Spencer had driven in limousines all her life. As a child she’d ridden behind a chauffeur named George in a shiny maroon car with smoked glass and a built-in bar. George had remained the family driver though the cars had changed—an elegant white Rolls, a sturdy blue Mercedes.

Lady Middleton’s driver had been Peter and the car had been an old discreet gray Daimler. Peter had been as silent and as efficient as the car. Spencer felt no thrill at being driven in the long black limo toward Wimbledon. As they passed through Roehampton, she watched the scenery. Tidy, healthy trees, trimmed shrubs, orderly flowers. In a few hours, she would be in Centre Court. Aching, sweating… and winning. This was the big prize. Credibility, prestige, press. They were all at Wimbledon.

Once before she and Ashley had fought for the championships – in that year of her life that had brought complete joy and complete misery. Now she would face her and she will play her with all the verve and all the cunning she had at her disposal.

Though she’d thought her life had begun to come to order with her finals match, Spencer now realized she’d been wrong. The turning point was today, here in the arena that was synonymous with her profession. She would play her best here, on the surface she knew best, in the country in which she had lived like a prisoner. Perhaps true confidence would begin after this match was over.

She thought of Ashley, the young girl who had once vowed to play and win. Now, in the lush interior of the limo, Spencer made a similar vow. She would have a championship season. Reestablish Spencer Carlin for Spencer Carlin. Then she would be ready to face the woman. The woman would face the only person who mattered.

The crowds waited for her and other arriving players. The greetings were enthusiastic. Roaming spectators sipped champagne and nibbled on strawberries and cream. Signing autographs, Spencer felt light, confident, ready. Nothing, she thought, could mar such a day. The Fourth of July, the brilliant sunshine, the scent of garden flowers. She remembered other Wimbledons. So little had changed. Fans mingled with players, chatting, laughing. The atmosphere was one of an informal tea parry with the promise of a spectacle. But she could feel the nerves. They were there, just under the bonhomie, in the young players, the veterans, doubles and singles finalists. Mixing among them were rock stars and celebrities, millionaires and landed gentry.