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- Herausgeber: Sally Bradfield
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Twenty-eight year old Katie Cook lands her dream job in the world of professional tennis. It was like being invited to the Academy Awards, except they were all wearing branded tracksuits.
Katie finds life in Sydney to be not quite measuring up and makes the move to follow her childhood obsession with professional tennis, running away to join this circus of a world and finding work as a publicist.
Racing around the globe faster than a Contiki tour, creating internet scandals wherever she goes, Katie is seduced by the appearance of glamour and her weakness for bad boys. She falls for one of the troubled champions and starts a trending relationship.
With an archenemy placing social media bombs in her way and hashtags haunting Katie in her sleep, she navigates her way through a series of social media and love crises.
Katie has some decisions to make. Does she want a hero or a career? Will she end up happily ever after? What does that even mean? One thing is for sure, she will never schedule an Instagram post again! #Girlscanbeheroestoo.
The story is written by a tennis insider and has been described as The Devil Wears Prada meets the exciting world of professional tennis.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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About Not Quite 30-Love
Twenty-eight year old Katie Cook lands her dream job in the world of professional tennis. It was like being invited to the Academy Awards, except they were all wearing branded tracksuits.
Katie finds life in Sydney to be not quite measuring up and makes the move to follow her childhood obsession with professional tennis, running away to join this circus of a world and finding work as a publicist.
Racing around the globe faster than a Contiki tour, creating internet scandals wherever she goes, Katie is seduced by the appearance of glamour and her weakness for bad boys. She falls for one of the troubled champions and starts a trending relationship.
With an archenemy placing social media bombs in her way and hashtags haunting Katie in her sleep, she navigates her way through a series of social media and love crises.
Katie has some decisions to make. Does she want a hero or a career? Will she end up happily ever after? What does that even mean? One thing is for sure, she will never schedule an Instagram post again! #Girlscanbeheroestoo.
The story is written by a tennis insider and has been described as The Devil Wears Prada meets the exciting world of professional tennis.
Contents
To the players, WTA, ATP, Tennis Australia and all national associations, their staff (past and present) who continue to make this sport we love a spectacle.
Katie Cook’s Adventure
#Prologue, #BondiDreaming
The last sunrays of the day fell on the floor of my Bondi Beach apartment. Jen and I sat cross-legged next to a rug laid with cheese, grapes and bread. The brie was soft and the bread a little stale; our glasses were full. One empty and one depleted bottle of rosé sat on the floor within arm’s reach.
‘I have Facebook, why do I need Instagram as well?’
‘Because you’re going on an epic adventure – Instagram is how you document it. Everyone knows that.’
‘Oh that’s right. Everyone does it, so must I.’
‘You’re the bloody marketer, why do you have to be such a snob about it?’
‘I love social media for work. I’m not so sure I want so many people up in my business.’
‘Here lies Katie Cook. She had an epic adventure – I think, maybe, who knows?’
I smiled at Jen and downloaded the app onto my iPhone.
‘Fantastic, now what should we call you?’
‘Um, what about Katie Cook?’
‘Are you fucking kidding me? You could just hang a sign around your neck that says “no imagination”.’
‘We could do that.’
‘It has to be something to do with tennis. What about Advantage Katie?’
I indicated the need to vomit.
‘Okay, what about LoveMatch?’
I mock projectile vomited.
Jen sat and visibly tossed ideas around in her head. Jen’s a talk-thinker. ‘I know, I know, it’s brilliant. What about @NotQuite30Love?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t get it. It’s because you’re twenty-eight and don’t have a boyfriend. It’s brilliant.’
‘I get it, Jen. I’m just not sure I want to advertise it.’
‘It’s not as desperate as being on E-Harmony.’
‘Which you’re on.’
‘Which I’m on and you should be.’
Jen was the same friend who goaded me into sleeping with that guy on the beach in Fiji. I woke up alone. Nuff said. She was right though. I needed a hook and it was clever. My input was to abbreviate it to @NQ30Love. Just cryptic enough to salvage some pride.
