The Wild Card

by Judy Murray

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Twenty years ago, Abigail Patterson put her promising tennis career on hold to have her baby son, Robbie. But after a wild card entry to Wimbledon, she suddenly finds herself swept up in a world she thought she'd left behind - and against all odds, she's winning! Yet as those long-buried dreams of lifting the sparkling silver trophy on centre court inch closer, Abi knows that it's only a matter of time before the press start digging into her past and uncover the secret she's kept hidden for so long. The stakes are raised, but this time nothing - and no one - is going to stand in her way. But could the greatest comeback of all time destroy everything she's sacrificed to protect?

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 320

Sample

The discreet black car eased its way down the sloped driveway, leaving the neat hedges of Belvedere Villas behind as it headed onto the main road.

‘Ladies’ quarter-finals day here at the All England Club, and the first match of the day sees one of the biggest surprises of not just the year but the entire tournament’s history …’

The voices coming from the radio were familiar to Abi Patterson, as was the story they told. The car drove away from the basement flat she had hastily rented in time for the first week of the Championships and the voices continued. Radio Wimbledon. Of course that was what would be playing in her slick courtesy car – standard for all competitors in the event. But this time, those voices, the ones that Abi had spent the last twenty years listening to on the school run, on her way to work or while waiting for the kettle to boil, were discussing her.

‘Absolutely, Barry, it’s just a couple of hours until we see a British wild card hit the second week – an unprecedented situation! Abigail Patterson will be facing world number 12 and the fans’ favourite, Carly Cunningham in this year’s ladies’ quarter-finals. And it’s not only Abigail’s unexpected progress through the first week of the event that has shocked the tennis world, it’s the fact that at thirty-six she is the oldest player here – and by some margin …’

Abi shifted in her seat, smoothing the seat belt across her chest and picking a speck of dust off her immaculate white tracksuit bottoms. Trying to block out the noise of the radio, she stared out of the tinted windows at a local Wimbledon resident pretending to prune the roses creeping up the outside of her adorable, but no doubt eye-wateringly expensive, house. Secateurs in hand, the woman was making the occasional snip-snip while making very little contact with her roses – she could not fool Abi that she wasn’t actually using her enormous sunglasses to hide, while scanning the road for passing celebrities, or perhaps even a royal or two on their way to the tournament grounds.

‘Let’s get this into perspective, shall we – these days, it is not uncommon to see players nudging towards the higher end of their thirties while still riding high in the rankings, is it?’

‘No, absolutely not. We’ve had Serena Williams and Roger Federer playing in their forties after all. But the difference here is that Abigail Patterson retired from the game entirely for the best part of twenty years.’

‘So, she really has come out of nowhere?’

‘Oh, totally. She was apparently just a local coach for all that time. She has no form whatsoever, and no sponsors when the tournament began …’

Just a coach. Abi swallowed, determined to stay calm.

‘And what about her team? Who is coaching the coach?’

‘Well, this is the question on everyone’s lips … and no one’s quite sure. She seems to be working with Max Chamberlain, a Brit who’s an agent for a sports-management company based over in Miami. Good reputation. Well-liked on the circuit …’

Abi looked over at her best friend, Georgie, in the seat next to her. The women grinned at each other and Georgie rolled her eyes at the mention of Max. Of course everyone liked him.

‘But we don’t know who her coach is. Or even who she’s worked with in the past. We last saw her in SW19 two decades ago. Back then, she was one of our most promising juniors, but she left the tour while still in her teens.’

‘What do you make of her, Mel?’

‘Well, she’s a real dark horse. I remember all the hype about her when she was a junior. Great hands, good feel. Lots of variety. Pretty good little athlete, but needed work on her serve. That just wasn’t a weapon – but she was tipped for the very top. She had the X factor, no doubt about it … but then she just disappeared from the circuit. Boom. Gone.’

‘I wonder how she filled those twenty years?’

The women were no longer sharing a smile, but listening intently now. Abi held her breath, keen to know if there was going to be any mention of her son, Robbie, now eighteen, and only a few hundred metres away in the flat they had just left. Robbie. The reason she was here at all today.

