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Lizzie looked unseeingly forward, resting on her side, one hand tucked under her head, stray strands of blonde hair falling across her face. She could feel the warm body of her equally naked husband behind her. One of his arms was draped over her side, her own resting upon it.

Making up her mind, she pushed back lightly against Peter's body and squeezed his arm. "I want to retire," she said suddenly, her eyes still on the hotel window before her.

"Hmm?" mumbled her semi-awake husband as he lifted his head and rested it on the gap between her neck and shoulder, ready to succumb to slumber once again.

She rolled onto her back and looked up at him seriously. "I want to retire," she repeated.

"Okay."

"That's it?" said Lizzie incredulously. "No discussion?"

"What's there to dis...?" He was cut off as his angry wife pushed his chest and got out of bed, pulling on a white shirt of his in the process.

"It's my career," she reasoned. He sat up on the bed, the sheet falling to his waist as he rested his arms on his bent knees and watched Lizzie pace the room, questioning and answering herself in turn as she railed.

He propped up his head until she was done. He willed his eyes to remain open, knowing that this was a not conversation he could afford to fall asleep during.

When she came back and silently wrapped herself around him, he just held her. As he tucked her lithe form into him, he wondered if she'd feel any different in the morning.

She didn't.

Lizzie marched to the small breakfast table where Madison was digging into her breakfast, Peter feeding Stellan a bottle, and declared that she was retiring.

"Wimbledon and then I'm done."


The media latched onto the story like vultures: the image of Lizzie holding her baby son in her lap, husband and daughter seated likewise beside her, was plastered on every English and American television, newspaper and magazine that night.

Lizzie Colt was retiring!