Game of Love (35 page)

“I’ll call Andre. He’ll understand,” Gemma said.

“You brought him here, and now you’re asking him to hide? Even if he only comes to the matches, he will be in your reserved seats, there for everyone to speculate.”

Gemma’s shoulders sagged. She had not thought this through properly.

“Furthermore,” Tish continued, “if we don’t do something to manage the stories, they’ll get worse. More lies will be added, and before you know it, the whole thing will implode around you. Look, I’ll admit Wesley is sometimes all over the place, but I honestly think we need his advice. He’ll come up with something.”

Gemma begrudgingly agreed. When Wesley was called, he, as always, was eager to show he was a strategist. A smug one, but a competent one as well.

“We need them to reconsider the credibility of the source,” Wesley said.

“How?” Gemma asked.

“They expect to see you with him, and you are planning to take him to the Nikon event. That’s perfect. At the event we will confirm that such a person is real, but he’s not your lover. Big misunderstanding. Yet again, the press misread the clues.”

“And how do we pull that off?” Tish asked.

“He’ll show up with someone else. He’s in Gemma’s circle, but not with Gemma. Natural confusion.”

Silence. “But the damn event is tonight. Who can we trust? Conspiracies don’t last long,” Tish said.

“How about you?” Wesley asked.

“Me? Are you drunk?”

“That would make for the most reasonable explanation. He knows Gemma through you. We don’t have to say he’s your lover. Just that he’s your friend.”

Gemma rubbed her temples–a vise would have been preferable. “Won’t it be easier if we avoid the whole thing?”

“Maybe for today,” Wesley said, “but it doesn’t give me the opportunity to redirect the chatter and kill it off, allowing you to focus on the tournament. I don’t want to be a broken record, but the other question is, can we trust this Andre guy?”

“Wesley, you are a broken record, and the tune you play gives me a bloody headache.”

“Hear me out,” he said.

“No, I’ve seen what your idea of a good pairing earns me.”

Silence.

Her heart was not in it, but over the years, Gemma had learned to follow Wesley’s instincts. She didn’t know if the plan would work, or how Andre would take it. He was a level-headed chap who solved complications, not created them.

And what if she actually told the truth?

No, this was not the right time. The press would zero in on her lack of focus. For once, she wanted the press to respect her. Once she won her first Grand Slam, then she could be free with everything else. She wouldn’t need to balance anything.

“Tish, what do you think? What if we pretend he’s your guest?” Gemma asked.

“What am I supposed to do, hold his bloody hand like we’re an item or something?” Tish asked.

“Why not? Who’s it going to hurt?” Wesley asked.

Who indeed
. Silence stretched for a few moments.

“Bloody shit, Gemma. Fine. I’ll do it. But I’ll remember this one when it’s time for my raise. The things I do for you.”

“There are a terrible lot of lies going about the world, and the worst of it is that half of them are true.”
~Winston Churchill

ndre’s face froze and his smile faltered. “I must have slept for a few days and missed something. I’m supposed to pretend what? And why?”

They were in Gemma’s limo heading to the Nikon event. He scanned from Gemma to Tish and then back to Gemma again, searching for some clarity, but their faces gave him none. Tish’s phone rang. She answered it.

“Wesley believes this is the most sensible approach,” Gemma said, her voice now low. “This way we get them off my back until Wimbledon is over.”

“I see. I’m a great supporter of sensible ideas. I’m just struggling to find the sensible part of this plan.”

Gemma leaned closer. “No one needs to know about us,” Gemma whispered. “Not Tish, not Wesley. That’s our business. Let Wimbledon pass.”

“And what happens after Wimbledon?” He held her gaze. Why would they go through so much to hide something so natural?

Gemma finally blinked. “Just bear with me for now. I don’t need the distraction.”

He slid closer. “I understand your request and will honor it. But by playing these games, are you crushing the distractions, or bringing more attention to it? This is a risky move. Whoever is the source of the rumors may already know more. And if new pictures show up? Or more details slip out? What then?”

They gazed at each other for a few moments.

“Okay, that was Wesley,” Tish said as she hung up. “He’s already throwing hints through his sources.”

“That’s good to hear,” Andre said, trying to hide his sarcasm.

Andre’s phone rang. It was Roger.

He was on vacation. Why was that so difficult to understand? He tapped the
Ignore
button.

The limousine pulled up to the red carpet. The flashing bulbs throttled like an uninterrupted cascade of blinding thunderstorms.

“All right, Tish,” Andre said, “give me your hand. We need to make a good showing of this.”

“Shite. I need a drink.”

Gemma’s door opened. As she stepped out, a roar of cheers, questions, and lights engulfed her. She was a silhouette against the blinding beam of fame. She was a portrait of calm and composure.