‘You’re not the only one. But now she’s back. How did she get here? Well, she somehow got herself a wild-card spot in the all-British pre-qualifying event, worked her way through that and then won three rounds of qualifying to reach the main draw. Now, to everyone’s astonishment and delight, she has ripped up the form book and made her way through four rounds with relative ease to book a place in the last eight. It’s fairy-tale stuff.’

‘It’s an unusual streak, that’s for sure, but perhaps doubly so in one who has taken such a long career break and is now one of the tournament’s older competitors?’

‘That’s it, Mel. This sort of a journey through the tournament would be notable under any circumstances, and it’s doubly so from a player with this history.’

‘And you can bet that if she does well today, every newshound in the country will be trying to find out where she’s been all this time.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So this is the comeback of all comebacks, then, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is …’

The car stopped at a set of traffic lights, and Abi shifted her gaze from the window to avoid making eye contact with any passers-by. She found herself wishing she had on an enormous pair of shades too.

Thank God for Georgie, her oldest friend and the one who had been there in the early days on the circuit. Back then, they’d been competitors and best friends, travelling the length and breadth of the country on the junior tour, and dreaming of travelling much further. These days, Georgie was a powerhouse sports PR, the sort of woman who sports stars dreamed of having to clear up their reputation and young athletes depended on to bag the big sponsorships deals. But to Abi, she would always be the nerdy thirteen-year-old tennis geek with feet the size of her dad’s and an uncanny ability to remember tournament stats.

Today, Georgie was keeping herself discreetly behind an enormous pair of tortoiseshell cat’s-eye sunglasses, dressed in immaculately cut trousers and a silk blouse. Her ever-present jewellery caught the light, huge chunks of onyx, moonstone, topaz, glistening in the sun as she reached across the back seats to Abi and gave her hand, resting on the butter-soft leather of the central seat, a squeeze. The women smiled at each other.

‘You’re going to smash it,’ Georgie said, raising her shades to reveal her twinkling grey eyes. Abi looked down at her lap, and took a huge breath, sick with nerves, yet also tingling with excitement. ‘Even if they’re not bloody mentioning me on the radio …’

Abi giggled, despite her nerves. She felt her phone buzz in her lap and turned to see her son’s name.

You got this mum. And if you don’t I am really sorry I got you that wild card lol

She smiled at her phone. Robbie’s birth might have been the reason that she’d had to pause her career almost two decades ago, but, today, she was only in this tournament because of him. Well, because of a plan hatched between himself and Max, who, the radio had failed to mention, she had known as long as Georgie – but who was, indeed, a ‘well-liked’ agent based in Miami. So far, it was the only fact the press had managed to find out about her this week. Small mercies.

Oh, piss off! And make sure the washing-up’s done by the time I get back.

Important to keep his feet on the ground, she thought to herself as she pressed send with a smile. Because none of them could quite believe that things had gone the way they had over the last few months. Abi suspected that Robbie’s original wild-card plan had been meant as a gesture, more than anything else. But now … well, now, her whole world had been turned on its head.

It turned out that Robbie – after lots of furtive chats with Max over Christmas – had written to the Lawn Tennis Association’s board in January, asking them to consider Abi for a place in their all-British wild-card play-off at Raynes Park. After much prodding and pushing, he’d finally admitted to Abi that in his letter he’d explained that at seventeen years old, she’d been one of the nation’s top juniors, before quitting in order to have him. But Abi knew that a sob story would only get you so far – it turned out that Robbie had gone on to list all her achievements since, explaining that at seventeen she had been number three in the British junior rankings, with a string of regional and national titles to her name. He’d detailed how she had just started to attract the attention of top coaches, pundits and agents when she’d quit to have him, later taking on a role as a coach, mentor and hitting partner to many of today’s top juniors in Hampshire, before making a return to the county championships last year and winning the title without dropping a set.

