Page 112 of Match Point

‘Trust me, you’re going to want to see this,’ she says, and I can hear that she’s smiling. ‘He’s doing the strangest thing and I have a feeling that you might know why.’

‘Okay, let me find the remote, hang on.’

I turn it on and Kieran fills the screen. He’s two sets down and he’s sitting in his chair at the side of the court in the break. The crowd is tittering with laughter, the commentators are snickering and wondering aloud what’s going on. I gasp, hardly daring to believe what I’m seeing.

‘Have you got it on?’ Iris asks eagerly. ‘Can you see him?’

‘Yeah, I see him.’

‘What is he doing?’

I break into a smile. ‘It’s obvious isn’t it? He’s blowing bubbles.’

He’s in the middle of the Wimbledon final on Centre Court, being watched by thousands of people in the stands and even more on screens around the world, and he’s holding the bottle of bubbles I gave him, and serenely blowing bubbles, smiling softly as he watches them float up into the air and pop one by one.

‘Yeah, I can see that he’s blowing bubbles, Flora,’ she sighs. ‘But what does it mean?’

Our conversation plays out in my head. I remember it all. If ever I saw him blowing bubbles on Centre Court, I’d said…

You’ll know I’m thinking of you, he’d finished.

‘Flora, do you know what it means?’ Iris repeats when I don’t say anything.

‘Yes,’ I whisper in a daze. ‘It means I have to get to Wimbledon.’

30

‘Iris, if I come now to Wimbledon, will you come meet me and help me get in?’ I ask her urgently, jumping up and rushing to the front door to find my trainers.

She gasps in surprise. ‘Really? You’re coming? Yeah, let me see what I can do. I’ll meet you at Gate One.’

‘Okay, I’ll be there in—’

My phone makes a low battery sound before promptly dying.

Shit.

WHY didn’t I grab my charger last night before I stormed out of the flat?! I can’t order an Uber now, so I rush out the house, shut the door behind me and race onto the road. It’s empty and residential, with no cars trundling down it, let alone any cabs. It’s also starting to drizzle and I don’t have a jacket or umbrella.

Fuck.

Sprinting as fast as I can to the main road, I turn round the corner and stop to catch my breath, desperately looking both ways and praying for that beautiful yellow light of a free black cab. When one comes into view, I squeal with joy and wave him down with two hands to make sure he doesn’t miss me.

‘Wimbledon please!’ I cry, hurling myself into the back and out of the rain that’s getting a little heavier. ‘The tournament, I mean.’

‘You’re a little late, aren’t you?’ he remarks, setting off.

‘You have no idea,’ I breathe, slumping back and biting my lip. ‘As quick as possible if you can.’

‘Sure, it’s only an eight-minute drive from here, won’t take long,’ he assures me, glancing in his rear-view mirror. He squints at me and as we come to the traffic lights, he swivels round to peer at me through the glass. ‘Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere? Are you famous?’

‘Uh… no.’

‘Huh. You look familiar.’ He shrugs, turning back to watch the road as the lights go green. ‘I feel like I’ve seen your face somewhere.’

I sigh, deciding to own up. You can always trust London cabbies in my experience.

‘I’ve been dating Kieran O’Sullivan,’ I admit.

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