Code of Conduct Page 4

  Gabriela’s hand twitched under Viva’s fingers. “It would.” She slid her hand out from underneath Viva’s touch. “Our lives are not so different, though. It is…pleasant to talk to someone who understands.” She shut her mouth abruptly, as if she regretted the words.

  Viva’s fingers tingled from the space where Gabriela’s skin had been. She picked up her fork again and cut a piece of steak. “According to the International Tennis Federation, I should have left you by the side of the road?”

  “Of course not. I’ve seen you at pre-tournament parties, around tournament grounds, in hotels. We don’t have to pretend to be strangers.”

  Flashes of memory tugged in Viva’s mind. Yes, she had seen Gabriela, on the edge of her vision at such places. The officials stayed aloof; they had to. But there was occasionally a brief conversation, a smile, a nod as they passed in a corridor. And she would never forget a certain foot-fault call. Her lips tightened. “Rescue is one thing; dinner is another. I should have left you in the bar to fend for yourself with a toasted sandwich.”

  Gabriela sipped her wine. “I’m glad you didn’t. This is far better. Your parents cook an excellent steak.”

  “It’s the thing they cook best. A fitting accompaniment to my single glass of wine.” Somewhere, the polite conversation had gained a familiar warmth. Gabriela was right—they had common ground, shared experiences.

  Gabriela swirled the wine in her glass. “Australian wine is nearly as good as Spanish. The reds. Rioja and the Coonawarra.” She sipped again, rolling the liquid around in her mouth.

  “I’m not going to argue. I don’t drink enough wine to be an expert. When…if…I retire, I’m going to start a cellar.”

  Gabriela’s gaze was unnerving. As if she’d seen through the slip to the indecision that churned inside. If I retire. When. Her wrist throbbed in sympathy. She ignored it.

  “Where will you keep it? Do you have a home somewhere?”

  “No.” She pushed down the defensiveness. Thirty-two and still living at home. But it was different when most of the year home was a suitcase and a procession of hotel rooms. “My base is here, but I’ve lived away since I left to go to the Australian Institute of Sport.”

  Gabriela sliced a piece of steak. Fork poised, she asked, “Were you very young? Eight? Nine?”

  “No, I was thirteen. Quite old by today’s standards.”

  “But it would still be hard to leave home at thirteen.” Gabriela’s eyes reflected an understanding.

  Viva lowered her own gaze. Of course, Gabriela would know what it was like for tennis kids. She would have umpired junior matches, seen the ambitious parents pushing their offspring, seen the regimented kids from academies doing drills on the practice courts. Maybe, too, she had noticed the little kids watching the top players—hoping, dreaming that one day that would be them.

  Viva shook off her introspection. “I was lucky. I could sometimes come home for a weekend, and I was in my own country. Some kids now are halfway across the world away from family. I still got very homesick, though.”

  “No wonder you like to come home.”

  “It means my family doesn’t get sick of me either.”

  “Ah, you players are so difficult.” Her smile took the sting from the words.

  Viva’s lips twitched in an answering smile. That was something Jack would say in jest. She studied Gabriela, the cap of brown hair, her olive skin, warm and smooth in the dim overhead light. Her movements were neat and precise as she cut lettuce into small pieces, added a tiny bit of beetroot, and placed it in her mouth. They must have been on the tour at the same time for years, travelling to many of the same countries and cities, but there was always that distance between the players and officials.

  “Have you been an umpire for long?” Viva asked.

  Gabriela smiled, showing even, white teeth. “I did this through college, took some years off to pursue other interests, but I have been a full-time umpire now for over ten years.”

  That was nearly as long as Viva had been a pro. A strange career, always on the sidelines, never in the spotlight. The same endless travel, but without the possibility of fame and fortune. Viva glanced again. Gabriela had a self-contained air about her. She looked like the sort of person who would be happy with her own company. Although officials often did attend the glamour events around the tour, Viva couldn’t remember seeing Gabriela at any of them.

