‘Don’t be mean,’ she said. ‘She’s a good person. She just wants me to focus on my tennis. I haven’t got for ever.’

Foster felt the age in his bones and smiled.

‘You’re twenty-three.’

‘Exactly.’

He said nothing. Just drove the car until they arrived five minutes later. He handed the keys of the Range Rover to the valet and they headed inside, through the airport-standard security at the base of the tower. They stepped through the metal detectors and Foster set off the alarms, as always.

‘It’s more metal than bone,’ he said as the security guard waved his electronic wand over his left arm.

‘Car crash?’ the guard asked as the machine whistled wildly.

‘Explosion,’ Foster said and instantly regretted it, as he saw recognition dawn on the guy’s face. He shook Foster’s hand and told him he was a hero. Foster thanked him without elaborating, and avoided Kirsten Keller’s inquisitive gaze as they passed through security and took the lift to Reception on the thirty-fourth floor.

‘Explosion?’

‘Long story.’

They checked in and were told that the room was ready, but they stopped off at the bar because it was too early to be cooped up in a hotel suite. The entire outer wall of the bar was made of glass. Beyond the glass was London. All of it stretched out in front of them: the river and the roads and the train tracks. The churn of humanity going about its afternoon business. Landmarks jutted from the broil: Tower Bridge, the London Eye and the Houses of Parliament. The whole view was mesmerising. Eventually they turned away and settled into plush velvet seats facing a screen showing the build-up to Wimbledon. A young reporter was linking clips of recent matches with gossip and speculation.

Keller said, ‘How’s your drink?’

They had ordered cocktails. It was a cocktails kind of place. Except that Keller had a tournament to win and Foster had a long drive home, so both of them had chosen alcohol-free options and neither felt entirely satisfied with the result.

‘Not too shabby,’ Foster said. ‘By the way, you’re on TV.’

And there she was on the screen, going through her paces on the training court earlier that day. Then inevitably the screen came back to the reporter, who started gesturing to the camera, before he was replaced by shots of Keller at the French Open, throwing herself to the floor and running from the court in tears. Then back to the reporter at Wimbledon, who looked partly concerned and partly amused by Keller’s behaviour. Then he was gone again, replaced by the pictures of Keller on the practice court. Across the court Foster could see himself, leaning back in the green chair and watching Keller serve.