Grand Slam (27 page)

When I got back to work, Emilio had left several messages on my office and mobile phones. Charlotte told me he'd called Rosalind.

‘What? Why?'

‘He couldn't find you. He complained that he hasn't seen you since Saturday.'

‘Oh, for God's sake.'

Rosalind called me in. ‘Where were you? Everyone's looking for you.'

‘Actually, Rosalind —'

‘Sit down, Erica.'

I hesitated then sat.

‘The tennis player has complained. He was about to call John and I asked him not to, which I hope you appreciate.'

‘Of course, thank —'

‘Sounds to me like you're slacking off. Not doing your job.'

My mouth fell open.

‘Running here, running there, disappearing from your desk,' she snapped. ‘You're supposed to be at the tennis, helping the tennis player. I've been very patient with you, given you guidance, and this is the thanks I get.'

The thanks
you
get? ‘I've been working so hard!'

‘Working hard? Watching tennis? Out to dinner every night?'

‘I've been with Emilio and it's not like I —'

She slapped her pen down and sat back in her chair, looked at me squarely. This was serious shit. Rosalind rarely devoted this much oxygen to me.

‘Things need to improve. It's imperative for Dega that the tennis goes well. Having the tennis player call here because you're not doing your job is not my idea of
going well
.' She leaned in. ‘Do you understand what the signs of
going well
are?'

Enlighten me, vampire. ‘I'm pretty sure —'

‘The
tennis
, Erica. The
tennis
. Do we want our tennis player to win? Hmm? Do we?'

‘Yes, Rosalind.'

‘So, why are you here, swanning around and chatting with people and doing God knows what while he's unable to play because you're not there!'

I stood, sighed, wishing I had a stake handy. Or a silver bullet. Or was it gold? ‘Okay, I'll go now.'

She looked at her desk again, waved her hand, shooing me away. ‘And send Charlotte in. She's doing a wonderful job in your absence.'

Rosalind wanted to reward Charlotte for all her fabulous hard work; she sent her with me so she could enjoy the tennis. I dropped Charlotte off at Rod Laver Arena and gave her the fifty dollars Rosalind had ordered I give her. I told her to have fun, knock herself out, whatever. Then I'd called Teresa. She told me Emilio was still at his hotel and he wanted me to go there. His round-four match was later this afternoon, and he was struggling.

Teresa opened the door when I knocked and I walked into Emilio's suite. He was pacing, hands in his hair. Teresa tried to calm him.

‘Finally, she is here.'

He came at me, eyes blazing. ‘Where have you been? What is going on?'

I held up my hands. ‘I've got a lot on my plate.'

He stood close, waved his arms around, shouting in Spanish.

‘I don't understand what you're saying.' I kept my voice calm.

He spun, looking for Teresa who, unlike me, was right there for him, arms open. He fell into them; she clutched him and he wept on her shoulder. I tried to feel the compassion the moment surely deserved, but could only drum up resentment. And some pity. For me.

I stepped forward. ‘Emilio —'

Teresa held up a hand to stop me. With the other she stroked his hair. She whispered something, he nodded, and let her lead him to the bedroom. To me she said, ‘Please wait. I will tell you when he is ready for you.'

I took a seat at the dining table, where a pot of stinking camomile tea sat, freshly brewed. After a few minutes, Teresa emerged from Emilio's bedroom and held a finger to her lips, like a mother who's finally gotten her baby to sleep. ‘He will sleep for one hour and then you can go with him to the tennis.'

‘Is Joe coming? The bodyguard?'

‘Yes, in one hour someone is coming, I am told.'

For one hour I stared out Emilio's hotel window, reminding myself of these things: First, I like my job. And I'd like it even more if Rosalind moved to Sydney and I got a promotion. Second, I didn't want to be the subject of a public lynching. Third, a small part of me didn't want to face Jack when he said, ‘I told you so.' And fourth, for a tiny and very secret reason, my ego quite liked the idea of being in such a powerful position with Emilio Méndez. At the end of that hour, I could hear Emilio in the shower. He yelled something in Spanish, but Teresa had gone back to her room.

I cracked open the bedroom door. Steam swirled from the bathroom. ‘Teresa's not here, Emilio. Just me.'

‘Ah,
mi amor
, bring me a new soap.'

‘Um . . . I don't really think . . . I shouldn't . . .'

‘You have seen a naked man, no?'

‘Um . . .'

‘Maybe you have not!' He laughed. ‘Come, Emily, I do not have time for the games.'

I walked across the bedroom and stood at the bathroom door, face angled to the ceiling, trying to see in my peripheral vision where the soap might be. Emilio sang in Spanish. He had quite a good voice. The vanity was to my left – there'd be soap somewhere there, for sure. But of course behind the vanity was a mirror, mostly steamed over, except for one small patch around the power point, and in that patch I could see Emilio's gorgeous bottom. I stared at it, watching the muscles flex with his hair-washing action. It was mesmerising, and I was so fixed on the vision that when he turned suddenly, I kept staring into the mirror.

