Code of Conduct Page 5

  “No. There must be something else you can do.”

  He was shaking his head before the sentence was finished. “I can’t, no. But I can write you a referral to Dr Singh. He works with a lot of athletes. Let him give you a second opinion.”

  She nodded, and the groundswell of panic pushed down again. Dr Singh would be able to do something. He must be able to.

  “I’ll send him your scans along with a short report, and I’ll call you as soon as he has an opening. Would you be able to take a cancellation?”

  She nodded, unsure if any words would get past the thickness in her throat. She took the prescription for anti-inflammatories that he held out and forced out the words of thanks.

  And then she’d driven home to Waggs Pocket, needing the solace that her parents and her home could offer. She hadn’t thought about that conversation all evening. Gabriela had pushed it out of her head. An image of Gabriela’s slow smile across the dinner table intruded. Viva turned over and kicked the sheet away. For a while, she’d managed to forget that Gabriela had done her a great wrong. In the moments of conversation, when she’d seen Gabriela’s long, dark eyelashes fan down over her warm, brown eyes, dinner had been relaxing.

  Until it all unwound.

  Viva sat up and turned on the bedside light. Despite the late hour, she couldn’t sleep. She grabbed a thriller from the nightstand. Maybe reading for a bit would help.

  “Fuel injectors are shot. Totally clogged with dust. Must be a leak in the line. Did you smell petrol as you drove?” The service man slammed the bonnet of the rental car. “Bloody hot out here and bloody quiet. Lucky for you someone came along.”

  “Maybe a bit of a petrol smell. I assumed it was evaporation in the heat.” Gabriela moved out from the scant shade of a gum tree. “Can you fix it?”

  “Nah. Have to take it to Dalby to a mechanic. He’ll have to strip it back. I’ll take you back to that pub.” He slapped a sticker on the windscreen. “At least you don’t need to wait here. And I expect you’ll want to call the rental place about a replacement car.”

  Gabriela climbed back into the ute. “Can you take me to the nearest town instead?”

  The service man’s face creased. “I’m sorry, love, but I’ve another half dozen call outs. I won’t be back at the depot until this evening.”

  “What about the tow truck?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. But that would be to Dalby. Is that where you were going?”

  “I was touring around, but with the lost time I now need to get back to Brisbane.”

  “He won’t take you there. That’s a three-hour drive. You’d be better off waiting for the replacement vehicle. Although, I dunno. They can take a couple of days to deliver to out-of-the-way places. If you need to get to Brissie in a hurry, try asking in the pub. Maybe someone there could give you a lift.”

  The car club. Maybe she could hitch a ride in a vintage British car. That would turn this whole uncomfortable experience into something better.

  But when Gabriela returned to the pub, the only vehicles in the parking lot were Viva’s sporty VW and a couple of nondescript vehicles.

  Gabriela found Lindy upstairs in one of the guestrooms, stripping the bed.

  Lindy straightened. “Any luck?”

  Gabriela bent to pull the sheet out on the other side from Lindy. “Unfortunately, no. The car needs a tow truck, and I cannot get a lift to Brisbane. Do you know of anyone driving there today? I am going to the theatre tonight; I would hate to waste the ticket. Otherwise, I will have to wait for the rental agency to deliver another car.”

  Lindy pursed her lips, gathering the dirty sheet and dropping it in a laundry bag at her feet. “Freddie’s going later, but you’d need to be desperate.” She bent to push a stray corner of the sheet into the bag. “Viva’s driving there today, though. She has an appointment late this afternoon. They rang her about a cancellation. She has an apartment in Brisbane, so she’ll stay over. Nice place by the river.” Lindy straightened as she added, “I’ll ask her if she’ll give you a lift, if you want.” Her tone was offhand.

  Gabriela considered. Brave the unknown Freddie, share a small car with Viva for a few hours and then be out of her life once more, or stay here for another day? Viva would be gone, and her family was pleasant, but she’d been looking forward to the theatre tonight.

