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“He’s still there?”
Helen nods, her mouth full of salad. On screen, April raises her eyebrows so high they disappear beneath her bangs.
“So, what, like — he’s moved in?”
Helen swallows, shaking her head as she picks up her iced matcha latte. These Friday Facetime dish sessions don’t usually involve an interrogation, and she kind of regrets getting a lunch that requires so much chewing.
“He hasn’t moved in. It just kind of… keeps happening?”
Her sister’s gaze is sharp. “What do you mean, keeps happening?”
Helen wishes she wouldn’t keep using that tone of voice. Through her car window, she can see her office building. If she squints, she can almost see her desk. Maybe she should pretend she has to go back to work. At least her case files can’t yell at her.
She sighs, returning her latte to the cupholder.
“I understand that it sounds crazy—”
“— it is crazy—”
“—but you’d get it if you knew him.”
“You barely know him!”
Helen rolls her eyes, retrieving her salad from the passenger seat. “He’s nice, April.”
April laughs a bitter laugh. “You mean he has a nice dick.”
“Oh my God.” Helen puts the salad down again.
“Well, why else would you be putting up with this?” April starts to move, turning the scene behind her into a nauseating blur — though maybe it’s the conversation that’s making Helen start to feel sick. “Like, what other reason could my baby sister have for moving a homeless man into her apartment? You had one date, Helen — and it barely even sounded like a date — and, okay, I get taking him back for a night — even though that was stupid; what if he’d been a serial killer? — but that was five days ago, and you said it yourself, he won’t leave —”
“I said he needed a place to stay—”
“What’s the difference? He’s taking advantage of you! I thought you learnt your lesson after the last time—”
“Um, this isn’t anything like—”
“No, you’re right, because Mark actually contributed something to your life.”
It’s a low blow, and April knows it. Arching her eyebrow, Helen crunches a piece of lettuce between her teeth, aiming for wounded, but dignified. It must work, because she can see the guilt on her sister’s face, and she allows herself a moment to enjoy the pause in the barrage of insults-slash-concern.
If she can’t make April shut up, then at least she can appreciate April shutting herself up.
“Sorry,” says April, having the grace to look sheepish — only, predictably, to launch right back into indignance. “It’s just that — fuck, Helen, you deserve better than being some frat boy’s sugar mommy!”
Helen chokes on her lettuce.
“I am not his sugar mommy!” she splutters. “And he’s not a frat boy, April, Jesus—” April opens her mouth to protest, but Helen shakes her head, lifting her hand in the universal gesture of shut the fuck up. “I swear to God, if you say another word I’m going to phone Mom and tell her you were the one who puked all over her Louboutins that one Christmas.”
April clamps her mouth shut, and Helen gives her a saccharine smile, beginning to count off on her fingers.
“One, he’s not homeless, he’s an athlete. He played at Wimbledon.” She doesn’t know if that’s actually true, but it’s the principle of the thing, and she carries on regardless. “He’s probably going to play at the US Open. He just needs somewhere to stay for this tournament thing, and it doesn’t make sense to get a hotel when it’s almost over.” April’s lips thin, but she keeps them closed.
“Two, he is nice? He brought me a t-shirt from his thing on Tuesday and cleaned the kitchen for me yesterday, even though he should have been resting for his match today? So he’s not taking advantage of me, or whatever.”
And, okay, maybe the shirt had been too big and he hadn’t done a great job with the kitchen, but that doesn’t take away from her point.
“Hm,” hums April, which Helen guesses isn’t a word, so not technically in violation of the rules. She decides to let it slide.
“Three,” she says, “I am a grown woman, and I can look after myself.”
April rolls her eyes, and something about the gesture is worse than flinging around insults like sugar mommy — which, are sugar mommies even really a thing? God, she doesn’t want to think about it.
Helen closes her own eyes, taking a moment to compose herself.
“Four,” she says, opening them, “he does have a nice dick, and he knows how to use it. Last night—”
“Jesus Christ, Helen!”
Helen only smiles at her sister, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she takes another sip of her matcha. “You asked.”
“I didn’t, actually,” says April, wrinkling her nose. “Okay, fine, good for you, you’re an adult, he’s a celebrity, it’s like Notting Hill in real life. How do you spell his name? S-V? Z-V?”
Helen narrows her eyes. “Why?”
“Um, why do you think?”
“Don’t fucking Google him!”
“Why not?”
She stares at April in disbelief. “Because it’s weird?”
“It’s not weird if he’s famous. Anyway, never mind, I found him. It’s Z-W-E-I-G, in case you were wondering.”
