Driving through the tail end of rush hour, the French were changing lanes like the men change their mistresses – often. A few minutes from our destination, Mike from Getty called me. ‘The girls are all here and I’ve found a spot – are you close?’
I told him we were coming up the hill and he audibly exhaled. Usually, his interaction with players was monosyllabic and it wouldn’t be long before one of them had a diva attack, if it hadn’t happened already.
I jumped out of the car with the flags and ran to the spot Mike had indicated. There they were. Five fabulous tennis players, dressed in their tennis skirts as instructed, with racquets. Mike had set up his tripod, Jacques and his crew had arrived and the makeup woman the tournament recommended was already working on the girls. I went up t