He and Tish stepped out holding hands. Dozens of cameras swiveled, and questions were hurled at them. He scanned the crowd and absorbed the situation. Too many people, too many voices, faces, movements, and flashes.

Andre and Tish remained silent and stood near Gemma, who was asked to pose over and over again. She was asked about him, but she smiled and offered nothing, as if the question wasn’t even asked.

More pictures, more lights, more questions, and fake smiles–everyone wanted something from her. The needy begging for handouts.

The press were not expecting him to be holding Tish’s hand. He hated the games, the lies, the stupidity of it all. Why would she–

Andre’s headache burst from his right ear. Every single word came in Technicolor. With effort, he raised his hand to his ear, wanting to push the headache around, spread the sharp pain. He tried to shut out the chaos surrounding him. He wanted it to end, but it was no use.

“Are you okay?” Tish asked.

He forced a smile. “Headache.”

“Migraine?” Tish whispered.

He blinked and held his posture, hoping to wait out the torture.

“Let’s go in. Gemma can handle them.”

She tried to walk quickly, but his balance was suspect. Tish supported him as they stepped into the venue. He stumbled into the restroom, ran cold water and drenched his face, meditating away the enemy within.

After a few minutes, color returned to his skin. He studied his eyes and regulated his breathing before he stepped out. Tish and Gemma were waiting for him.

“Are you okay? You scared me,” Gemma said, her eyes bloodshot, cheeks red.

“Just a headache.”

Gemma placed a hand on his chest. “Do you want us to leave?”

“I’m fine–” Andre started, but a frantic looking woman cut in.

“Miss Lennon, we need you backstage now. The video starts in twenty seconds.”

Gemma glanced at her and nodded. “I’m ready.”

The woman rushed Gemma around the back as Tish and Andre moved into the main reception area. A large silver screen showed a countdown.

Three, two, one.

To the music of AC/DC’s
Back in Black
, the new Nikon commercial rolled.

In black and white, the shot started from Gemma’s shoes, up her lean powerful legs, all the way up to her face. The lighting and gray tones gave her body the appearance of a statue. First sign of color: Gemma’s ice-blue eyes. The camera paused on her face. “I’m back,” Gemma said.

With that, cleverly edited footage of Gemma hitting one winner after another thundered by. Spliced in-between the shots was a spinning, gunmetal black Nikon camera. Finally, a tight shot of Gemma’s black bird tattoo. The camera then zoomed out and spun around Gemma for a head-to-toe shot of her glistening, powerful body. “Yes, I’m back,” she said, and the commercial ended.

The invitees and press broke into a roar of applause and cheers. At that moment, through a cloud of smoke, Gemma walked onto the stage to a raucous crowd.

Andre had to hand it to her: she knew how to work her sexuality and her story. She was definitely back.

The rest of the evening dragged. Tish held his hand a little tighter now, remaining close, like a personal cane. They mingled, always a cluster away from Gemma. She was the sun, and all flocked to her.

From the body language of those in the ‘respectable’ media, they obviously had expected him to be with Gemma. And the way Tish held him tight to her added to their confusion. Most intriguing was Gemma. She never made eye contact with him. Not once. Yet another version of Gemma.

The evening wore on for another two hours. He waited for her to speak to him or something, but nothing came. Speeches, platitudes, announcements, small talk, cocktails, and more stares.

“You seem to be doing better,” Tish said.

“I am. Didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Well you did, you dumb ox.”

Andre observed Gemma. “Why isn’t Gemma talking to us? Did I miss something?”

“It’s all part of the act.”

“What act?”

“This is the celebrity Gemma.”

“Hmm. Interesting. How many Gemmas are there?”

“That’s an odd question. I don’t know. A few. What does it matter?”

“I’d like to know which ones I can speak to, so I don’t inadvertently bring down this house of cards you guys have built. There must be rules to this game.”

“The rules are simple: don’t screw up.”

“Great. Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Eventually it was time to leave.

When Gemma stepped out, staff photographers and paparazzi jumped and rushed the velvet rope. More bulbs, more cameras, more questions, and more rain. The air was cold now. Steam rose from the press corps.

Andre studied the press then tapped Tish’s shoulder. “Looks like this plan of Wesley’s worked for today,” he whispered. “They’re definitely confused. Just hope it’s sustainable.”

“Hope you’re right. She doesn’t need the distraction. Maybe we should make sure they don’t second-guess what they’ve seen.”

“And what do you–” he started, but did not finish. Her kiss came without advance notice or warning. It was his turn to keep his eyes open. It was a quick kiss, but it left him stunned. “Well,” he said, “that’s one way.”

She laughed. “You ‘Mericans are funny.”

He glanced toward Gemma. She was locked onto Andre, unblinking. The same pose from her commercial.