“It’s not really for me to say, Charlie,” Mr. Silver said. “Although you probably know where I come down on these things.”
“The old Charlie would have waited and waited because it’s the polite thing to do, and I would have lost that match point and then the next one and then the whole thing would have spiraled into a complete shit show. You know it’s happened before! And Marcy would have been the first one to tell me that I’d made the right decision, and that I’d eventually get mentally stronger with experience and not have it affect me, but I would have lost this tournament. Lost it because I was always trying to make everyone like me. No one else seems to lose sleep over that, so why should I? And it’s not even like I did anything wrong. I was completely within my right to serve the ball whenever I damn well pleased!”
“Well, it sounds like you have it sorted then,” her father said.
“Ms. Silver? May we try again?” Ms. Baird asked, and Charlie was relieved.
“Dad, I have to run. I’ll see you at the restaurant just as soon as I’m—”
“I’m on my way back to the hotel for the night,” Mr. Silver said. His voice sounded completely neutral to anyone but Charlie, who could hear the disappointment like an electric guitar.
“Already? You’re not going to celebrate with us?”
“It’s so late already. And I know Jake and Todd are eager to speak with you. Let’s touch base tomorrow before my flight.”
Charlie was quiet for a moment. “Okay, Dad. If that’s really what you want.” She could feel the shame in her flushed cheeks.
She hung up and turned her attention to the tester. “I think I can do it this time,” she said.
This time the urine flowed freely, and after dipping a little paper stick in it, Ms. Baird declared it adequately concentrated. “Thank you for your cooperation,” she said. “You’re free to go.”
Charlie nodded and thanked the woman and headed back to her locker. She pulled a brag book from the pocket of the garment bag that was hanging there and began to leaf through it. This is what it had come to: two outfit choices, both selected by someone else, and still she couldn’t figure out how to put them together without a photographic lesson. There were tabs for all kinds of occasions—print interview, player party, television interview, airline travel, family dinners, et cetera—and she flipped to the catchall section labeled CELEBRATIONS. Monique had placed mini sticky notes on two of the dozen or so pictures featured in this section, indicating the two choices that currently hung in Charlie’s locker: a spaghetti strap silk romper that gathered at the waist and ankles and a cropped black tee paired with what could only be described as a high-waisted tutu. Figuring she’d spent enough time already both going to the bathroom and wondering how she’d go to the bathroom, Charlie pulled on the second outfit. Standing in front of the mirror, she had to admit that Monique was good at her job. The T-shirt’s cap sleeves accentuated her toned arms, and the little swath of skin that showed between the bottom of her shirt and the top of her skirt made her breasts look like they defied gravity. Even the Swarovsky-studded black Louboutins gave her legs the illusion of infinity, despite the fact that Monique, at Charlie’s repeated insistence, had finally agreed to have the heels cut down from four inches to two.
Her phone bleated with a FaceTime call. Monique’s picture stared back at her. Knowing the woman wouldn’t stop calling until she answered, Charlie slid the red box to the right and held her phone as high as she could with her right hand.
“I like it,” she said, moving the screen to give Monique a full view.
“Where the hell are you? Shouldn’t you be at the restaurant by now?” Monique squinted, trying to get a better look. “I like it, too. I knew that Alice and Olivia skirt would be perfect, and it is. Let me see the Loubs.”
Charlie pointed the phone at her feet. “They’re actually really comfortable at this height.”
Monique made a gagging sound. “If you ever tell anyone I agreed to having the heel hacked, we’re over. Just so you know.”
Charlie laughed.
“Where’s the crown? I left a couple extra in a cosmetic pouch at the bottom of the bag.”
“Yeah, I saw them.”
“So put one on. Your choice. How do you like that? Who says I don’t let my clients have any creative freedom?”
“They’re identical, Monique. One has black stones and one has pink.”
