Grand Slam (9 page)

The next morning, something we hadn't expected happened: backlash from Tennis Oz. They called me, said if the tennis wasn't so close to starting, they'd sack us as sponsors. They didn't want to be associated with an awful, careless, environmentally unfriendly oil company. They were furious and said they'd be calling JD. I didn't know what they thought JD could do. No-one could undo what was done.

In the afternoon, JD wanted to see me in his office.

‘More news on the explosion?' I asked him.

‘Not yet, but that's not why I called you here. I wanted to let you know there may be an opportunity for you, and glean your interest.'

‘For me? I thought —'

‘That's right. You know that Dega has a succession plan, of course.'

‘Ah, yes.' I suppose. I'd never thought that I might be part of it though. I sat forward slightly.

‘I'm looking at splitting the media and investor relations role. I want you to manage the public relations side of it. It would be a promotion for you, of course, and you'd report directly to me.' He smiled.

I didn't know what to say to that. I sat there mute but inside I was fizzing. What about Rosalind? Who cares!

‘It all depends on the tennis, though. As to whether the restructure goes ahead. Of course you'd realise that.'

‘Of course.' Why?

He then launched into a speech about the explosion, telling me how terrible the whole business was, that the fishermen were very suspicious as far as he was concerned and he intended getting to the bottom of that. He repeated what I already knew about the outraged public and environmentalists because of the dugongs, blah blah blah, and now, to make things worse, Tennis Oz was calling for some kind of fix. But what could we do?

‘There's an opportunity for us,' he said. ‘A wonderful opportunity.'

‘Oh?'

‘Emilio Méndez.'

‘Emilio Méndez?'

‘That's right. As you know, Emilio's never won the Australian Open, and doing so would make him number one.'

‘Yes, everyone wants him to win.'

‘That's right!' he said like I was a child catching on to something important like tying shoelaces. ‘Especially as he's now an Australian citizen. Imagine how wonderful that would be.'

‘Yes. Wonderful.'

‘And here at Dega, we also want him to win.'

‘Yes. We're one of his sponsors.'

‘Partly because of that. But mainly because it'll put Dega's name in a positive light, and distract the public —' he waved his hand, ‘— make them happy.'

‘Oh, of course.' A happy public is better than an axe-wielding one.

‘We're not getting very good press at the minute.'

‘No. No, we're not.'

‘Share price is low.'

‘Yes.'

‘The public is becoming more . . . environmentally aware. Unfortunately, they're under the misconception that our type of business can simply be replaced. God knows what with.'

Sun? Wind? Water? I nodded.

‘But of course that's a ridiculous notion.'

‘Of course.'

‘This country's economy relies on companies like Dega Oil!' He thumped his fist on the desk, stood and paced around his office. ‘Do they realise how much we contribute to the health of this nation?'

Health or wealth? ‘I'm sure they don't.'

JD returned to his chair, sat back in it, and made a steeple with his fingers in front of his face.

‘I'll get to the point, Erica.' Thank God. ‘Emilio and his managers are very upset about the public's overreaction to the explosion. Emilio can't focus on his game. He feels that the public associates him with Dega Oil.'

‘Well, we're his sponsor —'

‘And he's speaking with his lawyers about ending our association.' The mask slipped. JD's anxiety was now on full display, and I couldn't blame him. This was serious shit. He wiped a hand over his face. ‘To be honest, Erica, we don't need this.'

‘No. No, we don't.'

‘We need to convince Emilio not to proceed.'

‘How do you propose —'

‘He likes you. See if you can talk him 'round. Help him understand that the business with the explosion will be dealt with quickly, and disappear. That he should concentrate on winning this tournament and leave the other business to us.' JD leaned in again. His voice hardened. ‘I don't want to have to go the legal route. Emilio won't win. Our contract is watertight and it won't be pleasant for anyone.'

Rosalind surprised me. She gave me a level look, one that almost made me feel she considered me human after all (which was actually worrying considering the vampire thing). She sat back in her chair, looked away, thoughtful. Finally, she said to the wall, ‘What on
earth
is JD thinking, approaching you directly about this?' It was nice to see her angry with someone else, but then she narrowed her eyes, looking me over as though she might somehow find that the fault did in fact lie with me. ‘I'll go see him.' She stood, wafted past me and out her office door.

I sat there for a minute, not sure what to do. She'd never left me like this, sitting in her office. Usually I'd be dismissed. I stood cautiously, approached the door carefully, but she reappeared suddenly and silently, pushing past me to her desk where she picked up a file and left again. Did she even see me there? Who knows? But her sudden reappearance had caused me to jump back, which caused me to bump the printer on the credenza, which had dislodged the paper sitting in the print tray and sent it floating to the floor. As I picked it up I noticed it was an email from JD to Rosalind. I didn't
mean
to read it but one word stood out: ‘relocation'. I checked over my shoulder, then read:
. . . if all goes well with the tennis, I'd like to talk further about the role we discussed, which would require your relocation to Sydney . . .
No chance to read any more because there she was again, standing at the door, glaring at me.

‘Lucky I came back!' She snatched the paper from my hand.