Jen grabbed my phone and took a pic of my empty flat. She posted my first story caption: ‘All packed up and somewhere epic to go #BigAdventure, #TennisDream.’ It was all linked up to my Facebook and on the net before I could chug my wine.
‘Now, instead of writing My Brilliant Career, you can post it,’ said Jen, totally chuffed with herself.
#SchoolsOut, #LinzCrisis
Half past six, a perfect autumn morning, lying in my king-sized bed at the Arcotel Nike Linz hotel on the dawn of my second day in my dream job. I mentally frame this shot. An ideal opening scene for the movie version of my brilliant career. They pan from me to the Danube River sparkling blue as the song suggests. The sky is a mixture of pinks, mauves and hints of the deepest blue coming to life. The streaked clouds appear to race towards something, yet move at a glacial pace. I sit up and stretch. Birds fly around my head singing. Hang on, isn’t that Cinderella? I grab my phone to check emails before showering, when the unfamiliar ring of the in-room telephone disrupts. It is all the way on the other side of the massive bed. I can’t reach it without dragging the doona, as I crawl across the breadth. The ring seems to become more insistent. ‘Okay, hold your horses.’
‘Katie Cook?’ says an unfamiliar American female voice.
‘Yes.’ My posture snaps to attention. ‘May I ask who’s –’
‘It’s the woman who hired you, Katie. Perhaps the worst decision of my career.’
The birds are silent. The soundtrack screeches to a halt. This angry voice is not in my script. The river recedes from view as I identify the voice at the other end. Jane Townsend is the director of communications for the WTA (Women’s Tennis Association). She hired me with one Skype phone call and several emails – we have never met. My mouth is now dry. ‘Jane, I’m sorry. Is something wrong?’
‘That’s the understatement of the century. You obviously haven’t checked your emails this morning.’
‘I was just about to.’
My iPhone downloads what seems to be thousands of emails.
‘I’ll shortcut it for you. There was a shooting today in a Philadelphia high school. Ten students are dead.’
‘Oh my God, that’s terrible.’ Small beads of sweat assemble on my forehead.
‘The shooter upon entering the school was quoted as saying “School’s Out”.’
Coins started to drop at a million miles an hour. ‘Fuck, the post… the Instagram post.’
‘Fuck, indeed,’ says Jane. ‘We are the number one trend in the country. The team tells me your post was scheduled for 3p.m. eastern daylight time – about thirty minutes before the gunman entered the school.’ She pauses. I can’t speak. My tongue swells to fill my mouth. ‘It started trending within minutes of the media covering the story. The digital team here in Florida had it removed within twenty minutes. Twenty minutes too late.’
‘I never meant –’
‘Don’t even bother, Katie. I’m sure I don’t have to paint you a picture of how the post was received. Read some of the emails, look online, the commentary is not exactly hard to find.’
My brain races, say something smart, meaningful, thoughtful,for God’s sake. ‘What can I do? Can I put out a statement?’ Really, Katie, that’s the best you can manage?
‘That’s already been done… As has the damage.’
Looking through the emails as we speak, for all the vitriol that is coming over the airwaves you would think the WTA was responsible for the murders. The most painful headline comes from the Daily Mail: ‘WTA Dances on the Grave of Slain Students.’ Could it get worse?
It’s such a great picture. Twenty up-and-coming tennis players who had graduated from WTA University in Florida, all throwing their tennis caps in the air. ‘School’s Out’ was the obvious caption.
‘Katie, we are a 24/7 organisation. There’s always someone awake to post digital, why did you schedule the post?’
I want to say ‘Brenda suggested it’ but I know how lame that would sound. ‘I thought it was a simple story. Something happy… and didn’t want to bother anybody.’
‘Well, that’s worked out perfectly, hasn’t it? What’s the point of a fucking manual if you don’t read it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The digital media manual you were given on induction. You should read it – it’s very prescriptive. In the meantime, don’t say anything to anyone without clearing it through me. I don’t have to repeat that, do I?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t have any more time to waste on you. I need to get back to damage control.’
The phone goes dead – like my career.