‘Ah,
querida
, you have found the soap, yes?'

Still it took me a few moments to divert my stare and continue the search for soap. The search that had not yet begun. A spare soap was there and I picked it up. I turned, keeping my gaze at eye level. Emilio smiled at me through the glass – he opened the shower door and leaned out of it. I held his eyes, and fixed a small smile on my face.

‘Here you are.'

‘Can you unwrap? It has paper.'

‘Oh, yes.' I looked down at the soap in my hand, and beyond that . . . My eyes snapped up and I unwrapped the soap without looking.

Emilio reached out and stroked my cheek with a wet finger. ‘I think we would both fit in this shower.' He gave me a wink.

I gritted my teeth, stretched my smile a little wider. ‘Here's the soap.' I handed it to him.

‘As you can see, I am very forgiving. Especially with you, my darling Emilita.' He opened the door wider.

Eyes north, Erica. Eyes north. ‘I'd better let you get ready.' I looked down at my watch. Whoops! Looked down. I turned, walked quickly from the bathroom and bedroom, fanning my face, and there, waiting with Teresa by the window, was Sharon Stone.

‘Oh! Hi!' I fanned more quickly.

Sharon nodded. ‘Hey.'

Teresa said, ‘
Bueno
, you are helping Emilio with his shower.'

‘Oh, no! No, I'm not.' I stopped fanning. ‘I just . . . ah . . . he needed a new soap.'

‘You gave him a new soap?'

‘Oh, no . . . no, I threw it to him. I closed my eyes and threw it. He caught it. I think. I wouldn't know.' I laughed. ‘I wasn't looking.'

Teresa moved to the bedroom door. ‘I will check.' She walked through to the bathroom and I heard her say, ‘Did you get the new soap,
mi precioso
?'

I stood there, facing off with Sharon Stone in an unspoken, motionless duel, as Emilio said, in loud, clear English, ‘Yes, my devoted Emily, she brought me one. She found it on the vanity and brought it to me in the shower. I think she wanted to come into the shower with me!' They laughed. ‘I tell her she must wait!' More laughing.

Sharon Stone smirked. I wanted to ask if she planned to kill me, but I was pretty sure I knew the answer to that. Instead, I said, ‘Did you know that Emilio sometimes calls me Emilita?'

At the tennis I'd spotted Jack, who, with Joe and Sharon, walked onto the court between games and sets and scanned the crowd. I was sure he spotted me – he knew where I was sitting – but he didn't show any sign of it. I'd sent him a text to ask what he was doing after the match, but I hadn't heard back. I wondered if Sharon had told him about me and Emilio in the shower. Of course she had.

Emilio won his round four match, wooed the crowd even more with spouts about Australia Day, how proud and joyful he was to be an Australian and how, hopefully, he said with a wink, he'd be adding to the Australian population in the future with an Australian wife. The camera zoomed in on my face, which meant I needed to adopt the appropriate expression. What would that expression be? Coy smiles and finger waves? Kisses blown across the space? Fingers stuck down my throat?

Charlotte had had a terrific, relaxing time at the tennis, joining me for some of it, wandering the grounds, having a free pedicure. I sent her home in a taxi and had to wait while Emilio was interviewed in the media room then some more while he showered and changed in his dressing room. He wanted me to have a late supper with him. In the players' café I sat at a table, put my head down on my crossed arms, and a minute later my snoring woke me. I looked around, but the room was mostly empty. Andrew had returned to his car, waiting for Emilio and me. I snuck off for a walk to get some air, trying to wake myself up. But the warm evening air was so caressing, and so . . . warm, I just wanted to lie on the grass and sleep. I circled the stadium, taking in deep breaths. I strolled toward the river, crossing Batman Avenue, drawn to the idea of a picnic with Jack there on the sloping grass.

A boat was docked at the small pontoon, a twin-hulled cabin cruiser. I walked closer to it, and wouldn't have taken much notice but I could see that its name was
Iodka
, which looked to me like a Russian word. Under that was written
St Kilda Australia
. A man emerged from inside and I turned and walked away, watching over my shoulder. He disembarked with some effort and headed up the grass to the road. He was quite a fat man, and familiar. I stopped and watched him cross the road, walk around the front of Rod Laver Arena and then, perhaps because I felt I knew him, because he looked like the man who'd nearly knocked me down that day at the tennis, the angry-looking fat man who'd bowled over a child, I followed him.