  Viva picked a piece of tomato from her salad and ate it. “You must enjoy it.”

  “Yes. Very much. I have friends on the tour—other officials, much as you must have friends who are players. I love the travel, but by the end of the year, I long for my weeks in Australia.”

  “You don’t go home to Spain?”

  “My brother and sister have their own lives. I visit them during the European leg of the tour. That is enough.” Gabriela returned her attention to her dinner. “I love them, but we don’t have much in common.”

  Viva pondered Gabriela’s response. On the surface, she didn’t have much in common with her family anymore, not on a day-to-day basis, but she couldn’t imagine spending a month off in a foreign country rather than rushing home to Waggs Pocket.

  Gabriela smiled. “You are thinking it strange I’m not in Europe right now, yes?”

  “Not everyone is close to their family.”

  “They are busy people with children that are the focus of their lives.” She shrugged. “That is not unusual. I feel in the way when I visit, as if I’m keeping them from what is important. So I keep the visits short. It works better for all of us that way.”

  “Feel free to adopt Jack as your brother,” Viva joked.

  Gabriela smiled. “I have met a lot worse. But you can keep him.”

  Viva smeared mustard on her steak. Her gaydar was pinging. Maybe Gabriela had a girlfriend in Brisbane; that would be one reason she kept coming back. But if so, why was she out touring the backblocks alone?

  A shout of laughter drifted up from the bar below, and outside a single car drove slowly along the road, but otherwise there was small-town quiet. Viva concentrated on her food. It was easier than thinking about the woman opposite her. For all that they mingled in similar circles, Gabriela was right. Players and officials just didn’t mix. She hadn’t realised there was an actual ruling against it, though. But it made sense. Could you make a match call against a partner or close friend, knowing it might cost them the match? Often not just a match, but prize money, even a tennis ranking. Would you hesitate to call a ball out in those circumstances? Of course, the larger tournaments had Hawk-Eye, the computer system used to take the guesswork out of line calls, but smaller tournaments often didn’t have that backup. Hawk-Eye didn’t confirm a foot-fault call either—that was purely down to an official.

  Viva set her jaw and sliced a piece of her steak. Her US Open loss bubbled to the forefront of her mind once more. What if she and Gabriela had been friends when Gabriela had made the foot-fault calls against her? Would it have affected their friendship? Viva sipped from her water glass. Maybe. Maybe not. She could second-guess that one all night. But that loss, one of the most disappointing of her career, was caused in no small part by the two foot-fault calls made by a lineswoman.

  That lineswoman now sat opposite her, sharing a meal with her, and she was surprisingly easy company. Attractive company too, with her thick hair in a short bob, warm brown eyes, and serious face.

  No. Don’t even think it, Viva.

  She put her knife and fork down with a sigh. “I’ll have to run an extra couple of kilometres tomorrow.”

  Gabriela took a final mouthful and put her cutlery together neat as tram tracks. “I should come with you after that meal.”

  Viva was silent. If it had been anyone else, she would have offered to take them. Her mother’s words tumbled into her head: Be polite, Viva. You don’t have to like someone, but you do
n’t need to be rude to them. Her mother’s rule, honed by many years of working in hospitality.

  Viva took a sip of her wine. “Five a.m. sharp. Be ready out front.” Her mother would be proud of her. “What room are you in? I can wake you if you want.”

  Gabriela’s gaze slid away, down to the quiet road.

  A dog sniffed tyres outside the hotel, and over in the camping area, a drift of laughter came in on the night breeze.

  “You’re lucky to have a room.” Viva took a mouthful of water, to eke out the pleasure of the wine. “I would have thought the car club had them booked.”

  “They did.” Gabriela picked at the napkin crumpled up in front of her.

  “Cancellation, then.”

  “No. You have not talked to your mother?”

  “I’ve been busy in the bar.” She frowned. What had changed in the last couple of minutes? Gabriela was as jumpy as a kangaroo trapped in a pen.

