity, and she’ll feel it.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s time for our stroll around the outside courts for the TV crew. The Aussie kid, Kimberley, is fighting hard on an outside court. She’ll probably go down, but if you can talk her up, Tennis Australia will like that. And Michi is a set and a break up. We’ll go there first so you can cheer her on.”
Viva nodded, and with the camera trailing behind, they set off on their walk.
Michi’s match finished as they got there with Michi as the victor, and Viva applauded loudly. “Glad you didn’t wear yourself out for our doubles tomorrow,” she called, and got a grin and thumbs-up in response.
The courtside crowds started to disperse, and the next court over came into view. Two men slogged it out in the full sun.
“15-0.”
The accented tones came clearly to her, and her step hitched. The catch in her chest caught her unawares.
Gabriela’s neat figure perched on the umpire’s chair as she made a note on the scoring tablet. Her short cap of hair shone like burnished mahogany in the bright light.
Cameras forgotten, Viva stopped, her gaze drinking in the neat blue polo shirt and green shorts of Gabriela’s umpire’s uniform. Gabriela was intent on the match as she waited for the server.
Beside her, Deepak cleared his throat discreetly. “Two qualifiers. I think we’ll be seeing more of Nicholas Simmons in the future.”
She stared at him, grateful for his comments. She had no idea who the two players were. The twinkle in Deepak’s eye said that he was aware of her distraction, as well as the likely reason for it.
“Nicholas trains at DeSantis Academy in Florida,” he con
tinued.
“An excellent place,” she responded. “Many top players have come from there.”
He nodded and led the way to where young Kimberley was fighting to stay in her match.
Viva focussed again on the job. It was inevitable she would see Gabriela here. She would have to get used to seeing the woman who had taken such a hold of her life in such a short time. She would have to learn not to let her interest show. For Gabriela’s sake.
“No!” Michi’s shout of dismay echoed as her return went long. On the other side of the court, their opponents whooped and hugged.
Viva turned to Michi. “It happens.” She hugged Michi around her shoulders, pretending to bounce her racquet off Michi’s pink head.
Together they walked to the net and exchanged brief hugs and congratulations with their opponents.
It wasn’t a bad loss; she and Michi had fallen easily into their partnership once more but were outplayed by their second-ranked opponents.
“Keep smiling,” Michi muttered, as they packed their sports bags. “There are about a bazillion cameras focussed on you.”
“This month yes; next month, I’m history.” She straightened and waved to the crowd, and she and Michi exited.
The corridors surrounding centre court were busy with players, officials, and event management staff going about their business.
“I need water, a shower, and food in that order.” Michi grimaced and glanced down at her damp top, pulling it away from her skin. With her head down, she nearly walked straight into a player coming the other direction.
Viva grabbed Michi’s arm and pulled her to one side as Alina swept past. She wore a jacket, even though the day was hot, and her customary headphones. She didn’t acknowledge them.
Michi watched her pass. “There goes the next Australian Open champion, if the word on the street is correct.”
“Since when have you listened to the word on the street? Besides, according to the Aussie press, I’m the next Aussie Open champion.”
Code of Conduct Page 15
