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Bernard cracks one eye open. ‘We ran background checks, social media checks, but nothing comes up. No accounts. No history.’
‘I’m a man of mystery.’
He doesn’t smile. Okay, no jokes now, then.
‘Noah. My son is worth twelve million dollars. He is the jewel of French tennis. If he was not so attached to you, I would have ended your relationship as soon as I’d run those reports. No one on my team knows who you are. Therefore, you’re a risk. If you want to keep seeing my son, you’ll tell me everything there is to know about you.’
JesusfuckingChrist on a cracker, what have I walked into?
‘Gabriel knows everything about me.’ I recall our ‘no Google’ pact and how, at the time, I felt it protected him more than it protected me. ‘The short story is that my dad was abusive to me and my mum. He was a cop and he always told me he had ways of finding us if we ever left, so I’ve always been careful to keep my online presence hidden. Mum and I got away from him when I turned eighteen. I moved here. Got a job at the bar where I met Gabriel. My driver’s licence expired and reapplying for it means I need an updated address, which gets stored on their system. A system the cops have access to. No passport, but that’s mainly because I’m too broke to fly overseas.’ I pause. ‘That’s it.’
Bernard’s body language is putting me off. I’m already skimming so close to the surface of a full-on breakdown, the last thing I’d thought I’d do today is relive my shitty childhood trauma, or justify it to anyone. ‘Look, you don’t have to believe me but I actually give a fuck about your son, and not because he’s rich, or famous, or whatever you think—I didn’t even know who he was when I met him!—but because he’s actually amazing and so caring, and passionate about what he does. And helovesyou so much.’
Immediately, I regret letting my emotions get the better of me. The stove hisses out more steam. I suck in a lungful of humid air, and try not to shift uncomfortably as Bernard considers my words in silence.
‘My father was an angry man,’ Bernard says eventually. ‘He hit me when I was growing up. It was normal to hit for discipline, but he did it more than that—when he was upset, when I lost a match. When Gabriel told me he wished to become a tennis player, to turn professional, I told him he must always play with dignity and calmness. Never hit the racquet on the ground or throw your things. Never be violent or angry. Sometimes the media, they think that is just bad behaviour, that it is interesting and fun to the game, but how do we know the people who hit their racquets on the ground do not go home and hit their dog, or their wife? We cannot condone violence of any kind.’ He looks at me, his expression neutral. ‘I believe you, Noah.’
My relief is immense. ‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘As much as you distract Gabi, it is clear you also make him very happy. Before you met him, he was questioning if tennis was the right choice. He has given up so much to get to this level, and I began to worry if I had allowed him to give up too much. The drive he needed to continue was waning. I was losing him, and I did not know how to get him back.’ He pauses. ‘It is hard for a father to accept he might have failed his child.’
I can’t comment, so I don’t.
‘He mentioned he wishes to stay in Australia after the tournament. I think it is a good idea. Perhaps afterwards you can come to Paris. Gabriel will play at Roland-Garros in May; I’m sure he would love to show you around Paris.’
It feels weird making plans so far in advance, but it’s kind of Bernard to think of me. ‘That’d be nice.’
I’m proud of the progress we’ve made together. Not having a proper dad has fucked me up in more ways than one, but seeing the way Bernard cares for Gabriel is, well, heartwarming.
‘We should get back,’ Bernard says just as the stove spews out more steam.
Oh, thank god. I can’t leave the sauna fast enough.
When we return to the apartment, Gabriel gives his father a suspicious look. He’s still at the table with Victor, the laptop between them.
Bernard heads into the kitchen and I mouthsaunato Gabriel when he shoots me a questioning look.
‘Ah. It’s his favourite torture chamber,’ Gabriel explains. ‘Whenever we have fights, he wants to talk in the sauna. I hate it. I told him to take you to a coffee shop.’
Bernard reappears from the kitchen with two glasses of water in hand. Surprisingly, he places one down in front of me. I suppose it’s to replenish the shit-ton of water I just lost.
‘We spoke,’ Bernard summarises. ‘It’s all fine.’
Gabriel reaches out and grasps my hand. I squeeze back. ‘We’re just about to post the statement.’
‘Oh!’ I’m not exactly sure what I should say.
‘PressingSendnow,’ Victor says. ‘One . . . two . . . three, posted!’
There’s a pause. A silence. Maybe a minute, or less than, where no one moves or says anything, and nothing happens—and then Victor’s phone begins to ring.
The rest of the morning is a blur. Gabriel and I spend it on the couch, me down one end, him up the other, with our legs tangled together. We watch a bit of TV as Victor fields questions and phone calls around us. Gabriel watches TV with a hollow, tired gaze. I’m not sure he’s really, fully here with me—and that’s okay.
My phone buzzes around eleven-thirty, and I lean over to see Margie’s name flash up on the screen. Gabriel looks at me, frowning.
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Not sure,’ I reply as I pick up the call. ‘Hey, Marg, are you okay?’
