Toni lost to Celeste in the semi-finals and didn’t take it well. I had to leave her stewing in her hurt and anger, taking up my part in the second semi and playing for the chance to meet Celeste. Maybe the worry forced me to be efficient, or maybe Fatima was off her game that day, but I booked my berth in the final as if it had been written in the stars, just waiting for me to show up and fulfil the prophecy. Winning felt like that sometimes, as though forces beyond a simple ball and racquet were at play.
It made for a quiet evening, one where Toni eventually asked to be alone and I was happy to comply. I found my mother in the hotel bar, nursing the one glass of Scotch she allowed herself on a match day, and she motioned for me to join her. For once, we talked in our native tongue, no guests and no Alice around to give us pause.
“How is she?”
“Pissed off with the world,” I replied. “She really thought she was in with a chance, after Madrid. There’s no telling her that this was still a good showing.”
“Hmm.” My mother sipped at her drink. “I didn’t know if she had it in her, but she’s like you. It’s not obvious, but this level of investment will pay off for her. If she can stay fit. I remember how bad her back was; she was supposed to be done for good.”
“Still.” I waved down the waiter and asked for some juice. “It’s one less motivated person in my way. I want to have a good summer.”
“I hope you didn’t say that to her.”
“Of course not. We don’t… My success is not at the expense of hers. And vice versa. I can be happy for her, if I win on Saturday, she’ll be thrilled for me. It’s healthy, Mamma. It’s good.”
She watched me for a long time, considering. “Yes, I think it is. And no ‘if,’ Elin. When. Celeste is strong again this season, but you have the edge. Without her serve here she’s relying on everything else.”
“I know, we’ll go over it all tomorrow. You’ve found me some weak spots?”
My mother nodded. Always ready to help me win. “Since you want to save the tennis for tomorrow, I should probably tell you…your father called. We have a buyer for the house.”
That startled me, just as the waiter brought my juice. I almost spilled it over him in his starched uniform, and the apologies took a minute or two. “That’s really it? Just gone?”
“Yes, and we can sign the divorce papers the same week. It won’t be until after Wimbledon, don’t worry. Are you coming back in July with me?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t want to watch that, sorry. Dividing up our lives, I mean. I know you two are so adjusted, but it’s weird for me. It was weird being home with Pappa and not you, honestly.”
“It’s okay,” my mother assured me. “Here I am, ending the great love story of my life, and it seems yours is just starting.”
I blushed, furiously. My mother didn’t talk about things like love. If asked, I would have said she loved her children, loved her job, and yes, eventually she would have mentioned my father. I’d never seen him as her great love, and I realised in that moment how much children missed. I had taken for granted our safe and welcoming home, no screaming fights or dark clouds hanging over it. Once we started to travel with the tour, that family life had been my oasis, my safe place to land.
I saw in that moment that I hadn’t been picturing that anymore, when I thought about home and peace and contentment. I’d been picturing my own, high in those Hollywood Hills. Completing the picture? Toni at my side. I wanted to ask her to move in with me, even if she kept her own place in Spain.
“Yes,” I finally said, although maybe we’d both forgotten the question by then. I raised my glass in an ironic toast. “To the great loves of our lives.”
My mother clinked her glass against mine. “Be happy, Elin. Two out of three now, yes?”
I nodded.
“One, after this.”
“Then let’s try to make it Wimbledon,” she replied. “You always were at your best on grass.”
Was this really my last French Open? It was still hard to imagine, even as I soaked in the details on the day of the final. I had always loved this event, even just the subtle changes of the umpires speaking only in French, from the silence, s’il vous plaît to saying égalité instead of deuce. Would I miss the red clay stains on my shoes and, more embarrassingly, on my shorts? Most years I avoided that, but I’d had my share of lunging for seemingly impossible returns and even the odd fall.
I got to the locker room early, long before Celeste showed up. I had one little addition to make in my first final played as an openly gay woman. I was no seamstress, but I had brought the handy little sewing kit from my hotel room. I laid out my kit for the match on the bench beside me, my bag packed exactly as I liked it, my skirt and shoes laid out as though ready for the first day of school. I changed quickly into everything but my brand-new T-shirt, already embroidered over the heart with the tournament, the date, and my opponent.
I sat on the bench in my bra and skirt, threading the needle with clumsy fingers. I’d tape them up for the match when I was done, more superstition than for any noticeable difference in my grip. I checked the various sponsor logos and found the perfect spaces I was looking for on each sleeve.
I hadn’t done this since my first Grand Slam final win, the
