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 got 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
