Page 7

7

ANNA

D amian whirls into my apartment at 10 a.m. with a bag over his shoulder and two coffees in a cardboard tray in one hand, and a plastic box in the other. He leans in to plant a kiss on each cheek.

“June’s fighting fires, so I’m doing the update today.”

“Fighting fires?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing bad. Talking to journalists. Making sure we get the correct story out there.” He waves the tub at me. “Pastries from Steve.”

His boyfriend, Steve, is the patisserie chef at an upscale restaurant. I take the tub and unclip it, peering in at some amazing-looking pastry creations.

“Oh my God, you are the best. And can I just say I could offer Steve a very nice life?” I sweep my hand around my apartment.

Damian rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry to say you really don’t have the right parts for him.”

I grin at him as he slides past me into the kitchen. “I’m under strict instructions to heat these up for five minutes.” He fiddles with the dial on my oven and pops the pastries on a tray. My stomach growls.

“He’s decided you need feeding up.”

“Feeding up? ”

Damian tuts. “Or at least a treat or two after that asshole …”

I hold up my hand. “Don’t mention his name.”

“Arty the Asshole. It could be a comic strip. Dennis the Menace. Arty the Asshole.”

I sip my coffee. “Can we fix on that nickname for all future correspondence? I like it.” But I really don’t want to talk about Arty. I suspect I’ve got no choice this morning, though. “So, what have you got for me?”

“It’s like fucking magic,” he crows. “Damn, I love my job.”

“Why? What happened?”

He props his shoulder against the end unit by the built-in oven. “No one is the least bit interested in the fact you’ve ‘split up’ with Arty.” He makes air quotes around the words. “June and I talked to a lot of journalists last night and early this morning, and all they wanted was information about Adam.”

“Oh shit! Is Adam okay with that?”

“He’s fine with it. I’ve been liaising with his marketing lady, Susie—who’s awesome by the way—and she’s keeping him up to speed with everything. It’s moving so fast we’ve hardly been able to keep a hold on the stories.”

“I ought to touch base with him.”

Damian leans in. “I don’t think we even need to issue a statement about you and Arty splitting up or waste time agreeing on the wording with his awful PR people. It was a master stroke taking a cute guy to that event, Anna. Honestly.”

“I did it in a panic!”

Damian waves his hand. “Many an excellent decision comes out of a flailing panic. That’s how I met Steve. I kissed him when I caught an ex of mine making out with someone else. But enough of me. We’ve had loads of questions from the media: Who’s this new man? etc., etc. So, June and I did a straightforward press briefing: Anna and Arty have split up, Anna’s just dating now. But get this, several of the female journos were delighted . One said, ‘Why did she go out with Arty Maroz in the first place? He’s an opportunist and an angry one at that.’”

“He has a reputation for having a temper, but I never saw it. Until I dumped him for cheating, that is. ”

Damian chews his cheek, leans forward, and whispers, “He’s a real revenge queen, so I’m told.”

The buzzer sounds, and he grabs the oven mitt and lifts the tray out, placing it on the stovetop.

“Ugh. Revenge.” I say, prodding the toffee-colored top of a hot pastry, and the smell of honey and warm raisins drifts up.

“Yeah. He goes after his exes like you wouldn’t believe. I don’t know how much you shared with him, but you might need to talk to your lawyers.”

“I’ve already had to.”

“ What? Why?”

“He sent me some legal papers about the ownership of Pepper.”

“Are you kidding ? Pepper? And that fast? He split up with you yesterday . He gave you that dog for your birthday! We built her Instagram on the back of that little gem. Didn’t love the man, but that was an outstanding gift.”

“Yeah. I love her to bits, even though it’s impractical when I’m away so much. Thank God for my adopted family.” I squeeze his arm and take a bite of flaky pastry that dissolves on my tongue in an explosion of sweetness. “Sure I can’t ask Steve to marry me?”

Damian smirks. “I’ll pass the message on.”

“Why would Arty bother with all this?” I mumble, still chewing. “He doesn’t like dogs. Can you even take back a present?”