  “There are no rooms. Your mother is giving me a fold-out bed.” Gabriela wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  “Where’s she putting it?” She knew the answer from Gabriela’s tight posture. “She’s put it in my room, hasn’t she?”

  “I am sorry. I tried to stop her. She thinks we are friends from the tour.”

  “It’s easy. You say, ‘Viva’s not my friend. She won’t want me sleeping in her room.’” The chill in her voice could have blown from Antarctica. Damn her mother.

  “I tried. She made the assumption and hurried out.”

  “I like my space. I’d prefer you weren’t in it.”

  “And I would prefer not to be in it.” Dark eyes flashed ire, even in the dim light. “It is more than that too. It is in the code of conduct: players and officials must not share a room during tournaments. I do not wish to push my luck outside of that. Help me carry the bed out here, and I will be out of your way.”

  “You’ll be eaten alive by mosquitoes. Once the breeze drops, they’ll be out in swarms.”

  “Then I will sleep in the corridor.”

  “It’s narrow. You’ll have guests tripping over you.”

  “In the bar.”

  “Illegal.”

  Gabriela tossed up her hands. “There must be somewhere. Otherwise, I will think you want me to sleep in your room.”

  “I’d like that like a bad foot-fault call.” The words snapped out, and Viva threw her napkin on the table.

  Gabriela’s lips twisted. “You are dwelling on some supposedly bad call I gave you? Really? You must get bad calls all the time. It’s part of the game. You take it and move on.”

  “Not this one.”

  Gabriela picked up her wine. “Which one?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I’m a silver badge umpire. I work dozens of tournaments. Hundreds of matches a year. I do not remember each one.”

  “I do.”

  Gabriela seemed to consider it, her head tilted to one side. “So this is why you have been aloof.”

  Viva stared out across the landscape to where the valley sides rose from the floor, the layered eucalypts silver in the moonlight. “You could say that.”

  “It must have been contentious. I umpire many matches.”

  “You weren’t the umpire. You were a linesperson that day.”

  Gabriela propped her chin on her hand. The low light made the furrows in her forehead more pronounced as she frowned. “The US Open last year? Your two foot-faults?”

  “I was defending my title. My grand slam title. Your calls were wrong. I’ve viewed the footage since. The first one maybe was right. The second one was almost certainly incorrect. It was match point. Your bad call knocked me out of the tournament.”

  Gabriela was silent. Then she said, “I cannot remember the specifics of each and every call—how could I, any more than you can remember every backhand down the line? But you need to remember two things: first, I was doing my job to the best of my ability. Obviously, the chair umpire either agreed with that call or trusted my judgement. And secondly, I did not lose that match for you. You lost the match. I was not the one with the racquet in my hand.” She stood and picked up her plate. “This is exactly why players and umpires need to keep their distance. Thank you for the meal. I also enjoyed the company greatly up until five minutes ago. I will go and find your mother and ask her to put the camp bed anywhere at all, except in your room.”

  She exited, head held high, shoulders as rigid as a junior in her first tournament.

  Viva watched her go. She swallowed and stared at her own plate. The remaining piece of steak now held all the appeal of a packing crate, and the food she’d already eaten sat heavy in her gut. She didn’t need anyone to tell her she had behaved badly. Her own sense of self was screaming at her right now. The call wasn’t correct, but she shouldn’t have attacked Gabriela like that, especially not under her parents’ roof.

  She picked up her plate and took it down to the kitchen by the backstairs, which Gabriela wouldn’t have used.

  Chapter 5

  Gabriela found Lindy and Ethan relaxing with a cup of tea in a corner of the pub dining room. The car club people had vacated and were kicking up their heels in the bar. Jack appeared to be working the bar by himself; no doubt he would grab Viva to assist when she came down.

  Lindy waved her over. “Sit down, darl. It’s always nice to talk to some of Viva’s friends.”