I scramble to my feet and over to my bag. Manuals, manuals, where are all those fucking manuals they gave me? I find the umpires’ manual, the court rules manual, on-site etiquette manual, expenses rules and regulations, and then the digital media guide.
Page one, paragraph one:
**
The WTA operates in a global 24/7 environment where anything can and does happen. That’s why we have members of the team in place in every time zone, enabling us to respond to whatever, whenever. Use your colleagues to make sure we are always awake and never forget the cardinal rule – NO SCHEDULING OF ANY SOCIAL MEDIA POSTS EVER.
**
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I probably should have read this on the plane instead of that new Janet Evanovich novel. If Stephanie Plum can’t pick between Ranger and Morelli after fifty books, there’s no saving her.
Sitting on the floor of my hotel room scrolling through the newsfeed, occasionally glancing across at the in-room minibar. Somehow, because of me, a happy picture of tennis graduates is playing alongside images of body bags containing innocent teenagers.
The flight from Australia landed at 7a.m. yesterday morning. Straight to the tennis stadium – no shower, just a clothes change and teeth clean in the players’ locker room, my suitcase standing in the corner. By 6p.m., sitting at my desk in the press room, the jet lag was begging my brain to give in. This was the job. This was what I signed up for. Adrenaline and caffeine, via my Coke Zero addiction, fuelled my brain.
With our work seemingly done for the day, the fantastic happy news story hit my desk in the form of a player photograph from our St Petersburg, Florida office. I captioned it and was about to post it to the WTA’s Instagram account. I checked with my on-site manager. ‘What do you think of “School’s Out”, as a caption?’ She shrugged and went back to her laptop.
‘I’m going to post it.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to post it when school’s actually coming out for the day in the US?’ she offered.
My fog-filled brain attempted to calculate the Linz time difference. ‘I think that would be about midnight here.’
‘If you can’t handle the hours, maybe this job’s not for you.’ Wow, that’s harsh. First day, just off a plane from Oz.
‘No, it’s no problem, I’ll do it. But wouldn’t it be smart to get the US office to do it?’
‘Sure, if you want other people to do your job for you.’ This conversation was going really well.
I started programming an alarm in my phone.
‘You could always schedule the post. You know how to do that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course I do. Great idea. Thanks, Brenda
#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 Facebook was full of likes and comments. My cheeky selfies with an ‘accidental’ celebrity in the background had been the most popular. My new Instagram 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.
#HotWater, #LinzCrisis
A shower interrupted reading the hate emails and digital media manual. As the steaming water ran down my face, I considered drafting my resignation letter. A moment of silence for the great career that could have been – then it hit me, a moment’s silence. I turned off the water and dripped my way to the bedroom, grabbing my phone. I fired off a message on WhatsApp to Jane. It seemed pretty strange communicating with my boss over this casual network. I didn’t want to call her and had noticed a comment in the manual about this being a cost-effective mechanism to reach team members. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, Jane, but I was wondering if a moment’s silence on all WTA courts at the start of play today, to commemorate students lost around the world in gun violence, might be a form of atonement for my mistake.’
I dripped and waited, waited and dripped, and then the reply. ‘We are currently working on an idea along similar lines. I will draft the press release and get back to the team with details about how to handle everything. Don’t move without my say so.’
How dumb does she think I am? Pretty fucking dumb. I messaged back. ‘Will await instructions.’
**
Dressed appropriately for the day ahead – in black. The black trousers, black shirt and sensible shoes mourned the senseless slaughter of innocents and the destruction of my career. I felt partially responsible for the death of these ten youngsters – social media agreed with me. The hate coming over the net was visceral. Sure, the timing of the post was a mistake, but it shouldn’t have been. Celebrating people graduating from any class should not be misconstrued for anything more than that. Had we lost all perspective in the desperate search for blame?
I waited for a car in the hotel lobby, with no idea who knew that I was the one who posted the caption. Eyes bored into me from every direction. I imagined being on the run Jason-Bourne style – every person, seen or unseen, a potential assassin.
