Chapter 7…

It was the night after her victory in the quarters-finals that Spencer confronted Ashley again. She had kept herself to a rigorous schedule of practice, exercise, press and play. Her pacing purposely left her little time for recreation. Practice was a religion. Morning hours were spent in the peaceful tree-shaded court five, grooving in, polishing her footwork, honing her reflexes.

Exercise was a law. Push-ups and weight lifting, stretching and hardening the muscles. Good press was more than a balm for the ego. Press was important to the game as a whole as well as the individual player. And the press loved a winner.

Play was what the athlete lived for. Pure competition—the testing of the skills of the body, the use of the skills of the mind. The best played as the best dancers danced—for the love of it. During the days of her second debut, Spencer rediscovered love.

In her one brief morning meeting with Ashley she had rediscovered passion. Only her fierce concentration on her profession kept her from dwelling on a need that had never died. Rome was a city for lovers—it had been once for her. Spencer knew that this time she must think of it only as a city for competition if she was to survive the first hurdle of regaining her identity. Lady Middleton was a woman she hardly recognized. She had nearly lost. Spencer Carlin trying to fit an image. How could she recapture herself if she once again became Davies’ woman?

In a small club in the Via Sistina where the music was loud and the wine was abundant, Spencer sat at a table crowded with bodies. Elbows nudged as glasses were reached for. Liquor spilled and was cheerfully cursed. In the second and final week of the Italian Open, the tension grew, but the pace mercifully slowed.

Rome was noise, fruit stands, traffic, and outdoor cafes. Rome was serenity, cathedrals, antiquity. For the athletes it was days of grueling competition and nights of celebration or commiseration. The next match was a persistent shadow over the thoughts of the winners and the losers. As the music blared and the drinks were poured, they discussed every serve, every smash and error and every bad call. Rome was blissfully indolent over its reputation for bad calls.