  Gabriela approached and grasped the back of a vacant chair with both hands. “Mrs Jones—Lindy—I need to clear up something. Viva and I are not friends. We are both on the tour, yes, but—”

  Lindy’s eyes twinkled with kindness. “You don’t need to go on. I understand if you want to keep your relationship under wraps. Over the years, Viva has brought a couple of girlfriends to visit us, and it’s been the same every time. She’s told you about Chitra? Such a lovely girl, but—”

  “Lindy, please. It’s not that.”

  Something in her tone must have alerted Ethan, as he squeezed his wife’s hand.

  It was unnerving, having two pairs of eyes staring fixedly at her, but Gabriela continued. “I’m an official, not a player. Officials and players aren’t supposed to mix. So, while I know Viva from the tour, we are not friends. Certainly not girlfriends.”

  “Surely the powers-that-be couldn’t take issue with you staying here?” Ethan said. “You didn’t plan for your car to break down.”

  “It’s more than that.” She gripped the back of the chair for support. “Viva dislikes me as I was the lineswoman who called her foot-faults in the US Open last year. Please, is there anywhere else you can set up the camp bed other than Viva’s room?”

  Lindy and Ethan exchanged a worried glance. “We’re full. And it’s a health and safety thing. We can’t put a temporary bed in a public area.”

  “How about the balcony? Isn’t that your private space?”

  “Yes, but…” Ethan’s forehead wrinkled. “No air conditioning. Mosquitoes.”

  “I will be fine. Please. Viva was kind enough to rescue me. I don’t want to make it harder for her than it already is.” The thought of a hot balcony teeming with mosquitoes was bad, but the prospect of staying in Viva’s room was far worse. Her self-confidence withered at the thought of Viva’s coldness.

  Lindy set her lips tightly. “That daughter of ours needs a lesson in manners.”

  “No, please. I understand. Don’t say anything to her. If I could ask one of you to move the camp bed so that I do not have to go into her room, it will be okay.” It had been okay. Until Viva had found out about the sleeping arrangements, dinner had been pleasant. More than pleasant—enjoyable. The sort of dinner she would have with a friend. And seeing Viva across the small table had been more than pleasant too. There was never time to really study any of the players on the tour. It was all about the game, about balls and line calls, double-bounces and foot
-faults. Seldom did Gabriela stop to consider the player as a person. She had tonight. Briefly, Viva had been a person rather than a player. An attractive player at that. Chestnut hair, blue eyes, and tanned skin. Viva crackled with life, as if the energy in her body was barely contained, and she moved with the grace and strength of a professional athlete.

  She cleared her throat, directing her attention back to Lindy and Ethan. “Tomorrow, the car will be fixed, and I will be gone. Now, what do I owe you for my meal?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s our pleasure.”

  Gabriela pulled out her embroidered purse and took out two twenties. “Will this cover it? The steak was delicious.”

  Ethan stood and took her hand in a firm grip, closing her fist over the money. “We won’t take it, but we thank you for offering. Now, why don’t you sit and chat with us while we finish our cuppa, and then I’ll move the bed.”

  Whoever said senior citizens went to bed early had obviously never met the British Car Club. The bar had been busy right up to closing time at eleven, and then Viva helped Jack clean up. It was nearly midnight when she climbed the creaky stairs to her room. Her mum had told her that the camp bed had been removed from her room at Gabriela’s request. Her mother had also said she was ashamed of Viva’s rudeness. No matter that Gabriela was an umpire, she was still a stranded visitor and, as such, deserved a friendly approach, not the cold war.

  Viva’s room opened to the balcony. She closed the door and turned on the air con. A quick glance out to the balcony showed her the camp bed set up near the railing, Gabriela’s humped shape underneath the sheet. The ceiling fan wasn’t going—maybe Gabriela hadn’t found the switch. Viva padded out to the corridor and turned it on. That would stir the air and make it more bearable.

  The air con cooled her room, but even though it was late, she tossed and turned. The earlier part of her day pushed into her head. The meetings with her coach, her physiotherapist, and with Dr Jacobwitz. Especially him.

  “It’s been eight months since the surgery, Viva.” His gravelly voice echoed in her head. “You need to consider this is as good as it gets.”