Love Game - Season 2012 (22 page)

“What do you know about Mint?” the Canadian
suddenly asked.

“Mint?” Elise was surprised. Did Polly hang
out with Mint?

“I don’t know anything about her,” she
answered. “I only know that I don’t like her.”

“Why is that?” Polly inquired.

“She was mean to me,” Elise said quietly.
“I once tried to befriend her and Chili because I knew they were gay and I
really needed someone to talk to about it. But they never took me seriously.
They mocked me until I eventually stopped trying to hang out with them.”

“Oh,” Polly uttered, but she didn’t say
more.

Silently they walked outside and Elise
wondered why Polly had asked about Mint, but when she saw her dad waiting in
front with a cab, she rejoiced. Their last lunch in Paris was waiting and she
knew that her dad would treat them well.

***

Two vessels were floating along the Seine
almost disappearing altogether under the Pont d’Austerlitz, but just before the
stern was about to vanish the ships’ noses slowly snuffled out again.

Gabriella had already watched perhaps ten
ships pass by. She wasn’t counting, even though by now it would have been a
nice way to pass the time. She stopped tapping her foot against the stone wall
and turned around to overlook Place Valhubert. She had miscalculated the time
it took to get from the hotel and had arrived far too early. But a look at her
watch confirmed that now Sasha was late. Well, she could only be late if she
was coming at all, Gabriella thought, screening the cabs that passed her by.
She didn’t even know if Sasha was on her way. The Czech hadn’t answered after
Gabriella had sent her a text message. Perhaps she hadn’t seen it. Or perhaps
she wasn’t interested in coming.

Gabriella pushed herself away from the wall
and stepped to the street curb. She needed to be more visible in case Sasha
drove by.

A day earlier, Gabriella had won her fourth
round match against Stephanie Moeller. A tough win in three sets, but the hard
fight only made victory sweeter. On the middle Sunday Sasha had also won her
fourth round match against Mint Rickenbacher. When the schedule for the first
quarterfinal day came out yesterday evening Gabriella saw, to her
disappointment, that Sasha’s match was scheduled first on Court Philippe
Chatrier, meaning that the Czech had to go to bed early. Gabriella refrained
from booking a room and calling her lover. Instead, she just sent a short
message wishing Sasha luck.

Due to Sasha’s absence Gabriella had spent
the evening dreaming about the Czech – and eventually had come up with the idea
of taking her out for dinner.

She checked her watch again. Five minutes.
That was perfectly normal, Gabriella told herself. Nothing to worry about. The
traffic in Paris was terrible. One got stuck easily. That’s why Gabriella had
planned a little walking tour to the restaurant.

She was just about to type Sasha another
text when a cab stopped with squealing tyres. Out of the back of the car jumped
Sasha Mrachova. Her smile couldn’t have been broader.

“Oh, good. So, you got my text message
then,” Gabriella began, but couldn’t say much more as Sasha was giving her a
big hug, burying the words in the Czech’s red jacket.

“You just saved my day,” she beamed. “Who
wants to mull over bloody London churches when in Paris, right?”

Gabriella didn’t understand a word, but
obviously Sasha was happy and so the American just nodded.

“I thought we could take a walk through the
garden and then have dinner somewhere.”

Sasha was still smiling. But now she cocked
her head a little to the side and watched Gabriella carefully.

“Are you sad you lost yesterday?” she asked.
Gabriella frowned. Luella had folded badly in her fourth round match.
Gabriella’s thoughts were racing. She knew Lulu was still in town. She would
probably stay another two days to enjoy loads and loads of shopping sprees.

“No,” she finally said. “The result is
alright.”

Sasha winked at her. “Perhaps we should cut
down on the nightly activity during Grand Slams. As far as I recall you have a
couple of points to defend in the next.”

Gabriella smiled. In fact, it was her
ungrateful sister who had a lot of points to defend in Wimbledon – thanks to
Gabriella, who had won Luella a Grand Slam. The thought of Luella trying to
reproduce this achievement amused her.

“There’s no way we will cut down on that
activity,” she laughed. “Actually I plan on staying a little longer in Paris
and keeping you company.”

“Would you?” Sasha seemed genuinely touched
by the surprise.

Gabriella nodded. Yes, she wanted to keep
Sasha company. The strange thing was that only now had it occurred to her.

***

Anastasia Stea made her way through the
crowd, unnoticed and unhindered. Typing into her phone and laughing at an
incoming message, she looked harmless. Suspiciously harmless, Ted thought. She
was maneuvering swiftly through the densely packed, viscously moving crowd of
spectators, knowing her way around, and Ted panted while trying to keep up with
her. With every step her pony tail swung from one side to another, and Ted
tried not to lose eye-contact with the blonde pendulum. Soon he would be
hypnotized by the steady movement, Ted feared. But then she turned right off
Allée Suzanne-Lenglen and hurried down a few steps into a little pathway which
surrounded part of the gigantic Court Philippe Chatrier like a moat. Now he
knew where she was going. He didn’t follow her down the stairs. Keeping an eye
on her, Ted walked quickly along the main alley above the trench.

On Court 2 a doubles match was in full
swing. Ted could hear loud cheers, but luckily no spectators were allowed to
leave between points and so Ted was quickly making ground. A little garden area
was located between Court Philippe Chatrier, Court 2 and the Bullring, the
third largest court of Roland Garros, with a kids tennis court, the French
Tennis Federation Museum, and boutiques selling food and souvenirs. Anastasia had
almost passed by the garden when suddenly, like a swarm of hornets, a group of
giddy boys and girls came out of the museum, recognized the umpire and ran
after her.

“Anastasia,” they begged her to stop.
“Anastasia! Can we have a picture with you?”