As luck would have it, one of the board members, Iain Donoghue, had also witnessed her impressive victory in the county championships. It wasn’t every day that a late-thirties ‘nobody’ lifted the trophy – and Iain had been doing some digging into Abi’s tennis career himself. And so, very soon, Abi had found herself playing at Raynes Park for one of the wild-card spots. And then, more to her own amazement … winning.

The car lurched forwards as the traffic lights changed to green and Abi’s thoughts jolted back to the present, the voices on the radio still happily discussing the biggest day of her career to date.

‘What can we expect to see in the match today, then? Why is this one such a special one?’

Abi noticed the driver’s eyes flicker towards the rear-view mirror to take a brief look at her. Her own eyes darted away instantly.

As the car rounded the corner towards the All England Club, lines of eager fans started to appear, some of them spilling into the road, causing taxis to jam up the route ahead. Abi chewed the inside of her lip, nerves floating like jellyfish inside her. She was numb with stress and alive with excitement, each only a heartbeat apart, flicking back and forth, back and forth.

‘Do you think we could have the radio off, please, mate?’ said Georgie, leaning forward towards the driver, who immediately nodded and pressed a button.

‘Thank you,’ mouthed Abi to Georgie, who gave a dismissive wave.

‘What? Are you edgy or something?’ she said with an impish grin. For a moment, it felt as if they were teenagers again. Stuck on a train on their way to compete in some junior event, with little more than a bag full of clammy cheese sandwiches and a shared copy of Just Seventeen to their name.

The car approached Gate 16, the players’ entrance, taking the corner especially slowly as a swarm of cameras – both media flashlights and fans with camera phones – thronged towards it in the hope that Abi was inside. The thick tinted glass kept the noise of the crowd out, but she could still see the phone screens being thrust forward, blocking the faces of the fans, the flashes blasting into her eyes causing her to dip her head, staring down at her pristine new grass-court tennis shoes.

The car swung into the gates and the driver got out to open the door for Abi.

She had arrived. At last.

The sun beat mercilessly on the back of Abi’s neck as she bent forwards to tie her laces. It was only June. Her seventeenth birthday was two months away, but her tennis shoes were already looking pretty battered, covered in scuffs, grass stains and the mud from a puddle that one of the laces had trailed across as they’d run from the rain a couple of weeks earlier. The shoes would have to last; she knew she couldn’t ask her gran for anything else right now.

On the other side of the immaculate grass court, Georgie was pulling her visor down over her pale grey eyes, before swigging from a bottle of water that she then slung to the side, leaving it to roll towards the wire netting. The air smelled of freshly cut dried grass and sun cream. It was the sort of day when anything might be possible.

‘OK, Hingis, ready for set two?’ she asked with a grin.

Abi smiled back and rolled her eyes. ‘Yep. Let’s do this, Davenport …’

Georgie picked up a discarded tennis-ball tube from the side of the court and put it over her mouth, speaking into it to recreate the tannoy of an All England Club official. ‘Seats, please, ladies and gentlemen, seats, please. Play will be resuming shortly.’

Abi wiped the sweat from her eyes and flicked her long dark plait off her shoulder and back behind her as she stood up. She readied herself to receive Georgie’s serve, as keen to beat her mate on court as she was to have a laugh with her off it. Relatively small for a tennis player, Abi was quick and smart, just like her role model, Martina Hingis. She needed to be when she was up against Georgie, who was not just her best mate but also her closest rival in the county.

At almost six feet, Georgie Blackwood was nearly as tall as her own idol, Lindsay Davenport. Her height made her a daunting opponent, especially to anyone who didn’t know her, but she had to work hard on the agility that came effortlessly to Abi. While Abi loved Hingis’s ability to change pace, height and depth, and spent hours watching her matches over and over, trying to emulate her repertoire of shots and footwork patterns, Georgie’s size ten feet often seemed to get in the way – both on court and off. Then again, her height did enable her huge serve, and it was that which Abi was steeling herself for now.

