Page 70 of Match Point

The crowd roared at that, showering them with praise. I cocked my head while gazing down at the Frenchman. It was like his body was suddenly hijacked by a different man.

Or this has been the real Gabriel all along, hidden beneath the public persona we all know.

“Now Gabriel,” the on-court reporter said, “I have to ask you this next question. So apologies if I’m jinxing things.”

“Apology not accepted,” Gabriel quipped, pretending to storm off, which drew more laughs from the fans. He turned back around and said, “No, please, continue. I am not superstitious.”

“Only two men have won a Grand Slam in a calendar year, and just one of them in the modern era. You have already had an incredible year, but you are nowone win awayfrom completing such a prestigious feat. Tell me: have you thought about the possibility of accomplishing this at the US Open next month?”

Gabriel flashed a cunning smile. “I would like to pretend as if I had not thought of this, but no. Of course I have thought about doing this at the US Open! How could I not? I try to focus only on the next match in front of me, but this is impossible. The US Open will be the most important thing I think about for the next month.” He glanced up in the direction of the booth. “Or perhaps the second most important thing.”

Henman grunted next to me. “He doesn’t quit, does he?”

“There’s a reason he’s number one,” I muttered. “Persistence.”

The reporter chuckled. “What could possibly top the US Open, Gabriel?”

I cringed, waiting to see how he would answer. It was bad enough my love life with Tristan had been exposed to the world. But if Gabriel said something about me right now…

He glanced up in my direction again, then turned back to the reporter. “The new season ofSurvivorbegins next week. I am a huge fan! But our episodes air later in France, so please, no spoilers.” He held up a finger to his lips.

“Cheeky fucker,” Henman said.

“You have no idea.”

35

Miranda

Once all the post-game ceremonies were over, I went back to my cottage and packed my bags. We were flying out of Heathrow first thing in the morning, and I had brought two full suitcases with me to Wimbledon. That was something that would take some getting used to: needing to bring two dozen different outfits with me for the broadcasts. Hammy said he could negotiate for an on-site wardrobe if I signed a long-term contract with the network, but for now I had to bring it all myself.

Things were a lot easier when I was a player. My sponsors supplied all my clothes and rackets. All I had to do was show up.

My suitcase was half packed when I got the text that I had been anticipating.

Gabriel: Did you see the match today?

Me: I think we both know that I was watching. It’s literally my job right now.

Gabriel: What did you think?

Me: You played very well. Dominant, even.

Gabriel: I match well against Juncheng. He will be a formidable opponent in one or perhaps two years.

Me: Okay, that’s the part that’s confusing me. You’re being really nice about it all.

Gabriel: Why is this confusing to you, Miranda?

Me: You’re playing a game right now! Pretending to be friendly and gracious, instead of cocky and arrogant.

Gabriel: I am not pretending to do anything. I am merely being myself rather than trying to place my face.

Me: Place your face?

Gabriel: Place my face. Is this not the correct saying?

Me: You mean putting on a face?

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