Which is to say, I did it really well. Just like I return serves really well. Because that recognisable face I mentioned? Might have something to do with the whole professional tennis player thing. Not that I bought into it, but London during Wimbledon fortnight was tuned into the world of racquets and balls in a particular way, making my trip out on the town particularly risky, since my goal was not to be noticed.
Still, I liked my odds. A city of eight million people, the blurring effects of alcohol, and the fact that nobody in their right mind would expect me to be out on the town the night before playing in the Ladies’ Singles final.
The main event on the second-last day of the tournament, the final was one of the crown jewels of two weeks of tennis mania tucked into the Southwest corner of the city. A person, particularly an elite athlete with an impressive career behind her, would have to be in an especially strange mood to do something so foolish the night before such a major event.
Well, hello. I’m Elin Larsson and apparently I’m a fool.
It didn’t take long for my entourage, by which I mostly meant my coach, Britta, to notice my absence. Instead of hotels, which weren’t plentiful close to the Wimbledon courts, we rented huge luxurious houses for two weeks every year that I played this tournament. All the other players had been doing the same in recent years, preferring the illusion of home comforts over sterile, identikit hotel rooms. Which meant it hadn’t taken Britta very long to discover I wasn’t in fact having an early night with a face mask and some meditation exercises. At least in a hotel, my door would have locked.
Did I mention that Britta—for all her coaching awards, not to mention the books and videos—was also my mother? Some would say that job came first, but I also wouldn’t have been shocked if she had drills for my backhand worked out while I was still in the womb. I just knew better than to ask questions like that anymore.
Anyway, there I was in the blissful semi-anonymity of being out in public and ignoring the messages lighting up my phone, when a tall brunette took the last empty barstool, the one next to mine. I suppose I could have ignored her, but hey, only human. I took a long, careful look at her in profile, and I felt that half-click of recognition as I looked at her face. Maybe she was someone famous too.
And in a very cool, composed sort of way, I choked on the olive from my martini.
I really was having just the one drink to relax me a little. I planned to stick to sparkling water the rest of the night, a drink so bland and pointless that it felt more like a punishment than anything else. I envied the people around me ordering doubles, or cocktails full of different spirits and a ton of sugar. Even the guy yelling about his rum and Coke had me idly wondering when the last time I’d casually ordered a soft drink was.
During all that, she caught me staring, of course. Or maybe the choking caught her attention, but I was grateful for the thump between my shoulder blades all the same.
“Thank you,” I managed to gasp, and her concerned look gave way to a tight smile. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Well, I think you just ruined martinis for me.”
“Sorry.”
“Just stay away from the nicer Scotches if you’re planning to choke again. Those I would really miss.”
Her accent was soft, wrapped around her consonants like syrup. I couldn’t claim to know where it came from, though I’d have guessed Italy with a gun to my head.
“Then at least let me buy you one of those for saving my life. Or more like my dignity, I suppose.”
“True, it wasn’t very dignified.” She flagged down the bartender. “I’ll take your most expensive single malt. She’s paying.”
“Make it a double,” I added, because I was not about to be outdone. “And a sparkling water for me.”
“Scared yourself with the martinis too?” she asked, turning more towards me. There really was something familiar about her face.
“I’m not a big drinker,” was answer enough. “I’m Elin, by the way.” Offering a hand was awkward and a little hopeless, but she shook it anyway. It made that smile of hers a little bigger.
“So formal. Antonia, but please, everyone calls me Toni.”
Something pinged at that too. A memory half-forgotten, itching at the back of my skull just to irritate me. Did she work for the All England club? Maybe one of the sponsors? They were all in town, having a great time on expenses. These past two weeks I had shaken more hands than ever, posed for more selfies than anyone could ever want to see. I signed giant novelty tennis balls on court and tried to show up for any charities that invited me, matches and training permitting.
“Have we met?” I’d learned over the years not to prolong the agony. Once, I’d have tried to hang in there and pick up a few clues, but if I didn’t get it from a first name then I knew the blank was never going to fill itself.
“Just once, in Paris. I don’t expect you’d remember, though.”
“Sorry, I’m bad with faces. Even worse with names.”
Our drinks came, and she took a large sip of her drink. “Not bad.”
I didn’t know one end of a whisky from another, but I knew when I was being teased. “So, Toni…”
She was saving me from myself by interrupting. “Listen, I was going to string it out a little longer, not let you know that I know who you are. I even had this whole joke about how they call you the Ice Princess and the ice in my drink…but you should know that the guy at the end of the bar is a gossip columnist for a