  “I will ask Viva. I’m a big girl.” She grinned to take the sting from the words.

  “Ask me what?” Viva’s lean and tanned body appeared in the doorway, her thick ponytail lightly swinging.

  “Gabriela’s car can’t be fixed. It needs a tow truck. She’s going to ask Freddie for a lift to Brisbane. Excuse me.” Lindy gathered the linen and slid past Viva in the doorway and down the corridor.

  “Freddie? Really? You’ll be lucky to get there in one piece or in the next few days. Freddie has relatives scattered over half of Queensland. Any trip he takes involves a detour to visit at least a couple of them.”

  Gabriela rounded the bed. “Lindy said you are going today. Would it be possible for you to give me a ride?”

  “Really, Gabriela.” Lindy’s voice wafted from the corridor. “You don’t need to be so formal. My daughter will be delighted.”

  Briefly, Viva’s lips pressed tight. “No worries. If you can be ready to leave in an hour.”

  “That is fine. Thank you.”

  Viva inclined her head as if she were royalty and stood aside to let her pass.

  Gabriela found her sports bag where she’d left it on the balcony and threw in her few items. She scrunched the light singlet and running shorts. With luck, she would be back in Brisbane in time for a run along the river path before the theatre.

  Viva changed gear with a roar, sweeping the hatchback around a tight bend. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gabriela’s hand tighten on the armrest. Her olive skin appeared sallow as she swallowed convulsively. Guilt tossed in Viva’s chest. It would help no one if Gabriela threw up in her car, and it seemed she would rather be sick than ask Viva to slow down. She eased the throttle and kept a saner pace to the highway. She rotated her shoulders, trying to ease the tension, but every glance at Gabriela in the passenger seat had her tightening up as if it were match point. Viva cranked the radio higher and tapped her fingers along with the beat.

  The straight highway made for easy driving, but it wasn’t until the outskirts of Brisbane when the traffic built up that Viva spoke.

  “Where can I drop you?”

  Gabriela’s slim shoulders moved in a swift shrug. “I’m going to West End. But any train station will be fine.”

  “That’s okay. I’m going to Wickham Terrace. If you don’t mind a walk, I can drop you on the north side of the Go Between Bridge and you can walk across the river.”

  “That would be good. Thank you.” She inclined her head stiffly at Viva. “Lindy said you had an apartment near the river. Is that on Wickham Terrace?”

  “No. It’s at South Bank, not so far from West End. I have an appointment on Wickham Terrace today.”

  Gabriela scrunched her forehead. “Wickham Terrace is where the doctors are, yes? You had a wrist injury, if I remember correctly. You were out for part of this year?”

  “Make that most of this year. I haven’t played a match since April.” She flashed a sideways glance. “You obviously missed me if you noticed I was gone.”

  Gabriela’s cheeks flushed pink. “I noticed your absence, of course, but I had not realised it was so long. I hope your wrist is improving.”

  “It is.” The words snapped into the car interior, and Viva changed down a gear and accelerated through an amber light. A car waiting to turn right blared its horn. “The season’s over now, but I’ll be back in the new year at the tournament here in Brisbane.”

  “No doubt we will run into each other there, then.”

  Viva pulled i
nto a bus stop, ignoring the No Standing sign. “This is as close as I can get for you. If I take the bridge, it’ll take me too long to get back. I’d be late for my appointment.”

  “This is good, thank you. I will enjoy the walk.”

  Viva gave a quick smile. “No worries. I’ll see you around.”

  “Thank you for the ride. And also for stopping for me yesterday. I appreciate it.” Gabriela exited the car and slung her small bag over one shoulder.

  Viva could barely hear the stilted words over the roar of the traffic.

  “Please also thank your parents for their hospitality.”

  “I will.” A bus pulled in behind with a whoosh of brakes. “I have to move. See you.”