“Yes, well, don’t you like that you can choose? Although with this outfit, and in light of the fact that you’re celebrating a huge victory, I’d strongly recommend the black.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“So wear the pink if you really like it. I can live with that.”
“I just think it’s a little much for downtown Charleston, you know? This is like the real-deal South. Home of the cashmere twinset. Am I really going to wear a tiara to dinner?”
“You sure as hell are!” Monique screeched. “I don’t care if all the other girls are wearing every single nauseating pink and green Lilly Pulitzer print ever invented. This is about you and no one else. You are the Warrior Princess. And for chrissake, you actually just won something! So put on your goddamn tiara and own it. You may as well be at Buckingham Fucking Palace right now, because you are tennis royalty and you damn well better act like it!”
Charlie watched as Monique weaved her way onto a packed airport people mover and started barking “Left is for passing!” to anyone who didn’t move as fast as she did. As soon as she stepped off, she turned her attention back to the screen. “Now!” she yelled so loud that a family of four all turned to stare at her.
Charlie held her phone so Monique could see and pulled the black tiara from her locker. If she was going to be honest, the cluster of crystals that made up the front design was small and delicate, and their color nearly blended into her hair. From far enough away, maybe it only looked like a sparkly headband? She worked the small clear combs into her hair on either side, and adjusted the crown part so it was centered. “There.”
“Good. Keep it there. Now, go put on some mascara and lip gloss and go. I’m making a note to get you some eyelash extensions next time I see you. I think they’d go a long way to—”
“Monique! I can’t even wear sunglasses on the court because they’re too distracting. You think I can handle eyelash extensions?”
But the line had already gone dead. She smiled to herself, suddenly feeling better, and gathered up her things.
14
the grand master plan
CHARLESTON
APRIL 2016
Another FaceTime call came through as soon as she’d settled into the back of the tournament car, and she swiped it without looking. “What, are you stalking me? I’m wearing the damn crown, okay?”
“Charlotte? Hello?” Marco’s sexy Spanish accent caused her head to whip around.
“Marco?” She squinted at the screen. He was sitting on a carpeted floor somewhere, his back against an ottoman, wearing tennis clothes and smiling at someone offscreen. A man she didn’t recognize sat in a chair behind Marco with an ice pack taped to his shoulder. She waited for Marco to turn his attention back to her but instead he offered someone off camera that killer smile. “Gracias,” he said, lisping the “s” sound in the classic Spaniard way. “Volver a verme pronto.” When he finally did turn back to Charlie, he stared at the screen blankly as though he’d forgotten who he called.
“Hey,” Charlie said, reaching up to turn on the overhead backseat light so he could see her more easily. She was elated to see he’d been following her tournament. Charleston was women only, and usually the men took little notice: they were competing in Monte Carlo at the Rolex Masters, and since Marco was not only the tournament favorite but also the current face of Rolex, he was undoubtedly busy. She ran a quick calculation and figured it was nearly midnight in Europe. His match must have run serio
usly late.
“Charlie? What’s up? What’s going on there?”
“What’s going on here?” she teased, working harder than she thought to sound casual. “Oh, just the usual. Winning is exhausting, you know.”
Again, he glanced off camera and winked. Where was he? The players’ lounge? His hotel room? Someone else’s? Then he turned back to look at her. He either hadn’t heard her or didn’t catch the reference.
“Charlie? Listen, I only have a second. Can you do me a huge favor? Babolat just called that my new set of rackets are ready. If they ship them over, they could get held up in customs. If I have them meet you at JFK, can you fly them over to Munich?”
“Your new rackets?”
“You’re playing Munich, I thought you said? And you’re coming tomorrow, yes? Or the next day?”
So he remembered she was flying the next day, which logically meant either he knew she’d won and wasn’t bothering to mention it, or he didn’t even care enough to ask how she’d done. Both options sucked equally.
“Yes. I’m going out to celebrate tonight with the crew, and then I fly out tomorrow.”
