Break Point: BookShots Read Free Page B

bitterly.
    ‘Maybe you should.’
    The physio handed Foster a glass of cold water. He gave her a thumbs up and another apologetic look, and she left the room to give him some privacy.
    ‘Tell me about the video,’ Foster said when she had gone. ‘What’s on it?’
    Keller’s voice twisted, half in fear and half in anger.
    ‘Me,’ she said. ‘He was behind me, filming me on his phone.’
    Foster thought about it.
    ‘Easy to do these days,’ he reasoned. ‘Most people would just assume he was texting. Or checking his mail.’
    The line scratched and muffled and the traffic noise became faint. Foster guessed Keller had the receiver under her chin while she spun around, checking nobody was behind her.
    ‘He had a knife hidden inside his jacket, Chris. He kept panning the camera from me to the knife and back again. Taunting me.’
    ‘Take a breath,’ Foster said. ‘A big one.’
    He heard her do it.
    ‘Can you get Tom Abbot to rip the video off the memory stick and mail it to me?’
    She composed herself.
    ‘Sure. It scares the hell out of me to know he was right there and I had no idea.’
    Still the traffic rumbled on behind her. Foster checked his watch. Rush hour. A busy Paris street. She was safe enough, for now.
    ‘If you’re calling to ask for my help, I can protect you.’
    ‘Yes, I’m calling for your help,’ Keller said.
    ‘Well then, you’ve got it.’

CHAPTER 4
    KIRSTEN KELLER AND her small personal team arrived into Heathrow Airport early on Thursday morning. She knew the ungodly hour wouldn’t stop the sharks from circling, but at least she had the satisfaction of knowing they’d had to haul themselves out of bed in the dark.
    Keller and Rosario spilled off the Airbus A320 along with every other passenger. ‘This is our best chance of avoiding the paparazzi ambush,’ Keller said.
    ‘Says who?’ Rosario asked.
    ‘Says Chris.’
    Rosario said nothing. She was still smouldering in general about the decision to hire a bodyguard, and fuming in particular about the fact that Keller had chosen Foster. They waited for an eternity by the carousel, eventually grabbing their cases and racket bags in frosty silence.
    ‘You know what?’ Keller said as she pulled the case onto an aluminium trolley. ‘I listen to everything you tell me on the court. Everything. But this is not tennis. It’s my life. It’s my decision. And I’ve made it, so you need to get on board.’
    They wheeled their small mountain of kit through Customs, Keller pacing a few steps ahead of Rosario and wondering how her coach would react to her firm words. She took a breath before stepping through the doors and out into the real world.
    The sharks were waiting, and they closed in around Keller before the security doors slid shut. Rosario pulled up close and both women used their luggage trollies like a makeshift snowplough, bulldozing their way through the intimidating crowd. Shutters snapped and flashlights strobed all around them, and gradually the reporters boxed them in and slowed them down.
    Welcome to England.
    ‘Are you looking forward to Wimbledon, Miss Keller?’ one of them shouted. ‘Do you think we’ll see you in the final?’
    She ignored the question and kept walking, and from every direction hungry photographers shouted, ‘Kirsten, over here.’
    She turned her head towards the loudest voice and caught a glimpse of a balding man in his late forties, who seemed to be made entirely of sweat and stubble and malevolence. His eyes glinted as he realised Keller was looking his way.
    ‘What happened in Paris, Kirsten?’ The bald guy’s cockney accent came ringing through. ‘Did you bottle it in Paris?’
    The floodgates opened.
    ‘Did you have a bet on Basilia?’ another one shouted. ‘Did the bookies pay out?’
    ‘Are you pregnant?’
    Keller knew that
Tennis Ace Denies Pregnancy Rumour
would probably sell even more copies than
Tennis Ace is Pregnant
, so she kept her mouth shut, her eyes forward and