And so began the next set of their usual back and forth, interspersed with Georgie’s ‘tannoy announcements’ and the odd bit of ultra-posh ‘BBC commentary’ from Abi. This game of Wannabe Wimbledon was one they had been playing in every out-of-school moment since the actual tournament had begun a week ago, and it was bound to continue long after the real finals were played.

Just as summer had shifted from the grassy promise of late May to the hazy heat of June, playing tennis had blossomed for them too, making a slow but definite shift from their hobby to something that the young women were starting to take seriously. Was there really a chance that if they worked hard enough, they could do this all day every day? That they could turn it from something they spent every penny on to something that might actually pay them? Perhaps. But every time she let herself dream for a moment too long, Abi reminded herself that it wasn’t that simple. Georgie Blackwood, however, had no such worries.

Abi was dealing well with the fierce serves coming her way, but as fast as she returned them, she was faced with a barrage of huge, clean groundstrokes in return. She was darting all over the court, while Georgie seemed to take – at most – half the number of strides and to achieve just as much with them. No wonder her shoes were more worn out, Abi thought as she skidded towards the net, leaving a plume of dust and grass in her wake.

But differing match styles weren’t the only thing behind Abi’s scruffier kit. After all, it was a tennis court in Georgie’s back garden that they were playing on: the difference in the girls’ upbringing was as undeniable as the difference in their games. While Abi was making the pair of trainers she’d received for Christmas last as long as possible, Georgie had on an almost box-fresh pair of grass-court shoes from the same brand as Davenport herself. While Abi had had to save up for her two rackets for the best part of a year, and now looked after them, knowing they would have to last for even longer, Georgie had a holdall full of rackets and treated them with the nonchalance of someone who knew they could easily be replaced. She was right. Because while Abi’s parents had died in a car crash when she was only twelve, leaving her to be brought up by her well-meaning but somewhat out-of-touch grandparents, Georgie had her whole family – and their considerable wealth – behind her when it came to making things happen in the tennis world.

Abi’s grandmother had only quite recently come to realise that Abi was serious about tennis – that this bouncy teenager who had once just seemed little more than ‘sporty’ was actually hell-bent on this being her future. As a small child, she had told her Grannie Annie that she ‘dreamed about playing tennis’ and her grandmother had thought it was just a sweet anecdote. Now, she was accepting that it was very much an ambition rather than a mere fantasy. Yes, Abi literally dreamed of tennis when she couldn’t be playing it, leaping and reaching through the air as she slept, her body itching to get back on court the minute she was up. But, crucially, she loved winning.

Since her parents had died, nothing else had given her the same buzz as working out the tactics to beat her opponents, knowing that she had the skill, the power, the fitness to deliver the plan and get the win. And to do this again and again, to achieve this lambent sense of belonging time after time, she was ready to take it seriously, to put in the hours of training and travel required, and to strive for the very top. The trouble was, she had run out of ways to try to explain this to her grandparents, and was just hoping that the consistency of her message was getting through.

Meanwhile, Georgie had barely ever had a choice in it. Early family photos of her in tiny tennis whites were crammed onto every spare inch of wall space in the Blackwoods’ house, the hopes and dreams of her family reflected back at her in a constant loop.

Abi sometimes felt a shard of envy about these advantages, but Georgie was such a genuinely good friend, she found it almost impossible to sustain any ill will for too long. Especially as Georgie seemed as sincerely enthusiastic about Abi’s success as her own, as keen for a mate who enjoyed playing as much as she did, and as full of infectious giggles and silliness as anyone Abi had ever met. How could she begrudge such good fortune when it had been bestowed on someone as full of sunshine as Georgie was? Someone who wished as much success for her as she did for herself?

Abi was never quite sure about the specifics of Georgie’s father, Derek Blackwood’s job, but he seemed to have made a lot of money in property in their corner of Hampshire. And Mr Blackwood seemed equally relaxed about spending vast swathes of it on keeping both his wife and daughter happy.

