Grand Slam (2 page)

I'm not sure why I thought it was a good idea to walk to Crown hotel. To slow time? Take my mind off Rosalind's vampire curse? Whatever had possessed me (Rosalind?), what I'd pictured was a pleasant stroll in the summer warmth, taking in the joyful morning frolics of office workers also claiming a few rare minutes of Melbourne's outdoor offerings. But halfway there, I hit a wall of cold. Our famous cool change. It's the reason Melburnians follow the forecast in summer. To know if the morning's forty degrees will later drop to twelve. The cool change is usually welcome when the weather's been so hot, but I didn't welcome it now. And I didn't see it coming. In my stressed and sleepless state, I'd forgotten to check the forecast.

My hair blew up. And so did my skirt. With one hand on my crotch and one on my bum, holding down the flimsy material, I cursed the icy wind to hell and back. The wind that last night had blasted in from the north, bringing the tropics with it, had reached Antarctica and turned back. I staggered along the river promenade carrying a huge bag over my shoulder, the wind buffeting me. Goosebumps replaced the smooth surface of my skin. Something cold and wet hit my nose.

‘What the —' I looked up. Oh, shit. Rain?

I ran as fast as my heels would allow, heading for the hotel, which was the nearest building anyway. I knew it was too late – I could feel the strands frizzing at my scalp. I could hear them! I fell through the door, found a loo and stood in front of the mirror.

‘Oh, perfect. That's really great, Erica.' I dragged a comb through the curling strands, turning them into damp fuzz. ‘You idiot.' I wet my hair again from the tap, resurrecting the broccoli, which was somehow better than fuzz. There was running mascara too, which complemented nicely the lack-of-sleep dark circles.

I stamped my foot. ‘Fuck it!'

A toilet flushed behind me. I hadn't realised someone else was in the room and I felt stupid for talking to myself. And swearing. What if the someone was a little old lady? In the mirror I watched the door swing open, and a man emerged. Not just any man. Emilio Méndez. I let out a gasp. He wore running shorts and a singlet top. He too was wet, presumably from the rain, but more delicious for it, in the way James Bond was delicious as he emerged from the sea.

‘
Hola
!' He looked around. ‘
Es este el cuarto de bano para hombres
?'

I looked around also in case I'd made a mistake. Was this the ladies' or men's? There was no urinal but maybe they don't have urinals in posh hotels.

Emilio stood next to me, washed his hands.

I patted my hair. ‘Ah, this is the ladies' bathroom, I think.'

Emilio pulled a paper towel from the holder. He looked me over. ‘You are caught in the rain, no?' His eyes fixed on my hair, then the mess of darkness under my eyes.

And I found myself transfixed by
his
eyes. Was that normal? For someone with such black hair to have eyes so vividly blue they looked like proverbial sapphire pools?

‘No, I mean, yes. Caught in the rain.' I laughed, pulled at my hair, wiped pointlessly under my eyes.

‘What is this weather? In Spain when the sky is blue, it is blue. In Melbourne it is hot and blue, then cold and grey. How does this happen?'

‘It's the cool change. Most people like it when the weather's been so hot.'

‘I do not like it.'

I held out my hand to introduce myself. ‘I —'

‘You would like my autograph? I do not have a pen.'

‘Yes, I mean, no. I mean —' I clamped my mouth shut.

He smiled. ‘Do not be embarrassed. Most ladies are excited to meet me.'

Devastated, humiliated, mortified. Not excited. ‘Ah, actually, I'm —'

‘I must get ready for my lunch.' He checked his Rolex and turned to leave.

‘Um. That's me. I mean, I'm your lunch. Your host!' Jeez. I held out my hand again. ‘Erica Jewell from Dega Oil, at your service.' I smiled at the cliché but he didn't. Rather, he looked . . . disappointed.

‘
Si
?' He looked me over again, shrugged. ‘Well, I will see you there. In one hour,
si
?'

‘
Si
. Yes.'

Emilio left, but not before thoroughly inspecting me again, head to toe. Mostly head.

