by Lola Keeley
“Elin.” He looked up at me, peering over his reading glasses. “Or should I say Askungen, home before midnight again. Did your car turn into a pumpkin yet?”
My father had grown up in the States and spent most of his career as a diplomat until my tennis career began to blossom. We settled in Sweden then, in my mother’s home city of Stockholm, and I began to train under the system that had produced greats like Bjorn Borg. It always made me smile that he spoke Swedish with a faintly American accent. The way he had just said Cinderella, for example, sounded uniquely like him, and I would always know his voice anywhere.
“I don’t know when Mamma will make an appearance,” I confessed. “She was having a lot of fun. You didn’t want to go?”
“Not in my penguin suit, no,” he huffed. The only one who liked getting dressed up even less than I did. “You know you have the BBC tomorrow? She was worried about that before she left.”
I nodded. Another interview. Great. I’d have to think up some other not very interesting things to say about myself. “Yeah, and then straight to the airport. I’m looking forward to a quiet few days.”
Unlike some places, there would be no great fanfare when I returned to Stockholm. At first there had been parades, or requests for them, but that was more common for players who come from small towns. Add in the Swedish need to be unassuming and never, ever to brag, and it made the perfect destination for an introvert like me. A few days in the family home, surrounded by familiar faces. I’d even have some of the salty liquorice that so horrified my foreign friends, just for the nostalgia of it all.
“You shouldn’t forget to enjoy yourself, Elin.” My father set his book aside and came across the room to give me one of his rare hugs. I think I must have looked like I needed it. “All this playing and winning… It’s not supposed to be a burden. Plenty of people would kill for this life of yours. But I just want to see my girl happy.”
He looked more exhausted than I did. Back when I’d started out, my father had been just as involved in my coaching. Driving me to tournaments, making sure I kept up with my studies once I went on the road for good. He didn’t miss a match for five years, easily, but then the rigours of always being on tour caught up with him. It meant I only saw him for the last few days of the Grand Slam tournaments and in the rare vacation spells.
“I’m happy, Pappa,” I promised him. “But if I see a chance to get even happier, I’ll take it.”
“Good. Well, get off to bed if that’s what you came home early for.”
“Goodnight,” I said, and I’m not ashamed to say I almost jogged all the way to the privacy of my bedroom.
I knew he was worried about me, the way everyone had been lately at some point or another. I always hoped keeping my feelings to myself would stop people from doing that, but eventually they had to poke and prod. I knew that was a sure sign I hadn’t spoken to my therapist in too long, but I found I hated the video-call sessions on the road. I could never be sure if she was bored with me or if the screen had just frozen. Despite the known issues we’d been dealing with for years, what was she really going to do to help me? There was no cure for not feeling able to appreciate how lucky I was.
By the time I was ready for bed, face stripped of make-up and my hair brushed down from the contortions it had been through, the house had settled into quiet again. I dimly heard a car idling outside, the door downstairs. No doubt my mother coming home, followed by a muffled conversation. Too loud, but not loud enough for me to make out the words.
All I knew when I got down to breakfast in the morning was that my father had gone. I felt his absence like a hole in the wall, letting in a breeze that made the whole room uncomfortable.
“Did Pappa have an earlier flight?” I asked. How could he, when we were chartered on a jet for the short trip? It beat the pants off flying commercial, and it was one indulgence I jumped at every time it made sense.
My mother looked up from her coffee, ignoring the stack of newspapers that had been gathered as usual.
“No. He won’t be joining us in Stockholm.” Her Swedish was flat as she delivered the news, devoid of its usual comforting lilt. “Or anywhere, for a while.”
“Mamma?”
“We’re getting a divorce,” she announced, picking up the nearest newspaper and opening it with a sharp flick. Clearly she considered that news to be the end of the subject. Another day I might have argued, called my father or just volleyed questions until my mother cracked and told me more. Instead, I just picked up a banana and methodically sliced it into my bowl of cereal.
The words would come; explanations, arguments. They always did. I ate in silence, considering how my father had most likely known last night, that his uncharacteristic hug had been a good-bye of sorts. I was sure I would still see him, but divorcing my mother seemed to carry an undertone of being done with tennis.
Which, by extension, meant me. Thirty-two years old and suddenly the child of divorce. I couldn’t picture that reality, somehow. Already it just seemed as though my father was simply not on this part of the tour, waiting at home somewhere until our paths next crossed.
Slowly the house refilled with activity, everyone finishing their packing duties and leaving according to their schedules. Some would have time off before the next tournament, others would have other clients and other obligations to tend to in the off time.
When we were down to just my mother and me, I reached across the breakfast island and squeezed her hand. For a moment, I thought she was going to pull it away, but instead she let it rest there.
“Elin,” she said, with a watery smile. “The important thing, the one fact we both still agree on is that—”
“Nothing distracts me from tennis,” I finished. We’d been saying those words as a family for over twenty years. “I won’t let it, but if you need some time off, Mamma—”
“Oh, shush.” She dismissed the very idea. “If anything, I’ll have more time and energy to focus on you. Won’t that be nice?”