“It is weird, and I wasn’t — what?” She narrows her eyes. April’s wearing a look like she’s seen something scandalous. “What is it?”
“Did you know he went to school with Art Donaldson?”
“The tennis player?” says Helen, then immediately feels stupid, like, duh, who else? Thankfully, April’s so engrossed in whatever tabloid she’s reading that she doesn’t seem to have picked up on it.
“Yeah. Apparently he beat him at the US Open final like, twelve, thirteen years ago. Like, the junior league, or whatever, but still.”
“Wait, seriously?” Helen frowns, confused, before forcing herself to relax. There’s nothing to be confused about. Like, why should she have known? If anything, her not knowing just means he’s humble, right? Right.
She smiles, popping a slice of cucumber into her mouth. Around it, she says, “I told you he was an athlete.”
But much to her irritation, her sister isn’t listening. “Holy shit. Helen.”
“What?” she says, the smile falling off her face. God. The least April could do is give her a moment to be smug.
“He’s in New Rochelle.”
Now she’s back to being confused. “Patrick? Uh, yeah—”
“No! Art Donaldson!”
“Art Donaldson’s in New Rochelle?”
April looks at her, her expression totally serious. “He’s playing in the same thing as your guy.”
Helen laughs, shaking her head. Okay, now she knows there’s been some kind of mistake. Patrick had said he was playing to try to earn a place in the US Open, right? Surely Art Donaldson doesn’t need to do that, so why would he be competing somewhere like — what had the shirt said? The Phil’s Tire Town championship? That’s absurd.
“No he isn’t.”
April scowls at her. “Didn’t you Google him?”
“Why would I Google Art Donaldson?”
“Oh my God. Not Art. Patrick! Look — ugh, Jesus —” April’s face disappears for a moment, before being replaced by her search results. The top article is about Patrick winning against some guy called Bobby Grey, but the next one is, somehow, about Art Donaldson, who does appear to be in New Rochelle.
“Look,” says April, clicking into one of the results of the page. A bracket comes up, a branching thing full of unfamiliar names, except for two which catch Helen’s eye. (Well, three, counting Bobby.)
“If he wins today, he’ll be playing Art on Sunday,” continues April. “You think he — Patrick — can get us tickets?”
“Um,” says Helen, setting down her drink, still staring at the bracket. “I don’t know. Can you go back a page?”
“Well, can you ask?” says April, taking them back to the search results. “I mean, I was going to drive down to kick this guy’s ass, but I’ll happily take a ticket to watch Art Donaldson do it for me.”
“Yeah, okay,” says Helen, frowning at her phone. “Look, I should go back to work. I’ll call you later?”
“Sure,” says April, reappearing on screen. She blows a kiss into the camera as Helen fixes her face into what she hopes is a smile. “Love you, babe. Stay safe with Mr. Big Dick Tennis Pro.”
“Love you.” Helen waves, then hangs up, slumping back into her seat. She really should go back to work, but — well, she’s thinking of the night she met Patrick, and the woman in the lobby of the Ritz. She could’ve sworn—
Chewing her lip, she opens up Safari and types Art Donaldson tennis player into the search bar. Art’s face appears, along with a small summary from Wikipedia, but when she scrolls down, there she is. The woman.
Tashi Donaldson, (née Duncan), is a tennis coach and former tennis player from America. She is married to Art Donaldson, with whom she attended Stanford University. Her career as a tennis player ended after sustaining an injury aged just 18. In 2010, she joined Art Donaldson’s team as an assistant coach, before replacing Karl König as his lead coach.
Helen isn’t stupid. She knows a mess when she sees one. Patrick had been arguing with this woman that day. It had looked serious . She’d almost called the whole thing off right then, but then, well, he’d kissed her, and for all her talk of being a grown woman she knows it hadn’t been her most shining moment of decision-making — but she’d sensed the mess straight away, hadn’t she?
And she’d known better than to ask.
She knows better to ask now, too.
Dropping her phone into her lap, she taps a nail against the driving wheel. If she’d been younger, then maybe it would have been tempting… but she’s not younger. She’s old enough to be a sugar mommy . And Patrick’s nice, sure, but he’s not get-on-the-wrong-side-of-an-international-sports-celebrity nice.
The decision is easy. She picks up her phone and taps into her texts. Her thread with April is already at the top of the list, and she doesn’t have to think twice before sending her sister a new message.
Asked him about the tix but he said there weren’t any left :( Sorry babe. Let’s do brunch instead?