After Happily Ever Afte- Astrid Ohletz Page 0,55

that often preceded a more personal question. “Do you want children some day?” or “How important is it for a person to be true to themselves?”

Alina couldn’t answer that question. She sat for a second, an eternity, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, staring at Tova, completely unable to form a pat answer. Tova had waited, and then asked a different question, something about her favourite player from past generations.

Tova’s eyes were kind as she stood after lunch. She touched Alina’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to respond to a question if you don’t want to.”

Alina nodded, mute, and watched Tova depart, her shiny black hair and yellow polo shirt standing out in the lunch crowd. She focussed down at her plate and pushed a piece of tomato to one side. Her pulse still pounded from the tension. Tova was dangerous. Alina should never have agreed to the interview.

But somehow, somewhere in the last few days, she’d found herself looking out for Tova in the gym, anticipating her bright laughter, wide smile, and her calm, all-knowing eyes.

Mikhail lost in the third round. He asked Alina if she would like to go out for dinner. “You can console me for my defeat.”

Alina gritted her teeth. No doubt he expected her consolation to include the bedroom. But it would keep her agent happy, and Mikhail would have some entertaining tennis gossip.

“The steakhouse, like last time?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to agree, but a spark of rebellion made her change her mind. For once, she would not do what everyone wanted. “No. Let’s try somewhere different. Do you like Greek food?”

His surprise hung in the air. “I will try it. Where do you want to go?”

The suggestion had sprung into Alina’s head without conscious thought. She didn’t even know if she liked Greek food—but in the locker room, she’d overheard one of the players mention a good Greek restaurant. “There’s a place in Smith Street,” she said. “I’ll make the booking for seven.”

The restaurant was brightly lit, with a blue and white Mediterranean décor and checked tablecloths. It was very different from the places she normally ate. Next to her, Mikhail was tight with disapproval at her choice.

They were shown to a tiny table, and a carafe of water was brought. There were no menus. Alina looked around. Almost every table was full, and a muted buzz of chatter filled the air.

The waitress returned. “Have you been here before?”

“No. I had a recommendation.” Alina gave her a quick smile. “Can we see a menu?”

“No menus.” The waitress smiled at her surprise. “You tell me if there is anything you don’t eat, and I will bring you food until you tell me to stop. Okay?”

Mikhail shifted restlessly in the chair opposite. “I would prefer—”

“Okay,” Alina said, and this time the smile she gave the waitress was wider, more genuine. “We both eat everything.”

She touched Mikhail’s hand. “You said it yourself; you don’t have a match for a while. Live a little.” It was all very well dispensing advice like this, but could she follow it herself? Steak or chicken. Chicken or steak. Somehow she thought neither would be on tonight’s menu, at least not cooked in any way she was used to.

There was grilled lamb with herbs, marinated octopus, a creamy moussaka unlike anything she had ever tasted. Cubes of grilled halloumi nestled next to glossy, black olives. There was even grilled kidneys that were unbelievably tasty and tender.

Mikhail refused the kidneys with a grimace, but ate heartily of everything else.

Alina devoured everything put in front of her and sat back with a sigh. Her nutrition coach would admonish her tomorrow, but she pushed the thought away. When had she last eaten whatever she wanted, with no concern for food groups or portion control? The last time was a visit to her family three years ago. Her mother had clung to her, patting Alina’s hair and face and crying tears of happiness. Then she had sat her down at the old kitchen table and piled her plate with potato pierogies until Alina had thought she would burst.

Food made with love tastes better, her mother always said. Maybe, this café also went by that.

Opposite, Mikhail smiled and reached across for her hands.

Alina bit back a sarcastic comment. Now the real business of the evening was over, he moved on to the next thing he wanted—her. He was as predictable as his cross-court backhand.

“Hello Alina, Mikhail.” The voice came from above them.

Viva Jones stood