Game of Love (22 page)

“The trouble with the rat race is that even if you win you’re still a rat.”
~Lily Tomlin

>s soon as the plane lifted off, Gemma popped sleeping pills, reclined her seat flat, and snoozed on the makeshift bed. A seasoned traveler.

When she awoke, she was groggy, her head heavy and her mouth dry. She dragged herself to the restroom and washed her face. Inches away from the mirror, she analyzed her eyes–the crystal blue eyes that had hooked Andre.

My mother’s eyes
. A mother she had never met.

She collapsed on her seat and sighed. She missed Andre. For that, she hated him. How had he, in such a brief period of time, hooked his talons so deep? She could not dwell on that. Not now.

When she landed at Heathrow, the press, paparazzi, and fans waited for her. How the hell did they always know? Where was her team? She took a tentative step forward.

The overlapping questions and cheers were like simultaneous slaps. Did they honestly think she could understand a word they said?

Just then, a diaper was shoved into her chest.

“Can you sign this? It’s clean!”

She let it drop to the floor and kept walking.

“Bitch!” someone said. There was no winning this game.

She reconsidered her earlier thought. No, the paparazzi did not always know where she was. While in LA with Andre, no one had found her. She was shielded from the madness.

The crowd of people suddenly flew apart as her security detail fought their way to her.

“Sorry, ma’am,” her lead said.

She was practically lifted off her feet until her car appeared in front of her. As she slid in, her mobile chimed. A text message from Bedric. She braced herself.

“
Dearest Gemma, we must speak.
”

Each word spoke volumes. He was not happy. She would have to call him. Later, definitely later.

She was taken to her Chelsea home, although the word “home” may have been an understatement. Like her place in Malibu, this mansion was built for a family of twenty. Maybe one day she’d visit all the rooms.

When she had purchased it less than a year ago, she knew she had made the big time. Chelsea was where the who’s-who in London lived–from Russian oil tycoons to rock legends. And now she lived in a place that could be confused with an empty hotel.

She stepped in and was greeted by a lavish arrangement of flowers. She read the card. “
Looking forward to tonight - Johnny
.”

She crumpled the note. She didn’t want to see him, be with him, or talk to him. Why had she agreed to this plan?

She never should have gotten involved with him. At the time, the thought that someone as famous as Johnny would have been interested in her was flattering. Maybe she had been a little starstruck. Johnny was named one of the sexiest men alive, the most eligible bachelor, and his last three movies had been undisputed blockbusters.

She had been a blind child, yet again.

As was typical with most high-profile relationships, they had tried to keep things private. Also like with most high-profile relationships, rumors spread. With rumors came more paparazzi. They both had done a good job of calling their relationship, “a friendship.” But the press never bought it.

As for the other problem, she should have recognized the symptoms earlier in the relationship. Instead, when she kissed him and smelled alcohol on his breath, she pretended the smell and taste didn’t raise bile to her throat. Alcohol and Gemma did not mix. Never had.

Then Australia happened.

He had rented a private home. It should have been safe. But the pictures of her in a bikini, lip-locked with him in the hot tub proved nothing and nowhere was safe. The next day, the paparazzi barraged them.

She could still remember the smell of the burning tires. The song that played on the radio. The fast corners. The yelling and screaming. The accident. The bleeding.

He had overreacted. He had been drunk. Again.

The next evening, Sonia trounced her.

Minutes after the loss, she broke it off.

They had agreed to tell everyone they were still friends. Days later, word spread she had been dumped. Then the rumors evolved. She was accused of cheating on him. Although Johnny swore he had not been behind the rumors, she never trusted him again.

“Keep on making appearances together,” Wesley had advised. “Keep the friends thing going and the press will eventually back off. No drama, no interest.”

That had been months ago, and the ‘
Triton Warrior’
premiere was the planned fixer event, to prove the existence of a friendship. Of course, Johnny was still interested in her and Wesley loved the idea. “It’s a match made in heaven. The publicity you two can generate will be unimaginable.”

That was the first time she had come close to punching Wesley. It would not be the last. She knew what Wesley wanted. He represented both of them and was always ready to find cross-promotional opportunities.

None of that mattered now, because they were done.

Her shoulders ached. A solid workout would do her good. She would stretch her limbs, get the blood flowing, and prepare for the circus that would be the main event of the night.

When she entered her home gym, she stopped cold. On the floor, a few hundred new tennis balls awaited her. Next to them, a table, a chair, and black markers. Was she supposed to autograph these?

She pressed the intercom bottom. “Who placed the tennis balls in my gym?”

“Wesley had them delivered yesterday.”

“I want them removed.”

“Very well, ma’am, but he did mention these are gifts for the Children’s Hospital.”

Silence. “Never mind.”

Typical Wesley. Exercise would have to wait.

Two hours later, her hand ached, but only a handful of balls remained. Her mobile rang. It was Wesley.

“What?” she said.

“Is that any way to talk to the person who’ll have your face on the front page of every newspaper?” Wesley was far too jovial, as if unaware of the personal sacrifice she had just made.

“Sorry. Let me try again. What do you want?”

“Well, aren’t we a bit pissy?” Silence. “Anyway, the promoter is sending a car to pick you up at 18:30 sharp. Also–”

“Wait. Will Johnny be in the car?”