In the corner of the lobby was a large flat-screen TV. It was tuned to what must have been the equivalent of Good Morning Linz. It had all the hallmarks of breakfast TV, including the male and female hosting duo – complete with their perfectly complementary hair, skin and smiles. The couch contained guests dressed in their best suits, looking grave and knowledgeable. The subtitles were in German, but there were no prizes for guessing today’s debate. Behind the coiffed analysts was the image of our players throwing their hats in the ring with the ‘School’s Out’ tag in English below. This was the equivalent of a modern-day lynching run by ‘social experts’. They debated back and forth, the female host getting heated on several occasions and putting her hand on the chest of her male counterpart, pushing him back in an attempt to make her point – I have no idea what that point was. Then the mood changed. The stakes escalated in a way that was difficult to understand without volume or language skills. A question was written on the screen behind them – an adjunct to my caption. The phrase clearly bothered the younger male guest. I grabbed my phone and took a picture of the screen: ‘WTA Soziale Medien Fehler oder Absicht?’ Someone would have to translate for me.
My new colleague Marine exited the lift and stood by me. ‘Have you got a car?’
‘Still waiting, they said it wouldn’t be long.’ Marine put her hand on my shoulder for a nanosecond and then withdrew it. She smiled at me. We met 23 hours ago. Today was her second day in the job as well. I had six months experience in various tennis jobs, she had none – she had ten years experience working in Formula One racing. She was average height and had shoulder length jet black ringlet curls with crystal blue eyes. She was French, living in London, and her accent reflected both locations.
‘I suppose you know about the Instagram post?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you know it was my fault?’
‘I know you scheduled the post. I would hardly call the incident your fault.’
I could have hugged her. Instead I put my hands on my face, attempting to push the tears that were welling in my eyes back into my head.
‘Thank you.’ I managed.
‘You made a mistake. It will be okay.’ Then she whispered to me. ‘We did not shoot anyone.’
‘Jane’s pretty pissed at me. She has some plans in the works, but I’m not allowed to say anything.’
‘I assume we will do a tribute on court.’ Was my idea that obvious? I nodded.
‘I doubt I’ll have a job tomorrow.’
‘Katie, don’t let them push you out. Keep your head high and do your job. And for God’s sake, read the manuals. They are very useful.’
‘Brenda told me to schedule the post.’
‘Yes, she is a bitch. But she can’t hurt you if you’re smart. Be smart.’
Marine was smart, she spoke several languages and seemed to calm everyone in her vicinity.
‘Do you speak German?’
‘Enough to get by – why?’
I grabbed my phone and showed her the image of the TV screen.
‘Do you know what this means?’
Her face was similar to that of the young man on the TV couch. ‘It asks a question. It asks if the post was a mistake or a deliberate stunt.’
‘Fuck. Oh, fuck. How could anyone think we would be that callous?’
‘It would be a new low – for any organisation. We should check Twitter for trending stories. Hopefully it’s just a German thing. They are obsessed with schadenfreude.’
We both entered our own social networks looking for trending WTA stories. Within seconds, the worst result imaginable uploaded, #WTAStuntFail. It was everywhere – the number 1 trending story on Twitter. Closely followed by #WTAVsTheWorld and the slightly less highbrow #WTASucks.
‘Do we contact Jane?’
‘She will know,’ said Marine.
The tournament desk official indicated that our car was ready. Marine and I rode the short trip to the tennis site in silence, both scrolling through the hate dripping out of our phones. My Google alerts were set to find anything related to professional tennis with keyword searches for WTA, ATP, Professional Tennis, Pilot Pen International and Nikolai Petrov. I should delete Petrov, he was not going to help me now.
#TheMusicMan, #PreCrisis
My soon-to-be New Haven boss, James, was like the music man walking through the Wimbledon players’ restaurant, saying ‘hello’ to everyone. They all wanted to talk to him too. That’s what happens when you own a tournament with a multi-million-dollar prize pool. This was the first time I had had access to the player areas. In Sydney, Rome and with the Lawn Tennis Association, it was economy-class access only. Now I was in first class.
