Not Quite 30-Love

#WhoIsWhoInTheZoo, #PreCrisis

#WhoIsWhoInTheZoo, #PreCrisis

On site at the Pilot Pen International, my photo accreditation and introductions began. First to Julie who told me, ‘James hasn’t been able to find the right assistant since Pam got pregnant. He wants someone who anticipates his needs, someone who doesn’t wait for instructions.’

James was off site all day today, making it the perfect opportunity to get settled in. Julie introduced me around. The names and faces were starting to blur. I was going to lose track of this information and started to make notes on my phone:

**

Joe (J-Crew): Desperately trying to be smooth. But seems genuine.

Julie: Huge smile. I’m pretty sure she wants my job.

Jane: Tall, blonde, maybe 30s, big busted – nobody looks at her face. Works with accounts payable – seems friendly.

Mary: Older, brunette, rounded Teletubby style. Head of ticketing. Officious.

Paul: Very tall, 50s & greying – chuckles. Head of transport and a bit touchy-feely.

Mark: Accountant, I think. Just the facts jack!

Kay: Head of Ops. Very short, spiky-blonde hair, pleasant to me, but saw her rip into one of her staff – don’t cross.

**

Within a couple of hours, there were six screens full like this.

**

Julie was not the only person to spill the beans on James. Mark told me James consumes a Starbucks grande vanilla latte every morning.

Paul told me, ‘James is fanatical about being on time, but he’s hopeless at making it happen.’

‘He hates suck-ups,’ said Kay, staring at me with unnerving intensity.

‘He has a really good memory for names and numbers, but sometimes he forgets conversations you’ve had with him,’ said Marissa.

**

Marissa: Useful. Not a suck-up.

**

It was after midnight before I finally made it back to the Omni Hotel and room 629. The faces, names and activities raced around in my head like rushes from a movie. I attempted to relax as I unpacked my suitcase, hung skirts, dresses and jackets, then folded my tops and underwear. My suitcase emptied and stored away, I tried to quiet my thoughts with meditation. My technique was learnt from a singing teacher in Sydney. I was not going to win Star Search, but got something out of the lessons. Breathe in one nostril and hold; breathe out the other nostril and repeat. My heart relaxed and my breathing deepened, but my thoughts kept interrupting. Sleep was going to be impossible without some serious tub action.

While the bath filled, I started to clean my teeth and wash my face. Behind me the sound of water rushing into the bath triggered an awareness of the stiffness in my body that had been forgotten about or ignored. The water was halfway up the tub when I added a bath bomb from my new favourite spa shop in Convent Garden – The Sanctuary. The bomb fizzled and spun through the water, tracing a circular pattern and spreading its mineral goodies. When the water was above the jets, I pushed the ‘on’ button and the spa jump-started into action. First, one foot into the water. It was just above a comfortable heat – perfect. When my foot had adjusted to the temperature, I put the other one in, waited for a few seconds as the water begged me to sink down. I relinquished the day and slid into the bubbles. Starting with my toes, my muscles and thoughts gave up the fight. My head was too heavy for my now softened neck and my eyelids refused to stay open. I somehow managed posting a modest bubble-bath selfie. A sound sleep was not far away.

At dawn the alarm forced me to lift my leaden head off the pillows. I was surrounded by a fortress in the king-sized bed, the pillows boxing me in on both sides. With less than an hour to get ready for my first morning briefing, I dragged my stiff body into the shower, washed my hair and shaved my legs. In just under thirty-five minutes I was downstairs, praising the tournament desk for the free bagels on offer. I grabbed one laden with peanut butter and boarded the minibus. I looked around and found a spare seat and noted almost all the occupants had their eyes closed. Fifteen more minutes of quiet bliss, until I checked my emails, f*******: and i********:. My bubble-bath post had been a hit. It didn’t make sense until I looked at the photo again. It wasn’t quite as modest as remembered. No n*****s, thank God, but there was some floating tittage. Two f*******: private messages. One from Jen: ‘More bubbles required babe’. The other from Lou: ‘Katie, you really need to be more careful. Don’t let this stupid social stuff get in the way of your dream.’ Crap, crap, crap. Lou was right, @NQ30Love was not intended to be a p**n site. Thank God my parents were social-media illiterates.