“Absolut,” I answered, letting go of her hand. “Let’s get ready for the last of the press, okay?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I had a lot of respect for the BBC. Their coverage of tennis had always been thoughtful and professional, and they were absolutely the first point of contact during the two weeks of Wimbledon, no matter where you came from. Those soothing British tones could tell the whole story, from hushed tension to the explosion of a match-winning shot.
They had the sensible policy of choosing all their tennis pundits from the pool of former players that grew every year. Any British ones who had ever made even a tiny splash were front of the line, followed by the biggest names who hadn’t gone into coaching. Former champions, from the most decorated to the one-time winners with big personalities: It was really pleasant not to lose those people from the game. Familiar faces at tournaments made the constant travel and change less of a grind.
There was just one exception. When I won my first Grand Slam, fourteen years ago as a precocious teenager with overly straightened hair, it was something of an upset. I hadn’t even made the Swedish Olympic team for Athens, but a good couple of months and a lucky draw got me off to a good start in New York. I rode that luck, with top seeds being off their game or recovering from injury, all the way to a shock berth in the final.
Where my luck seemed to have run out. I was drawn against the World Number One, the top seed, who had already won two of the four slams that year. I was a blip on her radar, a formality before another coronation. At least, according to the press. As the darling of the Global Tennis Association and as a competitor, Mira Sobotka had been too classy to dismiss me outright, but she hadn’t brought the big guns when she played me either.
The crowd had gone wild for the scrappy newcomer, and I was all legs and quiet attitude back then, so it was like they’d just adopted a puppy. One with a suspect backhand who somehow g
ot away with it over three sets.
They always loved it when a dramatic shot clinched the championship, and my dive along the baseline to make a seemingly impossible return, landing hard only to look up and see I’d won the decisive point as the crowd went nuts. I’d rolled over onto my back and looked to the skies in disbelief and sheer joy.
That was the moment the commentator had announced, “The Queen is dead; long live the Queen!”
It was a little over the top. Well, a lot over the top, really. It was one of those clips destined to make it in every montage for the rest of my career. It would probably be projected on my tombstone.
I mean, I’d just won my first slam; there was no guarantee I’d ever win another. Mira had won the US Open three times already. Before me, she was on track to beat the same GTA record of twenty-two slams that my whole career had been built around smashing.
So although we kept a professional civility, it seemed from that point on that she had never quite forgiven me. That US Open was the closest she came, and she retired two years later on fifteen slams. Commentary had been her next step, and they just loved her at the BBC, since she’d been one of the greatest grass court players ever to grace Wimbledon. When she spoke about what it took to win there, everyone knew it was with absolute authority.
We met on the soundstage, comfortable chairs and favourable lighting set up for what Mira called her “intimate chat with a champion.” I understood Jürgen would be in later for his turn in the spotlight. The handshake was brief, and until the cameras started rolling, Mira and I didn’t exchange a word.
I always did these post-championship interviews in street clothes, something simple but classy from one of the designers that Parisa liked or was angling to get me some promotional work from. The black silk blouse felt like it had been sculpted specifically for me, and the smart white trousers to go with it felt as comfortable as my running gear to wear. With my hair down and make-up on, I felt a little more self-conscious, and I caught myself more than once playing with the pretty pendant necklace that sat perfectly in the vee of where my blouse was undone, “Just enough to tantalise,” as Parisa said.
Mira, for her part, kept her hair short these days. It had been a precise pixie cut last time I’d seen her, but now she’d settled back into her familiar short bob. The hair that had once been coppery red had faded to the kind of silver that hairdressers could never replicate, one of those timeless looks that made ageing look not so bad after all. In her dark-green pencil skirt and pale sleeveless top, it was clear she’d kept in shape since giving up the game professionally. I knew she still played on the exhibition tours and for charity now and then, but I suspected it was her famous self-discipline at work.
“So,” she began, glancing at the notes on her lap. Always meticulous, always prepared. “Elin Larsson, Wimbledon Champion. We’ve all heard those words many times before. There’s a reason they call you ‘the Volvo of tennis,’ isn’t there? Reliable, a safe bet. But tell us, how does it feel as to have come so close to losing, only to somehow win again?”
I kept my best professional smile firmly in place and tried not to answer through gritted teeth. Another hour of this and I could wash the heavy makeup from my face, get in the waiting car, and finally escape to the airport. I took a deep breath and began to respond.
“Well, Mira, you saw how Celeste gave me such a great match.”
The biggest relief of finally making it to Los Angeles wasn’t just that I got to spend a few weeks in the place I considered home, but that I arrived there alone, to a completely empty house.
My mother had stayed behind in Stockholm to deal with the divorce proceedings, and I was glad to be out of the house, which felt strangely empty without my father’s presence. I had called him a few times, but each conversation had been brief, even by our standards.
The house echoed on my arrival, and once the driver had set my bags down for me in the foyer, I wandered around like a visitor for a few minutes. The fridge was stocked, the fruit bowls filled, and despite the fact that I’d been away for weeks, there wasn’t a speck of dust or a thing out of place.