When Emilio Méndez walked into the Palladium ballroom – half an hour late – all staff and guests fell silent, and paused in whatever they were doing to watch him. I've seen that reaction from the general public before: when Jack Jones enters a room. Jack doesn't have the accompanying fame, though, and possibly not quite as much money. But he has magnificent looks and a presence that commands immediate respect and adoration. Unlike Jack, Emilio noticed the attention he'd drawn and seemed to be enjoying it. He moved slowly into the room, arms held wide, giving little waves, soaking up the love, while the woman with him – presumably Teresa, his manager – walked ahead, seeking their table. I greeted her, introduced myself, and showed her the way. I went back to find Emilio, who'd been caught up in the crowd, signing autographs. I pushed ahead of the queue. The half-hour allocated for pre-lunch pleasantries and socialising was well and truly up. He needed to sit.

‘Emilio, hello again.'

He glanced at me, handed the signed paper and pen to a woman who was probably eighty and who stood on tiptoes to kiss Emilio's cheek, causing him to laugh out loud, give her a one-armed hug and announce, to the delight of his audience, ‘If only I am ten years older!' They posed for a photograph together, the old lady cradling in her palm Emilio's famous lucky charm, which he wore around his neck.

Emilio turned to me. ‘Ah, it is you, Emily. My host.'

‘Actually, it's Erica.'

He inspected my face and nodded. ‘Better.'

My hair, however, was a nightmare. In fact, if I'd
had
a nightmare about my hair looking awful at today's event, it wouldn't have looked as awful as this. I'd scraped it back into a short, wet ponytail. Not like that wet look models sometimes choose, when their hair is pulled into a tight bun, all glossy and smooth, showing off their high cheekbones and fine jawlines. No, my hair was lumpy, like I'd just been swimming and dragged it off my face to get it out of the way so I could, for example, concentrate on the supermarket shopping list. I cleared my throat. ‘I'll show you to your table.'

We approached John Degraves, who was standing with his wife.

‘Emilio, you remember John Degraves, CEO of Dega Oil.' It wasn't a question. Emilio and JD certainly had met before to discuss sponsorship arrangements – Dega was not only the major sponsor of the tennis, we were also one of Emilio's.

JD introduced his wife, then JD and Emilio chatted charmingly, sucking up to each other. Emilio needed his sponsors' money and, according to Rosalind, JD really needed Emilio to win the tennis so everyone would love Dega Oil again.

Sue Degraves said to me, ‘And where's your gorgeous man today? Is he coming?'

I could feel the blush form. It started at my ears. ‘Oh, Jack and I aren't really —'

‘Of course you are.' She gave me a big smile.

In fact, Jack had been invited to today's lunch – not because of me but because he's on all social and business A-lists as he's so good looking, filthy rich, owns successful businesses and a big posh house in Brighton. He was also a secret ‘business' colleague of JD's but not many people knew about that. Anyway, apart from the fact that he rarely socialises in public, he'd declined today's invitation because, apparently, he was busy with some new Team recruit. And no, we weren't really, you know. Well we were, but we weren't. Like, we get together privately sometimes and in my head I call him my boyfriend, but, oh my God, if he knew I was thinking that way . . .

‘Can I get you something, Mrs Degraves?'

‘Call me Sue.'

‘Would you like a drink, Sue?' I looked for a waiter.

She sighed. ‘I wish you two would just get over yourselves and get on with it, you know?'

‘We're really just friends.'

‘Friends with benefits?'

Sue gave me a knowing smile, which was not all that unusual. She often gave me knowing smiles and I was never quite sure if they were about my so-called relationship with Jack, or about her husband's other business: the secret team of vigilantes JD founded to keep the streets of Melbourne safe. The ‘Team' whose operational leader is Jack Jones and for whom I also, occasionally, work.

First course was done. Time for speeches. I approached Emilio's manager, who was seated next to Rosalind. They seemed to be getting along well enough, polite conversation and all that. Rosalind had a fake smile she reserved for necessary sucking up. I knew it was fake because it was the only type she could muster. It was more like a grimace, where the mouth stretches wide but doesn't curve up, and those who don't know Rosalind might think she was in pain. Teresa looked about forty and I had no idea how old Rosalind was – 150?