‘Sorry, it was on the floor —'

‘That's all.' She waved her hand and as I left her office, I could hear her on the phone to Marcus, asking him to reschedule an appointment.

If all goes well with the tennis . . .

Rosalind eventually went to see JD. Afterwards, she informed me that I needed to go see Emilio, pronto. Yes, I did want to see Emilio, but on the tennis court, or on the other side of a dining table. I wouldn't even mind getting a glimpse of him in the shower. But where I didn't want to see Emilio Méndez was on the other side of a boardroom table in a lawyer's office. I blew out sharply, felt the sweat prick my armpits. Bloody hell.

I called Teresa, Emilio's manager, that afternoon.

She wasn't interested in pleasantries. ‘We do not want meetings with your lawyers.'

‘No, just me.'

‘One minute.' She spoke with someone in Spanish. I heard her say ‘Emily'. She came back on the line. ‘Please come to this hotel tomorrow at eleven a.m.'

In the morning I washed my hair and stood in front of the mirror. I felt exhausted at the thought of having to tackle it again so soon.

Mum came to the door. ‘I need the bathroom, dear.'

‘Can you wait? I'm going to be ages with my hair.'

‘No, I can't wait! Aunty Betty's coming. I need to be ready.'

‘I'm sure Betty won't care if you're not wearing lipstick.'

She looked at me like I might have lost my mind. I went into my bedroom. I couldn't turn up to my meeting with Emilio with horrible hair. I supposed I didn't have to go to work first. I could go straight to the hotel. I had time to do my hair properly. It'd only take, oh, four hours or so.

The Myer bag with the wig was still on my dressing table. I took it out and looked at it. And made a decision. I called my hairdresser on her mobile, waking her up. She knew how difficult my hair was. She was still fixing someone else's mistake from eight months ago. (That mistake may have been mine, made in a drunken stupor.)

‘It's a matter of life and death,' I said.

‘Hair always is, darling. Okay, I'll meet you at the salon in an hour.'

She was surprised when I presented the wig.

‘Can you straighten it and cut it to match my hair?'

She shrugged. ‘Okay.' And so she did.

When it was finished and fitted, I smiled at my reflection.

I knocked on the door of Emilio Méndez's hotel suite. Beyond the door I could hear a man's voice, speaking rapidly and loudly in Spanish. The door opened and Teresa waved me into the room. ‘Come in, Emily.'

‘Actually, it's Erica.'

She shrugged. ‘
No importa
.' She pointed to the sofa. ‘Please.'

But I remained standing, finding that my feet had suddenly taken root as I gawked at the vision pacing by the window, framed by Melbourne's skyline, shouting into the phone. He wore nothing but white shorts, a deep tan and his lucky charm. His glossy black hair was wild and like this, half naked and probably straight out of bed, Emilio Méndez was absolutely beautiful.

He turned, saw me, and dropped the phone, which landed with a soft thud on the thick carpet. ‘Emily, it is you.' He walked quickly across the room, gathered me in a tight hug.

My arms went around him, tentatively, and I patted his smooth back. ‘Um, yes, I'm here.'

With his hands on my shoulders he held me away so he could look at me, let me see his anguish, then he pulled me in and kissed me on the mouth. It was a quick one, and possibly the way Spanish people greet each other, but it wasn't a dry peck either. Actually, it was soft and sexy enough to be inappropriate.

I stood there, a frozen kangaroo. Emilio's eyes were the blinding headlights: intense, full of fire, so
blue
, and I couldn't think of a single thing to say.

I blinked.

He released me. ‘I am, how you say, disturbed by what is happening in the news.'

I cleared my throat, shook my head and tried to remember why I was here. I needed to talk to him. Talk about what?

‘Come!' he said. ‘We shall have herbal tea.' With a hand on my back, he pushed me across the room to the dining table where there was a bone china tea service. ‘Please sit.' I sat. He poured me a cup of tea, speaking Spanish to Teresa. I took a sip. Camomile. Yuck. But it had the effect of smelling salts. It cleared my head.

Emilio said, ‘You are wearing a wig, no?'

My head fogged up.

‘Your hair is difficult, yes?' He gave me a quizzical look. ‘I remember now.'

I fiddled with the ends of the wig and fumbled about for some words. ‘It's . . . ah . . . I thought —'

‘Tell me everything about yourself. I want to understand you.'

‘Well —'

‘I will tell you about me!'

What a fabulous, fabulous idea. I sat back in my chair and let him talk. My senses were returning in dribbles. Tiny spurts of intelligence arrived. But I did wish he'd put on a T-shirt. I found I was comparing his nipples to Jack's. The hair around them. Also, Jack has a series of fine scars on his left shoulder at the front, and a bullet-hole shaped one at the back. Emilio had no scars that I could see.

‘— and I am so happy to be living in Sydney now.'

‘How nice.'

‘
Si
.
Mi
padre idiota
– my father – he make no life for
mi madre
in
España
.'

‘Your mother's Australian, I believe.'

‘
Si
. I hope, how you say, the testicles, they fall off.'

‘Your father's?'

‘
Si
.'