“Connecting in JFK? Or Atlanta? They can get them to either one if I let them know tonight.”
“JFK.” Her voice was steely cold.
“Great. I’ll tell Bernardo to call your people. Thanks, baby.”
“Is that all?”
“Sorry, amante, it’s late here. I will like to see you when you arrive.” He proffered a kiss to the screen, although his gaze was still diverted somewhere off in the distance. “Besos!”
She jammed the “end call” button with her thumb so hard she almost dropped her phone. Selfish prick, she thought. How do you say that in Spanish?
Almost immediately, the phone rang again. Her heart rate surged at the thought that he’d called back to apologize, but Jake’s name came up on the caller ID.
“Marcy told you, right? I’m on my way. The doping people literally attacked me right after the match, and it took forever until I could pee up to the acceptable standards.”
“You are a total rock star! Charlie, you won Charleston! You looked incredible out there. I really don’t think the score reflects how much you dominated that match. And how she tried to mess with you at the end and you wouldn’t let her? Todd and I were freaking out!”
Charlie allowed herself to smile. Now this was how you called someone to say congratulations.
“Do you even realize what this will do to your ranking? Not to even mention the big, fat, number-one check?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty great.”
“Understatement of the year. This is career-making for you. It’s happening, Charlie, it really is. Between Todd and the new image and the attitude, it’s all coming together. You won a Premier! Won it. And if that wasn’t good enough, I’m about to make it better.”
“Better? Really? Because I’m feeling pretty great right now.”
“I got a phone call.”
“That sounds exciting.”
“I’m serious, Charlie. You’re going to want to hear this. Wait, is that you pulling up?”
Charlie looked out the window and saw Jake standing outside the restaurant, phone to his ear. She ended the call, tossed her phone in her bag, and climbed out of the car.
“Wow. You look gorgeous,” Jake said, holding her shoulders. “Monique?”
Charlie held out her tutu skirt in a little curtsy. “What do you think? If it were up to me, I’d be in yoga pants.”
“Great win, Charlie!” an overweight man in a business suit bellowed from across the street.
“We love you, Charlie!” came the call from giggly preteen twin girls who trailed after their parents.
She waved and was delighted to see nearly everyone in sight waving back: pedestrians standing at the crosswalk, a line of people waiting for ice cream, nearly all the patrons of an outdoor restaurant.
“Where’s Marco?” called out a woman with a newborn strapped to her chest.
Charlie laughed, although the mere mention of his name sent her nails digging into her palms. “Monte Carlo!” she called back in what she hoped sounded like a carefree voice. “Tough life, huh?”
The crowd laughed with her, and in that moment she actually did feel freer than she could remember. Light. Happy. The earnings, the ranking, the endorsements, it was all pretty damn terrific, but this had to be the best feeling of all.
Jake guided her into the restaurant, and the maître d’ ushered them to the best table in the back corner. An enormous metal candelabra glowed from the middle, casting dramatic light around the entire area, and a small tin bucket held a lush arrangement of wildflowers. This farm-to-table was supposed to be the best in Charleston, possibly the entire South: two Michelin stars and rave reviews from every food critic this side of the Mississippi. And Jake said all he’d had to do was call an hour earlier and use her name. Not Todd’s. Not Marco’s. Charlie’s.
“Why is it only set for two?” she asked. “Where is everyone? I thought the whole crew was here tonight.”
“That’s where the better news comes in.”
“Marco’s here?” she asked, before she could stop herself.
Jake looked confused. “Marco’s here? I thought he was playing Monte Carlo.”
“No, he is. I just thought for a moment . . . wondered if he didn’t . . . never mind.” She felt foolish. Hadn’t she just spoken to him—seen him—sitting in a players’ lounge in Europe? There was a greater chance Obama would hop on Air Force One to surprise her in Charleston than Marco would leave midway through his match.
