Grand Slam (20 page)

Part of the reason why Emilio Méndez has so many fans is because women across the planet want him to spend as much time as possible on the court for their viewing pleasure. All the girls in the crowd went nuts when Emilio walked onto centre court. He pretended to be embarrassed but I knew he wasn't – he loved the adoration. Emilio was tanned and had a gorgeous body – almost as good as Jack's – and with his black hair and sparkling white smile, he won every female heart in the stadium. Even the blokes loved him. A group of four guys with faces painted green and gold yelled from the back stalls, ‘Aussie, Aussie, Aussie!' and the crowd responded with ‘Oi, Oi, Oi!' Emilio laughed and waved to them.

Emilio's first match was against an unseeded Hungarian player. Teresa showed me where to sit, then left. Emilio's team's seats were right on the corner, near where the players walk out. I got a dirty look from John the woman-hater – I mean, coach – then he ignored me. I wondered why Teresa didn't stay. Probably resting from the exhaustion of being with Emilio. Part of me – a really big part – hoped Emilio would lose this first match and put us all out of our misery.

I watched them warm up, hitting the ball back and forth, practising serves, lobbing the ball to each other. They sat to prepare for the match. Emilio and the Hungarian drank from their water bottles, fiddled with their racquets, checked shoelaces. Emilio pulled his hair into a ponytail. They were ready to play. The ump called for silence and the Hungarian served to Emilio's forehand. Emilio slammed the ball down the sideline. The crowd screamed.

I watched Emilio win the first set, six–love. He was so elegant and calm, his strokes long and sure; the way he confidently placed each ball made him look like he'd been born for this game. He would win this match and maybe even the tournament. This would be my life until the end of next week. I felt sorry for the poor Hungarian, who'd come all the way across the planet for this annihilation. He sat there with his head bowed. Emilio pulled off his shirt. Women screamed, whistled, cheered. He stood and took a bow. As he pulled the fresh shirt over his head, all the women booed.

Watching Emilio's glistening, tanned, muscled torso reminded me not only that I'd like to see more of Jack, but that it was so hot. Thirty-five degrees outside the stadium; probably forty-five within. As I stood I saw a familiar head, just under where I was sitting. I peered over the railing. It was Joe, who'd popped out from backstage to check the crowd, keep an eye on Emilio. I wondered where Jack was. Was he here, or with Sharon somewhere? I left the arena and entered the cool concourse, with relief. I stood in line for the toilet, bought a bottle of water, and took a seat, waiting for my body temperature to lower. I checked my phone. A few messages. Text from Steve about my appliances. Nothing from Jack. I wandered outside and toward the merchandise tents, texting as I walked. My head was down, pressing out the letters, and I nearly got knocked over. I turned to the man who stood there, glaring at me.

‘I'm sorry,' I said.

He walked away but there was something about him, the look in his eye, that made me watch him. He was a very fat man wearing shorts and a T-shirt with socks and sandals. His round, hairy belly hung out over his shorts and from under his T-shirt. He was unshaven and dirty-looking and as he walked he turned his head and looked at me. I shuddered. He bowled over a small kid but didn't stop as the child's mother shouted something at him. I walked on, checking over my shoulder every few seconds.

Another of Emilio's sponsors, Gleam toothpaste, had their own marquee offering free dental check-ups and show bags, and I remembered Emilio telling me I should go there and ‘have fun'. But there was a better tent, for Joli skincare. They were giving free pedicures and had really fab things in their showbags. I grabbed myself a Pee Wee pie and stood in the line.

I heard the crowd going crazy in Rod Laver Arena. I figured Emilio would be close to putting away the second set and thought I probably should get back to watch him win the third set, and match. I hesitated, torn. Pedicure. Emilio. Pedicure. Emilio.

Emilio. With a sigh I left the line and headed back to the stadium, taking my time, looking around for the creepy man. I had to wait for a break to get back in. As I made my way down the steps, I glanced at the players in their seats. Emilio's face was in his hands. What was wrong? I looked at the scoreboard. Oh, shit! The Hungarian had won the second set! I sprinted down the stairs and found Emilio's coach and the rest of his crew, also with heads in hands. Teresa was there now, looking tired and anxious.

‘What happened?' I said to anyone who might have the answer.

Teresa said, wearily, ‘We do not know. He just went to pieces. He is thinking about
el amuleto
.'

Emilio won that match but it was exhausting. It went to five sets. After, he wanted to have dinner with me, to tell me something, he said. Something good. But something bad happened between his match and our dinner. Teresa showed him the photo of Jack and me – of Jack almost kissing me – which had gone viral on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, whatever. The photo was tagged:
#Méndez #legend #hottie #unworthybitchgf #randomhottie
. I hated that girl's guts.

At dinner Emilio challenged me about it, showing me the photo on his phone.