This was a great interview. I wished I'd taken this line of questioning at the lunch. ‘Is your mother coming to Melbourne, Emilio? Will she watch you play?'

He muttered something in Spanish, looked away, waved his hand. ‘It is fortunate I have Mother Teresa. And I have this.' He lifted the chain around his neck and showed me the renowned amulet. The one he purportedly couldn't live without. I leaned in to admire it. It was a flat gold disc with an inscription.

‘This was a gift from
mi abuela
— my grandmama — for my sixteenth birthday. To bring me luck on the tennis court. It is
muy precioso
. Since I have it, I win! I cannot play without it.'

‘It's lovely.' It looked like a one-dollar coin.

‘It is, how you say, priceless.'

I nodded and smiled. Checked my watch. ‘Well, Emilio, we really should —'

‘Ah.' He put down his teacup and looked at me seriously. ‘It is so nice to be with someone I can talk to.'

‘I —'

‘But now, we must discuss the business.'

‘Yes. We must.' I glanced at Teresa, who was lounging on the sofa, reading a romance novel.

Emilio took my left hand in both of his, leaning across the table. ‘I cannot play the tennis. The people, they hate your company. And they hate me because I am your associate.'

I placed my right hand on his. ‘Emilio, everyone loves you so much. The whole world wants you to win! This business with the explosion will go away soon enough. You know how the media works. It's headlines today, forgotten tomorrow.'

He nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, that is how it works in the media. But people have been killed, Emily.'

‘The deaths of those people are being investigated. We don't believe Dega Oil is at fault, not at all. We'll make sure this is public knowledge.'

‘How can I play when the people, they are so angry?'

‘But you'll make new headlines with your brilliant play! You support a wonderful charity and you're such fun for the media. In no time at all, the explosion will be forgotten. I promise.'

‘Yes, I will make the headlines. The media, they love me.'

‘
Everyone
loves you, like I said.' I gave him a big smile.

‘You love me, Emily?' He winked, grinned.

God, those teeth were so perfect and white. ‘What? Oh!' I giggled. ‘Yes, I want you to win the Australian Open, more than anyone!'

‘You are a very loyal person, no?'

‘Ah, sure. Yes.' I sat back, gently removing my hand from his grip. ‘You know what? I've got an idea. How about a game of tennis with someone . . . maybe a local celebrity? I'll make some calls, and we'll get the media there to record it. What do you say? It'll be so much fun.'

‘I think that is a very good idea.'

‘Fantastic! I'll go back to the office and make some calls. I'll let you know —'

‘You will make the calls here.' He waved at the room. ‘There is a telephone. You can sit there.' He pointed at the desk.

‘Well . . .' I supposed I could call Marcus at the office, get him to email my contact list.

Emilio stood, took my hand again and pulled me across the room, to his bedroom. ‘But first . . .'

I stopped, took my hand back. ‘What are you doing?'

‘You will help me decide what to wear, yes?'

‘Me?'

‘This one?' He plucked a white T-shirt with a Dega Oil logo off his bed and I rushed forward.

‘Oh, yes, that one's perfect!'

Emilio sat on the bed, pulled on his shoes, and stuck a Dega Oil cap on his head.

While I waited for my contact list from Marcus, I stood at the window, pondering the life of the rich and famous and what it might be like. Imagine having staff! ‘What would madam like for dinner?' And madam would say, waving her hand (with delicate portraits painted on each nail), ‘Surprise me. But watch the carbs!' It'd be nice, I suppose. Could be like that, married to Jack Jones, lounging around, making calls when I wanted something. Or getting Joe to organise it. ‘Joe, can you call my hairdresser to come urgently? My fringe needs a trim.'

‘You will make the calls, Emily?'

‘Huh?'

Emilio was standing there, adjusting his groin area.

‘Oh, sure.' I sat at the desk, checked my phone. The contact list had come from my own email address, attached to a message from Charlotte telling me she'd finished taking shorthand from Rosalind and was typing some correspondence. Shorthand? Who takes shorthand? And who types letters any more? That's what my mother thinks still happens in offices.

I called Laura at our publicity company, asked her to find me a good-looking famous person to play tennis with Emilio Méndez, preferably today. She came back to me with a list of familiar names, most of whom were willing to drop everything for this opportunity. Especially the women.

‘You're very popular, Emilio,' I said, holding up my handwritten list. ‘You see? Everyone still loves you.'

‘
Si
? They love me?' He sat on the edge of the sofa, elbows on knees, watching me, biting his nails. I wished he wouldn't. It was off-putting, having a beautiful man stare at me like that, sitting close, all wide-eyed. I felt an urge to give him a pat on the head.

I returned to my list and crossed off names of people who either weren't famous enough, weren't attractive enough, or weren't men. I chose a well-known Collingwood footballer, a super good-looking one. It was all set. Emilio Méndez and Robbie Dick would play tennis that afternoon, and the media would write about it, and everyone would forget the explosion, and life would be fantastic again. But as wonderful as it all sounded, there was a niggle in the back of my mind telling me that, although I shouldn't be alarmed, I should definitely stay alert.