Page 107 of Match Point

‘They don’t give up. They keep going after you.’

‘I’ll handle it. Kieran—’

‘No.’ He’s shaking his head, his cheeks flushing. ‘You haven’t been able to work because of it. It’s affecting your drawing. I’m getting in the way of your dream. Things will only get worse. It won’t work. It’s for the best.’

Grabbing his energy drink, he pushes himself off the kitchen counter and, taking a large swig from it, he storms out the kitchen heading towards the living room. He needs a break from this conversation, but he’s not getting it. I’m not going to let him.

‘That’s what I’ve been telling myself the last couple of days. It’s for the best,’ I say, following him in as he moves to stand by the window. ‘But it wasn’t, was it. Kieran, I watched your match. I think… I think you needed me there.’

‘I needed to be better. I got inside my head.’

‘You let your dad inside your head,’ I correct stubbornly. He stares at me, stunned at my comment, but I plough on regardless. ‘I could see the effect he had on you. You were playing differently.’

‘I was too emotional.’

‘And what’s wrong with that?’ I challenge, taking a step forwards. ‘The best times I’ve seen you play are when you play with your emotion, Kieran. You play with passion and fun and love of the game. That used to be your style, didn’t it? You played with flair.’

‘I was never good enough.’

‘You are good enough,’ I tell him sternly, pointing my finger at him. ‘You’re more than good enough. You’re the best and you’re going to win Wimbledon tomorrow.’

He gazes at me, his chest rising and dipping with each haggard breath. ‘And if I do, then what? I keep going on the tour, travelling the world, trying to win again and again?’

‘If that’s what you want.’ I hesitate, watching him as he turns away from me. ‘Is that what you want?’

He doesn’t say anything. He’s standing motionless now, staring at his shoes.

‘I don’t think that’s what you want, Kieran,’ I begin cautiously. ‘I think that’s what everyone else thinks you want. The Grand Slams. The tour. The wins.’

‘I want to win Wimbledon,’ he states firmly.

‘I know. And I think you will. But you don’t have to win to feel… happy. I’ve seen you light up when you’re playing this game, this game that saved you when you felt so lost and alone, the game that gave you purpose. Tennis makes you happy, not the winning. You don’t have to shoulder all this pressure. You can do something else.’

He rubs his forehead. ‘Flora—’

‘I’m just saying, don’t get bogged down by what comes next. You get to choose.’

He sighs, exhaling and closing his eyes. It takes me a moment to realise that he’s called me Flora, and not Flossie. He’s pulling back. I know it before he speaks.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I can’t… I can’t do this to you. It won’t work. It never does.’

Hot tears prick behind my eyes.

‘So you’re giving up now,’ I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. ‘You’re not even going to bother to try. You’re throwing something good away because you’re scared.’

‘That’s not what this is.’

‘That is what this is,’ I retort, a tear rolling down my cheek. My chest tightens as it grapples with confusion and hurt and anger and sadness all at once. ‘You told me that you knew this was something, you promised me a third date, but now you’re doing what you always do, even in tennis. Giving up before it gets real. Saving yourself from the pressure. You’re pushing me away to protect yourself.’

‘I’m trying to protect you,’ he argues, his eyes ablaze. ‘For fuck’s sake, Flossie, it shouldn’t be this hard! We’ve barely even started out and look at us!’ He throws his hands up. ‘This is how it goes. And if I win tomorrow, then it only gets worse. The distance, the pressure, the spotlight. Everything heightens and so everything cracks.’

‘This might not!’ I cry, the tears flowing freely now.

‘It will! Of course it will!’

‘You think you don’t deserve to be happy. I don’t know if it’s because of guilt over Aidan, but for some reason, you think you don’t deserve to win Wimbledon. But you do, Kieran. You deserve everything. You just have to take the chance.’

He exhales and rubs his face with his hands. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t. I just… I can’t. Not with you. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.’

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