“Charlie? Can you focus for a second?” Jake’s foot was tapping fast against the floor.
She stared at him. He rarely got anxious about anything. “What’s going on? Why do I feel like you’re about to tell me someone died?”
“No one died. It’s crazier than that. I got a phone call.” He said this last part in a whisper, leaning in close to her ear.
“People only whisper bad news,” Charlie whispered back. “Like, ‘It’s cancer,’ or ‘I’m pregnant.’ ”
“Zeke Leighton’s publicist called.”
Charlie raised her eyebrows. “What does Zeke Leighton’s publicist want? Tickets? Wait, probably my player credentials to a Grand Slam? Which one? The Open? Or are they filming something in France? Let me guess . . . she’s going to pretend they’re really for Zeke, but then he’ll suddenly have some commitment he can’t cancel and she’ll be forced to bring her entire family. Isn’t this something your assistant can handle?”
“Charlie!” Jake growled, his lips nearly against her hear. “Zeke is on his way to have dinner with you. Right now. He should be here any minute.”
Charlie laughed, ignoring him. “Dad’s already told me in not so many words that he’s horrified by my unsportsmanlike conduct. God knows what Todd’s doing, maybe figuring out new torture methods to work me even harder. And I’m sure Dan is on some horse-drawn carriage tour through the Old City.”
Jake all but pushed her into the banquette seat. He stood directly over her and said, “I don’t have enough time to explain the whole thing. Apparently Zeke is here filming a scene for that biopic he’s doing with Steve Carell and Jennifer Lawrence. He’s in town for one night. And for some reason—one that was not made clear to me in any way—he had his people call to set up a dinner with you. He saw your match from his trailer today and insisted. I was planning to make sure it was all okay when you got here for drinks after the match, but then you got held up with the doping people. So he’s going to be here, probably any second.”
“Wait. Zeke Leighton—the Zeke Leighton—is going to be here? To have dinner with us? Now?”
“Not us. You.” Jake’s cell phone rang. He held it to his ear and nodded a few times. “Okay. We’re ready. Thanks.”
“Ready? We?
??re not ready!” Charlie hissed. “What’s going on here? Is this a date? Isn’t he dating what’s her name? The Israeli model? What am I supposed to tell Marco? I know we haven’t completely defined our terms, but I don’t think publicly dating other people is acceptable at this point. This is going to be all over the tabloids! Jake, what the hell is happening here?”
Jake hissed, “It’s not dating, it’s dinner. Now be quiet for one second.” Suddenly, a hush fell over the restaurant. A small bustle of people had gathered inside the front door. All together, like a choreographed dance move that reminded her of the old “Thriller” video, the crowd started moving toward her. Leading the pack in a pair of leather jeans and a black shawl-collar sweater was none other than Zeke Leighton, the most famous actor on planet earth. What Charlie noticed more than his world-renowned hair (dirty-blond waves that grazed his lashes) or that legendarily squared-off jaw, or even the way he walked—exuding confidence, as though every step only confirmed to him that he was as spectacularly gorgeous as everyone claimed—was the way he held her gaze with his own, staring deep into her eyes as he traversed the distance between them, his unwavering eye contact equal parts comforting and unnerving.
“Charlotte Silver,” he said, his voice as familiar to her as her brother’s. He was nearing forty and his breakthrough hit had come when he was seventeen, so she’d spent hours upon hours of her life watching him, examining him, reading about him, studying his face and features and every detail she could find. Which made her exactly like every other heterosexual woman between the ages of twelve and eighty, and every gay man alive. It was both disconcerting and supremely comfortable seeing him in the flesh after knowing him from afar so long, and she wasn’t surprised in the slightest when he said, “Please, don’t stand.”
But she wanted to. Why, she wasn’t sure exactly. “Zeke, it’s great to meet you. I’m so glad we could do this,” she said smoothly, as though her knees weren’t shaking; as if her hands weren’t a sweaty mess.