“I think… umm. Well. Not sure. I think you’ll be taken to him.”

“Is he the princess? I’m picking him up, then? Fix it.”

“Not sure if I–”

“I know you can. Just fix it. Anything else?”

A beat. “An impeccable Donna Karan dress is being sent to you as we speak. Makeup and hair will be at your home by 14:00. Be your radiant self.”

“Fantastic, I can’t wait.”

“On the red carpet, be sure to mention Karan, Cartier, and Ferragamo. In that order.”

“If that’s all–”

“One more thing. At the theater, the prime minister and his wife want to meet you.”

“Does he know I didn’t vote for him?”

“Well, of course not, you silly thing. And he won’t find out either, because politics don’t sell commercials. We want to leverage national pride for Wimbledon.”

A walking billboard, that’s what she had become. No longer a tennis player, but a living, breathing advert.

She allowed herself to smile. Studying her reflection in the floor to ceiling mirror of her master bedroom, she had to admit she looked damn good. Her boyish figure was all-woman now. She wondered what Andre would think if he saw her.

Tish walked in. “Okay, gorgeous, Johnny is here. Ready?”

“I suppose so. Let’s get on with it.” But before Tish left, Gemma held her arm. “Tish, stay close to me, okay?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

Johnny and his crew waited in the entrance. “Hello, John,” Gemma said as she swept down the spiral staircase.

“Will you take a look at her?” Johnny said, his Hollywood smile unmistakable. “No one will notice me.” He strode up, held her hands, and gave her a peck on the cheek. He seemed hungry, like a wolf. “I’m glad you agreed to do this,” he whispered.

Her eyebrow rose when she picked up the scent of alcohol.

During the ride, Johnny recounted stories; all selected to impress her. She watched his lips move and wondered how much whiskey sloshed inside him. What a donkey.

Words dribbled out of his mouth, and when his eyes indicated an ‘impressive’ part was coming, she lobbed him an obligatory, “Oh, wow.”

He was still talking when he placed his hand on her thigh. She glanced at his hand and then at him. Her eyes penetrated his drunken mind, and he slowly pulled his hand, letting his fingers run on her thigh momentarily.
I will have to kill him
.
If he tries anything, I will drive his head into the wall.

Through the tinted windows of the limousine she glared at the spectacle that awaited them. Flashbulbs lit the dark streets like strobe lights. “Christ,” she said.

“Worry not, Gemmy,” Johnny said. She hated that nickname. “Hold on tight and I’ll get you through the sharks.”

How comforting
.

The doors opened and the screams escalated. Security guards stood on either side as Johnny stepped into a deafening burst of cheers. He waved to both sides of the red carpet.

Here we go
. When she stepped out, she was struck back by the invisible hand of the crowd’s erupting cheers. She was dazed, not expecting this type of reception. She settled and waved to the fans. No doubt, her star was at its height. At least for now.

Johnny grabbed her hand and led her down the red carpet. The questions came at them in rapid fire. The flashbulbs exploded faster.

The routine on the carpet was familiar. Stroll from one media outlet to the next. Smile, pose, answer the same questions, and move on.

Are you ready for Wimbledon?

Was that a tough loss?

Who are you wearing?

The questions didn’t bother her. What bothered her was Johnny holding her, his arm across her hip, and the pictures that would be produced. Pictures that would make news.

At the next outlet, just when he tried to grab her hip again, she shifted, facing him. Smile on her face, she whispered. “Hands. Off.”

He nodded, but at the very next stop, he did it again. He held her close and tight. Was he too drunk to understand? His behavior was bound to raise more questions. Friends don’t hold each other that way.

They moved on, and when he touched her, her body shook, disgusted. Memories of her long-forgotten past gnawed at her. Sixteen, another drunk, another deep cut.

Tish ran up to her. “This way, G. The Prime Minister is waiting for you.”

She rolled out of Johnny’s hold, grateful when she entered the theater. Five more minutes and she would have broken his hand.

“Gemma,” Prime Minister Beckford said, “it is a distinct pleasure to meet you, my dear.” He held her hands and kissed her on both cheeks.

“Thank you, sir. It’s an honor to meet you,” she said, surprised that she was awestruck by him.

He was taller than she expected. Also, he was relaxed, not in a sleazy politician way, but like one of the lads at the pub. She turned to his wife.

“Good evening, ma’am,” she said, and shook hands.

“My dear, you are more beautiful in person,” she said.

“Don’t embarrass her,” the Prime Minister said, reeling the conversation back to what must have been on his mind. “I know you have a busy evening ahead. But I wanted to wish you luck for next week, and also say a word about Wimbledon.”

“Sir?” What could he possibly have to say about Wimbledon?

“We invented the sport,” he said, “but our ladies have disappeared from the face of the championships. It is about time Great Britain raises the trophy in victory. This is our soil, our game. You are this country’s favorite daughter, and I’m certain you will make us all proud.”

“You are being ridiculous,” his wife said, rolling her eyes. “His competitive nature makes him talk this way. Just play your heart out.”

“And while you’re at it, win it all for your country,” he added.

A sinking feeling overtook her. “I will do my best, sir,” she said, managing to shoot him a smile.

“I’m certain of that. Here are the photographers. Shall we?”