Rosalind said, another glass of champagne poised dangerously between two fingers, ‘Erica, don't you go flirting with Emilio. Teresa says he's irresistibly drawn to the wrong types but I assured her he wouldn't be interested in you. What happened to your hair? It looked half decent this morning.'

Somehow, my mother had infiltrated Rosalind. I turned to Teresa. ‘We'll start the speeches shortly. Mr Degraves will speak, and then Emilio. I'll interview him and ask for questions from the audience, then there'll be media photographs.'

Teresa nodded, sighed and checked her watch. ‘You'll let him know,
chica
?'

‘Right away.'

I interrupted Sue Degraves's chat with Emilio, who sat beside her. She was asking him about his love life and why he hadn't found just the right girl yet.

‘Ah, they elude me, Sue. I find the most beautiful woman, but she is sometimes empty, and sometimes she is a
puta
.' He gave her a sad look.

‘Excuse me, Sue, Emilio, speeches will start shortly.'

Emilio said, ‘You should try something different with your hair, Emily,' and gave me a wink.

I forced a wide smile. Much fake smiling and laughing at this lunch, I'd noticed. ‘Well, Emilio, I think you've been talking to my mother.'

He laughed. It wasn't fake.

Emilio Méndez's reputation wasn't only for his brilliance as a tennis player. He was regularly photographed with some hopeful Spanish, French, Italian, American, whatever, girl on the cover of a trashy mag with headlines like, T
HIS ONE?
Some people said he was a womaniser, others reported that he was just young and foolish, taking advantage of his fame and beauty with older women. It seemed to me, though, that he just fell in love too easily. Emilio was only twenty-three years old but had been engaged a couple of times already. Those relationships hadn't worked out. Maybe, now that he'd left Spain and his crappy father and was settled in Sydney with his mother, he'd meet a nice Aussie girl his own age.

I watched him at the lectern, relaxed and charming. Mature beyond his years in that regard. So comfortable with the limelight. He made corny jokes in his soft, sexy Antonio Banderas accent that had everyone either in fake stitches or swooning; he said nice things about Dega Oil, how he hoped we got a great return on our sponsorship. When he finished I asked him questions that I'd gathered from the audience. We stood side by side at the lectern, and he smiled at the audience as I spoke.

‘Emilio —'

‘Yes, Emily? You have a question?'

I heard Rosalind guffaw.

‘I certainly do. Someone has asked —'

‘To marry me? Is she very rich?'

Everyone roared laughing. I giggled politely.

‘I apologise for my nonsense,' he said into the mic. ‘Please, continue.'

‘Who are you most looking forward to playing in this tournament?'

He was suddenly serious. The pro. ‘I hope to meet Vladimir Vavilov in the finals, and I hope that after, I will be the number one tennis player.'

Everyone cheered and clapped.

The questions carried on. He wooed the already-in-love crowd.

Finally, I asked, ‘And how do you like Melbourne so far?'

‘It is a very nice city and perhaps I will live here one day. Maybe I will meet a girl from Melbourne.' He winked at the audience and we paused for the laughter. ‘But I do not like this strange weather of yours.' More raucous laughing.

When I thanked Emilio, said what a pleasure it was to interview him, he took my hand and bent low over it. ‘It has been my pleasure to be interviewed by you.'

There were photographs with the media, and I was invited to be in the one with the Dega Oil executive team. Emilio stood in the middle and I ended up on one side of him with JD on the other. Emilio put his arm around my shoulders and I stood there all stiff and embarrassed. He gave me a squeeze, pulling me in closer, causing me to put a hand on his chest to keep my balance.

He whispered in my ear, ‘All the women, they want to be you, Emily.'

After lunch I walked with Emilio and Teresa to the hotel lobby, reminding Emilio about the following Friday when he had a commitment with his chosen charity.

‘Don't hesitate to call me.' I handed him a business card. He gave it to Teresa, took my hand again and kissed it, telling me that he thought I was very funny, and that I made him laugh, even though I hadn't said or done a single thing that was meant to be funny.