As James’ shadow, I stared at the famous faces that were coming in and out of view. It was like being invited to the Academy Awards, except they were all wearing branded tracksuits. The girls accessorised with diamonds the size of my fist, the men accessorised with girls wearing diamonds the size of my fist. My fake Prada sunglasses stayed on my head as James introduced me around. There were lots of other tournament directors, reporters and operational people. It was fascinating.
Federer, his wife and their two sets of twins hung out in the restaurant waiting for his next match. They looked like an internet meme. An advertising agency could not have created a more enticing family image. Perfection personified. Venus Williams sashayed past. She was at least seven inches taller than me. Taller than any guy I had dated. But she moved effortlessly. Her head high in the clouds, there was no chance of eye-contact.
Nobody was alone. They all had entourages. Most of them sat in silence on their phones, while their entourages did the same. Typical modern-day relationships, where online presence trumped physical realities. Despite the lack of interaction, it was still important to have people around you, even if you ignored them.
I was careful not to breach trust by taking photos in the players’ restaurant, but a sly selfie in front of the entrance with the ‘Players Only’ sign was a must – @NQ30Love now had over 1,000 followers. My sister Lou posted #LivingTheDream with a huge smilie emoji on my Facebook page. Jen posted #ShowUsTheMensLockerroom with a wink.
**
On the last day James was in town, we were sitting in the players’ restaurant when Peter Fallon was walked through the player lounge, flanked by his token diamond-crusted female. I stood. He stopped, raised his hand to acknowledge James, and attempted to walk on.
‘Peter, come on, don’t be shy. Come meet my new assistant, Katie.’
Peter looked around for a saviour, visibly shrank when he realised none would appear, swivelled on the spot and came over.
‘Do you two know each other? All Aussies know each other, right?’ said James.
‘Yes,’ I said, simultaneous with Peter’s ‘No’. Blushing, I added. ‘I mean, of course I know of Peter. He’s a legend.’
At James’ behest, Peter shook my hand without making eye contact, patted James on the back and left.
‘Well, that was nice, wasn’t it, Katie?’
I nodded.
‘I bet he was one of your childhood heroes.’
At least James understood the age relationship.
‘Did you enjoy taking my seat in the president’s box yesterday?’
‘Yes sir. Oh my God, I sure did.’
‘Well, I’m leaving tomorrow, but I know you’ll probably be in London for a couple of weeks until they sort that visa out for you.’
‘Yes, Mr Peterson.’
‘I’ve got a suggestion on how you can pass some of that time. How about you take my pass and watch some tennis while you’re here? Sound good to you?’
‘Are you sure that’s okay? It sounds fantastic to me, but I don’t want to get you into any trouble.’
‘Don’t you worry about that, Katie. I’ve cleared it with the tournament. You can take my place in the president’s box right up until the semifinals. After that, the seats have all been allocated.’
‘Thank you.’ OMG, I could kiss you.
‘Don’t worry about it, Katie. You’ll pay me back in hard work during our event this summer.’
‘Yes sir, I will, sir.’
#TeamMeeting, #LinzCrisis
At any tournament, the lead person on site from the WTA is the tour manager or supervisor. It is his or her role to liaise with the tournament on match schedules, player requirements and to help with any issues that other WTA staff or players may have. They cop all the shit from every direction. The three I’ve met have been women and very calm professionals with soothing personalities. My initial meeting with Birgit Akerman on the walk around yesterday gave me no reason to suspect she was an exception. Blonde (aren’t all the Swedes?) and in her late 30s, she seemed competent and smiley. I wondered if she could handle the shit-storm I’ve created.
At 9a.m. the entire WTA team were in her tiny office. Sixteen of us. Six physios and massage therapists, three media staff, two player liaisons, one assistant supervisor, three WTA umpires and Birgit. Most of team had takeaway coffee cups in their hands. Caffeine might not be the ideal lubricant given the scenario. A hip flask on the other hand…
‘Quiet please, everyone take a seat. I know it’s crowded in here and we all have very busy days scheduled, but we need to make sure that the team is across what has happened overnight and the official message that has been scripted,’ said Birgit.