The chair umpire laughed. It wasn't
uncommon for her to be asked to give a little courtesy here and there and she
was known to always oblige. It looked like she was a wonderful ambassador for
tennis. But Ted had to find out if she really was. He had jumped behind a
flower trough and stopped moving.

Ted and Tom had decided to go one step
further. It wasn’t enough to follow the chair umpire and to document her every
move, which they had been doing since Miami. It had turned out to be much
easier than expected. Every morning they found out when and where Anastasia was
scheduled to umpire a match, which court and which players. Even though they
didn't know how long a match would take, they were able to anticipate her daily
schedule quite well.

Before Anastasia called ‘Game, Set and
Match’ for the last time in a given day, Tom or Ted were there, waiting
courtside for the umpire to leave the tournament site. They had found out that
she almost never took a tournament car but had made it a habit of taking the
subway back to the hotel whenever possible. What they were planning now,
however, was even more daring than simply observing the umpire. In order to
find out whether Anastasia possessed Tom’s pictures or not they had to take a
look at her laptop.

Anastasia was still surrounded by the group
of teenagers. It seemed to Ted that it was taking ages until everyone had their
photo taken. Some kids even had the nerve to ask for a second picture when
they saw that they looked weird in the first one. That happened to him as well.
And you couldn’t say no to fans.

When the last boy had had his photo taken,
Anastasia got ready to say good-bye to the group and Ted straightened up to
follow her. But that was a mistake.

“
Oh la vache!”
one of the girls
exclaimed, pointing in Ted’s direction. “It’s Ted Curry.”

“
Trop bien
,” another cheered.

Anastasia turned around and Ted had to
accept that his secret pursuit had come to an end. The umpire gave him a smile.
They both knew that it was now Ted’s turn to pose for pictures with a horde of pimply
teenagers. He put on his professional smile, ready for the procedure to begin,
but was then surprised to see that Anastasia apparently had made the decision
to wait for him.

When the pandemonium was finished she came
over.

“Tough luck, Ted,” she winked.

Ted chuckled. “No biggie.”

“Are you on your way to the hotel?”

Ted hesitated. Her question seemed like an
indirect invitation to accompany her. Should he accept it? Was that a good
idea? But his surveillance was over for the day. If he said no, he would have
to explain what he was doing at the far end of the tournament site. If he said
yes, at least Ted would have a chance to ask her a few harmless questions.

“Yes,” he smiled. “Want to go together?”
She nodded and they made their way to the Musquetaires exit.

“I always walk to the train station after
work,” Anastasia explained. She gave Ted a side glance. “I saw you on the
Metro
a couple of times. Don’t you take the cabs?”

Ted gulped. “I try to avoid them,” he
stammered. “They play this stupid quick-fire question game in the tournament
cars. I don’t like it.”

Anastasia laughed. “And I thought you were
following me!”

Oh dear, Ted thought, they really had to
get better at their observation skills. But he managed to laugh, too.

“Lynn had the idea that you perhaps had a
crush on me,” Anastasia was still chuckling at the thought. “But you know I’m
gay, right?”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard that.” At least the
umpires didn’t know about
his
relationship with Tom. They assumed he was
straight.

He wondered where this conversation was
going. But they still had a mile to walk to the
Porte d’Auteuil
station
and Ted decided – now that the open-hearted umpire had brought the topic up –
he could at least ask her about her relationship status. For the sake of
politeness.

***

“What a lovely day,” Alice Chevallier
rejoiced. She and Morgana sat down at the small, round table of the street café
in the Quartier Latin.

Alice had spent the whole morning having a
prolonged
petit déjeuner
with old friends and catching up on all the
gossip she had missed while flying around the world. Just when she was saying
good-bye, Morgana had called her and asked Alice to meet her for a coffee.

“I can’t believe we have to leave soon for
rainy England,” Morgana shivered with disgust.

Alice had to grin. Since she had started
working for the WTA a year ago in Luxembourg, her friends at home in Paris had
been teasing her that her job was in reality an everlasting vacation – she was
travelling from one sunny place to another, staying in top-notch hotels. Did it
feel like work? It certainly did, especially after fourteen or fifteen hours.
But sometimes, like today, Alice was able to squeeze in a few hours of
idleness. For Paris she had asked Candice to give her more days off than usual,
and even though the work load during a Grand Slam increased dramatically her
boss had agreed to her request.

“But aren’t you excited to prepare for the
Olympics?” Alice asked. “I know Wimbledon is a Grand Slam and all, but it seems
this year it’s only a preparation for the really important event.”

“True,” Morgana admitted. “Everybody is
getting excited. I just wish I had more time here in Paris.”

“How is your doctoral thesis going?” Alice
asked. She knew that Morgana had chosen the Quartier Latin because she had
visited her professor at the nearby university.

“Good,” Morgana nodded. “There have been
some interesting and important developments in the past weeks.”

Alice put her coffee cup down and leaned
forward.

“I have tapped a source,” Morgana
continued, glancing around to make sure none of the innocent looking patrons
were overhearing their conversation. “Gradually, I’m getting closer to solving
the
Tennis Nurse
mystery.”

“Mystery? You mean the author?”

Morgana sat up, frowning. “I can’t quite
put my finger on it. But there’s more to it than just an anonymous author who
wants to conceal her identity, which is certainly part of that mystery, but not
all of it. I’ve encountered an atmosphere of silence and fear whenever I ask
certain questions.”

“About what?”

“About which players the original
characters in
Tennis Nurse
were modeled after,” Morgana pondered. “It’s
not hard to understand who is who, but when you try to verify any of the
Tennis
Nurse
stories or try to find proof that there exists a connection between
the real players, as described in the books, you’d be better off banging your
head against a brick wall.”