Turned out I wouldn’t get to know, because the door closed behind me and she simply waved from the pavement.
“Where to, love?” the driver asked.
“Bathgate Road, please. SW19.” I hoped that by not saying the W word he wouldn’t make the association. But there it was: the flickering glance back to the rear-view mirror as we pulled into traffic.
“Wimbledon?” he said, and I nodded without making eye contact. “Here, has anyone ever told you that you look a bit like—”
“I get it all the time,” I said, faking a laugh. “That would be nice, huh?”
He accepted the denial at face value; people always do. It’s easier to accept that the unlikely isn’t really happening. “Would be nice to have her money, that’s for sure.”
I rested my head against the inside of the cab, feeling the vibration of the tyres against the road rattling through my head, that strange tickling that seemed to go through my teeth. Traffic was slow as drunken revellers spilled into the street and buses competed with other taxis for places to stop. Soon, though, we were heading for the river and quieter roads.
When the orange lights started to blur, I let my eyes close for the rest of the journey. I hoped it would prevent any conversation, the awkward questions that I never knew how to answer. London sped by outside, but I didn’t see any of it.
Chapter Three
I always woke up far too early on the day of a final, though these days it was just force of habit. Years ago it had been pure nerves; often I’d hardly been able to sleep at all. I’d been a jittery, jumpy wreck of a girl, barely able to hold my racquet right or answer a simple question.
That soon went, with practice. The regular, manageable amount of anxiety still fizzled and crackled in my veins, but I had learned how to seem completely cool on the outside, to seem like a major final was just any other three sets of tennis.
Sitting around the house all morning to quietly worry was not an option, especially once the interns had started packing up all the extra stuff I hadn’t even asked for. Some would head to my home in Los Angeles, more still to my family home in Stockholm, but the staff would get their share too. Who else would do these crazy jobs with long hours and so much travel if they weren’t getting some perks? All the sportswear, cool gadgets, and keychains a person could ask for.
The permanent staff I knew well by now. Most of them had been with “Team Larsson,” as my mother infuriatingly called it, for more than five years. Some had come fresh from university, while others had been hanging in there for a professional tennis break that never came. They made my life pretty seamless, and most importantly, these people were my travelling family most of the year. We laughed, argued, played stupid games—anything to pass the time in a new country every other week. They made it fun to be in the gym or on court every day.
“When’s the car?” I asked Parisa when she appeared bearing a smoothie and a bottle of water. Looking chic as ever in her tailored cream-coloured dress and fitted navy blazer, she had her glossy dark hair down in loose waves for a change instead of the professional buns and twists I was used to.
I was dressed for the day ahead too, only in my case that meant a pair of crisp white shorts and a matching white T-shirt, temporarily covered by what the kit maker called a ‘presentation’ jacket, but really it was just a tracksuit top with a few more splashes of colour. Only my shoes were waiting to be put on, from force of habit and maybe a little bit of superstition: I preferred to wear slider sandals until I got to the court area. Tennis shoes went on only in the locker room, along with my actual match kit. That was just a replica of my current shorts and shirt, but with the date and our names embroidered on the chest. I was honestly just glad I didn’t have to do my own laundry with the amount I must have generated.
“Morning to you too, party animal. You know Britta is lying in wait to murder you for that, yes?”
Parisa’s accent still carried a strong current of her native Pakistan, and her darker skin next to mine as she handed over my necessary drinks made my year-round tan seem to fade in an instant.
“Oh, let her. I went out for one drink, and I’m all ready to go today. It’s not like I make a habit of it.”
“Apparently there was some social-media buzz about you, from people on the street. Nobody got a clear enough shot, though, so you got lucky.”
“If either of the men playing their final tomorrow went out tonight it would be ‘look, he’s just being a guy,’” I complained. “I don’t mind people judging, but I mind when it’s really about controlling what the little ladies are doing.”
Parisa rolled her eyes and made no attempt to hide that was exactly what she was doing. “Lots of good luck messages and gifts coming in. You want to look before we go?”
I shook my head. Did I ever? It wasn’t that I was ungrateful—quite the opposite. I just didn’t like to weigh the whole day down in the expectations of others. A final should be nerve-wracking enough on its own, surely?
“You’re going to make me do social media from the grounds, aren’t you?”
“It’s nice that you’ve stopped fighting it. Most people will never get to experience this, so you’re shining a light on the sacred—”
I held my hand up to stop her. Parisa could wax poetic