‘Can I just add,’ said Brenda, interrupting, ‘the media team has never made a mistake of this nature. We don’t usually give new staff the opportunity to create so much drama.’
Brenda, along with the entire room, turned to face me.
‘Thank you, Brenda,’ said Birgit. ‘Can we please focus on the issue and the solution.’
Birgit explained what had happened with the mistaken post. She outlined the timeline of events and read the press release that Jane had sent out a few hours ago, while we were all sleeping. She never took her eyes off me as she explained. ‘We are looking at one minute of silence before the first match today. Our number one seed Ulli Fischer is going to make a very short statement beforehand. Then she and the two players from the first match – Lemonjian and Bartens – and all the officials will stand with their heads bowed for one minute. Video of this will be uploaded by the media team, it will be on TV and a press release explaining that the WTA is committed to supporting safe environments world-wide for our youth, will be distributed through our global network. Any questions?’
Thirteen hands went up. Marine, Birgit and I were the only ones with both hands firmly at our sides.
Jenny the physio wanted to know, ‘What do we tell the players?’
Birgit responded. ‘We tell the players the truth. It was a mistake due to computer scheduling. A horrible mistake.’ Four hands dropped.
Margaret from player relations wondered if we should encourage players to make their own statements on social media. Brenda responded to this. ‘We think it’s best for players to remain quiet, but if they want to say something. They should come to the media team and clear it with us first.’ Good luck with that happening. Six more hands dropped.
Elke, an umpire, raised the elephant. ‘The media are now saying it was a deliberate stunt. Won’t this minute of silence be playing into their hands?’ It was a damn good question – one that had been festering in my brain since Marine translated the Good Morning Linz bombshell.
‘This has been discussed,’ said Birgit. ‘We have scripted Ulli’s statement to focus on caring about youth globally, rather than the error. It is most important that we all stick to the facts. It was a mistake and we have proof. The post went out thirty minutes before the gunman entered the school. It could not have been deliberate.’ I remembered vacillating between 3p.m. and 3.30p.m. for scheduling the post.
The team nodded unanimously, the remainder of hands dropped. Nobody wanted to work their arses off, day and night, for an organisation that would have perpetrated a stunt like the one we were being accused of.
**
We left the room in teams to walk towards our respective homes on site. The media room was a long walk down a faceless corridor towards impending doom.
#NewHavenTough, #PreCrisis
Even blindfolded, I would have known it was the USA. The unmistakable aroma of burnt Starbucks coffee and the salty yet somehow sweet smell of fried potatoes were omnipresent.
It was 9a.m., eight hours since leaving London. I had barely touched the plastic meal offered on the plane. My stomach rumbled. Despite the scaffolding decorating JFK, the food court was immediately visible. All the concession stands appeared to have an unfamiliar smiling cartoon mascot. I chose one with an image of a chicken in a red, white and blue waistcoat. The chicken was missing both wings and legs, and the caption ‘We only sell breast meat’ flashed below. I ordered a chicken breastfast burger, hash brown, plus a soft drink. The woman asked, ‘Is that for here or to go?’
‘I’d like to go, but my flight doesn’t leave for two hours.’
She stared at me. ‘That will be nine dollars and ninety-eight cents, please ma’am.’
I think I gave her ten dollars out of my stash of notes all the same size and colour.
‘Thank you so much ma’am. Have a great day.’
After finishing about half the food, I threw out the rest. It was not worth the kilometres I would have to run to burn off the calories.
My next task was to find the gate for the twenty-seat plane that was to shuttle me to New Haven. The outdated flickering monitors took several minutes to display my flight and the required Gate 21B. After following signs which took me in two wrong directions, I found gates 19, 20, 21 and 22, but no 21B. The gates around me were all unstaffed, as the flights were not for several hours. The immediate area was deserted. Everywhere was grey – grey carpets, grey walls, grey desks and grey screens. After wandering around for forty minutes, it seemed 21B was akin to the mysterious Platform 9¾ in the Harry Potter novels. Maybe if I ran at a grey wall I would slip right through? But which wall? Tired and frustrated, I sat, put down my laptop bag, handbag, my favourite duty-free perfume – Estee Lauder’s Beautiful – and a travel pillow.