  She accelerated off. In the rear vision mirror, she saw Gabriela’s slight figure step back to allow people to board the bus and then turn in the direction of the bridge. Viva let out her breath in a long sigh. The car seemed big and empty without Gabriela’s still figure sitting neatly in the passenger seat. It had been a strange distraction, made stranger by the fact that her parents had seemed to take to her. Her parents had been her compass for behaviour over the years. They hadn’t had a problem with being pleasant to Gabriela, despite her bad foot-fault call. No one had, it seemed, apart from her. Was it fair of her to blame Gabriela? She slowed to let a driver out in front of her. Maybe not.

  Viva put Gabriela out of her mind. Right now, the specialist’s appointment loomed large.

  Chapter 6

  “Hmmm. Tell me if this is sore.” Dr Singh pressed on the tendon with his thumb.

  “Yes.” With an effort, Viva stilled the instinctive jerk away from the pain.

  “And this?” He pressed again on a different spot.

  Pain bloomed, and Viva bit her lip. “Yes, but not as bad.”

  Dr Singh let go of her wrist. “Extend your hand back as far as it can go.” He pressed again.

  This time, Viva couldn’t supress the gasp.

  He laid her wrist gently down on the desk between them and turned his computer screen so that she could see. “It’s not good news, I’m afraid. While your previous surgery was successful—up to a point—you are once again accumulating fluid in the tendon sheath. The repair is holding, but the scans show a thickening, most likely inflammatory.”

  “But it was fine. It seemed to be healing well.”

  Dr Singh peered at her over his glasses. “And how often were you playing when it was healing well?” His tone was kind. “During the recovery period, yes, there would be a definite improvement. But now you’re back to a more intensive training regime, your wrist is battling to cope.”

  “Does this mean I need more surgery? The Brisbane International starts in a month. I need to be fit for that.”

  “I’m afraid surgery won’t help, not in the long term.” He pointed to his computer screen. “See here and here and here? Those areas are thickened—nodules if you like. The tendon is so ropey and uneven that it’s weak. There are no good anchor points for any further repair.”

  “Injections, grafts—”

  “Ms Jones, they are not going to help you. Not in the long term.”

  “Then what can be done?”

  “Cortisone injections. Analgesia. But this wrist is on borrowed time as far as playing professional tennis goes.”

  Her throat closed over, and instant tears sprang into her eyes. Everything she’d dreaded, put into words. She blinked fast to clear the moisture. “I’ll seek a second opinion.” Was that really her voice, so small, so defeated?

  He shrugged. “Your choice. But may I remind you, I am your second opinion. Your usual specialist referred you to me.” His voice softened. “I realise this is not what you want to hear, but I suggest you take steps towards winding up your playing career.”

  A cold, hard lump settled in Viva’s chest. “That’s it? I’m history?”

  He smiled slightly. “Not history, Ms Jones. I’m not saying you can’t play again. With care, regular physiotherapy, cortisone, and periods of rest, you will be able to play at a lower level. Coaching, exhibition matches, that sort of thing. I don’t foresee any major problems if you are careful. But playing constantly on the tour… I would not recommend it. Worst case scenario, the tendon could degrade to the point where it compromises the use of your wrist in everyday life, or it could snap, and that would be extremely difficult to repair. You’re only—” he shuffled papers in her file “—thirty-two. You have a long life ahead of you, all being well.”

  “But the US Open… If I can get over this, I could have a real shot at it this year. Or another grand slam.”

  “I’m sorry, I really am, but I don’t think that’s likely. As it stands now, your wrist could probably take a few rounds of high-level matches, but not the constant play over two weeks required to get you to the final of a grand slam. That’s if you make it to September injury-free.” He closed her file, the finality of the manila folder closing on her medical history signifying the end of the consultation. “Take some time to think about it.”

  “Doubles. What about doubles? That’s easier on the body. Could I do that?” Even in her own ears her voice had the tinge of desperation. “I can’t give up professional tennis entirely. I just can’t.” She pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets and bowed her head so that she didn’t have to face the doctor as he shot down the last of her dreams.

