Not Quite 30-Love

#TheChocolateFactory

#TheChocolateFactory

Flaccid. A word that strikes fear into the hearts of men. More than famine, war or pestilence. More than the words ‘There’s no more beer’, ‘Do you want to talk?’ or ‘Where is our relationship going?’ Flaccid is how I made former Aussie tennis hero Peter Fallon feel, as he sat next to me in the Wimbledon President’s Box.

‘Do you come here often?’ said Mr Fallon.

‘No, I mean, never, this is my first time.’

‘A virgin. You don’t meet them often.’ He nudged a little too hard. His grin illuminating teeth bleached to offset his leather tanned face. ‘Would you like someone to show you around?’

‘Are you serious? That would be amazing.’

‘After the match, let me show you how it feels to be a player.’ He put his hand on my thigh. Technically it was still my thigh, my upper thigh. I wished I was wearing my new trouser suit, instead of a flimsy sundress.

‘I used to love watching you play, when I was a kid.’

I didn’t mean to say it, not like that, anyway. It just came out. Not the best thing to say to a man in his late 40s who sees himself as virile and attractive while failing to notice deepening crow’s feet and lines. An inevitable reminder of glory days playing tennis in the unforgiving sun.

As we watched the fuzzy yellow ball get smacked across the net, we sat in silence except for the ever so slight squeak of his ego deflating. I felt a little uncomfortable. Not as bad as feeling flaccid.

Around us, twelve thousand spectators had paid and queued to be seated on the centre court. Instead of billboards and banners, there were beds of flowers. Instead of rock music pumping between points, there were the titters of polite conversation and the clinking of Pimm’s cups. I clutched my golden ticket into Willy Wimbledon’s chocolate factory. While other kids had been conjuring images of chocolate rivers, I had envisioned heroes dressed in white, swinging racquets and playing long days of world’s best tennis in a classic English summer.

If Wimbledon is the chocolate factory, the president’s suite is the nerve centre. It faces the royal box, where the Duke and Duchess of Kent sit in all their royal glory. The box is where the dealmakers sit; tournament directors and their guests holding court, deciding who plays where and who gets what.

Unlike the chocolate room, however, nothing is gratis. The strawberries and cream cost ten pounds – that’s twenty dollars – for three strawberries with a drizzle of cream. If it wasn’t for Brexit the conversion would have been worse. The seats are a money-can’t-buy experience. Less than fifty recipients at a time sit on the cushions provided.

The box was full and there was a continuous queue outside. They waited, and hoped for someone to vacate a seat. The seats were situated directly behind the court, at the perfect height to watch the action. Not to mention guaranteed TV exposure for the seated guests.

Two spots along was a British morning TV host. One down and one across was a VJ. Many other faces were hard to pinpoint, it was like looking at your kindergarten class picture. ‘I know her, I know her…how do I know her?’ The plethora of this season’s Dior, Chanel, LV and Longchamp handbags were recognisable as I kicked my unbranded straw tote under the seat.

After a full session sitting in the box yesterday, too scared to move in case I ended up back in the queue, my f*******: was full of likes and comments. My cheeky selfies with an ‘accidental’ celebrity in the background had been the most popular. My new i********: account @NQ30Love was also gaining some traction. Maybe Jen had been right? I had taken a selfie with Peter Fallon earlier today. How should I tag that? #FormerGlory.

My parents had spotted me on TV. Mum had emailed approval at my outfit of choice. I’d worn a pretty blue and white sundress, nice navy shoes, my oversized copies of Prada sunglasses, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and my signature MAC Redwood lipstick.

I still couldn’t believe I was here. I didn’t want to do anything as clichéd as pinch myself, but ouch! Exactly twelve months ago I had been sitting at home in my flat in Bondi watching Wimby on TV, agonising about what to do with my career, and it was only four weeks ago that I had left Sydney in search of a new life. Now I was sitting next to Mr Fallon, courtesy of my new job in New Haven. The seat was mine, time to get the handbag to match.