Two suited men walked past me screaming at each other. I did not know what they were shouting about, but I overheard the words ‘delay’ and ‘fuck’ – many fucks. Then I saw a small laminated sign stuck to the rail of a grey metal staircase. The sign said 21B and had a black arrow pointing down the stairs. Taking a picture of the sign, I posted #HightechNYCSignage then picked up my bags, made my way down and the holy grail of gates appeared. Instead of witches and wizards, there were several businessmen, one of whom was extremely large or, as they say in the US, ‘big and tall’. The large man was sweating, dabbing himself with an enormous handkerchief. The plane we were to travel on was visible through the window. It was tiny. He could have been scared of flying, or of not fitting into his allocated seat. Nearby, there were two guys who looked like they had stepped out of one of those frat-boy movies. Good looking in a perfectly unsexy way. Both were wearing Yale University sweaters and were talking loudly about football, or maybe it was basketball.
‘Ryan, buddy, you’re a disgrace to that sweater. Bulldogs are going all the way this fall or I’m going to…’
I went through my handbag: boarding card, passport, wallet – all there.
A few minutes later our flight was called. In the queue, a tall blonde lady whose teeth were more dangerous to face directly than a total eclipse of the sun, wished me a safe trip. My seat was across the aisle from the large sweating man. He smiled at me. His enormous cheeks spread to accommodate the width of his mouth. He had one very deep dimple on the right side of his face, which was previously hidden. He must have heard me speak to the flight attendant, as he leant forward and asked, ‘You’re not from around here, are you, sweetie?’ He had one of those wonderful southern drawls that pulled me in immediately. I told him I was from Australia.
‘Australia, my goodness, that’s a long way from New Haven. Are you on a holiday?’
‘No, I’m starting a new job. It’ll be my first time in New Haven. What’s it like?’
‘Some good restaurants, but the centre of town is a little bit rough. I’m sure you won’t be living there.’
Our flight resembled a boat ride on a windy Sydney Harbour. After we alighted, he shook my hand and said, ‘Good luck with the new job, sweetie.’ He lifted his bag off the carousel and walked out of the terminal. Right before exiting, he turned, smiled and tipped his hat.
Surrounding the baggage carousels was a sea of men wearing Adidas, Nike and Wilson. There must have been an invisible pact regarding player entourages as they all seemed to consist of an overweight coach balanced out by an underweight girlfriend. As I dragged my battered red suitcase onto my trolley, a guy, around my age, wearing a blue and white checkered shirt and khaki pants approached. He looked like he had walked out of a J.Crew catalogue and was holding up an iPad with my name on the screen. I walked over to him.
We introduced ourselves. His name was Joe and he said his instructions were to take me to the tournament hotel. We walked towards a huge SUV with Pilot Pen International Tennis Tournament signage all over it. In previous tournaments, like Rome, they had a simple script ‘Foro Italico’ on both front doors and, at Wimbledon, a discrete purple and green W logo on the driver’s door. It will be easy to find my new life in a country with such clear signage.
Joe opened my door, waited for me to get into the car and closed it behind me. Then he walked around to the driver’s side. I asked how long we would be in the car and he told me about forty minutes.
My butt sank into the black leather seat and my head leant against the window, wishing it could be opened. The heat outside made airconditioning compulsory. We drove past hundreds of square buildings with flat tops that looked like painted cardboard boxes. They resembled a movie set, likely to be torn down at any moment, and were called strip malls, as any character had been stripped from the design. The boxes had endless rows of enormous cars parked in front. The four-wheel drives appeared two storeys high due to the size of their wheels, and the ‘pick-ups’ resembled Aussie ‘utes’ on steroids.
‘Does all of New Haven look like this?’
My question opened Pandora’s Box. Joe took it as an invitation to talk and started playing twenty questions. He seemed nice enough, but my head felt heavy and my eyes wanted to close. Joe was studying for a masters in law and wanted to break into management or something. He seemed most interested in ‘How the fuck a girl like you ended up on the other side of the world as a tournament director assistant?’