Sometimes I forgot how well looked after I was. Some would call it spoiled, though maybe not to my face.
Grabbing my personal bag from the stack by the door, I jogged upstairs to my bedroom. Now that, sadly, was even less disturbed than the other rooms. The lack of action practically announced itself in the crispness of the sheets and the stillness of the air. Rather than let my own furniture silently mock me, I went to wash off my lingering bad mood in the shower.
I’ve never understood people who can spend hours in the bathroom. Maybe it’s because I usually showered two or three times a day, my one-woman quest to ruin the environment, but a necessary evil when your whole day is spent working up a sweat. It might have been nice one day to stand under the spray and zone out, sing whatever I’d heard on the radio that morning, but as soon as I was squeaky-clean, I jumped right out of there.
Just before I sank completely into a depressive funk, my phone rang to save me from myself.
“I need a really big plate for my dinner party Friday,” said a familiar voice. “Gold, ideally. Know anyone who has one of those?”
“How many times do I have to tell you that we don’t keep the trophy, huh? You’d know that if you ever watched my matches.”
“Oh, I plan on blagging some tickets for… Is it next month? I know I want to come to New York, anyway. Glad to be home, big sis?”
Alice did like to come with me for the US Open, even if the very thought of tennis bored her into a coma and always had. With five years between us, I had just about picked up my first junior racquet when she came along. Between hitting balls against the garage wall and a screaming baby, there was no contest when it came to my attention.
She always said it was just as well. Those first few years, she wasn’t interested in tennis or any of my athletic activities. Quite by mistake, my parents had announced that they were raising a son, my little brother. As soon as Alice learned to talk and dress herself, we were well on our way to finding out we had been wrong about that. It would be nice to say that the world had always been so easy, accepting Alice for who she really was and is, but that wasn’t my story to tell.
All I knew was that I loved my sister, now a fancy sculptor and artist in her own right, and we frequently drove each other nuts. She would housesit for me sometimes but had bought her own place in Silverlake. Close enough to drop by, far enough that we could pretend not to live in the same city when it was convenient.
“Please tell me you have fun dinner plans you’re going to drag me along to?” I answered. “Because this big empty house is bumming me out.” Unlike with my parents, we never slipped into our native tongue with each other. Alice had found her home in America even before I had and defaulted to English whether I wanted to or not.
“I don’t have plans, yet. Can we go somewhere that isn’t the smoothie bar at a gym?”
“I don’t want to see a gym this week,” I half-lied. I’d be working out and training at home, so that didn’t count. “So it’s all up to you.”
“I always said I should have absolute power,” Alice fired right back. “Okay, let me clean up and I’ll come get you. Or did you want to drive?”
“That sounds good, actually.” I did spend most of my life being driven around, since tournaments usually supplied cars and drivers. “Is that your way of telling me you want to go out in the convertible?”
“Well, if you’ve bought something else boring, I don’t want to know about it. Pick me up at seven?”
“Got it.”
I smiled as I hung up the phone. Real food, fun company. Someone who would understand the weirdness of our parents divorcing—oh God, had they even told her yet?—and mock me for my new crush. If I told her about that, anyway.
After opening the closet, I took my time picking out
something that wasn’t made for playing sport in.
On a perfectly sunny LA evening, I switched off the engine outside my sister’s house. Knowing her as I did, I knew there was no point in idling. Sure enough, it took almost ten minutes for her to appear. As soon as she slipped into the passenger seat, I teased her for wearing exactly the same sunglasses as I had picked out.
“Well, we have the same shaped face,” she pointed out. “I see you’re striving for butch points tonight, Elin.”
While she’d gone with a pale blue summer dress, I’d opted for a grey linen pantsuit with a simple camisole under it. I had my hair down, partly because it was a relief not to tie it back and because a little part of my brain was always trying to be a bit less recognisable when out on the town. It helped that by Hollywood standards I was very minor news.
“Where to?”
Alice punched in a destination on the SatNav, and we headed off down the hill.
“So…elephant in the car time?” I began, enjoying the breeze through my hair from the motion of the car. “Did they tell you?”
“That the great house of Larsson will split?” she announced in her best Game of Thrones intro voice. “Yeah, Mamma filled me in on a video call. Most of which she spent arguing about some hotel booking for Cincinnati for you.”
“And that doesn’t upset you? You have no strong feelings? You’re twenty-seven and suddenly your parents don’t want to be together anymore?”
“Oh dear, here comes the Ibsen drama about Elin’s existence,” she started to mock. “What do you care? Wouldn’t you rather they just be happy?”
“I… Well, yes, but…”
“Eloquent,” Alice summarised. “Sounds like one of your press conferences. Congrats, though, on the win. She was very proud.”
“The novelty really never wears off for her.”
“Like it has for you, you mean?” Alice always could see right through me. “Oh, ignore the machine. Take a right up here. Mamma also said you’d been misbehaving in London. Going for drinks like an actual adult with free will.”