  He sighed. “Yes, doubles would be better. But not a heavy schedule.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” She stood. There was no reason to prolong the agony of her life falling around her feet.

  Dr Singh touched her briefly on the shoulder. “Good luck. If you intend to play next month, you’ll need to call Dr Jacobwitz to set up that injection. But you’ll need to rest the wrist completely for a few days afterwards, so take that into account.”

  She left, past the receptionist, and into the hall. She stabbed the lift button with a finger, but when the doors didn’t open immediately, she marched off to the stairwell. The echoing concrete flights of stairs were drab and austere enough to match her mood. Viva swallowed and stood still on the landing, hands clenching the rail. Her wrist twinged. “Fuck!” she screamed to the stairwell. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” The words echoed back to her, and she clenched her teeth at the futility of it all and stared at her hands until her mental conditioning kicked in and the threatening tears receded.

  The street was busy when she exited. It was rush hour and traffic was building, the pavements jammed with office workers hurrying for trains. She retrieved her car and joined the line of traffic fighting its way across the river to South Bank. Her route took her through the fashionable suburb of West End, its streets lined with restaurants and bars, trendy shops and street art. Plenty of people enjoyed a city life and an office job. They could have dinner and drinks with friends without watching every mouthful to ensure they got a good amount of protein or carbs. They could even enjoy more than a single glass of wine a week. Maybe that was her future.

  Or she could work with her parents in the pub. Live a quiet country life, working bar, cooking chips, preparing salads. Maybe people would come into the pub, see her behind the bar, and say, “Didn’t you used to play tennis? Weren’t you famous once?”

  Viva’s jaw ached with the effort of holding back a scream of frustration. Her eyes burned with tears she would not shed. She pounded the steering wheel as the car in front slowed to a stop at a light that had barely flicked to amber. As the car idled, she stared up at the apartment blocks around her. Gabriela rented one of these. What did she do in the evenings? She didn’t seem the type to stay in and stare at the TV.

  The traffic moved, and a few minutes later she pulled into the underground parking of her apartment block.

  When she opened the rear door of her car, an unfamiliar sports bag on the floor behind the front seats caught her attention. Viva frowned. It must belo
ng to Gabriela. She picked it up and looked inside. Sure enough, there was a pair of running shoes and sports clothes in a brand that was not her sponsor’s. She bit her lip. Soon she would have no sponsorship.

  Viva left the bag on the rear seat. She would have to find a way to return it to Gabriela.

  Viva was at the courts at six the next morning. When Deepak arrived an hour later, she was slamming returns from the ball machine, hitting the lines with laser accuracy. Her back prickled from his intent gaze boring into her. She glanced over her shoulder to where he stood quietly at the back of the court. She drilled a ball down the line with extra ferocity. That would show him she wasn’t tennis history just yet.

  Deepak waited until the machine ran out of balls before coming over to her. “Good. I see you’re taking the ball on the rise as we talked about.”

  Viva pushed a damp tendril of hair from her face. “It’s easy enough with the machine. When it’s Inez or Alina on the other side of the net, it’s a different story.”

  Deepak grunted. “Inez plays pat-a-cake and waits for you to make a mistake. Alina is all strength and no finesse.”

  “Alina has beaten me the last three times we’ve played. She’ll be seeded in the top five at the Brisbane International. I’ll be lucky to be seeded at all.” She bounced the final ball and sent it sailing over the fence to the park beyond. “I’m lucky they didn’t make me play qualifiers to make the main draw.” She couldn’t quite keep the tremble from her voice.

  Deepak moved to stand in front of her and prised her fingers from the racquet. He laid the racquet carefully on the ground and took her balled fist in his hand. He was gentle as he turned it palm up and loosened her fingers. The top of his balding head glistened in the early-morning sunshine as he bent over her hand, as intent as any palm reader. His brown fingers moved carefully over her palm to her wrist. He pressed lightly.

  She gasped as a streak of pain shot from her wrist into her forearm, and she jerked back from Deepak’s grasp.