“I’ll bet it’s because she’s got her own Instagram. He’ll be seeing dollar signs.” He purses his lips. “I’ll talk to your lawyer about what we can and can’t say to journalists about the fact he’s going after Pepper. What a jerk.”

He makes a note on his phone and picks up a hot pastry and nearly drops it. I reach up and pull two plates out of the cupboard.

“Anyway, babe, not one journalist cared,” he carries on. “Didn’t want the deets on why you guys had split up. Didn’t want to write about Arty Maroz. They just wanted to know all about the very sexy Adam Miller.” He winks at me.

“Oh stop! You’re incorrigible.”

“It’s excellent news, though. We’ve buried the Arty-being-a-jerk story before it’s even started. I don’t want to get into some argument and mudslinging in the press about his cheating video. It’s nasty, and he’d get publicity from that, too. Also,” he says, wiping his hands on his pants, “let me show you this.”

He pulls up a clip that starts with Adam laughing with Serge while he’s having his hair done, then he’s standing next to Serge and Julio with Anita behind him looking at himself in the mirror in his plum shirt. It cuts to Pepper bringing her pink rabbit to him, and a picture of the back of my red dress and shoes. Then his face appears in front of the camera, grinning. It’s wobbly, unguarded, and so goddamn cute—not like a made-for-social-media reel at all.

“It’s on his Instagram, and it’s now on yours and Pepper’s and it’s racking up the hits.” Damian scrolls through his phone. “Over two hundred thousand views on Adam’s account alone and he’s only got … Oh man, he’s got sixty thousand followers already! His marketing lady told me she only set up his account this morning. Holy shit .” He waves his hand. “But also, Rolex called me at 7 a.m. and they are delighted . Look at this.”

He rewinds the video, and, at the end of my swinging arm, my watch is glinting on my wrist.

“You are the master, lady. Their marketing guy was practically wetting himself. Talking about how this was going to land him a promotion.” He laughs. “I’m going to let them reuse the footage. The dress people, too. See whether Adam took any more.”

I don’t feel like a master: My team just lost one of the biggest tournaments in tennis. But it’s fascinating how easily that, too, has been buried under everything around last night’s event.

“Could we get a Rolex for Adam?”

“I’m sure they’d gift him anything. I can ask them if you like.”

“Yeah. It’d be lovely to give him something. It was so kind of him to step in at the last minute. And thanks, Damian, you’re doing an incredible job. Just dealing with this and … I’m so grateful.”

He presses his hand to his chest. “Thank you. I love working here with you. But we haven’t even started talking about what I really came to talk about, which is this.” He pulls a stack of newspapers out of his bag and spreads them over the kitchen countertop: They’re full of pictures of Adam and me, which is no doubt going to make Arty furious. One headline screams:

WHO IS ANNA TALANOVA’S NEW MAN?

“Oh my God, why are they all so interested?”

“Because you’re a successful tennis player?” Damian says, smiling down at the headlines fanned out over my countertop.

Am I going to be that successful tennis player when I head out to the Australian Open in January, though? Ugh. I hate the way that losing eats into me.

“It’s an interesting idea this,” he adds, waving his hand over the papers.

“What is?”

“Taking some new guy to an event. Deflecting bad news by giving the press something else to sink their teeth into.”

“That’s not really why I did it.”

Damian squeezes my arm. “I know, but your instincts are golden.”

“I hope Adam’s okay. I don’t want to be some asshole quasi-famous person who exploits a situation … who ends up using someone for their own gain.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t think that at all. Give him a call. If he’s amenable, we could definitely squeeze more publicity out of this.”

My only thought was that I didn’t want to annoy the sponsors of the awards event who provide all my tennis gear. And I’m delighted that Rolex is happy. It was touch and go when Barb, my agent, finally landed me the contract with them, and they negotiated me down hard. They didn’t want to sign a Russian athlete; there were rumblings that it wasn’t quite their image. Some of the tension in the back of my neck starts to lift.

My relationships never last. I’m away too much of the year, and my past history in Russia is awful, but I’ve had to accept that that’s my reality. I like Adam—he’s cute—and perhaps Damian is right. For the next seven weeks, before I head off to Australia, maybe we could have some fun, and a bit of positive publicity could help all round.