‘Got any tips?’ he glanced at me through the rear-view mirror.
Was his question really, ‘How does a nice girl like you end up in a shithole like this?’
‘I read a book – Do What You Want and the Money Will Follow.’ He mumbled something about getting a copy. My head resumed its position against the window.
At the hotel check-in, the receptionist told me my room was paid for and handed me a letter. It was from my new boss telling me to make my way to the tournament site ASAP. Opposite me was a sign saying ‘Pilot Pen, the world’s largest ballpoint pen manufacturer.’ It seemed like a good place to ask about getting to the tennis or, at the very least, to borrow a pen. I was told a minibus would be leaving for the tennis centre in twenty minutes. The lift ride to my room gave me time to decide on the day’s outfit. The room was at least twice the size of those in Europe. Spinning around to get a quick view of a beige space with a king-sized bed overladen with pillows and a movie screen–sized TV. I dropped my bags, undid the padlock on my suitcase, grabbed my toilet bag and went into the bathroom. The bathroom seemed larger than the bedroom. Dominating was a spa bath with room for a family of four. It called to me. But, the bubbles would have to wait. With barely time to wash twelve hours of travel off my face, freshen my makeup, add my Redwood lipstick, squirt on deodorant and put on my chosen fuchsia skirt and navy polo, I caught the bus downstairs with the engine revving. Posting pics of the room would happen tonight.
#Doomsville, #LinzCrisis
I was thrilled to find myself in a press room sitting amongst these vibrant wordsmiths on tight deadlines, literally making the news we read. Except today social media was inventing the story as it went along and the journalists were desperately playing catch-up without straying too far into the abyss of ‘fake news’.
Brenda had not spoken to or looked at me on the interminable walk to the press room. Marine’s presence was a contributing factor. Brenda may have set me up, but anyone could see a Formula One seasoned pro like Marine was wide awake.
Brenda was itching to drop me in it. But she had instructions from Jane. No specifics on the breach of protocol re: scheduling posts, and no individuals mentioned. Jane knew that would drive the story even further. They needed to get rid of me quietly. A public hanging would only make them look worse. No doubt the WTA hierarchy in Florida considered scapegoating me. Social media’s take on that would be: new girl, first day on the job, not enough training. The WTA would look like arseholes or bullies. They had to stand united as a team of people who cared about everybody – stupid staff members included.
A reporter from Good Morning Linz stuck his camera and microphone in Brenda’s face. He asked her, ‘WTA Soziale Medien Fehler oder Absicht?’ Brenda said, ‘It was a mistake. A poorly scheduled post, designed only to celebrate our tennis players’ happiness at their graduations. The WTA post went out thirty minutes before the incident in Philadelphia, which proves it could only have been an error.’
The TV journalist indicated for the camera to be turned to his face. He spoke earnestly in German. I have no idea what he said, but Marine’s jaw relaxed as he spoke. The Germans and Austrians do love their facts – a small mercy for us at this point.
The questions came thick and fast and in many languages. I could only field the English ones. The journalists seemed fascinated with the fact it was only my second day on the job.
‘How does it feel to be in the middle of such a crisis on your second day?’ In the middle – I was the fucking cause.
‘I’m proud to be a member of the WTA team. This mistake was unfortunate, but the true tragedy is the loss of innocent lives due to the violence perpetrated by a lone gunman. We must not forget the real crisis.’ This response was straight from the WTA’s playbook. I was not going to stray one word out of line today – or ever again.
We attempted to steer the media towards the full day of fantastic matches scheduled on the courts. No chance of that. Serena Williams could lose to a Donald Trump today and nobody would give a shit. Luckily neither was playing.
**
It was about thirty minutes before the start of matches. We had yet to announce the minute of silence. Management believed it would appear more genuine if it hadn’t been dissected in the media beforehand. The gold dress ring on my right hand slipped and slid along my sweaty finger. Off my finger and into the pencil case it went. No chance of my hands drying up any time soon.
#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, Facebook and Instagram. 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 nipples, thank God, but there was some floating tittage. Two Facebook 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 porn 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.