The first day of the tournament and the site was alive. Dodging the delivery men with their trolleys full of towels, water bottles and tennis balls, I stopped at the Starbucks concession stand. Fifth in the queue, I waited with my eyes closed for James’ latte. Both of my hands were full and my phone was under my arm as I joined the throng of staff being herded into the interview room. Most of them were carrying a variety of huge branded disposable coffee cups. I had met a million people yesterday, but in front of me was a gaggle of new ones. Searching for someone familiar to join, I recognised a woman’s face. In fact, I recognised her bust – Jane. Still carrying the coffee, I tried to get her attention, but she was talking to another blonde woman and never looked in my direction.

We spilled into the interview room, which was large enough to seat about one hundred people classroom style. The chairs faced an elevated stage hosting a large desk draped in white cloth with Pilot Pen signage behind.

As if some invisible command had been signalled, people started moving chairs. Some dragging and stacking, others pulling chairs forward. In less than two minutes, a shape appeared. They were constructing a circle, a forty-person sharing circle. Great, less than twenty-four hours in the US of A and I was in therapy. God knows I loved watching Ellen as much as the next twenty-something woman, but I would never sign up to sit on her couch.

People took their unidentified yet somehow allocated seats. I made several attempts to claim one, but was warned off by stares and grunts from the correct owners. If this was a game of musical chairs, I was going to be the one left standing when the music stopped. There was no sign of James. As his assistant, I should sit next to him. Across from me, was an empty seat, which people seemed to be avoiding, ‘Is this seat taken?’

‘It’s James’s,’ barked Kay. ‘The executives sit next to him. You sit over there,’ she said pointing way across the circle.

I nodded at her instruction and slunk away, mentally revising my notes:

**

Kay: Head of Ops. Big b***h.

**

Not finding a seat, or even space for one, I walked to the back of the room, put down the coffee, picked up a chair and returned to the closed circle. ‘Excuse me, can you please move, so I can fit my seat in?’ With rolling eyes and collective mumbles, the circle gave way and I took my place.

Almost immediately the briefing began and people started taking turns to speak. To my relief they were not revealing their innermost feelings, instead, they were pitching how well their departments were doing. Ticket sales were up ten percent on last year, sponsorship was up fifteen percent. There must have been an invisible applause sign flashing somewhere.

Typing notes on James’ daily schedule, it seemed that James needed to be live on the local CBS TV affiliate at 7.48a.m. and 6.27p.m. every day. Following that, he had a live radio broadcast from site at 8.32a.m. and 5.23p.m. Although nobody mentioned my name, it became apparent that the sponsor’s party tent was open all day and night, and his assistant was required to greet the sponsors at the beginning of each session.

James arrived ten minutes late and took his guarded seat. I had no luck catching his eye during the meeting and there was no way to get the coffee to him, but I made damn sure to push my way in front of him as soon as we all stood up. He looked at me, I smiled and handed him the latte I had purchased. As I handed it to him I was aware of the time difference between purchase and delivery. It was still warm in my hand, but the temperature had dissipated during the meeting. Hardly ideal.

‘Hello Katie, has the team been getting you up to speed?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Good to hear, thank you for the coffee,’ he said, taking a sip. ‘Vanilla’s my favourite, what a pity it’s cold.’ He put the coffee down on the chair beside him and started to walk out of the room. Halfway out, he turned, ‘Hurry up Katie, TV won’t wait.’

He did not look back, and I had to break into a jog to keep up with him.

**

James: Maybe not the sweet gentleman I met at Wimbledon.

An hour later, on my way to the party tent, J.Crew Joe stopped me.

‘Hi Katie, how are you doing? I bought your book online, the one about the money following.’

I looked behind me, turned back and said, ‘I’m already on sss looking for a replacement.’

