“I know,” Doug said quietly. “And that’s his right. But it’s also my job to tell him the truth.”
Blake nodded. He understood the tension — he felt it himself, every time Andre chose the studio over the practice court, every time a canvas took priority over a training session. He was proud of Andre’s art, genuinely and completely proud. But there was a part of him — a small, competitive, selfish part — that missed the rivalry. Missed the fire in Andre’s eyes when they faced each other across the net. Missed the feeling of playing against someone who pushed him to his absolute limit.
Beating Andre had become easier over the past year, and it troubled Blake in ways he couldn’t fully articulate. The victories felt hollow, incomplete, as if he were winning a game that his opponent had already decided to forfeit.
“He’s brilliant, you know,” Blake said suddenly. “The paintings. They’re really good.”
Doug smiled. “I know. Claire showed me photos. I don’t understand art, but even I could see it.”
“He’s found something,” Blake said. “Something that makes him happy in a way tennis never did.”
“And that scares you,” Doug said.
Blake looked at him. “Why would that scare me?”
Doug held his gaze for a moment, then stood up, brushing the grass from his shorts. “Break’s over. Let’s work on your return of serve.”
Blake watched him walk back to the baseline, the unanswered question hanging in the warm morning air.
Chapter two
The Cafe on the Corner
Andre’s studio was a converted warehouse space on The Cut, a narrow, busy street in Waterloo that sat in the long shadow of the Old Vic Theatre. The building was old, the plumbing unreliable, and the heating nonexistent, but the light was extraordinary — a wide, north-facing window that flooded the room with a cool, even glow that made colors behave honestly.
He had signed the lease four months ago, when the spare bedroom in the flat had become too small to contain the growing chaos of his work. Canvases were stacking up against every wall, the smell of oil paint had permanently embedded itself in the bedroom curtains, and Blake had gently suggested, after tripping over a palette knife for the third time in a week, that perhaps Andre needed a dedicated space.
The studio was perfect. It was messy, it was cold, and it was entirely his.
He worked there most days, arriving after breakfast at the bakery and staying until the light faded in the late afternoon. His routine was simple:paint, drink coffee, paint more, eat whatever Claire had packed for him, paint until his hands ached.
The coffee came from a small cafe on the corner of The Cut and Waterloo Road, a cramped, noisy place with steamed-up windows and a barista who remembered Andre’s order after the second visit. It was the kind of London cafe that attracted a specific crowd — students, freelancers, and the transient population of the nearby theatres.
It was at this cafe, during his third week in the studio, that Andre first noticed them.
They were sitting at a table near the window — a man and a woman, both in their mid-twenties, both still wearing traces of stage makeup. The man had the palest skin Andre had ever seen, almost translucent, with a shock of ginger hair that fell across his forehead in a way that looked both careless and deliberate. His eyes were remarkable — a deep, vivid green, the color of malachite, bright and startling against his fair complexion. He spoke with a strong, clipped British accent that carried across the small room.
The woman beside him was his opposite in almost every way. Her skin was a warm olive, her hair dark and thick, falling past her shoulders. She was striking — high cheekbones, full lips, a quiet intensity in her dark eyes. She sounded British, her accent polished and precise, though her features suggested roots somewhere in the Mediterranean.
They were clearly a couple. The way they sat — angled toward each other, their knees touching under the table — spoke of an easy, physical intimacy. She would steal bites from his plate, and he would let her, watching her with an expression of amused adoration. They laughed often, their voices rising above the cafe noise, unselfconscious and warm.
Andre found himself watching them.
It wasn’t attraction, exactly. It was curiosity. There was something theatrical about them, something larger than life, as if they were performing even when they weren’t on stage. The remnants of makeup — a smudge of eyeliner on the man’s temple, a trace of foundation along the woman’s jaw — confirmed what Andre had already guessed. They were actors.
He saw them again the following week. And the week after that. They were always at the same table, always in the late afternoon, always with the faint residue of a performance clinging to their skin. Sometimes they were animated, talking over each other, gesturing wildly. Other times they were quiet, reading scripts, the woman’s feet resting in the man’s lap.
One afternoon, the man was wearing a faded black t-shirt with “OLD VIC” printed across the chest in white block letters.
Andre’s pulse quickened.
The Old Vic was one of the most celebrated theatres in London, and one of the oldest.
Built in 1818 as the Royal Coburg Theatre, it had survived fires, financial ruin, and two world wars to become a cornerstone of British dramatic arts. Laurence Olivier had run it as the home of the National Theatre in the 1960s. Peter O’Toole had graced its stage, and Richard Burton had delivered legendary performances there. It had launched careers, premiered landmark productions, and maintained a reputation for bold, uncompromising work that attracted the best talent in the country. It sat just around the corner from Andre’s studio, a grand, slightly worn building that Andre passed every day without really seeing it.
Now he saw it.
He began to wonder what they performed. What roles they played. Whether they were leads or supporting cast, veterans or newcomers. The curiosity grew, quietly, persistently, like a vine climbing a wall.
