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‘Play something you like,’ I suggest.
Noah’s fingers are still for a moment, poised in a way that reminds me of a spider ready to strike. A second later, they fall onto the keyboard, fast and messy and beautiful. Even if he made a mistake, I don’t think I’d notice it. He’s so masterful it’s just a privilege to watch him begoodat it, and I wonder if that’s how he feels watching my tennis matches.
I loop my arms around his waist and press my forehead against his shoulder. Noah shifts slightly, angling his body towards me, and switches to a gentle repetitive melody with his left hand as his right comes to rest on my upper thigh.
‘Darling, cameras, public,’ he says, barely audible over the music.
I kiss his cheek and feel his surprise against my lips. I desperately want him to turn his head and find my lips, but he keeps playing.
‘What was that for?’ he asks, clearly amused.
Because Ilove you. Because Iwant to keep you after all this is over; because you know me better than anyone else, know me better than Ieven know myself, sometimes.
But Noah has such a full life here; I’ve seen a glimpse of it tonight. How can I ask him to leave? To give it all up—for me? Someone who’s in Paris for less than four months a year; someone who might not be able to kiss him on his birthday or take him out for a drink on a Friday night, or do all the wonderfully simple, beautiful, mundane things people do when they’re in love.
‘I don’t want this to end,’ I say. ‘Any of this.’
Noah stops playing and turns to me. ‘I don’t—’
‘I know there’s a lot of . . .shithere,’ I interrupt before he can say something. ‘That I still have to talk to Papa, and I know my life is anythingbutnormal . . .’
‘Gabi, I—’
Realising I can’t stomach his rejection right now, I squeeze his thigh. ‘Just say you’ll be there at the end of the Open.’ That’s enough for now; it has to be.
Noah pauses, swallows, nods. ‘Of course I will be.’
I take his hand. ‘Will you come and watch tomorrow?’ It might be the last match I play in this tournament; it might be the last match Noah sees for a while.
He nods. ‘If you want me there, I’ll come.’
‘I do. I want you, badly.’
For more than a match, more than a tournament, more than a summer.
‘Gabriel.’ He says my name as though it hurts him, then he pulls out his phone and checks the time. It’s barely past midnight. ‘I should go.’
I sit on the edge of the piano stool, trying to untangle my feelings as Noah orders an Uber.
‘You played beautifully,’ says the night receptionist as we make our way out to the street.
‘Thank you for letting me,’ Noah says bashfully.
When we get outside, a car pulls into the half-circle drive, and Noah turns to me. ‘See you tomorrow?’
‘See you tomorrow.’
He reaches forward and squeezes my hand. ‘This isn’t the end, I know it isn’t.’ I don’t know if he’s talking about the tournament, or us.
I nod, swallowing. ‘Okay.’
26
Gabriel
My alarm blares at eight-thirty the next morning. When people think of professional athletes, they often think of 4.30 am wake-up calls, of hours spent in the gym, of restrictive diets and supplements. While that might be true for competition time, it’s not the reality for most of us. Occasionally, I’ll train before six if we have to travel during the day, or if there’s a meeting or engagement early in the morning, but most of the time, I train for a few hours either side of lunch and then focus on recovery, or strategy, before getting a full eight to nine hours of sleep. Sleep is just as important as training.
Blearily, I reach over and turn off my alarm. After the magic of last night, I’m still achingly tired and since there’s no hurry to get up, I close my eyes and sink into the pillow a while longer. My match isn’t until six this evening.