‘That’s a damn shame. If it’s any consolation, a group of us are going for a drink after work tonight, come along, and we can figure out a Plan B.’

Well past bedtime, Joe led six others and me into The Anchor bar around the corner from the hotel. During semester it was a regular Yale hang out, but tonight it was quiet and dark. We slid into a circular red leather booth with darkened mirrors and heavy mahogany wood panelling. I was welcomed into this strange mix of twenty-to-thirty-somethings from accounts, production, marketing and crew. They were a support group for those not-in-favour with the executive. I felt at home.

Two of the girls, Danielle and Emma, had been around tennis for years and filled me in on all the gossip. Like who was sleeping with whom, which players got around and who to avoid like the plague. I tried to hide my interest when they started talking about Nikolai Petrov. Neither of them had slept with him, but they told me about one of the girls who had.

Look, Katie, that’s her,’ said Danielle, pointing at one of the waitresses serving tables.

‘Who?’

‘The one we told you about, that slept with Petrov – Pam, your predecessor.’

‘They told me Pam got pregnant.’

‘God, they’re still peddling that lie, are they?

‘She’s very pretty and young.’

‘Not as young as she was when they slept with her,’ said Emma.

‘They? What do you mean, “they”? I thought you said she slept with Petrov?’

‘Yeah, she did, and then he passed her around to all his friends,’ said Emma.

‘That’s so repulsive. Did she… I mean, was it r**e?’

‘No, she thought she was special. I bet she doesn’t feel so special now,’ said Danielle.

‘Everybody knows. That’s why she couldn’t work for James any more,’ said Emma.

**

The first time I saw Petrov in the flesh was four weeks ago in Rome when I was helping with his press conference. He was 6 feet 4 inches of perfectly toned tanned muscle, black hair and impossible green eyes – like a male Snow White or a trendy vampire; but even that doesn’t do him justice. After the press conference, he walked past me, inches from my skin and every hair on my body prickled. The translator Antonio was sitting next to me and saw my reaction. He said; ‘Careful Katie, that one has been everywhere… and I mean everywhere. It’s like a rite of passage or something for the girls in tennis to sleep with him.’

‘Oh my God, Antonio, that’s disgusting.’

‘Yep – Katie it is disgusting.’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘I know that’s what you said. Keep reminding yourself that.’

Back in Pilot Pen land, the g**g had switched into alcohol-therapy mode. Telling stories of working the tournament, alternating with sculling shots. George told us, ‘I had a call today from a woman who wanted to know who would be playing on Friday. I replied, “Whoever wins on Thursday”.’

We all had to scull.

‘I can beat that,’ said Joe. ‘I got asked who was going to be in the final.’

We sculled.

‘I can beat you all,’ said Phil. ‘I got asked if I could tell Pam Shriver in the commentary booth to shut up, because her voice was annoying.’

**

Danielle & Emma: Great fun, unless they’re stabbing you in the back.

George: Sweats profusely. Couldn’t stop looking.

Phil: I have no idea what he does.

**

The sculling continued until we had run out of stories. Somehow Joe manoeuvered me into a corner and his alcohol-soaked breath was intoxicating. Over the last few days I had felt like a boat taking on water, bailing as fast as I could, but the water kept coming. Joe had responded to my distress call, and I grabbed hold of the life-line, pulling him close. His tongue invaded my too willing mouth. I responded with passion that felt more like aggression. We bashed into the panelled wall behind us with a force that caused our foreheads to collide. We broke apart. The rush of pain brought clarity. I did not want to sleep with a dinghy. ‘Let’s go back to the hotel,’ I said.

We got into the lift at the Omni and I pushed the button for the sixth floor. Joe did not push number eight. At that moment, I realised through the alcohol haze that my words had sounded like an invitation.

‘Aren’t you on the eighth floor?’ I pushed the button for his floor. Joe looked at me as if I had slapped his face. When the doors opened on six, I jumped out.

‘Night, Joe, sleep well.’

Plan B was to do a good job.