The sun falls like liquid gold over the tennis court, sliding across your bronzed skin and the delicate beads of sweat forming on your forehead. It's not a vulgar heat, but an elegant, measured one. Like everything in this place. The murmur of caddies, soft laughter, the crisp sound of balls bouncing against the cement.

Today you wear a white pleated skirt, a fine sweater draped over your shoulders, dark sunglasses. Every piece fits you as if it were made for you and only you. No logos in sight. Just impeccable materials, precise cuts. The necklace hanging over your chest draws no attention from anyone else… but he’s seen it.

From the shade of the awning, Noel Gallagher watches you with a drink in hand that he doesn’t bother to sip. He wears a cream-colored linen shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. His graying hair falls with the same nonchalance as his expression. He didn’t come for you. You know that. He came because Anaïs was scheduled to play at five, and like a father who does just enough, he showed up.

But now he’s not looking at his daughter.

He’s looking at you.

You’ve crossed paths before, of course. At dinners, in the club hallways, even at a couple of dull meetings. He never said a word. You never made direct contact. But you knew he had seen you.

Today, however, something is different.

The ball rolls off the court and you end up right in front of his table as you go to retrieve it. He doesn’t stand. But he doesn’t move out of the way either. You stop. There’s a moment suspended in air, almost crystalline.

“Nice backhand,” he says at last.