‘What is this? You tell me
Yack
is your friend, and now I am . . . how you say . . . laughing stock. First
mi amuleto
and now this. What are you doing to me? Please tell me this isn't true. Tell me this photograph is telling a lie.'

Well, I
was
going to tell Emilio that Yack is in fact a bit more than a friend. I
was
going to tell him that I'd work for him, cheer him on, organise his dry cleaning and help him find a new girlfriend if he wanted – offer up Sharon Stone, for example – but that he'd have to understand I was not his girlfriend. And that I'd try very hard to find his lucky charm. I didn't say any of that, though, because Emilio was shattered. He sat there like a little boy lost.

‘It's telling a lie.'

‘So it is not true? You and
Yack
are not seeing each other behind my back?'

‘Er . . . that's right. We're not. It's all a lie.'

‘But this photograph . . . I feel very foolish, Emily.'

I looked at it again. Jack's hand on my face, leaning close, about to kiss me. My argument that Jack and I were just bed-pals wouldn't hold much water using this as evidence. We looked like a couple. In love.

‘Sorry, Emilio, what were you saying?'

‘This photograph makes it very clear that something is taking place between you.'

‘Well . . . I was meeting Jack to find out what he'd done about your security issues, you see. And then —' I pointed ‘— Jack noticed something on my face. You can see it there. He's just wiping it off.'

‘I cannot see anything.'

‘It's there. You need to squint. It's a bad photo.'

‘I think it is quite a clear photograph. But Emily, he is leaning close to you. It looks like he might kiss you!'

‘Oh, no, it's just . . . he's got bad eyesight. He had to lean in to see the thing on my face.'

‘But if he has bad eyesight, how did he see the thing was there?'

‘Um, actually, he didn't notice it at first, but I felt it there. I said to him, “Is there something on my face?” And he leaned close and saw there was something there. See?' I gave Emilio a big, bright smile.

But the poor thing looked so miserable. I patted his hand, saying, ‘There, there. Soon you'll win the Australian Open and you'll be the greatest tennis player in the world. And just think how much money you'll have!'

‘Emily. There is something I wish to tell you. It is important.'

‘Oh?'

‘Today, I nearly lose the match.'

‘But you didn't. You won.'

‘
Si, si
. But do you know when I play bad today?'

‘You were thinking about your amulet?'

‘No, it is when you go. I cannot play because you are not there.'

‘Really?' I had a warm fuzzy. How nice!

‘
Si
. I realise something. I have never felt this way. No other woman – even woman so much more beautiful – has made me feel I cannot win without her. But today I know, it is not
mi amuleto
I am needing. It is you.'

Oh. Shit. I sat there, blinking at him.

Rather than ask if I felt the same, Emilio gripped my hand and kissed my palm, sighing loudly, eyes closed. ‘Ah, my Emily,
mi amor
, my most beautiful flower. I wish we do not have to wait to consummate our love.' He kissed along the soft inside of my arm. ‘Perhaps tonight?' He looked at me from under luscious black lashes, all dewy-eyed and hopeful, wanting my permission to break his own rule about no bonking during a tournament.

I shook my head, breaking the trance, and took my arm back. ‘I think you need your lucky charm, Emilio. I'll find it for you, don't you worry.'

‘No, I do not need it. It is special,
si
, a gift from
mi abuela
. But it will not be the end of my life if you do not find it. I know now, Emilita, all I have ever needed is you. This is why there is an explosion! To bring us together, you see?'

I cleared my throat, picked up the menu. ‘Let's order, shall we?'

After dinner, Emilio wanted me to go to his room for herbal tea.

‘I don't think that's a good idea, do you?'

He sighed. ‘Perhaps not. I may be tempted, and then I will surely regret it.'

I wasn't sure what to feel more offended by, the fact that I didn't seem to be included in the decision about whether or not there was to be any sex, or that he'd regret it later, which I was pretty sure he would, judging by what I'd read about him. He'd regret it so much he'd be suddenly repulsed by me, which, in a very strange way, I found tempting. If I was suddenly repulsive to Emilio then he'd leave me alone and have to find someone else to be his muse. But no, I wouldn't do it, as beautiful as he was and as much as I believed that Jack and I had no claim on each other and as much as I worried Jack and Sharon might be doing the very same thing, right now . . .

As I walked to my car I wrote Jack a text:
Miss you
. I hesitated before sending. It just came out – not what I'd intended writing (what did I intend writing?) – and it was a message full of a not-so-hidden other meaning. One that suggested I had actual feelings for him. It was a gutsy decision on my part, but I did miss him. I missed him desperately. All I wanted was to be in his arms for a while. In his bed or in front of the telly, or – anywhere, I didn't care. I just wanted to
touch
him and be in his space. And I wanted him to know that even though I'd been with Emilio, he was on my mind. I hit send, and as I sat in my car, his reply came through:
Where are you?

