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       US OPEN I

       August–September

       Dichotomy

      When Eloise met up with Ivan again in the US, it was clear that he had all but lost his spark for tennis and niggling strains in his hamstring and Achilles had become cause for concern. Although she still danced for him before each game, he watched her perform as a distant bystander rather than with his previous rapture at her skill and precision. She felt sorry for him, sensing that his loss at Wimbledon was still raw, which was confirmed by Caesar, who explained that this malaise caused him to miss the Australian Open earlier in the year. It seemed Ivan’s motivation was at rock bottom and everyone was questioning whether this tournament might indeed mark the end of his tennis career.

      It was within this apathetic atmosphere that the US Open began with little gusto for either of them. Ivan didn’t ask her to attend any matches at Flushing Meadows, so she busied herself around New York City’s incredible museums. SoHo had always been a firm favourite and one of the few places she liked to do some boutique shopping. One afternoon she took a tour of the Lincoln Center for Performing Arts to go ‘behind the scenes’ of the New York City Ballet. Needless to say it felt very strange being on the other side of the fence as a tourist rather than as a dancer! However, more often than not – other than her early morning jog around Central Park before it became too busy and hot – she stayed within the confines of the iconic Caesar Towers Hotel, keeping her body toned with swimming and working out at the gym. The sporadic messages she shared with Noah were without doubt the highlight of her day.

      Eloise didn’t pay much attention to Ivan’s matches, vaguely aware that he was struggling through the tournament on a wing and a prayer. She was concentrating on some intermittent sprint training on the running machine in the hotel’s gym when the sports news caught her eye – causing her to misjudge her steps, topple off the conveyer belt and land awkwardly on her weak left ankle. She sat on the carpet, momentarily befuddled, as she absorbed the reality that Noah had just been awarded the match over Ivan – who had forfeited the match in the fourth set, unable to continue due to a hamstring injury.

      She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Ivan limping up to the net to shake Noah’s hand, Noah placing his arm around Ivan’s shoulder in genuine sympathy for such a misfortune. Noah was through to the finals of the US Open! Her new ‘best friend’, the twenty-four-year-old slightly French Aussie who drank martinis and pints and who was quite partial to smoking on the odd occasion! She was forced to admit to herself that she hadn’t honestly believed it was possible for someone so laid-back to ever reach the pinnacle of his sport; from her perspective, he just didn’t seem to take it seriously enough. Although she had to concede, he was steadily climbing up the ranks with each match he played, which must be exciting for him.

      All of a sudden, the final of the US Open held far greater significance to her than it had mere moments before. Not only would Noah be playing in his first grand-slam final, but Ivan’s status as Number One was also potentially at risk.

      Throwing a towel around her neck and ignoring the pain in her ankle, she quickly returned to her suite to shower. Afterwards, she flicked the TV to the channel dedicated to the US Open. A reporter was interviewing Stephan Nordstrom, who had made it through in straight sets to the final against Noah.

      His face and his deep authoritative voice immediately captivated Eloise, and her belly pulled tight at the sight of him.

      The only thing that distracted her was the buzz at the door as the concierge delivered a message to her room. The gold-embossed envelope announced that it was from the one and only Caesar.

       Dear Eloise,

       This message is to inform you that should Stephan Nordstrom win the US Open, he will immediately become Number One in the ATP men’s rankings. Arrangements will be made for your transfer to him within twenty-four hours of the end of the match, should he agree to this. Should Noah Levique win the final, there will be no change in ranking and you will remain assigned to Ivan Borisov until otherwise notified.

       You may wish to acquaint yourself with the copy of your contract that I have included with this letter. My solicitor has highlighted the specific clauses you would be expected to uphold should such a transfer of Mastership occur.

       My driver will pick you up from reception at 3pm tomorrow to escort you to my private suite at Arthur Ashe Stadium so we can enjoy this momentous match together.

       May the best man win.

       Caesar

      As Eloise placed the note from Caesar on the desk in her suite, sounds of the interview with Stephan echoed in the background. She had signed up to Caesar’s game of human chess, and now he was making his next move. The thought that she was merely his pawn sent shudders down her spine, though she couldn’t decide whether they were from excitement or fear.

      She wondered whether Noah had any hope at all against the formidable Stephan Nordstrom. She sent her friend a text message, congratulating him on reaching the finals and wishing him the very best of luck.

      On the spur of the moment, she decided to quickly dress and go out to source a snow dome from one of the tourist shops to commemorate the occasion. She chose a dome featuring New York’s skyline, with King Kong holding a large tennis racquet on top of the Empire State Building. The ever-helpful concierge kindly organised its express delivery to Noah’s hotel and she once again cherished the memories of the special week they’d shared.

      The next afternoon Eloise ensured she was impeccably attired for meeting with Caesar. She prepared with the same fastidious care as she had always done for the stage, and felt suitably glamorous as she was escorted into the enormous luxury limousine waiting for her.

      Looking out at the stadium from Caesar’s private suite, she felt like she was in a bubble, not really part of the commotion of the crowd but still able to sense its raw energy. It was a far cry from the polite decorum on display at Wimbledon – the spectators nowhere near as homogenised, most of them flamboyantly showing off their uniqueness. Music was blaring from the speakers; some people were smoking joints, entwined in each other’s arms; others were jiving to the sounds on their headphones. You could literally feel the vibrant pulse of New York City pumping through your body. On her way to join Caesar she’d even passed a couple of brawling men who were in the process of being escorted out of the stadium by security.

      Despite feeling a little removed from the action, she was glad to be witnessing the commotion from safely behind tinted glass panels, in air-conditioned comfort. Otherwise she could easily have believed she was in a modern-day Colosseum, awaiting the arrival of lions and gladiators.

      This thought made her immediately aware of what was at stake, the dichotomy of her feelings causing her muscles to tense in anticipation of what the result might be. Though she would love for Noah to win, she couldn’t deny her personal desire for a change in her own circumstances; after the coldness of Ivan a new Number One would be more than welcome.

      The reality was that her life could be vastly different in a matter of hours, depending on who won this match, and it finally hit her with such force that she inadvertently lost her grip on the crystal glass of Krug. A waiter arrived swiftly at her side, offering another before cleaning up the expensive mess she had made.

      Caesar watched her every move from the corner of the room like a hawk sitting on a perch. She truly was a beauty to behold; there was no denying her attractiveness to every male in her midst, even those more

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