Keeping Georgie happy was pretty simple: she wanted to play tennis, and lots of it. Georgie’s mum, Barb Blackwood, however, wanted more. Not just for herself, but for her daughter too. Ever-present and always audible, Barb – never Mrs Blackwood, as it ‘made her feel old’ – saw herself as one of the game’s greatest authorities, despite never having made it beyond the ladies’ second team at Bracken Lane Tennis Club in Winchester. The fact that she was a committee member, and one who liked to have her voice heard, was enough. People deserved her insight! And she was relentlessly generous about sharing it – a generosity matched only by her commitment to looking the part.

Barb saw keeping up with tennis-wear trends, staying aware of the big brands and who they sponsored, as an intrinsic part of her role at the club – and in Georgie’s life. With the enthusiastic use of her credit cards, she encouraged her daughter to stick to one or two of the same labels, dressing head to toe in outfits straight from the latest catalogue, so as to hint at the possibility that Georgie might already be being sponsored by some big names. And Barb did the same, making sure that even when she had no intention of playing, she was wearing branded loungewear that might conceivably have been gifted by a big-name sponsor.

She saw grass stains as an enemy on a par with simple carbohydrates and the entire family’s kit was never less than immaculate. It was only Barb’s hair – long, burnished red, diligently straightened to glass-like perfection – that seemed to betray the fact that the energy she spent on any actual match skills always came second to the energy she spent on living the life of a key committee member of Bracken Lane Tennis Club.

But Barb’s ambition didn’t stop at Bracken Lane: she was as determined to make it to the All England Club as Georgie was. Indeed, there were times when Abi wondered if Barb’s determination that Georgie made it as far as playing Wimbledon was as much about her daughter becoming a successful professional as it was about Barb being accepted there herself. Yes, she longed to sit in the players’ box on Centre Court, having her outfit discussed on the pages of the next day’s papers. But what she really longed for was a life spent discreetly networking from the chintz-bedecked comfort of the sofas in the members’ lounge. Just to sit in that ladies’ steam room and listen to the members chat while the condensation dripped down on them, she had once confessed to Mr Blackwood, now that would really mean success. And if it took indulging Georgie’s every training whim to get there, so be it!

It wasn’t that Abi didn’t envy Barb’s boundless enthusiasm for the game now and then. Her grandparents did what they could to support her, but their funds were as limited as their knowledge and understanding. They had never played it in their youth and they only really saw it on television for a fortnight every summer. This had its frustrations, but Abi sometimes felt awash with relief not to be the focus of Barb’s red-hot ambition. Georgie was wearying of Barb keeping such a watchful eye over her diet, talking over her when she didn’t even seem to realise she was doing it, and making an increasing number of decisions about her future without any real consultation.

Georgie loved tennis, but it was the playing that she loved. She wasn’t so keen on the drama that her mother surrounded it with, but she had figured out early on that the more you played, the more you won … so the more you got to play.

Having a grass court in your garden had seemed like an unimaginable luxury to Abi when she had first found out about it two years ago, but now she saw more clearly that it came at a price, and that that price was bearing the weight of Barb’s ambition.

The results of this pressure became increasingly evident as the day’s Wannabe Wimbledon match proceeded. Abi, happy to have such a gorgeous court to practise on, was delighted to be playing at the Blackwoods’ again. Each time she leapt or leant towards the ball, sensing her body grow stronger and her technique become a little more polished, she felt lucky to be where she was, to be enjoying the Blackwoods’ generosity. And she was sure that Georgie had started the match almost as carefree. But as she heard the enormous patio doors open behind her, Georgie’s playfulness was quickly replaced by a renewed focus and a fresh sense of competitiveness.

The distant clink and scrape of Barb making her way out onto the terrace, arranging the white cast-iron furniture and laying the table for one of her ladies’ lunches, seemed to remind Georgie that she was being watched. That there was a goal in sight. That in return for the vast amounts being invested in her game, she was expected to pay for it with results.

Abi glanced up at the patio, leg raised behind her, tapping the grass out of the dimpled sole of her shoe with her racket, and saw Barb, hand up to shield her eyes, watching the girls. Georgie, clearly listening despite having her back turned to the patio, experienced an obvious dip . . .