Page 11 of Match Point

‘I’m sorry for intruding—’ He waves his hand, gesturing for me to finish his sentence.

‘Flora.’

‘I’m sorry for intruding, Flora.’

I nod in acknowledgement of his apology.

‘I’m Kieran,’ he adds.

‘You said.’

I hear a small sound emit from his throat, a sigh of exasperation maybe, before we fall into silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him take a sip of beer, glance at me one more time, and then get back to his phone until one of the members of staff comes out with a pizza for him that he must have ordered before I arrived.

I block him out mentally and zone in on my task: come five o’clock, I have to be out of my place and on my way to somewhere new. But as my glass empties, my level of hope sinks along with it. Finding somewhere remotely nice in the UK that’s reasonably affordable and available at this late notice is an impossible task.

A movement at the other end of the table distracts me momentarily. Kieran’s finished his food and is getting up to leave. As he passes by, I glance up, expecting him to say goodbye or something, but he doesn’t. He leaves without a word.

Fine. Whatever. Good riddance.

Chewing my thumbnail, I start scrolling through my phone contacts. Someone in there has to be able to help. I start feeling desperate as I near the bottom of my list. I don’t know that many people here in London – the only person in this city I’m close to now is Iris and she’s currently living with her parents after her landlord kicked her out with just a month’s notice. I know she offered it as a backup but I can hardly rock up at their house in Fulham, asking to take the sofa for four weeks. Secondly, the whole point of this was I was supposed to get out of London.

A glass of wine is set down in front of me.

‘I didn’t order—’ I begin, but stop talking when I look up to see it’s Kieran towering over me.

‘I felt I owed you a drink as an apology,’ he says, with no attempt at hiding the resentment in his tone. With another pint for himself, he returns to his end of the table.

‘Oh. Thank you. That’s… nice.’

He doesn’t say anything, sliding his Wayfarers back on and turning away from me to watch the passers-by. I roll my eyes at his back. I’d rather he didn’t buy me a glass of wine at all than get it for me so reluctantly. I appreciate the gesture, but it hardly feels sincere.

Obviously that won’t stop me drinking it though – as far as I’m concerned, it’s a free glass of wine. I take a sip and am pleasantly surprised to discover that he ordered a much nicer rosé than I selected. I think this is the expensive one.

Right, back to my research. I try to keep in mind what Iris said and work out whether I can stay in one place for a bit and then move on to another, but even with more flexibility I still face the same problems. The nicest, most suitable places are either completely unavailable or at absurd prices at such late notice.

As I continue to hit one disappointment after another, I huff and sigh, before giving up completely and, with a loud whining, I bury my face in my hands.

‘Could you… could you stop doing that?’ I hear Kieran ask. I break my fingers apart to peer at his irked expression through the gaps. ‘People are looking over and I’d rather they didn’t.’

I let my hands drop down to the table to glare at him. ‘Oh, I’m sorry that my misery is so inconvenient for you.’

He looks unimpressed. ‘Excuse me for wanting a bit of privacy.’

‘Yeah, you’re really Mr Incognito in your cap and sunglasses,’ I mutter, rolling my eyes. ‘A cap is literally part of a tennis player’s uniform.’

‘Uniform?’ he repeats with a hint of a smirk.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him edge near a smile. Of course it’s a conceited one.

‘Sorry, sports kit,’ I scoff. ‘You know, if most people saw someone in a crisis, they would ask what’s wrong, not tell them off for whining too loudly.’

‘I didn’t tell you off, I politely asked you to stop. The minute someone recognises me, I don’t get to relax. I wouldn’t expect you to understand,’ he says bitterly.

‘So someone might ask you for a selfie. What’s the big deal?’

‘They might ask for a selfie if they’re brave enough to come over, but they don’t ask for permission to take pictures and videos of you from their tables. It’s impossible to relax when you know you’re being watched and recorded.’

I sigh, irritated. As much as I dislike him, he may be making a tiny bit of sense.

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