About to drive home. Can I come over?

It was only nine o'clock, so I thought Jack wouldn't mind if I called in for a coffee, nightcap, shower . . . There was a full minute before he responded, and I wondered why.

I'm not home.

Oh.
Where?

Out for dinner.

My turn to hesitate. I didn't want to know what I suspected to be true. But I couldn't stand not knowing.

With S?

Yes.

There it was. So be it.

I messaged:
Night. Enjoy your evening.

Night.

I drove home in misery via Jack's house in Brighton, which wasn't on the way to Mum's. His house was in darkness and I wondered where he'd gone for dinner. Was Joe at dinner too? Or tucked up in bed? Did they go to that nice restaurant in Southbank? I thought I'd drive to Church Street in Brighton and see if I could find him. But then, if he saw me lurking outside a restaurant, what would he think? I headed for Chadstone, drove past Mum's and around the block to Mrs Booth's. I needed to focus on the amulet, finding it, getting it back to Emilio, so he'd stop obsessing about me.

I parked a few houses up the road and snuck back. Crept up the driveway, past the double garage, and down the side of the house. At the back was the kitchen window, the laundry door, the large living-room windows and the outside basement door, which was overgrown with weeds. I think it used to be access for the wood or coal delivery guy or something. Mr and Mrs Booth were Americans who moved here in the fifties, which is why they built an American-style house. Part of the reason as kids we were spooked by it was because it was so different to the single-storey, cream-brick creations of the Australian 'burbs. I went into the garden so I could watch without being seen. Lights were on. Blinds were drawn. I saw a shadow moving around and my heart started racing.

‘Don't be a sook, Erica,' I muttered. ‘It's Mrs Booth.'

A second shadow appeared in the kitchen. Who? The living-room lights went out, and a few seconds later an upstairs light came on. Someone still in the kitchen. The shadow moved out of the kitchen and then a second light came on upstairs. Ruth's old bedroom. The trellis was still against the wall under Ruth's bedroom window, the vine covering it long dead. Ruth used to climb in and out of her bedroom via the window and trellis. She told Steve and me that she snuck out in the night with her mother's cigarettes. She was only twelve at the time – we would have been fifteen – and we didn't believe her, so she stole cigarettes from her mother and showed us. While Ruth stood there, smoking sophisticatedly, I had one puff and vomited.

I watched a while longer. The two bedroom lights were still on, but so was the kitchen light. I saw movement in both upstairs rooms, so I crept to the kitchen window. If Mrs Booth had taken the amulet, where would she keep it? I could start with the kitchen. The blind was down but there was a one-inch gap at the bottom. I peered in. I could see through the kitchen to the living room. There was a fish tank. Is that where Axle got his goldfish? How on earth did he pluck it out of there? The blind moved suddenly. I ducked down, hand over my mouth, neck craning to see if someone was there. Maybe a breeze had caused it? Slowly I came up, eyes level with the gap; the blind moved again and the black cat stared out at me. I squealed, backed away and ran down the driveway as fast as I could, not stopping until I got into my car. I screeched off down the road, around the corner and parked outside Mum's.

I sat there for a while, calming myself from the terrifying ordeal of having a cat look at me through a window. Inside, Mum and Dad were watching television.

‘Oh, good,' said Mum. ‘You're home.' She stood and headed for the kitchen. ‘I was just going to make a cuppa.'

I sat opposite Mum at the kitchen counter, hanging on to stop the stool from swivelling to the right.

‘Mum, do you remember Mr Booth?'

‘Yes, dear. Not well, though.'

‘What do you think happened to him?'

Mum put down the kettle and gave me a considered look, like she was trying to decide something. ‘I suppose you're old enough to know.'

‘Know what?' That he was murdered and buried in the basement? If Mum knew that, why didn't she tell the police?

‘That he ran off with Mrs Smith.'

‘Their next-door neighbour?'

‘That's right.'

‘Do you know that for sure?'

‘Rumour has it that's why Mr Smith sold up and left.' She put a mug of tea in front of me. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘I just drove by the Booth house. I think someone else is living there.'

‘Really? Imelda's been on her own since Ruth moved away.' Mum put a finger to her chin, looked up. ‘That was probably fifteen years ago.'

‘Where did Ruth go? I never knew.'

‘Imelda wouldn't say. With her father, presumably. Poor thing didn't see much of her daughter after that. But since then, I've heard Mr Booth left Mrs Smith and returned to America.'

‘With Ruth?'

‘I'm not sure, dear.'

‘I wonder if she's moved back home to her mother's?'

‘I don't know.' Mum looked at the clock. ‘Now, Erica, it's bedtime! Before you know it, you'll be up and off to work again.' And she left the kitchen with a mug of tea, and Tim Tam biscuits for Dad.