The man passed by Rod Laver Arena and headed up the stairs to the pedestrian overpass, which led to the MCG and surrounding parkland, where parking was available during the Australian Open. I followed at a distance, keeping the thin crowd of departing tennis fans between us, ducking out of sight when he checked over his shoulder. Why was he checking? Did he expect to be followed?

Apart from the moon and soft lighting along the pedestrian walkway, the MCG was in darkness. As its soaring, dormant light towers loomed, most people veered off to the left to find their cars, but the man kept walking to the right, around the Brunton Avenue side of the stadium. I dropped back, now with fewer people to use as a shield. My phone buzzed and I looked at it. Andrew. I considered not answering, but knew that would throw him, Emilio and probably all of Jack's team into a panic.

I stopped walking and stepped behind a light tower, whispering, ‘Hello?'

‘Can't find you.'

‘I'm, um, in the loo.'

‘No, you're not.'

‘Is Emilio with you?'

‘He's looking for you. Where, Erica?'

‘I'm, um —'

‘No bullshit.'

I took a breath. ‘I'm following someone suspicious.'

‘Where?' His voice was tight.

‘The MCG. Brunton Avenue side.'

‘I'm coming. Start walking back.' He hung up.

Of course I kept following the man. I figured once I knew what he was up to, I'd message Andrew and let him know where I was. At light tower number three, the man stopped. He looked like he was talking to someone behind the tower. I crept forward, keeping to the shadows of the stadium walls. A person stepped out from behind the tower. A man wearing a baseball cap. I moved forward. The baseball-cap man gave the fat man something. I squinted. A departing car went by, its high-beam lights sweeping the stadium. Baseball-cap man looked up, startled by the light, and I got to see his face. It was a face I knew but not usually with a baseball cap, so I couldn't be one hundred percent sure. But I was pretty sure the man was Martin McGann.

I'd walked barely a hundred metres back when I saw Andrew running toward me.

‘You're a slow walker,' he puffed.

I shushed him and walked faster, glancing over my shoulder, but the two men were now out of view. ‘Wait till I tell you what I saw.'

‘I'm not interested. I've got one job to do, and you're making it hard for me.'

‘Did you tell Jack?'

‘Not yet.'

‘Thanks.'

‘But I will.'

‘Please don't.'

He didn't respond, and I told him what I saw. He shrugged. ‘Even if it was McGann, so what?'

‘It looked pretty shady. They exchanged something.'

‘What's it got to do with anything?'

‘I don't know, but I'm guessing Martin would be one of Shane's regular visitors, and I'm still wondering how Shane knows a certain fact about me.'

‘Which is?'

‘That Emilio calls me Emilita.'

‘How?'

‘I saw Martin McGann and Emilio's manager Teresa in the Sofitel. I think they're having an affair.'

Andrew seemed to consider all that. ‘Even if you're right, McGann and Teresa together might be nothing more than a harmless affair.'

‘Harmless? He's married.'

‘You know what I mean.'

Yeah, I knew what he meant.

Andrew decided to join Emilio and me for dinner, rather than wait in the car. He said he didn't trust me not to run off and so took a table near the restaurant entrance, perhaps in case he needed to rugby tackle me as I headed out the door, unable to resist the idea of risking my life and annoying others with some dangerous yet appealing adventure.

Our table wasn't far from Andrew, and as he sat there reading a book, I wondered if he had a long-distance microphone so he could hear our conversation and report back to Jack.

‘In the shower today,' said Emilio, ‘I was so tempted by you.'

‘I wasn't
in
the shower, Emilio. Remember? I just brought you soap because you didn't have any and there was no-one else to bring it.' I glanced at Andrew, who appeared to be intent on his novel. But there was a smirk. Definitely a smirk.

‘I think you wanted to join me in the shower, yes?'

‘No! No, of course not.' I laughed. It was very high-pitched and way too loud.

‘Ah, so chaste,
ángel
. But in the future, perhaps we will have many showers together,
si
?'

‘Let's order.'

‘We have ordered already.'

‘I forgot to order . . . bread.'

‘They will bring the bread. You see! Here it is.'

Emilio took my hand and I snatched it back. His face was so hurt and shocked by my abrupt action, I explained, ‘Um, I think I have a fungal infection. I don't want you to catch it.'

‘So caring, my sweet Emily.'

I put my hands in my lap.

‘I cannot believe how well I am playing.'

‘You're a very good tennis player.'

‘I am brilliant!'

‘Yes. Yes, you are.'

‘And a brilliant lover also, you will see.' He sat back in his chair.

I took a breath. ‘Emilio —'

‘Please, call me
amante
.'

‘
Amante
?'

‘
Si
.'

‘What does it mean?'

‘Lover.'

‘Oh. Um. Emilio —'

‘Practise saying it.'

‘I really don't think —'

‘Say it with feeling, with sex. Like this:
Amante
.'

Sigh.